Robert Jordan: Wheel Of Time - Book 08 - The Path Of Daggers

For Harriet 
My light, my life, my heart, forever 

Who would sup with the mighty must climb the path of daggers. 
—Anonymous notation found inked in the margin of a manuscript history (believed to date to the time of Arthur 
Hawkwing) of the last days of the Tovan Conclaves 

On the heights, all paths are paved with daggers. —Old Seanchan saying 

Prologue: Deceptive Appearances 

Ethenielle had seen mountains lower than these misnamed Black Hills, great lopsided heaps of half-buried boulders, 
webbed with steep twisting passes. A number of those passes would have given a goat pause. You could travel three 
days through drought-withered forests and brown-grassed meadows without seeing a single sign of human habitation, 
then suddenly find yourself within half a day of seven or eight tiny villages, all ignorant of the world. The Black Hills 
were a rugged place for farmers, away from the trade routes, and harsher now than usual. A gaunt leopard that should 
have vanished at the sight of men watched from a steep slope, not forty paces away, as she rode past with her armored 
escort. Westward, vultures wheeled patient circles like an omen. Not a cloud marred the blood-red sun, yet there were 
clouds of a sort. When the warm wind blew, it raised walls of dust. 
With fifty of her best men at her heels, Ethenielle rode unconcernedly, and unhurriedly. Unlike her near-legendary 
ancestor Surasa, she had no illusion that the weather would heed her wishes just because she held the Throne of the 
Clouds, while as for haste. . . . Their carefully coded, closely guarded letters had agreed on the order of march, and that 
had been determined by each person's need to travel without attracting notice. Not an easy task. Some had thought it 
impossible. 
Frowning, she considered the luck that had let her come this far without having to kill anyone, avoiding those flyspeck 
villages even when it meant days added to the journey. The few Ogier stedding presented no problem— Ogier paid 
little heed to what happened among humans, most times, and less than usual of late, it seemed— but the villages. . . . 
They were too small to hold eyes-and-ears for the White Tower, or for this fellow who claimed to be the Dragon 
Reborn— perhaps he was; she could not decide which way would be worse— too small, yet peddlers did pass through, 
eventually. Peddlers carried as much gossip as trade goods, and they spoke to people who spoke to other people, rumor 
flowing like an ever-branching river, through the Black-Hills and into the world outside. With a few words, a single 
shepherd who had escaped notice could light a signal fire seen five hundred leagues off. The sort of signal fire that set 
woods and grasslands aflame. And cities, maybe. Nations. 
"Did I make the right choice, Serailla?" Vexed at herself, Ethenielle grimaced. She might not be a girl any longer, but 
her few gray hairs hardly counted her old enough to let her mindless tongue flap in the breeze. The decision was made. 
It had been on her mind, though. Light's truth, she was not so unconcerned as she wanted to be. 
Ethenielle's First Councilor heeled her dun mare closer to the Queen's sleek black gelding. Round face placid, dark 
eyes considering, Lady Serailla could have been a farmwife suddenly stuck into a noblewoman's riding dress, but the 
mind behind those plain, sweaty features was as sharp as any Aes Sedai's. "The other choices only carried different 
risks, not lesser," she said smoothly. Stout yet as graceful in her saddle as she was at dancing, Serailla was always 
smooth. Not oily, or false; just completely unflappable. "Whatever the truth, Majesty, the White Tower appears to be 
paralyzed as well as shattered. You could have sat watching the Blight while the world crumbled behind you. You 
could have if you were someone else." 
The simple need to act. Was that what had brought her here? Well, if the White Tower would not or could not do what 
had to be done, then someone must. What good to guard the Blight if the world did crumble behind her? 
Ethenielle looked to the slender man riding at her other side, white streaks at his temples giving him a supercilious air, 
the ornately sheathed Sword of Kirukan resting in the crook of one arm. It was called the Sword of Kirukan, at any 
rate, and the fabled warrior Queen of Aramaelle might have carried it. The blade was ancient, some said 
Power-wrought. The two-handed hilt lay toward her as tradition demanded, though she herself was not about to try 



using a sword like some fire-brained Saldaean. A queen was supposed to think, lead, and command, which no one 
could manage while trying to do what any soldier in her army could do better. "And you, Swordbearer?" she said. "Do 
you .have any qualms at this late hour?" 
Lord Baldhere twisted in his gold-worked saddle to glance back at the banners carried by horsemen behind them, cased 
in tooled leather and embroidered velvet. "I don't like hiding who I am, Majesty," he said fussily, straightening around. 
"The world will know us soon enough, and what we've done. Or tried to do. We'll end dead or in the histories or both, 
so they might as well know what names to write." Baldhere had a biting tongue, and he affected to care more for music 
and his clothes than anything else—that well-cut blue coat was the third he had worn already today—but as with 
Serailla, appearances deceived. The Sword-bearer to the Throne of the Clouds bore responsibilities much heavier than 
that sword in its jeweled scabbard. Since the death of her husband some twenty years ago, Baldhere had commanded 
the armies of Kandor for her in the field, and most of her soldiers would have followed him to Shayol Ghul itself. He 
was not counted among the great captains, but he knew when to fight and when not, as well as how to win. 
"The meeting place must be just ahead," Serailla said suddenly, just as Ethenielle saw the scout Baldhere had sent 
forward, a sly fellow named Lomas who wore a foxhead crest on his helmet, rein in atop the peak of the pass ahead. 
With his lance slanted, he made the arm gesture for "assembly point in sight." 
Baldhere swung his heavy-shouldered gelding and bellowed a command for the escort to halt—he could bellow, when 
he had a mind to—then spurred the bay to catch up to her and Serailla. It was to be a meeting between long-standing 
allies, but as they rode past Lomas, Baldhere gave the lean-faced man a curt order to "Watch and relay"; should 
anything go wrong, Lomas would signal the escort forward to bring their queen out. 
Ethenielle sighed faintly when Serailla nodded approval at the command. Allies of long standing, yet the times bred 
suspicion like flies on a midden. What they were about stirred the heap and set the flies swirling. Too many rulers to 
the south had died or vanished in the last year for her to feel any comfort in wearing a crown. Too many lands had been 
smashed as thoroughly as an army of Trollocs could have achieved. Whoever he was, this al'Thor fellow had much to 
answer for. Much. 
Beyond Lomas the pass opened into a shallow bowl almost too small to be named a valley, with trees too widely 
spaced to be called a thicket. Leatherleaf and blue fir and three-needle pine held to some green along with a few oaks, 
but the rest were sheathed in brown if not bare-branched. To the south, however, lay what had made this spot a good 
choice for meeting. A slender spire like a column of gleaming golden lace lay slanting and partly buried in the bare 
hillside, a good seventy paces of it showing above the treetops. Every child in the Black Hills old enough to run off 
leading strings knew of it, but there was not a village inside four days' travel, nor would anyone come within ten miles 
willingly. The stories of this place spoke of mad visions, of the dead walking, and death at touching the spire. 
Ethenielle did not consider herself fanciful, yet she shivered slightly. Nianh said the spire was a fragment from the Age 
of Legends, and harmless. With luck, the Aes Sedai had no reason to recall that conversation of years ago. A pity the 
dead could not be made to walk, here. Legend said Kirukan had beheaded a false Dragon with her own hands, and 
borne two sons by another man who could channel. Or maybe the same one. She might have known how to go about 
their purpose and survive. 
As expected, the first pair of those Ethenielle had come to meet was waiting, each with two attendants. Paitar 
Nachiman had many more creases in his long face than the stunningly handsome older man she had admired as a girl, 
not to mention too little hair and most of that gray. Fortunately he had relinquished the Arafellin fashion for braids and 
wore his hair cut short. But he sat his saddle straight-backed, his shoulders needed no padding in that embroidered 
green silk coat, and she knew he still could wield the sword at his hip with vigor and skill. Easar Togita, square-faced 
and his scalp shaved except for a white topknot, his plain coat the color of old bronze, was a head shorter than the King 
of Arafel, and slighter, yet he made Paitar look almost soft. Easar of Shienar did not scowl— if anything, a touch of 
sadness seemed permanent in his eyes— but he might have been made from the same metal as the long sword on his 
back. She trusted both men— and hoped their familial connections helped secure that trust. Alliances by marriage had 
always bound the Borderlands together as much as their war against the Blight did, and she had a daughter wed to 
Easar's third son and a son to Paitar's favorite granddaughter, as well as a brother and two sisters married into their 
Houses. 
Their companions appeared as different as their kings. As always, Ishigari Terasian looked just risen from a stupor after 
a drunken feast, as fat a man as she had ever seen in a saddle; his fine red coat was rumpled, his eyes bleary, his cheeks 
unshaven. By contrast, Kyril Shianri, tall and lean, and nearly as elegant as Baldhere despite the dust and sweat on his 
face, with silver bells on his boot tops and gloves as well as fastened to his braids; he wore his usual expression of 



dissatisfaction and had a way of always peering coolly down his prominent nose at anyone but Paitar. Shianri really 
was a fool in many ways—Arafellin kings rarely made much pretense of listening to councilors, relying instead on 
their queens— but he was more than he appeared at a glance. Agelmar Jagad could have been a larger version of Easar, 
a simple, plainly garbed man of steel and stone with more weapons hung about him than Baldhere carried, sudden 
death waiting to be unleashed, while Alesune Chulin was as slim as Serailla was stout, as pretty as Serailla was plain, 
and as fiery as Serailla was calm. Alesune seemed born to her fine, blue silks. It was well to remember that judging 
Serailla by her surface was a mistake, too. "Peace and the Light favor you, Ethenielle of Kandor," Easar said gruffly as 
Ethenielle reined in before them, and at the same time Paitar intoned, "The Light embrace you, Ethenielle of Kandor." 
Paitar still had a voice to make women's hearts beat raster. And a wife who knew he was hers to his bootsoles; 
Ethenielle doubted that Menuki had ever had a jealous moment in her life, or cause for one. 
She made her own greetings just as short, ending with a direct "I hope you've come this far without detection." 
Easar snorted and leaned on his cantle, eyeing her grimly. A hard man, but eleven years widowed and still mourning. 
He had written poetry for his wife. There was always more than the surface. "If we've been seen, Ethenielle," he 
grumbled, "then we might as well turn back now." 
"You speak of turning back already?" Between his tone and a flip of his tasseled reins, Shianri managed to combine 
disdain with barely enough civility to forestall a challenge. Even so, Agelmar studied him coldly, shifting in his saddle 
slightly, a man recalling where each of his weapons was placed. Old allies in many battles along the Blight, but those 
new suspicions swirled. 
Alesune made her mount dance, a gray mare as tall as a war-horse. The thin white streaks in her long black hair 
suddenly seemed crests on a helmet, and her eyes made it easy to forget that Shienaran women neither trained with 
weapons nor fought duels. Her title was simply shatayan of the royal household, yet whoever believed any shatayan's 
influence stopped at ordering the cooks and maids and victualers made a grave error. "Foolhardiness is not courage, 
Lord Shianri. We leave the Blight all but unguarded, and if we fail, maybe even if we succeed, some of us could find 
our heads on spikes. Perhaps all of us will. The White Tower may well see to it if this al'Thor does not." 
"The Blight seems almost asleep," Terasian muttered, whiskers rasping as he rubbed his fleshy chin. "I've never seen it 
so quiet." 
"The Shadow never sleeps," Jagad put in quietly, and Terasian nodded as if that, too, was something to consider. 
Agelmar was the best general of them all, one of the best to be found anywhere, but Terasian's place at Paitar's right 
hand had not come because he was a good drinking companion. 
"What I've left behind can guard the Blight short of the Trolloc Wars coming again," Ethenielle said in a firm voice. "I 
trust you've all done as well. It hardly matters, though. Does anyone believe we truly can turn back now?" She made 
that last question dry, expecting no answer, but she received one. 
"Turn back?" a young woman's high voice demanded behind her. Tenobia of Saldaea galloped into the gathering, 
drawing her white gelding up so that he reared flamboyantly. Thick lines of pearls marched down the dark gray sleeves 
of her narrow-skirted riding habit, while red-and-gold embroidery swirled thickly to emphasize the narrowness of her 
waist and the roundness of her bosom. Tall for a woman, she managed to be pretty if not beautiful despite a nose that 
was overbold at best. Large tilted eyes of a dark deep blue certainly helped, but so did a confidence in herself so strong 
that she seemed to glow with it. As expected, the Queen of Saldaea was accompanied only by Kalyan Ramsin, one of 
her numerous uncles, a scarred and grizzled man with the face of an eagle and thick mustaches that curved down 
around his mouth. Tenobia Kazadi tolerated the counsel of soldiers, but no one else. "I will not turn back," she went on 
fiercely, "whatever the rest of you do. I sent my dear Uncle Davram to bring me the head of the false Dragon Mazrim 
Taim, and now he and Taim both follow this al'Thor, if I can believe half what I hear. I have close to fifty thousand 
men behind me, and whatever you decide, I will not turn back until my uncle and al'Thor learn exactly who rules 
Saldaea." 
Ethenielle exchanged glances with Serailla and Baldhere while Paitar and Easar began telling Tenobia that they also 
meant to keep on. Serailla gave her head the smallest shake, made the slightest shrug. Baldhere rolled his eyes openly. 
Ethenielle had not exactly hoped Tenobia might decide at the last to stay away, but the girl would surely make 
difficulties. 
Saldaeans were a strange lot— Ethenielle had often wondered how her sister Einone managed so well married to yet 
another of Tenobia's uncles— yet Tenobia carried that strangeness to extremes. You expected showiness from any 
Saldaean, but Tenobia took delight in shocking Domani and making Altarans seem drab. Saldaean tempers were 
legendary; hers was wildfire in a high wind, and you could never tell what would provide the spark. Ethenielle did not 



even want to think of the difficulty in getting the woman to listen to reason when she did not want to; only Davram 
Bashere had ever been able to do that. And then there was the question of marriage. 
Tenobia was still young, though years past the age she should have wed— marriage was a duty for any member of a 
ruling House, the more so for a ruler; alliances had to be made, an heir provided— yet Ethenielle had never considered 
the girl for any of her own sons. Tenobia's requirements for a husband were on a level with everything else about her. 
He must be able to face and slay a dozen Myrddraal at once. While playing the harp and composing poetry. He must be 
able to confound scholars while riding a horse down a sheer cliff. Or perhaps up it. Of course he would have to defer to 
her— she was a queen, after all— except that sometimes Tenobia would expect him to ignore whatever she said and 
toss her over his shoulder. The girl wanted exactly that! And the Light help him if he chose to toss when she wanted 
deference, or to defer when she wanted the other. She never said any of this right out, but any woman with wits who 
had heard her talk about men could piece it together in short order. Tenobia would die a maiden. Which meant her 
uncle Davram would succeed, if she left him alive after this, or else Davram's heir. 
A word caught Ethenielle's ear and jerked her upright in her saddle. She should have been paying attention; too much 
was at stake. "Aes Sedai?" she said sharply. "What about Aes Sedai?" Save for Paitar's, their White Tower advisors had 
all left at news of the troubles in the Tower, her own Nianh and Easar's Aisling vanishing without a trace. If Aes Sedai 
had gained a hint of their plans. . . . Well, Aes Sedai always had plans of their own. Always. She would dislike 
discovering that she was putting her hands into two hornet nests, not just one. 
Paitar shrugged, looking a trifle embarrassed. That was no small trick for him; he, like Serailla, let nothing upset him. 
"You hardly expected me to leave Coladara behind, Ethenielle," he said in soothing tones, "even if I could have kept 
the preparations from her." She had not; his favorite sister was Aes Sedai, and Kiruna had given him a deep fondness 
for the Tower. Ethenielle had not expected it, but she had hoped. "Coladara had visitors," he continued. "Seven of 
them. Bringing them along seemed prudent, under the circumstances. Fortunately, they require little convincing. None, 
in truth." 
"The Light illumine and preserve our souls," Ethenielle breathed, and heard near echos from Serailla and Baldhere. 
"Eight sisters, Paitar? Eight?" The White Tower surely knew every move they intended, now. 
"And I have five more," Tenobia put in as if announcing she had a new pair of slippers. "They found me just before I 
left Saldaea. By chance, I'm sure; they appeared as surprised as I was. Once they learned what I was doing—I still don't 
know how they did, but they did— once they learned, I was sure they'd go scurrying to find Memara." Her brows 
furrowed in a momentary glare. Elaida had miscalculated badly in sending a sister to try bullying Tenobia. "Instead," 
she finished, "Illeisien and the rest were more intent on secrecy than I." 
"Even so," Ethenielle insisted. "Thirteen sisters. All that is needed is for one of them to find some way to send a 
message. A few lines. A soldier or a maid intimidated. Does any of you think you can stop them?" 
"The dice are out of the cup," Paitar said simply. What was done, was done. Arafellin were almost as odd as Saldaeans, 
in Ethenielle's book. 
"Further south," Easar added, "it may be well to have thirteen Aes Sedai with us." That brought a silence while the 
implications hung in the air. No one wanted to voice them. This was far different from facing the Blight. 
Tenobia gave a sudden, shocking laugh. Her gelding tried to dance, but she settled him. "I mean to press south as fast 
as I can, but I invite you all to dine with me in my camp tonight. You can speak with Illeisien and her friends, and see 
whether your judgment matches mine. Perhaps tomorrow night we can all gather in Paitar's camp and question his 
Coladara's friends." The suggestion was so sensible, so obviously necessary, that it brought instant agreement. And 
then Tenobia added, as if an afterthought, "My uncle Kalyan would be honored if you allowed him to sit beside you 
tonight, Ethenielle. He admires you greatly." 
Ethenielle glanced toward Kalyan Ramsin— the fellow had sat his horse silently behind Tenobia, never speaking, 
hardly seeming to breathe— she merely glanced at him, and for an instant that grizzled eagle unhooded his eyes. For an 
instant, she saw something she had not seen since her Brys died, a man looking not at a queen, but at a woman. The 
shock of it was a blow taking her breath. Tenobia's eyes darted from her uncle to Ethenielle, her tiny smile quite 
satisfied. 
Outrage flared in Ethenielle. That smile made it all clear as spring water, if Kalyan's eyes had not. This chit of a girl 
thought to marry off this fellow to her? This child presumed to . . . ? Suddenly, ruefulness replaced fury. She herself 
had been younger when she arranged her widowed sister Nazelle's wedding. A matter of state, yet Nazelle had come to 
love Lord Ismic despite all her protests in the beginning. Ethenielle had been arranging others' marriages for so long 
that she had never considered that her own would make a very strong tie. She looked at Kalyan again, a longer look. 



His leathery face was all proper respect once more, yet she saw his eyes as they had been. Any consort she chose would 
have to be a hard man, but she had always demanded a chance of love for her children's marriages, if not her siblings, 
and she would do no less for herself. 
"Instead of wasting daylight on chatter," she said, more breathless than she could have wished, "let us do what we came 
for." The Light sear her soul, she was a woman grown, not a girl meeting a prospective suitor for the first time. "Well?" 
she demanded. This time, her tone was suitably firm. 
All of their agreements had been made in those careful letters, and all of their plans would have to be modified as they 
moved south and circumstances changed. This meeting had only one real purpose, a simple and ancient ceremony of 
the Borderlands that had been recorded only seven times in all the years since the Breaking. A simple ceremony that 
would commit them beyond anything words could do, however strong. The rulers moved their horses closer while the 
others drew back. 
Ethenielle hissed as her belt knife slashed across her left palm. Tenobia laughed at cutting hers. Paitar and Easar might 
as well have been plucking splinters. Four hands reached out and met, gripped, heart's blood mingling, dripping to the 
ground, soaking into the stony dirt. "We are one, to the death," Easar said, and they all spoke with him. "We are one, to 
the death." By blood and soil, they were committed. Now they had to find Rand al'Thor. And do what needed to be 
done. Whatever the price. 
*** 
Once she was sure that Turanna could sit up on the cushion unaided, Verin rose and left the slumped White sister 
sipping water. Trying to sip, anyway. Turanna's teeth chattered on the silver cup, which was no surprise. The tent's 
entryway stood low enough that Verin had to duck in order to put her head out. Weariness augered into her back when 
she bent. She had no fear of the woman shivering behind her in a coarse black woolen robe. Verin held the shield on 
her tight, and she doubted Turanna possessed enough strength in her legs at the moment to contemplate leaping on her 
from behind, even if such an incredible thought occurred to her. Whites just did not think that way. For that matter, in 
Turanna's condition, it was doubtful she would be able to channel a hair for several hours yet, even if she were not 
shielded. 
The Aiel camp covered the hills that hid Cairhien, low earth-colored tents filling the space between the few trees left 
standing this close to the city. Faint clouds of dust hung in the air, but neither dust nor heat nor the glare of an angry 
sun bothered the Aiel at all. Bustle and purpose filled the camp to equal any city. Within her sight were men butchering 
game and patching tents, sharpening knives and making the soft boots they all wore, women cooking over open fires, 
baking, working small looms, looking after some of the few children in the camp. Everywhere white-robed gai'shain 
darted about carrying burdens, or stood beating rugs, or tended packhorses and mules. No hawkers or shopkeepers. Or 
carts and carriages, of course. A city? It was more like a thousand villages gathered in one spot, though men greatly 
outnumbered women and, except for the blacksmiths making their anvils ring, nearly every man not in white carried 
weapons. Most of the women did, as well. 
The numbers certainly equaled one of the great cities', more than enough to envelope a few Aes Sedai prisoners 
completely, yet Verin saw a black-robed woman plodding away not fifty paces off, struggling to pull a waist-high pile 
of rocks behind her on a cowhide. The deep cowl hid her face, but no one in the camp except the captive sisters wore 
those black robes. A Wise One strolled along close to the hide, glowing with the Power as she shielded the prisoner, 
while a pair of Maidens flanked the sister, using switches to urge her on whenever she faltered. Verin wondered 
whether she had been meant to see. That very morning she had passed a wild-eyed Coiren Saeldain, sweat streaming 
down her face, with a Wise One and two tall Aielmen for escort and a large basket heaped with sand bending her back 
as she staggered up a slope. Yesterday it had been Sarene Nemdahl. They had set her moving handfuls of water from 
one hide bucket to another beside it, switched her to move faster, then switched her for every drop spilled when the 
water spilled because they were switching her to move faster. Sarene had stolen a moment to ask Verin why, though 
not as if she expected any answer. Verin certainly had not been able to supply one before the Maidens drove Sarene 
back to her useless labor. 
She suppressed a sigh. For one thing, she could not truly like seeing sisters treated so, whatever the reasons or need, 
and for another, it was obvious that a fair number of the Wise Ones wanted. . . . What? For her to know that being Aes 
Sedai counted for nothing here? Ridiculous. That had been made abundantly clear days ago. Perhaps that she could be 
put into a black robe, too? For the time she thought she was safe from that, at least, but the Wise Ones hid a number of 
secrets she had yet to puzzle out, the smallest of them how their hierarchy worked. Very much the smallest, yet life and 
a whole skin lay wrapped inside that one. Women who gave commands sometimes took them from the very women 



they had been commanding earlier, and then later it was turned about again, all without rhyme or reason that she could 
see. No one ever ordered Sorilea, though, and in that might lie safety. Of a sort. 
She could not help a surge of satisfaction. Early this morning in the Sun Palace, Sorilea had demanded to know what 
shamed wetlanders most. Kiruna and the other sisters did not understand; they made no real efforts to see what was 
happening out here, perhaps fearing what they might learn, fearing the strains knowledge might put on their oaths. 
They still struggled to justify taking the path fate had pushed them down, but Verin already had reasons for the path she 
followed, and purpose. She also had a list in her pouch, ready to hand to Sorilea when they were alone. No need to let 
the others know. Some of the captives she had never met, but she thought that for most women, that list summed up the 
weaknesses Sorilea was seeking. Life was going to grow much more difficult for the women in black. And her own 
efforts would be aided no end, with luck. 
Two great hulking Aielmen, each an axe handle wide across the shoulders, sat right outside the tent, seemingly 
absorbed in a game of cat's cradle, but they had looked around immediately when her head appeared through the 
tentflaps. Coram had risen like a serpent uncoiling for all of his size, and Mendan waited only to tuck the string away. 
Had she been standing straight, her head barely would have reached the chest of either. She could have turned them 
both upside down and paddled them, of course. Had she dared. She had been tempted from time to time. They were her 
assigned guides, her protection against misunderstandings in the camp. And doubtless they reported everything she said 
or did. In some ways she would have preferred to have Tomas with her, but only some. Keeping secrets from your 
Warder was far more difficult than keeping them from strangers. 
"Please tell Colinda that I'm done with Turanna Norill," she told Coram, "and ask her to send Katerine Alruddin to me." 
She wanted to deal first with the sisters who had no Warders. He nodded once before trotting off without speaking. 
These Aielmen were not much for civility. 
Mendan settled into a crouch, watching her with startlingly blue eyes. One of them stayed with her no matter what she 
said. A strip of red cloth was tied around Mendan's temples and marked with the ancient symbol of Aes Sedai. Like the 
other men who wore that, like the Maidens, he seemed to be waiting for her to make a mistake. Well, they were not the 
first, and a great way from the most dangerous. Seventy-one years had passed since she had last made a serious 
mistake. 
She gave Mendan a deliberately vague smile and started to pull back into the tent, when suddenly something caught her 
eye and held her like a vise. If the Aielman had tried to cut her throat right then, she might not have noticed. 
Not far from where she stood stooped over in the mouth of the tent, nine or ten women knelt in a row, rolling the 
grindstones on flat stone handmills much like those on any isolated farms. Other women brought grain in baskets and 
took away the coarse flour. The nine or ten women knelt in dark skirts and pale blouses, folded scarves holding their 
hair back. One, noticeably shorter than the rest, the only one with hair that did not hang to her waist or below, wore not 
even a single necklace or bracelet. She glanced up, the resentment on her sun-pinkened face sharpening as she met 
Verin's gaze. Only for an instant, though, before she cringed hurriedly to her task. 
Verin jerked back into the tent, her stomach roiling queasily. Irgain was Green Ajah. Or rather, had been Green, before 
Rand al'Thor stilled her. Being shielded dulled and fuzzed the bond to your Warder, but being stilled snapped it as 
surely as death. One of Irgain's two apparently had fallen over dead from the shock, and the other had died trying to kill 
thousands of Aiel without making any effort to escape. Very likely Irgain wished she also were dead. Stilled. Verin 
pressed both hands to her middle. She would not sick up. She had seen worse than a stilled woman. Much worse. 
"There's no hope, is there?" Turanna muttered in a thick voice. She wept silently, staring into the silver cup in her 
trembling hands at something distant and horrifying. "No hope." "There is always a way if you only look for it," Verin 
said, absently patting the woman's shoulder. "You must always look." Her thoughts raced, and none touched Turanna. 
Irgain's stilling made her belly feel full of rancid grease, the Light knew. But what was the woman doing grinding 
grain? And dressed like the Aiel women! Had she been put to work just there so Verin could see? Foolish question; 
even with a ta'veren as strong as Rand al'Thor only a few miles away, there was some limit to the number of 
coincidences she would accept. Had she miscalculated? At worst, it could not be a large error. Only, small mistakes 
sometimes proved as fatal as large. How long could she hold out if Sorilea decided to break her? A distressingly short 
time, she suspected. In some ways, Sorilea was as hard as anyone she had ever met. And not a thing she could say that 
would stop it. A worry for another day. There was no point getting ahead of herself. 
Kneeling, she put a little effort into comforting Turanna, but not too much. Soothing words that sounded as hollow to 
her as they did to Turanna, judging by the bleakness in her eyes. Nothing could change Turanna's circumstances except 
Turanna, and that had to come from within herself. The White sister just wept harder, making no sound as her 



shoulders shook, tears streaming down her face. The entry of two Wise Ones and a pair of young Aielmen who could 
not straighten up inside the tent was something of a relief. For Verin, anyway. She rose and curtsied smoothly, but none 
of them had any interest in her. 
Daviena was a green-eyed woman with yellow-red hair, Losaine gray-eyed with dark hair that only showed glints of 
red in the sun, both head-and-shoulders taller than she, both wearing the expressions of women given a grimy task they 
wished on someone else. Neither could channel strongly enough to have any certainty of holding Turanna by herself, 
but they linked as though they had been forming circles all their lives, the light of saidar around one seeming to blend 
with that around the other despite the fact that they stood apart. Verin forced her face into a smile to keep from 
frowning. Where bad they learned that? She would have wagered all she possessed that they had not known how only a 
few days ago. 
Everything went quickly then, and smoothly. As the crouching men lifted Turanna to her feet by the arms, she let the 
silver cup fall. Empty, luckily for her. She did not struggle, which was just as well, considering that either could have 
carried her off under one arm like a sack of grain, but her mouth hung open, emitting a wordless keening. The Aiel paid 
no heed. Daviena, focusing the circle, assumed the shield, and Verin let go of the Source completely. None of them 
trusted her enough to let her hold saidar without a known reason, no matter what oaths she had sworn. Neither appeared 
to notice, but they surely would have had she held on. The men hauled Turanna away, her bare feet dragging across the 
layered carpets that floored the tent, and the Wise Ones followed them out. And that was that. What could be done with 
Turanna had been done. 
Letting out a long breath, Verin sagged onto one of the bright, tasseled cushions. A fine golden ropework tray sat on 
the carpets next to her. Filling one of the mismatched silver cups from a pewter pitcher, she drank deeply. This was 
thirsty work, and tiring. Hours of daylight remained, yet she felt as if she had carried a heavy chest twenty miles. Over 
hills. The cup went back onto the tray, and she pulled the small, leather-bound notebook from behind her belt. It always 
took a little time for them to fetch those she asked for. A few moments to peruse her notes— and make some— would 
not be amiss. 
There was no need for notes about the captives, but the sudden appearance of Cadsuane Melaidhrin, three days ago 
now, gave cause for concern. What was Cadsuane after? The woman's companions could be dismissed, but Cadsuane 
herself was a legend, and even the believable parts of the legend made her very dangerous indeed. Dangerous and 
unpredictable. She took a pen from the small wooden writing case she always carried, reached toward the stoppered ink 
bottle in its scabbard. And another Wise One entered the tent. 
Verin scrambled to her feet so quickly that she dropped her notebook. Aeron could not channel at all, yet Verin made a 
much deeper curtsy for the graying woman than she had for Daviena and Losaine. At the bottom of her dip, she let go 
of her skirts to reach for her book, but Aeron's fingers reached it first. Verin straightened, calmly watching the taller 
woman thumb through the pages. 
Sky blue eyes met hers. A winter sky. "Some pretty drawings and a great deal about plants and flowers," Aeron said 
coldly. "I see nothing concerning the questions you were sent to ask." She thrust the book at Verin more than handed it 
to her. 
"Thank you, Wise One," Verin said meekly, tucking the book back safely behind her belt. She even added another 
curtsy for good measure, just as deep as the first. "I have the habit of noting down what I see." One day she would have 
to write out the cipher she used in her notebooks— a lifetime's worth of them filled cupboards and chests in her rooms 
above the White Tower library— one day, but she hoped not soon. "As for the . . . um . . . prisoners, so far they all say 
variations of the same thing. The Car'a'carn was to be housed in the Tower until the Last Battle. His . . . um . . . 
mistreatment . . . began because of an escape attempt. But you know that already, of course. Never fear, though; I'm 
sure I will learn more." All true, if not all of the truth; she had seen too many sisters die to risk sending others to the 
grave without a very good reason. The trouble was deciding what might cause that risk. The manner of young al'Thor's 
kidnapping, by an embassy supposedly treating with him, enraged the Aiel to the point of murder, yet what she called 
his "mistreatment" barely angered them at all as far as she could tell. 
Gold and ivory bracelets clattered softly as Aeron adjusted her dark shawl. She peered down as though trying to read 
Verin's thoughts. Aeron seemed to stand high among the Wise Ones, and while Verin occasionally had seen a smile 
crease those dark-tanned cheeks, a warm and easy smile, it was never directed at an Aes Sedai. We never suspected 
that you would be the ones to fail, she had told Verin somewhat murkily. There had been nothing unclear in the rest of 
it, however. Aes Sedai have no honor. Give me one hair of suspicion, and I will strap you till you cannot stand, with 
my own hands. Give me two hairs, and I will stake you out for the vultures and the ants. Verin blinked up at her, trying 



to appear open. And meek; she must not forget meek. Docile, and compliant. She did not feel fear. In her time she had 
faced harder stares, from women— and men— without so much as Aeron's slim compunction about ending her life. 
But a good deal of effort had gone into being sent to ask those questions. She could not afford to waste it now. If only 
these Aiel let more show on their faces. 
Abruptly she became aware that they were no longer alone in the tent. Two flaxen-haired Maidens had entered with a 
black-robed woman a hand shorter than either. They were half-holding her upright. At one side stood Tialin, a lanky 
redhead wearing a grim expression behind the light of saidar, shielding the black-robed prisoner. The sister's hair hung 
in sweat-soaked ringlets to her shoulders and strands that clung to her face, which bore so much dirt that Verin did not 
recognize her at first. High cheekbones, but not very high, a nose with just the hint of a hook to it, and the slightest tilt 
to the brown eyes. . . . Beldeine. Beldeine Nyram. She had instructed the girl in a few novice classes. 
"If I may ask," she said carefully, "why was she brought? I asked for another." Beldeine had no Warder despite being 
Green— she had been raised to the shawl barely three years ago, and Greens were often especially choosy about their 
first— but if they started bringing whoever they selected, the next might have two or three Warders. She thought she 
could deal with two more today, but not if either had even one Warder. And she doubted they would give her a second 
chance at any of them. 
"Katerine Alruddin escaped last night," Tialin nearly spat, and Verin gasped. 
"You let her escape?' she burst out without thinking. Tiredness gave no excuse, but the words spilled from her tongue 
before she could stop them. "How could you be so foolish? She's Red! And neither a coward nor weak in the Power! 
The Car'a'carn could be in danger! Why were we not told of this when it happened?" 
"It was not discovered until this morning," one of the Maidens growled. Her eyes could have been polished sapphires. 
"A Wise One and two Cor Darei were poisoned, and the gai’shain who brought them drink was found with his throat 
cut." 
Aeron arched an eyebrow at the Maiden coldly. "Did she speak to you, Carahuin?" Both Maidens suddenly became 
engrossed in the task of keeping Beldeine on her feet. Aeron merely glanced at Tialin, but the red-haired Wise One 
lowered her gaze. Verin was the next recipient of those attentions. "Your concern for Rand al'Thor does you . . . 
honor," Aeron said grudgingly. "He will be guarded. You have no need to know more. Or so much." Abruptly her tone 
hardened. "But apprentices do not use that tone with Wise Ones, Verin Mathwin Aes Sedai" The last words were a 
sneer. 
Smothering a sigh, Verin all but fell into another deep curtsy, a part of her wishing she were even as slim as she had 
been on arriving in the White Tower. She was not really constructed for all this bending and bobbing. "Forgive me, 
Wise One," she said humbly. Escaped! The circumstances made everything plain, to her if not to the Aiel. 
"Apprehension must have loosened my wits." A pity she had no way to make sure Katerine met with a fatal accident. "I 
will do my best to remember in the future." Not so much as the flicker of an eyelash told whether Aeron accepted that. 
"May I assume her shield, Wise One?" 
Aeron nodded without looking at Tialin, and Verin quickly embraced the Source, taking up the shield Tialin released. It 
never ceased to amaze her that women who could not channel gave orders so freely to women who could. Tialin was 
not much weaker in the Power than Verin, yet she watched Aeron nearly as warily as the Maidens did, and when the 
Maidens hurried out of the tent at a gesture of Aeron's hand, leaving Beldeine wavering where she stood, Tialin was 
only a step behind. Aeron did not go, however, not immediately. "You will not speak of Katerine Alruddin to the 
Car'a'carn," she said. "He has enough to occupy his thoughts without giving him trifles to worry over." 
"I will say nothing to him about her," Verin agreed quickly. Trifles? A Red with Katerine's strength was no trifle. 
Perhaps a note. It needed thought. 
"Be certain to hold your tongue, Verin Mathwin, or you will use it to howl." 
There seemed nothing to say to that, so Verin concentrated on meekness and docility, making yet another curtsy. Her 
knees wanted to groan. 
Once Aeron departed, Verin allowed herself a sigh of relief. She had been afraid Aeron intended to remain. Gaining 
permission to be alone with the prisoners had required nearly as much effort as getting Sorilea and Amys to decide they 
needed to be questioned, and by someone intimate with the White Tower. If they ever learned they had been guided to 
that decision. ... It was a worry for another day. She seemed to be piling up a great many of those. 
"There's enough water to wash your face and hands, at least," she told Beldeine mildly. "And if you wish, I will Heal 
you." Every sister she had interviewed had carried at least a few welts. The Aiel did not beat the prisoners except for 
spilling water or balking at a task— the haughtiest words of defiance earned only scornful laughter, if that— but the 



black-robed women were herded like animals, a tap of the switch for go or turn or stop, and a harder tap if they did not 
obey quickly enough. Healing made other things easier, too. 
Filthy, sweaty, wavering like a reed in the wind, Beldeine curled her lip. "I would rather bleed to death than be Healed 
by you!" she spat. "Maybe I should have expected to see you groveling to these wilders, these savages, but I never 
thought you would stoop to revealing Tower secrets! That ranks with treason, Verin! With rebellion!" She grunted 
contemptuously. "I suppose if you didn't shy at that, you'll stop at nothing! What else have you and the others taught 
them besides linking?" 
Verin clicked her tongue irritably, not bothering to set the young woman straight. Her neck ached from looking up at 
Aiel— for that matter, even Beldeine stood a hand or more taller than she— her knees ached from curtsying, and 
entirely too many women who should know better had flung blind contempt and foolish pride at her today. Who should 
know better than an Aes Sedai that a sister had to wear many faces in the world? You could not always overawe 
people, or bludgeon them, either. Besides, far better to behave as a novice than be punished like one, especially when it 
earned you only pain and humiliation. Even Kiruna had to see the sense of that eventually. 
"Sit down before you fall down," she said, suiting her own words. "Let me guess what you've been doing today. By all 
that dirt, I'd say digging a hole. With your bare hands, or did they let you use a spoon? When they decide it's finished, 
they will just make you fill it again, you know. Now, let me see. Every part I can see of you is grubby, but that robe is 
clean, so I expect they had you digging in your skin. Are you sure you don't want Healing? Sunburn can be painful." 
She filled another cup with water and wafted it across the tent on a flow of Air to hover in front of Beldeine. "Your 
throat must be parched." 
The young Green stared unsteadily at the cup for a moment; then suddenly her legs gave way and she collapsed onto a 
cushion with a bitter laugh. "They . . . water me frequently." She laughed again, though Verin could not see the joke. 
"As much as I want, so long as I swallow it all." Studying Verin angrily, she paused, then went on in a tight voice. 
"That dress looks very nice on you. They burned mine; I saw them. They stole everything except this." She touched the 
golden Great Serpent around her left forefinger, a bright golden gleam among the dirt. "I suppose they couldn't find 
quite enough nerve for that. I know what they're trying to do, Verin, and it won't work. Not with me, not with any of 
us!" 
She was still on her guard. Verin set the cup down on the flowered carpet beside Beldeine, then took up her own and 
sipped before speaking. "Oh? What are they trying to do?" 
This time, the other woman's laugh was brittle as well as harsh. "Break us, and you know it! Make us swear oaths to 
al'Thor, the way you did. Oh, Verin, how could you? Swearing fealty! And worse, to a man, to him! Even if you could 
bring yourself to rebel against the Amyrlin Seat, against the White Tower . . ." She made the two sound much the same. 
". . . how could you do that!" 
For a moment Verin wondered whether things would be better if the women now held in the Aiel camp had been 
caught up as she had been, a woodchip in the millrace of Rand al'Thor's ta'veren swirl, words pouring from her mouth 
before they had time to form in her brain. Not words she could never have said on her own— that was not how ta'veren 
affected you— but words she might possibly have said one time in a thousand under those circumstances, one time in 
ten thousand. No, the arguments had been long and hot over whether oaths given in that way had to be kept; and the 
arguments over how to keep them still continued. Much better as it was. Absently she fingered a hard shape inside her 
belt pouch, a small brooch, a translucent stone carved into what appeared to be a lily with too many petals. She never 
wore it, but it had not been out of her reach in nearly fifty years. 
"You are da'tsang, Beldeine. You must have heard that." She did not need Beldeine's curt nod; telling the despised one 
was part of Aiel law, like pronouncing sentence. That much she knew, if very little more. "Your clothes, and anything 
else that would burn, were put to the fire because no Aiel would own anything that once belonged to a da'tsang. The 
rest was hacked to pieces or hammered into scrap, even the jewelry you had with you, and buried under a pit dug for a 
jakes." 
"My. . . ? My horse?" Beldeine asked anxiously. 
"They didn't kill the horses, but I don't know where yours is." Being ridden by someone in the city, probably, or 
perhaps given to an Asha'man. Telling her that might do more harm than good. Verin seemed to recall that Beldeine 
was one of those young women who had very deep feelings for horses. "They let you keep the ring to remind you of 
who you were, and increase your shame. I don't know whether they would let you swear to Master al'Thor if you 
begged. It would take something incredible on your part, I think." 
"I won't! Never!" The words rang hollow, though, and Beldeine's shoulders slumped. She was shaken, but not 



sufficiently. 
Verin put on a warm smile. A fellow had once told her that her smile made him think of his dear mother. She hoped he 
had not been lying about that, at least. He had tried to slide a dagger between her ribs a little later, and her smile had 
been the last thing he ever saw. "I can't think of the reason you would. No, I fear what you have to look forward to is 
useless labor. That's shaming, to them. Bone shaming. Of course, if they realize you don't see it that way. . . . Oh, my. 
I'll wager you didn't like digging without any clothes on, even with Maidens for guards, but think of, say, standing in a 
tent full of men that way?" Beldeine flinched. Verin prattled on; she had developed prattling to something of a Talent. 
"They'd only make you stand there, of course. Da'tsang aren't allowed to do anything useful unless there's great need, 
and an Aielman would as soon put his arm around a rotting carcass as. ... Well, that's not a pleasant thought, is it? In 
any case, that's what you have to look forward to. I know you'll resist as long as you can, though I'm not sure what 
there is to resist. They won't try to get information out of you, or anything that people usually do with prisoners. But 
they won't let you go, not ever, until they're sure the shame is so deep in you there's nothing else left. Not if it takes the 
rest of your life." 
Beldeine's lips moved soundlessly, but she might as well have spoken the words. The rest of my life. Shifting 
uncomfortably on her cushion, she grimaced. Sunburn or welts or simply the ache of unaccustomed work. "We will be 
rescued," she said finally. "The Amyrlin won't leave us. ... We'll be rescued, or we'll— We will be rescued!" Snatching 
up the silver cup from beside her, she tilted her head back to gulp until it was empty, then thrust it out for more. Verin 
floated the pewter pitcher over and set it down so the young woman could pour for herself. 
"Or you'll escape?" Verin said, and Beldeine's dirty hands jerked, splashing water down the sides of the cup. "Really, 
now. You have as much chance of that as you do of rescue. You're surrounded by an army of Aiel. And apparently 
al'Thor can call up a few hundred of those Asha'man whenever he wants, to hunt you down." The other woman 
shivered at that, and Verin nearly did. That little mess should have been stopped as soon as it started. "No, I fear you 
must make your own way, somehow. Deal with things as they are. You are quite alone in this. I know they don't let you 
speak to the others. Quite alone," she sighed. Wide eyes stared at her as they might have at a red adder. 
"There's no need to make it worse than it must be. Let me Heal you." 
She barely waited for the other woman's pitiful nod before moving to kneel beside her and place hands on Beldeine's 
head. The young woman was almost as ready as she could be. Opening herself to more of saidar, Verin wove the flows 
of Healing, and the Green gasped and quivered. The half- filled cup dropped from her hands, and a flailing arm 
knocked the pitcher onto its side. Now she was as ready as she could be. 
In the moments of confusion that gripped anyone after being Healed, while Beldeine still blinked and tried to come 
back to herself, Verin opened herself further, opened herself through the carved-flower angreal in her pouch. Not a 
very powerful angreal, but enough, and she needed every bit of the extra Power it gave her for this. The flows she 
began weaving bore no resemblance to Healing. Spirit predominated by far, but there was Wind and Water, Fire and 
Earth, the last of some difficulty for her, and even the skeins of Spirit had to be divided again and again, placed with an 
intricacy to boggle a weaver of fine carpets. Even if a Wise One poked her head into the tent, with the smallest of luck 
she would not possess the rare Talent needed to realize what Verin was doing. There would still be difficulties, perhaps 
painful difficulties one way and another, but she could live with anything short of true discovery. 
"What . . . ?" Beldeine said drowsily. Her head would have lolled except for Verin's grip, and her eyelids were 
half-closed. "What are you . . . ? What is happening?" 
"Nothing that will harm you," Verin told her reassuringly. The woman might die inside the year, or in ten, as a result of 
this, but the weave itself would not harm her. "I promise you, this is safe enough to use on an infant." Of course, that 
depended on what you did with it. 
She needed to lay the flows in place thread by thread, but talking seemed to help rather than hinder. And too long a 
silence might rouse suspicion, if her twin guardians were listening. Her eyes darted frequently to the dangling 
doorflaps. She wanted some answers she had no intention of sharing, answers none of the women she questioned were 
likely to give freely even if they knew them. One of the smaller effects of this weave was to loosen the tongue and open 
the mind as well as any herb ever could, an effect that came on quickly. 
Dropping her voice almost to a whisper, she continued. "The al'Thor boy seems to think he has supporters of some kind 
inside the White Tower, Beldeine. In secret, of course; they must be." Even a man with his ear pressed to the fabric of 
the tent should be able to hear only that they were talking. "Tell me anything you know about them." 
"Supporters?" Beldeine murmured, attempting a frown that seemed beyond her ability. She stirred, though it hardly 
deserved the word agitation, feeble and uncoordinated. "For him? Among the sisters? It can't be. Except for those of 



you who. . . . How could you, Verin? Why didn't you fight it?" 
Verin tsked vexedly. Not for the foolish suggestion that she should have fought a ta'veren. The boy seemed so certain. 
Why? She kept her voice low. "Do you have no suspicions, Beldeine? Did you hear no rumors before you left Tar 
Valon? No whispers? No one who hinted at approaching him differently? Tell me." 
"No one. Who could . . . ? No one would. ... I admired Kiruna so." There was a hint of loss in Beldeine's sleepy voice, 
and tears leaking from her eyes made tracks through the dirt. Only Verin's hands kept her sitting upright. 
Verin continued to lay down the threads of her weaving, eyes flashing from her work to the doorflaps and back. She 
felt a little like sweating herself. Sorilea might decide she needed help with the questioning. She might bring out one of 
the sisters from the Sun Palace. Should any sister learn of this, stilling was a very real possibility. "So you were going 
to deliver him to Elaida neatly washed and well-behaved," she said in a slightly louder tone. The quiet had gone on too 
long. She did not want that pair outside reporting that she was whispering with the prisoners. 
"I couldn't . . . speak out . . . against Galina's decision. She led ... by the Amyrlin's command." Beldeine shifted again, 
weakly. Her voice was still dreamy, but it picked up an agitated edge. Her eyelids fluttered. "He had to ... be made ... to 
obey! He had to be! Shouldn't have been . . . treated so harshly. Like putting . . . him to ... question. Wrong." 
Verin snorted. Wrong? Disastrous was more like it. A disaster from the first. Now the man looked at any Aes Sedai 
almost the way Aeron did. And if they had succeeded in carrying him to Tar Valon? A ta'veren like Rand al'Thor 
actually inside the White Tower? A thought to make a stone tremble. However it had turned out, disaster would surely 
have been too mild a word. The price paid at Dumai's Wells was small enough, for avoiding that. 
She went on asking questions in a tone that could be heard clearly by anyone listening outside. Asking questions she 
already had answers for, and avoiding those too dangerous to be answered. She paid little heed to the words coming out 
of her mouth or to Beldeine's replies. Mainly she concentrated on her weaving. 
A great many things had captured her interest over the years, not all strictly approved of by the Tower. Almost every 
wilder who came to the White Tower for training—both true wilders, who really had begun teaching themselves, and 
girls who merely had started touching the Source because the spark born in them had quickened on its own; for some 
sisters, there was no real difference—nearly every one of those wilders had created at least one trick for herself, and 
those tricks almost invariably fell under one of two headings. A way to listen in on other people's conversations, or a 
way of making people do as they wanted. 
The first, the Tower did not care much about. Even a wilder who had gained considerable control on her own quickly 
learned that as long as she wore novice white, she was not to so much as touch saidar without a sister or one of the 
Accepted standing over her. Which did tend to limit eavesdropping rather sharply. The other trick, however, smelled 
too akin to forbidden Compulsion. Oh, it was just a way to make Father give her dresses or trinkets he did not want to 
buy, or make Mother approve of young men she ordinarily ran off, things of that nature, but the Tower rooted the trick 
out most effectively. Many of the girls and women Verin had spoken to over the years could not make themselves form 
the weaves, much less use them, and a fair number could not even make themselves remember how. From bits and 
pieces and scraps of half-remembered weaves created by untrained girls for very limited purposes, Verin had 
reconstructed a thing forbidden by the Tower since its founding. In the beginning it had been simple curiosity on her 
part. Curiosity, she thought wryly, working at the weave on Beldeine, has made me climb into more than one pickling 
kettle. Usefulness came later. 
"I suppose Elaida meant to keep him down in the open cells," she said conversationally. The grill-walled cells were 
intended for men who could channel, as well as initiates of the Tower under close arrest, wilders who had claimed to be 
Aes Sedai, and anyone else who must be both confined and blocked off from the Source. "Not a comfortable place for 
the Dragon Reborn. No privacy. Do you believe he is the Dragon Reborn, Beldeine?" This time she paused to listen. 
"Yes." The word was a long hiss, and Beldeine rolled frightened eyes toward Verin's face. "Yes . . . but he must ... be 
kept . . . safe. The world . . . must be ... safe . . . from him." 
Interesting. They had all said the world had to be kept safe from him; what was interesting was those who thought he 
needed protection, too. Some who had said that, surprised her. 
To Verin's eyes, the weave she had made resembled nothing so much as a haphazard tangle of faintly glowing 
transparent threads all bundled around Beldeine's head, with four threads of Spirit trailing out of the mess. Two of 
those, opposite one another, she pulled, and the tangle collapsed slightly, falling inward, into something on the edge of 
order. Beldeine's eyes shot open wide, staring into the far distance. 
In a firm, low voice, Verin gave her instructions. More like suggestions, though she phrased them as commands. 
Beldeine would have to find reasons within herself to obey; if she did not, then all this had been so much wasted effort. 



With the final words, Verin pulled the other two threads of Spirit, and the tangle collapsed further. This time, though, it 
fell into what seemed perfect order, a pattern more precise, more complicated than the most intricate lace, and 
complete, tied off by the same action that began its shrinking. This time, it continued to fall inward on itself, inward 
around Beldeine's head. Those faintly glowing threads sank into her, vanished. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and 
she began to thrash, limbs quivering. Verin held her as gently as she could, but Beldeine's head still whipped from side 
to side, and her bare heels drummed on the carpets. Soon, only the most careful Delving would tell that anything had 
been done, and not even that would identify the weave. Verin had tested that carefully, and if she did say so herself, 
none surpassed her at Delving. 
Of course the thing was not truly Compulsion as ancient texts described it. The weaving went with painful slowness, 
cobbled together as it was, and there was that need for a reason. It helped a great deal if the object of the weave was 
emotionally vulnerable, but trust was absolutely essential. Even catching someone by surprise did no good if they were 
suspicious. That fact cut down its usefulness with men considerably; very few men lacked suspicion around Aes Sedai. 
Distrust aside, men were very bad subjects, unfortunately. She could not understand why. Most of those girls' weaves 
had been intended for their fathers or other men. Any strong personality might begin to question his own actions—or 
even forget doing them, which led to another set of problems— but all things being equal, men were much more likely 
to. Much more likely. Perhaps it was the suspicion again. Why, once a man had even remembered the weaves being 
woven on him, if not the instructions she had given him. Such a lot of bother that caused! Not something she would 
risk again. 
At last Beldeine's convulsions lessened, stopped. She raised a filthy hand to her head. "What—? What happened?" she 
said, almost inaudibly. "Did I faint?" Forgetfulness was another good point about the weave, not unexpectedly. After 
all, Father must not remember that you somehow made him buy that expensive dress. 
"The heat is very bad," Verin said, helping her to sit up again. "I have felt light-headed myself once or twice today." 
From weariness, not heat. Handling that much of saidar took it out of you, especially when you had already done it four 
times today. The angreal did nothing to buffer the effects once you stopped using it. She could have used a steadying 
hand herself. "I think that's about enough. If you're fainting, perhaps they'll find something for you to do out of the 
sun." The prospect did not seem to cheer Beldeine at all. 
Rubbing the small of her back, Verin stuck her head out of the tent. Coram and Mendan stopped their game of cat's 
cradle once more; there was no sign that either had listened, but she would not wager her life on it. She told them that 
she was finished with Beldeine and, after a moment's thought, added that she needed another pitcher of water since 
Beldeine had overturned hers. Both men's faces darkened beneath their tans. That would be passed along to the Wise 
One who came for Beldeine. It would serve as something more to help her reach her decision. 
The sun still had a long way to fall to the horizon, but the ache in her back told her it was time to stop for the day. She 
could still do one more sister, but if she did, by morning she would feel it in every muscle. Her eyes fell on Irgain, now 
with the women carrying baskets to the handmills. How would her life have gone if she had not been so curious, Verin 
wondered. For one thing, she would have married Eadwin and remained in Far Madding instead of going to the White 
Tower. She would be long dead, for another, and the children she had never had, and her grandchildren, too. 
With a sigh, she turned back to Coram. "When Mendan returns, would you go tell Colinda that I would like to see 
Irgain Fatamed?" The pain in her muscles tomorrow would be a small penance for Beldeine's suffering over that spilled 
water, but that was not why she did it, or even her curiosity, really. She still had a task. Somehow, she had to keep 
young Rand alive until it was time for him to die. 
The room might have been in a grand palace, except that it had neither windows nor doors. The fire on a golden marble 
hearth gave no heat, and the flames did not consume the logs. The man seated at a table with gilded legs, centered on a 
silk carpet woven with glittering threads of gold and silver, cared little for the trappings of this Age. They were 
necessary to impress; no more. Not that he really needed more than himself to overawe the stiffest pride. He called 
himself Moridin, and surely no one had ever had more right to name himself Death. 
From time to time he idly stroked one of the two mindtraps that hung on plain silken cords around his neck. At his 
touch, the blood-red crystal of the cour'souvra pulsed, swirls moving in endless depths like the beating of a heart. His 
real attention was on the game laid out before him on the table, thirty-three red pieces and thirty-three green arrayed 
across a playing surface of thirteen squares by thirteen. A re-creation of the early stages of a famous game. The most 
important piece, the Fisher, black-and-white like the playing surface, still waited in its starting place on the central 
square. A complex game, sha'rah, ancient long before the War of power. Sha'rah, tcheran, and no'ri, the game now 
called simply "stones," each had adherents who claimed it encompassed all the subtleties of life, but Moridin had 



always favored sha'rah. Only nine people living even remembered the game. He had been a master of it. Much more 
complex than tcheran or no'ri. The first object was capture of the Fisher. Only then did the game truly begin. 
A servant approached, a slim graceful young man clad all in white, impossibly handsome, bowing as he presented a 
crystal goblet on a silver tray. He smiled, but it did not touch his black eyes, eyes more lifeless than simply dead. Most 
men would have felt uncomfortable having that gaze on them. Moridin merely took the goblet and motioned the servant 
away. The vintners of this time produced some excellent wines. He did not drink, though. 
The Fisher held his attention, baiting him. Several pieces had varying moves, but only the Fisher's attributes altered 
according to where it stood; on a white square, weak in attack yet agile and far-ranging in escape; on black, strong in 
attack but slow and vulnerable. When masters played, the Fisher changed sides many times before the end. The 
green-and-red goal-row that surrounded the playing surface could be threatened by any piece, but only the Fisher could 
move onto it. Not that he was safe, even there; the Fisher was never safe. When the Fisher was yours, you tried to move 
him to a square of your color behind your opponent's end of the board. That was victory, the easiest way, but not the 
only one. When your opponent held the Fisher, you attempted to leave him no choice for the Fisher but to move onto 
your color. Anywhere at all along the goal-row would do; holding the Fisher could be more dangerous than not. Of 
course, there was a third path to victory in sha'rah, if you took it before letting yourself be trapped. The game always 
degenerated in a bloody melee, then, victory coming only with complete annihilation of your enemy. He had tried that, 
once, in desperation, but the attempt had failed. Painfully. 
Fury boiled suddenly in Moridin's head, and black flecks swam across his eyes as he seized the True Power. Ecstasy 
that amounted to pain thundered through him. His hand closed around the two mindtraps, and the True Power closed 
around the Fisher, snatching it into the air, a hair from crushing it to powder, crushing the powder out of existence. The 
goblet shattered in his hand. His grip bordered on crushing the cour'souvra. The saa were a blizzard of black, but they 
did not hinder his sight. The Fisher was always worked as a man, a bandage blinding his eyes and one hand pressed to 
his side, a few drops of blood dripping through his fingers. The reasons, like the source of the name, were lost in the 
mist of time. That troubled him sometimes, enraged him, what knowledge might be lost in the turnings of the Wheel, 
knowledge he needed, knowledge he had a right to. A right! 
Slowly he set the Fisher back on the board. Slowly his fingers uncurled from around the cour'souvra. There was no 
need for destruction. Yet. Icy calm replaced rage in the blink of an eye. Blood and wine dripped from his gashed hand, 
unnoticed. Perhaps the Fisher did come from some dim remnant of a memory of Rand al'Thor, the shadow of a shadow. 
It did not matter. He realized he was laughing, and made no effort to stop. On the board, the Fisher stood waiting, but 
in the greater game, al'Thor moved already to his wishes. And soon, now. ... It was very hard to lose a game when you 
played both sides of the board. Moridin laughed so hard that tears rolled down his face, but he was not aware of them. 

Chapter 1 To Keep the Bargain 

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and 
even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an 
Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose above the great mountainous island of Tremalking. The wind was not 
the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning. 
East the wind blew across Tremalking, where the fair-skinned Amayar farmed their fields, and made fine glass and 
porcelain, and followed the peace of the Water Way. The Amayar ignored the world beyond their scattered islands, for 
the Water Way taught that this world was only illusion, a mirrored reflection of belief, yet some watched the wind 
carry dust and deep summer neat where cold winter rains should be falling, and they remembered tales heard from the 
Atha'an Miere. Tales of the world beyond, and what prophecy said was to come. Some looked to a hill where a massive 
stone hand rose from the earth, holding a clear crystal sphere larger than many houses. The Amayar had their own 
prophecies, and some of those spoke of the hand and the sphere. And the end of illusions. 
Onward the wind blew into the Sea of Storms, eastward beneath a searing sun in a sky abandoned by clouds, whipping 
the tops of green sea swells, battling winds from the south and westward winds, shearing and swirling as the waters 
below heaved. Not yet the storms of winter's heart, though winter should have been half gone, much less the greater 
storms of a dying summer, but winds and currents that could be used by ocean-faring folk to coast around the continent 
from World's End to Mayene and beyond, then back again. Eastward the wind howled, over rolling ocean where the 
great whales rose and sounded, and flying fish soared on outstretched fins two paces and more across, eastward, now 
whirling north, east and north, over small fleets of fishing ships dragging their nets in the shallower seas. Some of those 



fishermen stood gaping, hands idle on the lines, staring at a huge array of tall vessels and smaller that purposefully rode 
the wind's hard breath, shattering swells with bluff bows, slicing swells with narrow, their banner a golden hawk with 
talons clutching lightning, a multitude of streaming banners like portents of storm. East and north and on, and the wind 
reached the broad, ship-filled harbor of Ebou Dar, where hundreds of Sea Folk vessels rode as they did in many ports, 
awaiting word of the Coramoor, the Chosen One. 
Across the harbor the wind roared, tossing small ships and large, across the city itself, gleaming white beneath the 
unfettered sun, spires and walls and color-ringed domes, streets and canals bustling with the storied southern industry. 
Around the shining domes and slender towers of the Tarasin Palace the wind swirled, carrying the tang of salt, lifting 
the flag of Altara, two golden leopards on a field of red and blue, and the banners of ruling House Mitsobar, the Sword 
and Anchor, green on white. Not yet the storm, but a harbinger of storms. 
Skin prickled between Aviendha's shoulder blades as she strode ahead of her companions through palace hallways tiled 
in dozens of pleasing bright hues. A sense of being watched that she had last felt while still wed to the spear. 
Imagination, she told herself. Imagination and knowing there are enemies about I cannot face! Not so long ago that 
crawling sensation had meant someone might be intending to kill her. Death was nothing to fear— everyone died, 
today or on another— but she did not want to die like a rabbit kicking in a snare. She had toh to meet. 
Servants scurried by close along the walls, bobbing bows and curtsies, dropping their eyes almost as if they understood 
the shame of the lives they lived, yet surely it could not be them that made her want to twist her shoulders. She had 
tried schooling herself to see servants, but even now, with the skin creeping on her back, her gaze slid around them. It 
had to be imagination, and nerves. This was a day for imagination and nerves. 
Unlike the servants, rich silk tapestries snagged at her eye, and the gilded stand-lamps and ceiling lamps lining the 
corridors. Paper-thin porcelain in reds and yellows and greens and blues stood in wall niches and tall openwork 
cabinets alongside ornaments of gold and silver, ivory and crystal, scores upon scores of bowls and vases and caskets 
and statuettes. Only the most beautiful truly caught her gaze; whatever wetlanders thought, beauty held more worth 
than gold. There was much beauty here. She would not have minded taking her share of the fifth from this place. 
Vexed with herself, she frowned. That was not an honorable thought beneath a roof that had offered her shade and 
water freely. Without ceremony, true, but also without debt or blood, steel or need. Yet better that than thinking about a 
small boy alone somewhere out in this corrupt city. Any city was corrupt— of that much she was certain, now, having 
seen some part of four— but Ebou Dar was the last where she would have let a child run loose. What she could not 
understand was why thoughts of Olver came unless she worked to avoid them. He was no part of the toh she had to 
Elayne, and to Rand al'Thor. A Shaido spear had taken his father, starvation and hardship his mother, yet had it been 
her own spear that took both, the boy was still a treekiller, Cairhienin. Why should she fret over a child from that 
blood? Why? She attempted to concentrate on the weave she was to make, but although she had practiced under 
Elayne's eye until she could have formed it sleeping, Olver's wide-mouthed face intruded. Birgitte worried about him 
even more than she, but Birgitte's breast held a strangely soft heart for small boys, especially ugly ones. 
Sighing, Aviendha gave up trying to ignore her companions' conversation behind her, though irritation crackled 
through it like heat lightning. Even that was better than upsetting herself over a son of treekillers. Oathbreakers. A 
despised blood the world would be better off without. No concern or worry of hers. None. Mat Cauthon would find the 
boy in any case. He could find anything, it seemed. And listening settled her, somehow. The prickling faded away. 
"I don't like it one bit!" Nynaeve was muttering, continuing an argument begun back in their rooms. "Not a bit, Lan, do 
you hear me?" She had announced her dislike at least twenty times already, but Nynaeve never surrendered just 
because she had lost. Short and dark-eyed, she strode fiercely, kicking her divided blue skirts, one hand rising to hover 
near her thick, waist-long braid, then thrust down firmly before rising again. Nynaeve kept a tight hold on anger and 
irritation when Lan was around. Or tried to. An inordinate pride filled her about marrying him. The close-fitting 
embroidered blue coat over her yellow-slashed silk riding dress hung open, showing far too much bosom in the 
wetlander way, just so she could display his heavy gold finger ring on a fine chain around her neck. "You have no right 
to promise to take care of me like that, Lan Mandragoran," she went on firmly. "I am not a porcelain figurine!" 
He paced at her side, a man of proper size, towering head and shoulders and more above her, the eye-wrenching cloak 
of a Warder hanging down his back. His face seemed hacked from stone, and his gaze weighed .the threat in every 
servant who passed, examined every crossing corridor and wall niche for hidden attackers. Readiness radiated from 
him, a lion on the brink of his charge. Aviendha had grown up around dangerous men, but never one to match 
Aan'allein. Had death been a man, she would have been him. 
"You are Aes Sedai, and I am a Warder," he said in a deep, level voice. "Taking care of you is my duty." His tone 



softened, conflicting sharply with his angular face and bleak, never-changing eyes. "Besides, caring for you is my 
heart's desire, Nynaeve. You can ask or demand anything of me, but never to let you die without trying to save you. 
The day you die, I die." 
That last he had not said before, not in Aviendha's hearing, and it hit Nynaeve like a blow to the stomach; her eyes 
started half out of her head, and her mouth worked soundlessly. She appeared to recover quickly, though, as always. 
Pretending to resettle her blue-plumed hat, a ridiculous thing like a strange bird roosting atop her head, she shot a 
glance at him from beneath the wide brim. 
Aviendha had begun to suspect that the other woman often used silence and supposedly significant looks to cover 
ignorance. She suspected Nynaeve knew little more about men, about dealing with one man, than she did herself. 
Facing them with knives and spears was much easier than loving one. Much easier. How did women manage being 
married to them? Aviendha had a desperate need to learn, and no idea how. Married to Aan'allein only a day, Nynaeve 
had changed much more than simply in trying to control her temper. She seemed to flit from startlement to shock, 
however much she attempted to hide it. She fell into dreaminess at odd moments, blushed at innocuous questions, 
and— she denied this fiercely, even when Aviendha had seen her— she giggled over nothing at all. There was no point 
in trying to learn anything from Nynaeve. 
"I suppose you're going to tell me about Warders and Aes Sedai again, as well," Elayne said coolly to Birgitte. "Well, 
you and I aren't married. I expect you to guard my back, but I will not have you making promises about me behind it." 
Elayne wore garments as inappropriate as Nynaeve's, a gold-embroidered Ebou Dari riding dress of green silk, suitably 
high-necked but with an oval opening that bared the inner slopes of her breasts. Wetlanders spluttered at the mention of 
a sweat tent or being unclothed in front of gai'shain, then walked about half-exposed where any stranger could see. 
Aviendha did not really mind for Nynaeve, but Elayne was her near-sister. And would be more, she hoped. 
The raised heels of Birgitte's boots made her almost a hand taller than Nynaeve, if still shorter than Elayne or 
Aviendha. In dark blue coat and wide green trousers, she carried herself with much of the same warily confident 
readiness as Lan, though it seemed more casual in her. A leopard lying on a rock, and not nearly so lazy as she 
appeared. There was no arrow nocked in the bow Birgitte carried, but for all her stroll and smiles, she could have a 
shaft out of the quiver at her waist before anyone could blink, and be loosing her third before anybody else could have 
fitted a second to bowstring. 
She gave Elayne a wry grin and a shake of her head that swung a golden braid as long and thick as Nynaeve's dark one. 
"I promised to your face, not behind your back," she said dryly. "When you've learned a little more, I won't have to tell 
you about Warders and Aes Sedai." Elayne sniffed and lifted her chin haughtily, busying herself with the ribbons of her 
hat, which was covered with long green plumes and worse than Nynaeve's. "Perhaps a great deal more," Birgitte added. 
"You're tying another knot in 
that bow." 
Had Elayne not been her near-sister, Aviendha would have laughed at the crimson that flooded her cheeks. Tripping 
someone who tried to walk too high was always fun, or watching it done, and even a short fall was worth a laugh. As it 
was, she leveled a firm stare at Birgitte, a promise that more might bring retribution. She liked the woman despite all 
her secrets, but the difference between a friend and a near-sister was a thing these wetlanders seemed unable to 
comprehend. Birgitte only smiled, glancing from her to Elayne, and murmured under her breath. Aviendha caught the 
word "kittens." Worse, it sounded fond. Everyone must have heard. Everyone! 
"What's gotten into you, Aviendha?" Nynaeve demanded, prodding her shoulder with a stiff finger. "Do you intend to 
stand there blushing all day? We are in a hurry." 
Only then did Aviendha realize by the heat in her face that she must be as red as Elayne. And standing still as stone 
besides, when they had need for haste. Cut by a word, like a girl newly wedded to the spear and unused to the banter 
among Maidens. She had almost twenty years, and she was behaving like a child playing with her first bow. That added 
flames to her cheeks. Which was why she all but leaped around the next turning and very nearly ran headlong into 
Teslyn Baradon. 
Skidding awkwardly on red-and-green floor tiles, Aviendha half-fell backward, catching herself against Elayne and 
Nynaeve. This time she managed not to blush herself to fire, but she wanted to. She was shaming her near-sister as 
much as herself. Elayne always held her composure, no matter what. Luckily, Teslyn Baradon took the encounter little 
better. 
The sharp-faced woman recoiled in surprise, gaping before she could stop herself, then shifting her narrow shoulders 
irritably. Gaunt cheeks and a narrow nose hid the ageless quality of the Red sister's features, and her red dress, 



brocaded in a blue that was nearly black, only made her appear bonier, yet she quickly gathered a clan roofmistress's 
self-possession, dark brown eyes as cool as deep shadows. They slid past Aviendha dismissively, ignoring Lan like a 
tool she had no use for, burned a brief moment at Birgitte. Most Aes Sedai disapproved of Birgitte being a Warder, 
though none could give a reason beyond sour mutters about tradition. Elayne and Nynaeve, however, the woman fixed 
by turns. Aviendha could have tracked yesterday's wind before reading anything on Teslyn Baradon's face now. 
"I did already tell Merilille," she said in a thick Illianer accent, "but I may as well put your minds at rest, also. 
Whatever . . . mischief. . . you do be about, Joline and I will no interfere. I did see to that. Elaida may never learn of it, 
if you do have some care. Stop gaping at me like carp, children," she added with a grimace of distaste. "I be neither 
blind nor deaf. I do know of Sea Folk Windfinders in the palace, and secret meetings with Queen Tylin. And other 
things." That thin mouth tightened, and though her tone remained serene, her dark gaze flared with anger. "You will 
pay dearly yet for those other things, you and those who do allow you to play at being Aes Sedai, but I will look aside 
for now. Atonement can wait." 
Nynaeve took a tight grip on her braid, back straight, head high, and her own eyes blazed. Under different 
circumstances Aviendha might have found some sympathy for the target of the tongue-lashing plainly about to erupt. 
Nynaeve's tongue carried more spines than a hair-needle segade, and sharper ones. Coldly, Aviendha considered this 
woman who thought she could look fight through her. A Wise One did not stoop to thrashing someone with her fists, 
but she was still only an apprentice; perhaps it would not cost her ji if she just bruised this Teslyn Baradon a little. She 
opened her mouth to give the Red sister a chance to defend herself at the same instant Nynaeve opened hers, yet Elayne 
spoke first. 
"What we are about, Teslyn," she said in a chill voice, "is none of your business." She, too, stood straight, her eyes blue 
ice; a chance ray of light from a high window caught her golden-red curls, seeming to set them afire. Right then, 
Elayne could have made a roofmistress seem a goatherd with too much oosquai in her belly. It was a skill she honed 
well. She delivered each word with cold crystal dignity. "You have no right to interfere in anything we do, in anything 
that any sister does. No right whatsoever. So pull your nose out of our coats, you summer ham, and be glad we do not 
choose to take issue with you supporting a usurper on 
the Amyrlin Seat." 
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 Shadow-spawn 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, two days before, 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 surely as Birgitte and 
Aan'allein had— should anyone try, she would plant steel in their hearts. Lace! As they walked, she wept 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 ^ea 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 unshamed. 
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—" 
"The Amyrlin does," Elayne cut her off. From Nynaeve, a firm tone was a fist shaken under your nose; from Elayne, it 
was calm certainty. "They will have their chance to try again, and if they fail, they still will not be sent away. No 
woman who can channel will be cut off from the Tower again. They will all be a part of the White Tower." 
Fingering her belt knife idly, Aviendha wondered about that. Egwene, Elayne's Amyrlin Seat, said much the same. She 
was a friend, too, but she had wrapped her heart around being Aes Sedai. Aviendha herself did not want to be part of 
the White Tower. She very much doubted that Sorilea or any other Wise 
One did, either. 
Merilille sighed and folded her hands, yet for all her outward acceptance, she still forgot to lower her voice. "As you 
say, Elayne. But about Ispan. We simply cannot allow—" 
Elayne raised a hand sharply. Command replaced mere certainty. "Cease, Merilille. You have the Bowl of the Winds to 
watch. That is enough for anyone. It will be enough for you." 
Merilille opened her mouth, then closed it again and bowed her head slightly in acquiescence. Under Elayne's steady 
gaze, the other Aes Sedai bent theirs, too. If some displayed reluctance, however small, not all did. Sareitha hurriedly 
picked up the disc-shaped bundle, wrapped in layers of white silk, that had been lying by her feet. Her arms barely 
went all the way around as she held the Bowl of the Winds to her bosom, smiling anxiously at Elayne as if to show that 
she really was keeping a close eye on it. 
The Sea Folk women stared hungrily at the bundle, almost leaning forward. Aviendha would not have been surprised to 
see them leap across the stones to seize the Bowl. The Aes Sedai saw the same, plainly. Sareitha clutched the white 
parcel more tightly, and Merilille actually stepped between her and the Atha'an Miere. Smooth Aes Sedai faces 
tightened with the effort of remaining expressionless. They believed the Bowl should belong to them; all things that 
used or manipulated the One Power belonged to the White Tower in their eyes, no matter who happened to possess 
them at the moment. But there was the bargain. 
"The sun moves, Aes Sedai," Renaile din Calon announced loudly, "and danger threatens. So you maintain. If you 
think to worm free in some fashion by delaying, think twice and again. Try to break the bargain, and by my father's 
heart, I will return to the ships at once. And claim the Bowl for redress. It was ours from the Breaking." 
"You watch your tongue with Aes Sedai," Reanne barked, scandalized indignation from her blue straw hat to the stout 
shoes peeking from beneath her green-and-white petticoats. 
Renaile din Calon's mouth curled into a sneer. "The jellyfish have tongues, it seems. A surprise they can use them, 
though, when no Aes Sedai gave permission." 
In an instant the stableyard was full of shouted insults flying between Kin and Atha'an Miere, "wilder" and "spineless" 
and growing worse, strident cries that buried Merilille's attempts to hush Reanne and her companions on one hand and 
soothe the Sea Folk on the other. Several Windfinders stopped fingering the daggers thrust behind their sashes and 
gripped hilts instead. The glow of saidar sprang up around first one then another of the brightly clad women. The 
Kinswomen looked startled, though it did not slow their tirade, but Sumeko embraced the Source, then Tamarla, then 
willowy, doe-eyed Chilares, and soon every one of them and every one of the Windfinders shone while words flew and 
tempers boiled. 
Aviendha wanted to groan. Any moment blood would begin to flow. She would follow Elayne's lead, but her 
near-sister was glaring cold fury at Windfinders and Knitting Circle alike. Elayne had small patience with stupidity, in 
herself or others, and shouting insults when an enemy might be coming was the worst sort. Aviendha took a firm grip 
on her belt knife, then after a moment embraced saidar; life and joy filled her to near weeping. Wise Ones only used the 
Power when words had failed, but neither words nor steel would do here. She wished she had some idea of who to kill 
first. 
"Enough!" Nynaeve's piercing shriek sliced the words short on every tongue. Astonished faces swiveled toward her. 
Her head swung dangerously, and she stabbed a finger at the Knitting Circle. "Stop behaving like children!" Although 
she had moderated her tone, it was by hairs. "Or do you mean to squabble until the Forsaken come to scoop up the 
Bowl and us? And you," that finger thrust at the Windfinders, "stop trying to wriggle out of your agreement! You won't 
get the Bowl until you've met every last word! Don't think you will!" Nynaeve swung round on the Aes Sedai. "And 
you . . . !" Met by cool surprise, her flow of words tapered off into a sour grunt. The Aes Sedai had not joined in the 



shouting except to try quieting it. None shone with the 
light of saidar. 
That was not enough to calm Nynaeve completely, of course. She tugged fiercely at her hat, plainly still full of anger 
she wanted to loose. But the Kinswomen were staring at the paving stones in red-faced chagrin, and even the 
Windfinders appeared a little abashed—a little—muttering to themselves yet refusing quite to meet Nynaeve's glare. 
The glow winked out around one woman after another, until only Aviendha still held to the Source. 
She gave a start as Elayne touched her arm. She was getting soft. Letting people sneak up on her, jumping at a touch. 
"This crisis seems to be weathered," Elayne murmured. "Perhaps it's time to go before the next breaks out." A touch of 
color in her cheeks was the only sign that she had ever been angry. And a bit in Birgitte's; the two reflected one another 
in some ways since the bonding. 
"Past time," Aviendha agreed. Much longer, and she would be a milk-hearted wetlander. 
Every eye followed as she walked out into the open space in the center of the stableyard, to the spot she had studied 
and felt until she knew it with her eyelids closed. There was a joy in holding the Power, a joy in working saidar, that 
she could not have put into words. To contain saidar, to be contained by it, was to seem alive beyond any other time. A 
delusion, the Wise Ones said, as false and dangerous as a mirage of water in the Termool, yet it seemed more real than 
the paving stones beneath her feet. She fought the urge to draw more; already she held nearly as much as she could. 
Everyone crowded close as she began to weave the flows. 
That there were things many Aes Sedai could not do still startled Aviendha, after all she had seen. Several of the 
Knitting Circle were strong enough, but only Sumeko and, surprisingly, Reanne openly studied what she was doing. 
Sumeko went so far as to shrug off the encouraging pats Nynaeve tried to give her— which earned a look of startled 
indignation from Nynaeve that Sumeko, her gaze fixed on Aviendha, never saw. All of the Wind-finders had sufficient 
strength. They watched as hungrily as they had stared at the Bowl. The bargain gave them every right. 
Aviendha focused, and the flows wove together, creating identity between this place and the place she and Elayne and 
Nynaeve had chosen on a map. She gestured as though opening tentflaps. That was no part of the weave Elayne had 
taught her, but it was almost all she could recall of what she herself had done, long before Egwene made her first 
gateway. The flows coalesced into a silvery, vertical slash that rotated and became an opening in the air, taller than a 
man and just as wide. Beyond lay a large clearing surrounded by trees twenty or thirty feet high, miles north of the 
City, on the far side of the river. Knee-high brown grass came right up to the gateway, swaying through in a small 
breeze; it "ad not truly turned, only seemed to. Some of those blades were sliced cleanly, though, some lengthwise. The 
edges of an opening gateway made a razor seem dull. 
The gateway filled her with dissatisfaction. Elayne could make this weave with only a part of her strength, yet for some 
reason it required all but a fraction of Aviendha's. She was sure she could have woven a larger, as large as Elayne 
could, using the weaves she had made without thought while trying to escape Rand al’Thor what seemed a very long 
time ago, but no matter how often she tried, only scraps came back to her. She felt no envy— rather, she took pride in 
her near-sister's accomplishments— but her own failure made shame surge in her heart. Sorilea or Amys would be hard 
on her, if they knew that. About the shame. Too much pride, they would call it. Amys should understand; she had been 
a Maiden. There was shame in failing at what you should be able to do. If she had not had to hold the weave, she would 
have run away so no one could see her. 
The departure had been carefully planned, and the whole stableyard sprang into motion as soon as the gateway opened 
fully. Two of the Knitting Circle pulled the hooded Shadowrunner to her feet, and the Windfinders hurriedly formed a 
line behind Renaile din Calon. The servants began bringing horses out of the stables. Lan, Birgitte, and one of 
Careane's Warders, a lanky man called Cieryl Arjuna, immediately darted through the gateway, one behind the other. 
Like Far Dareis Mat, Warders always claimed the right to scout ahead. Aviendha's feet itched to run after them, but 
there was no point. Unlike Elayne, she could not move more than five or six steps without this weave beginning to 
weaken, and the same if she tried to tie it off. It was very 
frustrating. 
This time there was no real expectation of danger, so the Aes Sedai followed immediately, Elayne and Nynaeve as 
well. Farms dotted that treed area thickly, and a wandering shepherd or a young couple seeking privacy might need 
guidance away from seeing too much, but no Shadowsouled or Shadowrunner could know that clearing; only she, 
Elayne, and Nynaeve did, and they had not spoken in the choosing, for fear of eavesdroppers. Standing in the opening, 
Elayne gave Aviendha a questioning look, but Aviendha motioned her to go on. Plans were meant to be followed 
unless there was reason to change them. 



The Windfinders began filing slowly through to the clearing, each suddenly irresolute as she approached this thing she 
had never dreamed of, taking a breath before she entered. And abruptly, the prickling returned. 
Aviendha's eyes rose to the windows overlooking the stable-yard. Anyone might be hidden behind the white screens of 
intricate wrought iron and piercework carving. Tylin had ordered the servants to stay away from those windows, but 
who would stop Teslyn, or Joline, or. ... Something made her look higher, to the domes and towers. Narrow walks 
ringed some of those slim spires, and on one, very high, was a black shape haloed by a sharp nimbus from the sun 
behind. A man. 
Her breath caught. Nothing in his stance, hands on the stone railing, spoke of danger, yet she knew he was the one who 
put that crawling between her shoulder blades. One of the Shadowsouled would not stand there simply watching, but 
that creature, that gholam. . . . Ice formed in her belly. He could be just a palace servant. He could be, but she did not 
believe it. No shame in knowing fear. 
Anxiously she glanced at the women still edging though the gateway with agonizing slowness. Half the Sea Folk were 
gone, and the Knitting Circle waited behind the rest with the Shadow-runner firmly in hand, their own unease at the 
passage warring with resentment that the Sea Folk women were allowed to go first. If she voiced her suspicions, the 
Kinswomen surely would run— mere mention of the Shadowsouled dried their mouths and turned their bowels to 
water— while the Windfinders might well try to claim the Bowl straightaway. With them, the Bowl stood above 
anything else. But only a blind fool stood scratching herself while a lion crept up on the herd she had been set to guard. 
She caught one of the Atha'an Miere by a red silk sleeve. 
"Tell Elayne—" A face like smooth black stone turned to her; the woman somehow made full lips seem thin; her eyes 
were black pebbles, flat and hard. What message could she send that Would not bring down all the troubles she feared 
from them? Tell Elayne and Nynaeve to be wary. Tell them enemies always come when you least want them. You must 
say this to her, with-/ut fail." The Windfinder nodded with barely concealed impatience, but surprisingly, she waited 
for Aviendha to release her before making her hesitant way through the gateway. 
The walk up on the tower stood empty. Aviendha felt no relief. He could be anywhere. Making his way down to the 
stable-yard. Whoever he was, whatever he was, he was dangerous; this was not a dust-funnel dancing in her 
imagination. The last four Warders had formed a square around the gateway, a guard who would be last to leave, and 
much as she despised their swords, she was grateful that someone there besides herself knew the use of sharp metal. 
Not that they would have any more chance against a gholam, or worse, one of the Shadowsouled, than the servants 
waiting with the horses. Or than she herself. 
Grimly she drew the Power, until the sweetness of saidar grew near to pain. A hair beyond, and pain would almost 
become blinding agony for the moments needed to die or lose the ability completely. Would those shuffling women 
quicken their feet! No shame in feeling fear, but she was very much afraid that hers was painted on her face. 

Chapter 2 Unweaving 

Elayne stepped to one side as soon as she was through the gateway, but Nynaeve trampled across the clearing, kicking 
up brown grasshoppers from the dead grass and peering this way and that for evidence of the Warders. Of one Warder, 
anyway. A bright red bird flashed across the clearing and was gone. Nothing else moved except the sisters; a squirrel 
barked somewhere in the mostly leafless trees, and then there was silence. To Elayne it seemed impossible those three 
could have passed this way without leaving paths as wide as that behind Nynaeve, yet she could not make out any sign 
that they had been there at all. She sensed Birgitte somewhere off to her left, roughly southwest she thought, and 
feeling quite content, clearly in no immediate danger. Careane, part of a protective circle gathered around Sareitha and 
the Bowl, cocked her head almost as if listening. Apparently her Cieryl was to the southeast. Which meant Lan was 
north. Oddly enough, north was the direction Nynaeve had settled down to watch, all the while muttering under her 
breath. Perhaps being married had created some sense of him in her. More likely, she had noticed a track that escaped 
Elayne. Nynaeve was as skilled at woodscraft as she was with herbs. From where Elayne stood at first, Aviendha was 
clearly visible through the gateway, studying the palace rooftops as if she expected an ambush. By her stance, she 
could have been carrying spears, ready to leap into battle in her riding dress. She made Elayne smile, hiding how 
distressed she was about her problems with the gateway, so much braver than she herself. But at the same time she 
could not help worrying. Aviendha was brave, and no one Elayne knew was better able to keep her head. She also 
might decide that ji'e'toh required her to fight when there was no chance except in running. The light around her shone 
so brightly it was obvious she could not draw much more of saidar. If one of the Forsaken did appear. . . . 



I should have stayed with her. Elayne rejected the thought immediately. Whatever excuse she gave, Aviendha would 
know the truth, and she was touchy as a man, sometimes. Most of the time. Especially when it bore upon her honor. 
With a sigh, Elayne let the Atha'an Miere crowd her further from the gateway as they filed through. She stayed close 
enough to hear any shout on the other side, though. Close enough to leap to Aviendha's aid in a heartbeat. And for 
another reason. 
The Windfinders came through in order of rank, striving to keep their faces smooth, but even Renaile relaxed tight 
shoulders once her bare feet were beating down the tall brown grass. Some gave a little shiver, quickly suppressed, or 
glanced back with round eyes at the opening hanging in midair. One and all, they stared at Elayne suspiciously as they 
stepped by her, and two or three opened their mouths, perhaps to ask what she was doing, perhaps to ask—or tell—her 
to move. She was just as glad that they hurried on in obedience to Renaile's curt urgings. They would have their chance 
to tell Aes Sedai what to do soon enough; it did not have to start with her. 
That thought made her stomach sink, and the number of them made her shake her head. They had the knowledge of 
weather to use the Bowl properly, yet even Renaile agreed— if reluctantly— that the more Power directed through the 
Bowl, the better the chances of being able to heal the weather. It must be directed with a precision impossible except 
for one woman alone or a circle, though. A full circle of thirteen it had to be. That thirteen certainly would include 
Nynaeve and Aviendha and Elayne herself, and probably a few of the Kin, but Renaile plainly intended to jump on the 
part of the bargain that said they would be allowed to learn any abilities the Aes Sedai could teach. The gateway had 
been the first, and forming a circle would be the second. A wonder she had not brought every Windfinder in the harbor. 
Imagine trying to deal with three or four hundred of these women! Elayne offered a small prayer of thanks that there 
were only twenty. 
She was not standing there to count them, though. As each Windfinder passed, barely more than a pace away, she let 
herself feel the woman's strength in the Power. Earlier there had been time to get close enough to only a handful, what 
with all the trouble of convincing Renaile to come at all. Apparently achieving rank among the Windfinders had 
nothing to with either age or strength; Renaile was far from the strongest even in the first three or four, while one 
woman toward the rear, Senine, had weathered cheeks and thickly grayed hair. Strangely, by the marks in her ears it 
seemed that Senine might once have worn more than six earrings, and thicker ones than she did now. 
Elayne sorted and stored away faces and the names she knew with a growing sense of complacency. The Windfinders 
might have secured an upper hand of sorts, and she and Nynaeve might be in deep trouble, very deep, with both 
Egwene and the Hall of the Tower once the terms of their bargain became known, but none of these women would 
stand particularly high among Aes Sedai. Certainly not low, but not high. She told herself not to feel smug— it 
changed nothing in what they had agreed— yet it was very hard not to. These were the best the Atha'an could produce, 
after all. Here in Ebou Dar, anyway. And if they had been Aes Sedai, every one of them, from Kurin, with her stony 
black stare, to Renaile herself, would have listened when she spoke and stood when she entered a room. If they were 
Aes Sedai and behaving as they should. 
And then the end of the line appeared, and she gave a start as a young Windfinder off one of the smaller ships passed 
her, a round-cheeked woman called Rainyn, in plain blue silks, with barely a half-dozen ornaments hanging from her 
nose chain. The two apprentices, boyishly slim Talaan and big-eyed Metarra, scurried at the very tail with harried 
expressions. They had not earned the nose ring yet, much less the chain, and only a single thin gold earring in the left 
ear balanced the three in the right. Her eyes followed the three of them just short of staring. Perhaps not short 
of it, at that. 
The Atha'an Miere clustered with Renaile again, most, like her, glaring hungrily at the Aes Sedai and the Bowl. The 
last three women stood at the rear, the apprentices with the air of those uncertain whether they had a right to be there at 
all, Rainyn folding her arms in imitation of Renaile, yet doing little better than the other two. The Windfinder on a 
darter, the least of the Sea Folk vessels, likely seldom found herself in company with the Windfinder to her clan 
Wavemistress, not to mention the Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships. Rainyn was easily as strong as Lelaine or 
Romanda, and Metarra on a level with Elayne herself, while Talaan. . . . Talaan, so meek in her red linen blouse, with 
eyes that seemed permanently downcast, came very close to Nynaeve. Very close. More, Elayne knew she herself had 
not yet reached her full potential, and neither had Nynaeve. How close were Metarra and Talaan? She had grown 
accustomed to knowing that only Nynaeve and the Forsaken were stronger than she. Well, Egwene, but she had been 
forced, and her own potential, and Aviendha's, matched Egwene's. So much for complacency, she told herself ruefully. 
Lini would have said it was what she deserved for taking things for granted. 
Laughing softly at herself, Elayne turned back to check on Aviendha, but the Knitting Circle stood rooted to one spot in 



front of the gateway, twitching at cold stares from Careane and Sareitha. All but Sumeko, and she did not move away 
either for all that she had met the sisters' gazes. Kirstian appeared ready to 
burst into tears. 
Suppressing a sigh, Elayne herded the Kinswomen out of the way of the stable folk waiting to bring the horses through. 
The Knitting Circle went along like sheep— she was the shepherd, Merilille and the rest the wolves— and they would 
have moved faster if not for Ispan. 
Famelle, one of only four among the Knitting Circle without a touch of gray or white in her hair, and Eldase, a 
fierce-eyed woman when she was not looking at an Aes Sedai, held Ispan by the arms. They could not seem to decide 
between holding her firmly enough to keep her upright and not clutching her too tightly, with the result that the Black 
sister moved in a bobbing fashion, sagging halfway to her knees when they loosened their grips, then pulled back up 
just before she fell completely. 
"Forgive me, Aes Sedai," Famelle kept murmuring to Ispan with a faint Taraboner accent. "Oh, I am sorry, Aes Sedai." 
Eldase winced and gave a little moan every time Ispan stumbled. Just as if Ispan had not helped murder two of their 
number and the Light alone knew how many others. They were fussing over a woman who was going to die. The 
killings in the White Tower that Ispan had conspired at were enough to condemn her by themselves. 
"Take her over there somewhere," Elayne told them, waving away from the gateway into the clearing. They obeyed, 
bobbing curtsies and nearly dropping Ispan, murmuring apologies to Elayne and to the hooded prisoner. Reanne and 
the rest scurried along, anxiously eyeing the sisters around Merilille. 
Almost immediately the war of glares started up again, the Aes Sedai at the Kinswomen, the Knitting Circle at the 
Wind-finders, and the Atha'an Miere at anybody their eyes fell on. Elayne clamped her teeth shut. She was not going to 
shout at them. Nynaeve always got better results with yells, anyway. But she did want to shake some sense into every 
one of them, shake them until their teeth rattled. Including Nynaeve, who was supposed to be getting everyone 
organized instead of staring into the trees. But what if it had been Rand who was going to die unless she could find a 
way to save him? 
Suddenly tears trembled on the edge of falling, stinging her eyes. Rand was going to die, and there was nothing she 
could do to stop it. Peel the apple in your hand, girl, not the one on the tree, Lini's thin voice seemed to whisper in her 
ear. Tears are for after; they just waste time before. 
"Thank you, Lini," Elayne murmured. Her old nurse was an irritating woman sometimes, never admitting that any of 
her charges had really grown up, but her advice was always good. Just because Nynaeve was slacking her duties was 
no reason for Elayne to slack hers. 
Servants had started trotting horses through right on the heels of the Knitting Circle, beginning with the packhorses. 
None of those first animals carried anything so frivolous as clothes. They could walk if the riding horses needed to be 
abandoned on the other side of the gateway, and wear what they stood up in if the rest of the pack animals had to be left 
behind, but what was on those first horses could not be left for the Forsaken. Elayne motioned the leather-cheeked 
woman leading the very first to follow her aside, out of the way of the others. 
Untying and tossing back the stiff canvas cover on one of the wide wicker panniers revealed a great heap of what 
appeared to be rubbish stuffed in every which way, right up to the top, some of it wrapped in cloth that was falling to 
pieces. The greater part of it probably was rubbish. Embracing saidar, Elayne began sorting. A rusted breastplate 
quickly went onto the ground, along with a broken table leg, a cracked platter, a badly dented pewter pitcher, and a bolt 
of rotted, unidentifiable cloth that almost broke apart in her hands. 
The storeroom where they found the Bowl of the Winds had been stuffed full, things that should have been on a refuse 
heap jumbled in with more objects of the Power than just the Bowl, some in beetle-riddled casks or chests, some 
carelessly stacked. For hundreds and hundreds of years the Kin had hidden away all things they found that were 
connected to the Power, fearful of using them and fearful of delivering them to Aes Sedai. Until that very morning. 
This was the first chance Elayne had had to see what was worth keeping. The Light send that the Darkfriends had not 
gotten away with anything important; they had taken some, but certainly less than a quarter of what the room had held, 
rubbish included. The Light send she found something they could use. People had died to bring these things out of the 
Rahad. 
She did not channel, just held the Power as she lifted each item. A chipped clay cup, three broken plates, a child's 
moth-eaten dress, and an old boot with a hole worn through the side all fell to the ground. A stone carving a little larger 
than her hand—it felt like stone; it might have been a carving, though it did not exactly look carved, for some 
reason—all deep blue curves vaguely like roots. It seemed to warm faintly at her touch; it held a ... resonance ... to 



saidar. That was the closest word she could think of. What it was meant to do, she had no idea, but it was a ter'angreal 
without any doubt. It went on the other side of her, away from the pile of rubbish. The heap of refuse continued to 
grow, but so did the other, if more slowly, things that had nothing in common except the faint warmth and the sense of 
echoing the Power. A small box that felt like ivory, covered in wavering red and green stripes; she set it down carefully 
without opening the hinged lid. You could never tell what might trigger a ter'angreal. A black rod no thicker than her 
little finger, a pace in length, stiff yet so flexible she thought she could have doubled it into a circle. A tiny stoppered 
vial that might have been crystal, with a dark red liquid inside. The figure of a stout, bearded man with a jolly smile, 
holding a book; two feet tall, it appeared to be age-darkened bronze and took both of her hands to move. Other things. 
Most was trash, though. And none was what she truly wanted. Not yet. 
"Is this the time to be doing that?" Nynaeve asked. She straightened hastily from the small cluster of ter'angreal, 
grimacing and rubbing her hand on her skirt. "That rod feels like . . . pain," she muttered. The hard-faced woman 
holding the pack-horse's head blinked at the rod and edged away. 
Elayne eyed the rod—Nynaeve's occasional impressions about objects she touched could be useful—but she did not 
stop sorting. There had been too much pain lately to need any more, surely. Not that what Nynaeve sensed was always 
that straightforward. The rod might have been present when a great deal of pain was caused without being the cause in 
itself. The pannier was almost empty; some of what was on the other side of the horse would have to be shifted to 
balance the weight. "If there's an angreal in this somewhere, Nynaeve, I would like to find it before Moghedien taps 
one of us on the shoulder." 
Nynaeve grunted sourly, but she peered into the wicker basket. 
Dropping another table leg— that made three, none of which matched— Elayne spared a glance for the clearing. All of 
the packhorses were out, and the mounts were coming through the gateway, now, filling the open space between the 
trees with bustle and confusion. Merilille and the other Aes Sedai already sat their saddles, barely concealing their 
impatience to be off, while Pol fussed hurriedly with her mistress's saddlebags, but the Windfinders. . . 
Graceful afoot, graceful on their ships, they were unused to horses. Renaile was trying to mount from the wrong side, 
and the gentle bay mare chosen for her danced slow circles around the liveried man who was gripping the bridle with 
one hand while tugging his hair in frustration with the other and vainly trying to correct the Windfinder. Two of the 
stablewomen were attempting to hoist Dorile, who served the Wavemistress of Clan Somarin, into her saddle, while a 
third, holding the gray's head, wore the tight face of someone trying not to laugh. Rainyn was on the back of a leggy 
brown gelding, but somehow without either foot in the stirrups or the reins in her hands and having considerable 
trouble finding any of them. And those three seemed to be having the easiest time of it. Horses whinnied and danced 
and rolled their eyes, and Windfinders shouted curses in voices that could have been heard over a gale. One of them 
knocked a serving man flat with her fist, and three more stable folk were trying to catch mounts that had gotten free. 
There was also what she had expected to see, if Nynaeve was no longer keeping her private watch. Lan stood by his 
black war-horse, Mandarb, dividing his gaze between the treeline, the gateway, and Nynaeve. Birgitte came striding 
out of the woods shaking her head, and a moment later, Cieryl, trotted from the trees, but with no sense of urgency. 
There was nothing out there to threaten or inconvenience them. 
Nynaeve was watching her, eyebrows raised high. "I didn't say anything," Elayne said. Her hand closed on something 
small, wrapped in rotting cloth that might have been white once. Or brown. She knew immediately what was inside. 
"A good thing for you," Nynaeve grumbled, not quite far enough under her breath. "I can't abide women who poke 
their noses into other people's business." Elayne let it pass without so much as a start; she was proud that she did not 
have to bite her tongue. 
Stripping away the decayed cloth revealed a small amber brooch in the shape of a turtle. It looked like amber, anyway, 
and it might been amber once, but when she opened herself to the Source through it, saidar rushed into her, a torrent 
compared to what she could draw safely on her own. Not a strong angreal, but far better than nothing. With it, she 
could handle twice as much of the Power as Nynaeve, and Nynaeve herself would do better 
still- Releasing the extra flow of saidar, she slipped the brooch into her belt pouch with a smile of delight and went 
back to searching. Where there was one, there might be more. And now that she had one to study, she might be able to 
reason out how to make an angreal. That was something she had wished for. It was all she could do not to take the 
brooch out again and begin probing it right there. 
Vandene had been eyeing Nynaeve and her for some time, and now she heeled her slab-sided gelding over to them and 
dismounted. The groom at the packhorse's head managed a decent if awkward curtsy, more than she had for Elayne or 
Nynaeve. "You're being careful," Vandene said to Elayne, "and that's very good. But it might be better to leave these 



things alone until they're in the Tower." 
Elayne's mouth tightened. In the Tower? Until they could be examined by someone else, was what she meant. Someone 
older and supposedly more experienced. "I do know what I'm doing, Vandene. I have made ter'angreal, after all. 
Nobody else living has done that." She had taught the basics to some sisters, but no one had managed the trick of it by 
the time she left for Ebou Dar. 
The older Green nodded, flipping her reins idly against the palm of her riding glove. "Martine Janata also knew what 
she was doing, so I understand," she said casually. "She was the last sister to really make a business of studying 
ter'angreal. She did it for over forty years, almost from the time she reached the shawl. She was careful, too, so I was 
told. Then one day, Martine's maid found her unconscious on the floor of her sitting room. Burned out." Even in a 
conversational tone, those words were a sharp slap. Vandene's voice did not alter a hair, though. "Her Warder was dead 
from the shock. Not unusual in cases like that. When Martine came to, three days later, she couldn't recall what she had 
been working with. She couldn't remember the preceding week at all. That was more than twenty-five years ago, and 
no /ne since has had the nerve to touch any of the ter'angreal that were in her rooms. Her notes mentioned every last 
one, and everything she had discovered was innocuous, innocent, even frivolous, but. . . ." Vandene shrugged. "She 
found something she wasn't expecting." 
Elayne peeked at Birgitte, and found Birgitte looking back at her. She did not need to see the worried frown on the 
other woman's face; it was mirrored in her mind, in the small patch of her mind that was Birgitte and in the rest. 
Birgitte felt her worry, and she felt Birgitte's, until sometimes it was hard to say which was which. She risked more 
than herself. But she did know what she was doing. More than anyone else there, at least. And even if none of the 
Forsaken appeared, they needed all the angreal she could find. 
"What happened to Martine?" Nynaeve asked quietly. "Afterward, I mean." She could seldom hear of anyone being 
hurt without wanting to Heal them; she wanted to Heal everything. 
Vandene grimaced. She might have been the one to bring up Martine, but Aes Sedai did not like talking about women 
who had been burned out or stilled. They did not like remembering them. "She vanished once she was well enough to 
slip out of the Tower," she said hurriedly. "The important thing to remember is that she was cautious. I never met her, 
but I've been told she treated every ter'angreal as if she had no idea what it might do next, even the one that makes the 
cloth for Warders' cloaks, and nobody has ever been able to make that do anything else. She was careful, and it did her 
no good." 
Nynaeve laid an arm across the nearly empty pannier. "Maybe you really should," she began. "No-o-o-o!" Merilille 
shrieked. 
Elayne spun, instinctively opening herself through the angreal again, only half conscious of saidar flooding into 
Nynaeve and Vandene. The glow of the Power sprang up around every woman in the clearing who could embrace the 
Source. Merilille was straining forward in her saddle, eyes bulging, one hand reaching toward the gateway. Elayne 
frowned. There was nothing there except Aviendha, and the last four Warders, startled in the middle of walking away, 
searching for the threat with swords half-drawn. Then she realized what Aviendha was doing and nearly lost saidar 
in her shock. 
The gateway trembled as Aviendha carefully picked apart the weave that had made it. It shivered and flexed, the edges 
wavering. The last flows came loose, and instead of winking out, the opening shimmered, the view through it of the 
courtyard fading away until it evaporated like mist in the sun. 
"That is impossible!" Renaile said incredulously. An astonished murmur of agreement broke out among the 
Windfinders. The Kinswomen gaped at Aviendha, mouths working soundlessly. 
Elayne nodded slowly in spite of herself. Clearly it was possible, but one of the first things she had been told as a 
novice was that never, ever, under any circumstances was she to try what Aviendha had just done. Picking apart a 
weave, any weave, rather than simply letting it dissipate, could not be done, she had been told, not without inevitable 
disaster. Inevitable. 
"You fool girl!" Vandene snapped, her face a thunderhead. She strode toward Aviendha dragging her gelding behind. 
"Do you realize what you almost did? One slip—one!—and there's no saying what the weave will snap into, or what it 
will do! You could have completely destroyed everything for a hundred paces! Five hundred! Everything! You could 
have burned yourself out and—" 
"It was necessary," Aviendha cut in. A babble erupted from the mounted Aes Sedai crowding around her and Vandene, 
but she glared at them and raised her voice over theirs. "I know the dangers, Vandene Namelle, but it was necessary. Is 
this another thing you Aes Sedai cannot do? The Wise Ones say any woman can learn, if she is taught, some women 



more and some less, but any woman, if she can pick out embroidery." She did not quite sneer. Not quite. 
"This is not embroidery, girl!" Merilille's voice was deep winter ice. "Whatever so-called training you received among 
your people, you cannot possibly know what you are playing with! You will promise me— swear to me!— that you 
will never do this again!" 
"Her name should be in the novice book," Sareitha said firmly, glaring across the Bowl still held firmly to her bosom. 
I've always said it. She should be entered in the book." Careane nodded, her stern gaze measuring Aviendha for a 
novice dress. 
"That might not be necessary for the moment," Adeleas told Aviendha, leaning forward in her saddle, "but you must let 
yourself be guided by us." The Brown sister's tone was much milder than the others', yet she was not making a 
suggestion. 
A month or so earlier, Aviendha might have begun to wilt under all that Aes Sedai disapproval, but not now. Elayne 
hurriedly pushed in among the horses before her friend decided to draw the knife she was fondling. Or to do something 
worse. "Maybe somebody should ask why she thought it was necessary," she said, slipping an arm around Aviendha's 
shoulders as much to keep her arms at her sides as for comfort. 
Aviendha did not quite include her in the exasperated look she gave the other sisters. "This leaves no residue," she said 
patiently. Too patiently. "The residues of a weave this large might be read two days from now," 
Merilille snorted, a very strong sound to come from that slight body. "That is a rare Talent, girl. Neither Teslyn nor 
Joline has it. Or do you Aiel wilders all learn that as well?" 
"Few can do it," Aviendha admitted calmly. "But I can." That produced a different sort of stare, from Elayne as well; it 
was a very rare Talent. She did not seem to notice. "Do you claim that none of the Shadowsouled can?" she went on. 
The tightness of her shoulder under Elayne's hand said she was not so cool as she pretended. "Are you such fools that 
you leave tracks for your enemies to follow? Any who could read the residues could make a gateway to this spot." 
That would have taken great dexterity, very great dexterity, but the suggestion was enough to leave Merilille blinking. 
Adeleas opened her mouth, then closed it without speaking, and Vandene frowned thoughtfully. Sareitha simply looked 
worried. Who could say what Talents the Forsaken had, what skill? 
Strangely, all the fierceness drained out of Aviendha. Her eyes fell, her shoulders loosened. "Perhaps I should not have 
taken the risk," she muttered. "With that man watching me, I could not think clearly, and when he disappeared. ..." A 
little of her spirit returned, but not a great deal. "I do not think a man could read my weaves," she said to Elayne, "but if 
he was one of the Shadowsouled, or even the gholam. . . . The Shadowsouled know more than any of us. If I was 
wrong, I have great toh. But I do not think I was. I do not think it." 
"What man?" Nynaeve demanded. Her hat had been knocked askew in pushing among the horses, and that, with the 
tight frown she directed at everyone impartially, made her look ready for a fight. Perhaps she was. Careane's gelding 
accidentally nudged her with a shoulder, and she swatted the blue dun's nose. "A servant," Merilille said dismissively. 
"Whatever orders Tylin gave, Altaran servants are an independent lot. Or perhaps her son; that boy is too curious by 
half." 
The sisters around her nodded, and Careane said, "One of the Forsaken would hardly have stood and watched. You said 
so yourself." She was patting her gelding's neck and frowning accusingly at Nynaeve—Careane was one of those who 
gave her horse the sort of affection most people reserved for infants—she was frowning at Nynaeve, and Nynaeve took 
the words for her, too. 
"Maybe it was a servant, and maybe it was Beslan. Maybe." Nynaeve's sniff said she did not believe it. Or that she 
wanted them to believe she did not; she could tell you to your face that you were a blind idiot, yet let anyone else say it, 
and she would defend you until she went hoarse. Of course, she did not seem ready to decide whether she liked 
Aviendha, but she definitely did not like the older Aes Sedai. She tugged her hat almost straight, and her frown swept 
across them, then started over. "Whether it was Beslan or the Dark One, there's no call to stand here all day. We need to 
get ready and move on to the farm. Well? Move!" She clapped her hands sharply, and even Vandene gave a little start. 
There was little preparation left to do when the sisters moved their horses away. Lan and the other Warders had not sat 
on their heels once they realized there was no danger. Some of the servants had gone back through the gateway before 
Aviendha disposed of it, but the rest stood with the three dozen or so packhorses, occasionally glancing at the Aes 
Sedai, clearly wondering what marvel they might produce next. The Windfinders were all mounted, if awkwardly, and 
holding their reins as though expecting their horses to bolt any moment, or perhaps sprout wings and take flight. So 
were the Knitting Circle, with a good deal more grace, unconcerned that their skirts and petticoats were pushed up past 
their knees, and with Ispan still hooded and tied across a saddle like a sack. She could not possibly have sat upright on 



a horse, yet even Sumeko's eyes popped whenever they touched her. Glaring about her, Nynaeve looked ready to 
tongue-lash everybody into doing what they had already done, but only until *-an handed her the reins of her plump 
brown mare. She had adamantly refused the gift of a better horse from Tylin. Her hand trembled a little when it touched 
Lan's, and her face changed color as she swallowed the anger she had been about to unleash. When he offered a hand 
for her foot, she stared at him for a moment as if wondering what he was about, then colored again when he boosted her 
to her saddle. Elayne could only shake her head. She hoped she did not turn into an idiot when she married. 
If she married. 
Birgitte brought her silvery-gray mare and the yellow dun Aviendha rode, but she seemed to understand that Elayne 
wanted a private word with Aviendha. She nodded almost as if Elayne had spoken, swung up onto her mouse-colored 
gelding, and rode to where the other Warders were waiting. They greeted her with nods and began discussing 
something in low voices. By the glances directed at the sisters, the "something" had to do with taking care of Aes Sedai 
whether Aes Sedai wanted care taken or not. Including herself, Elayne noted grimly. There was no time now for that, 
though. Aviendha stood fiddling with her horse's reins, staring at the animal like a novice staring at a kitchen full of 
greasy pots. Very likely, Aviendha saw small difference between having to scrub pots and having to ride. 
Snugging her green riding gloves, Elayne casually shifted Lioness to block them from the others' view, then touched 
Aviendha's arm. "Talking to Adeleas or Vandene might help," she said gently. She had to be very careful here, as 
careful as with any ter'angreal. "They're old enough to know more than you might suspect. There has to be a reason 
you've been . . . having trouble . . . with Traveling." That was a mild way of putting it. Aviendha almost had failed to 
make the weave work at all, in the beginning. Careful. Aviendha was far more important than any ter'angreal ever 
could be. "They might be able to help." 
"How can they?" Aviendha stared stiffly at the saddle on her gelding. "They cannot Travel. How could any of them 
know how to help?" Abruptly her shoulders slumped, and she turned her head to Elayne. Shockingly, unshed tears 
glistened in her green eyes. "That isn't the truth, Elayne. Not the whole truth. They cannot help, but. . . . You are my 
near-sister; you have the right to know. They think I panicked at a servant. If I ask for help, it must all come out. That I 
Traveled once to run from a man, a man I hoped in my soul would catch me. To run like a rabbit. To run, wanting to be 
caught. How could I let them know such shame? Even if they really could help, how could I?" 
Elayne wished she did not know. About the catching part, at least. About the fact that Rand had caught her. Snatching 
the flecks of jealousy that suddenly were floating through her, she pushed them into a sack and stuffed it into the back 
of her head. Then she jumped up and down on it for good measure. When a woman plays the fool, look for the man. 
That was one of Lini's favorites. Another was, Kittens tangle your yarn, men tangle your wits, and it's simple as 
breathing for both. She drew a deep breath. "No one will know from me, Aviendha. I'll help you as much as I can. If I 
can figure out how." Not that there was much she could think to do. Aviendha was remarkably quick at seeing how 
weaves were formed, much quicker than she herself. 
Aviendha merely nodded and scrambled clumsily into her saddle, showing a bit more grace than the Sea Folk. "There 
was a man watching, Elayne, and he was no servant." Looking Elayne right in the eye, she added, "He frightened me." 
An admission she likely would have made to no one else in the world. 
"We're safe from him now, whoever he was," Elayne said, turning Lioness to follow Nynaeve and Lan from the 
clearing. In truth, it very likely had been a servant, but she would never tell that to anyone, Aviendha least of all. 
"We're safe, and in a few more hours, we will reach the Kin's farm, we'll use the Bowl, and the world will be right 
again." Well, somewhat. The sun seemed lower than it had in the stableyard, but she knew that was only imagination. 
For once, they had gained a clear jump on the Shadow. 
From behind a screen of white wrought iron, Moridin watched the last of the horses vanish through the gateway, and 
then the tall young woman and the four Warders. It was possible they were carrying away some item he could use—an 
angreal attuned to men, perhaps—but the chances were small. For the rest, the ter angreal, the greatest likelihood was 
that they would kill themselves trying to puzzle out how to use them. Sammael was a fool to have risked so much to 
seize a collection of no one knew what, then, Sammael had never been half as clever as he thought. 
He himself would not disrupt his own plans merely on the off chance, to see what scraps of civilization he could find. 
Only idle curiosity had brought him here. He liked to know what others thought important. But it was dross. 
He was about to turn away when the outlines of the gateway suddenly began to flex and tremble. Transfixed, he 
watched until the opening simply—melted. He had never been a man to give way to obscenities, but several rose in his 
mind. What had the woman done? These barbarous rustics offered too many surprises. A way to Heal being severed, 
however imperfectly. That was impossible! Except that they had done it. Involuntary rings. Those Warders and the 



bond they shared with their Aes Sedai. He had known of that for a long, long time, but whenever he thought he had the 
measure of them, these primitives revealed some new skill, did something that no one in his own Age had dreamed of. 
Something the pinnacle of civilization had not known! What had the girl done? 
"Great Master?" Moridin barely turned his head from the window. "Yes, Madic?" Her soul be damned, what had the 
girl done? 
The balding man in green-and-white who had slipped into the small room bowed deeply before falling to his knees. 
One of the upper servants in the palace, Madic, with his long face, possessed a pompous dignity that he tried to 
maintain even now. Moridin had seen men who stood far higher do far worse. "Great Master, I have learned what the 
Aes Sedai brought to the palace this morning. It is said they found a great treasure hidden in ancient days, gold and 
jewels and heartstone, artifacts from Shiota and Eharon and even the Age of Legends. There are said to be things 
among them that use the One Power. It is said that one can control the weather. No one knows where they are going, 
Great Master. The palace is aquiver with talk, but ten tongues name ten different destinations." 
Moridin went back to studying the stableyard below as soon as Madic spoke. Ridiculous tales of gold and cuendillar 
held no interest. Nothing would make a gateway behave that way. Unless. . . . Could she actually have unraveled the 
web? Death held no fear for him. Coldly he considered the possibility that he had been within sight of an unraveling 
web. One that had been unmade successfully. Another impossibility casually offered up by these . . . 
Something Madic had said caught his ear. "The weather, Madic?" The shadows of the palace spires had barely 
lengthened from their bases, but there was not a cloud to shield the baking city. 
"Yes, Great Master. It is called the Bowl of the Winds." The name meant nothing to him. But ... a ter'angreal to control 
the weather. ... In his own Age, weather had been carefully regulated with the use of ter'angreal. One of the surprises of 
this Age— one of the smaller, it had seemed—was that there were those who could manipulate weather to a degree that 
should have required one of those ter'angreal. One such device should not be enough to affect even a large part of a 
single continent. But what could these women do with it? What? If they used a ring? 
He seized the True Power without thought, the saa billowing black across his sight. His fingers tightened in the 
wrought-iron grille across the window; the metal groaned, twisting, not from his grip but from the tendrils of the True 
Power, drawn from the Great Lord himself, that wreathed around the grillework, flexing as he flexed his hand in anger. 
The Great Lord would not be pleased. He had strained from his prison to touch the world enough to fix the seasons in 
place. He was impatient to touch the world more, to shatter the void that contained him, and he would not be pleased. 
Rage enveloped Moridin, blood pounding in his ears. A moment past, he had not cared where those women went, but 
now. . . . Somewhere far from here. People fleeing ran as far and as fast as they could. Somewhere they felt safe. No 
use sending Madic to ask questions, no use squeezing anyone here; they would not have been fool enough to leave 
anyone behind alive who knew their destination. Not to Tar Valon. To al'Thor? To that band of rebel Aes Sedai? In all 
three places he had eyes, some that did not know they served him. All would serve him, before the end. He would not 
allow chance slips to spoil his plans now. Abruptly he heard something other than the thundering drumbeat of his own 
fury. A bubbling sound. He looked at Madic curiously, and stepped back from the spreading puddle on the floor. It 
seemed that in his anger he had seized at more than the wrought-iron screen with the True Power. Remarkable how 
much blood could be squeezed from a human body. 
He let what remained of the man fall without regret; indeed, thinking only that when Madic was found, the Aes Sedai 
would surely be blamed. A small addition to the chaos growing in the world. Ripping a hole in the fabric of the Pattern, 
he Traveled with the True Power. He had to find those women before they used this Bowl of the Winds. And failing 
that. . . . He disliked people meddling with his carefully laid plans. Those who did so and lived, lived to pay. 
The gholam stepped into the room cautiously, nostrils already twitching with the scent of still hot blood. The livid burn 
on its cheek seemed like a live coal. The gholam appeared to be merely a slender man, a little taller than average in this 
time, yet it had never encountered anything that could harm it. Until that man with the medallion. What might have 
been smile or snarl bared its teeth. Curious, it peered around the room, but there was nothing beyond the crushed 
corpse on the floor tiles. And a ... feel ... of something. Not the One Power, but something that made it ... itch, if not 
quite in the same way. Curiosity had brought it here. Parts of the grill over the window were crushed, pulling the whole 
thing loose at the sides. The gholam seemed to remember something that made it itch in that manner, yet so much of 
what it recalled was fogged and dim. The world had changed, as it seemed, in the blink of an eye. There had been a 
world of war and killing on a huge scale, with weapons that reached across miles, across thousands of miles, and then 
there was . . . this. But the gholam had not changed. It was still the most dangerous weapon of all. 
Its nostrils flared again, though it was not by scent that it tracked those who could channel. The One Power had been 



used below, and miles to the north. To follow, or not? The man who had wounded it was not with them; it had made 
sure of that before leaving the high vantage place. The one who commanded it wanted the man who had wounded it 
dead perhaps as much as he did the women, but the women were an easier target. The women had been named, too, and 
for the time being, it was constrained. For its entire existence it had been compelled to obey one or another human, but 
its mind held the concept of not being constrained. It must follow the women. It wanted to follow. The moment of 
death, when it felt the ability to channel vanish along with life, produced ecstasy. Rapture. But it was hungry, too, and 
there was time. Where they could run, it could follow. Settling fluidly beside the mangled body, it began to feed. Fresh 
blood, hot blood, was a necessity, but human blood always held the sweetest savor. 

Chapter 3 A Pleasant Ride 

Farms and pastures and olive groves covered most of the land around Ebou Dar, but many small forests stretched a few 
miles across as well, and while the ground was much flatter than the Rhannon Hills to the south, it rolled and 
sometimes rose in a prominence of a hundred feet or higher, sufficient to cast deep shadows in the afternoon sun. All in 
all, the country provided more than enough cover to keep unwanted eyes from what might have passed as some odd 
merchant's pack train, nearly fifty people mounted and almost as many afoot, especially when it had Warders to find 
unfrequented paths through the undergrowth. Elayne did not sight a mark of human habitation beyond a few goats 
cropping on some of the hills. 
Even plants and trees used to heat were beginning to wither and die, yet at any other time she might have enjoyed 
merely seeing the countryside. It could have been a thousand leagues from the land she had seen riding down the other 
bank of the Eldar. The hills were strange, knobby shapes, as though squeezed together by huge, careless hands. Flocks 
of brilliantly hued birds soared up at their passing, and a dozen sorts of hummingbirds flitted away from the horses, 
hovering jewels on blurred wings. 

Thick vines hung like ropes in some places, and there were trees with bundles of narrow fronds at the top for foliage, 
and things that looked like green feather dusters as tall as a man. A handful of plants, fooled by the heat, struggled to 
put out blossoms, bright reds and vivid yellows, some twice as wide as her two hands. Their perfume was lush 
and—"sultry" came to mind. She saw some boulders she would have wagered had once been toes on a statue, though 
why anyone would make a statue that large with bare feet she could not imagine, and another time the way led through 
a forest of thick fluted stones among the trees, the weathered stumps of columns, many toppled and all long since 
mined almost to the ground for their stone by local farmers. A pleasant ride despite the dust the horses' hooves raised 
from parched soil. The heat did not touch her, of course, and there were not very many flies. All the dangers lay behind 
them; they had outrun the Forsaken, and no chance any of them or their servants could catch up now. It could have 
been a pleasant ride, except. . . . 
For one thing, Aviendha learned that the message she had sent about enemies coming when least expected had not been 
delivered. At first Elayne felt relief at anything to change the topic from Rand. It was not the jealousy come back; 
rather, more and more she found herself wanting what Aviendha had shared with him. Not jealousy. Envy. She would 
almost have preferred the other. Then she began really hearing what her friend was saying in a low monotone, and the 
hair on the back of her neck tried to stand. 
"You can't do that," she protested, reining her horse closer to Aviendha's. Actually, she supposed Aviendha would not 
have much trouble drubbing Kurin, or tying her up, or any of the rest. If the other Sea Folk women stood still for it, 
anyway. "We can't start a war with them, certainly not before we use the Bowl. And not over this," she added hastily. 
"Not at all." They certainly were not going to start a war before or after the Bowl was used. Not just because the 
Windfinders were behaving more highhandedly by the hour. Not just because. . . . Drawing breath, she hurried on. "If 
she had told me, I would not have known what you meant. I understand why you couldn't speak more clearly, but you 
do see, don't you?" 
Aviendha glared ahead at nothing, absently brushing flies away from her face. "Without fail, I told her," she grumbled. 
"Without fail! What if he had been one of the Shadowsouled? What if he had managed to get by me through the 
gateway, and you with no warning? What if . . . ?" She turned a suddenly forlorn gaze on Elayne. "I will bite my knife," 
she said sadly, "but my liver may burst for it." 
Elayne was about to say that swallowing her anger was the right thing to do and she could pitch as large a fit as she 
wanted so long as she did not hurl it at the Atha'an Miere—that was what all that about knives and livers meant—but 



before she could open her mouth, Adeleas brought her rangy gray up on her other side. The white-haired sister had 
acquired a new saddle in Ebou Dar, a gaudy thing worked with silver on pommel and cantle. The flies seemed to avoid 
her, for some reason, though she wore a scent as strong as any of the flowers. 
"Pardon me. I could not help overhearing that last." Adeleas did not sound at all apologetic, and Elayne wondered just 
how much she had overheard. She felt her cheeks coloring. Some of what Aviendha had said about Rand had been 
remarkably frank and straightforward. Some of what she had said had been, too. It was one thing to talk that way with 
your nearest friend, quite another to suspect someone else had been listening. Aviendha seemed to feel the same way; 
she did not blush, but the sour look she shot at the Brown would have done Nynaeve proud. 
Adeleas merely smiled, a vague smile as bland as water soup. "It might be best if you gave your friend there free rein 
with the Atha'an Miere." She peered past Elayne at Aviendha, blinking. "Well, a loose rein. Putting the fear of the 
Light into them ought to be sufficient. They're almost there already, in case you haven't noticed. They're much more 
wary of the 'savage' Aiel—forgive me, Aviendha—than they are of Aes Sedai. Merilille would have suggested it, but 
her ears are still burning." 
Aviendha's face rarely gave much away, but right then she looked as puzzled as Elayne felt. Elayne twisted in her 
saddle to frown behind her. Merilille rode abreast with Vandene, Careane, and Sareitha not far back, all very studiously 
looking at anything except Elayne. Beyond the sisters were the Sea Folk, still in single file, and then would come the 
Knitting Circle, keeping themselves out of sight for the moment just ahead of the packhorses. They were threading 
their way through the glades of truncated columns. Fifty or a hundred long-tailed red-and-green birds winged over their 
heads, filling the air with chattering cries. 
"Why?" Elayne asked curtly. It seemed foolish to add to the turmoil already bubbling just below the surface—and 
sometimes on the surface—but she had seen no hint of the fool in Adeleas. The Brown sister's eyebrows rose in 
apparent surprise. Maybe she was surprised; Adeleas usually thought anyone should see what she saw. Maybe. 
"Why? To restore a little balance, that is why. If the Atha'an Miere feel they need us to protect them from an Aiel, it 
might be a useful balance against. ..." Adeleas paused slightly, suddenly absorbed in adjusting her pale gray skirts. ". . . 
other things." 
Elayne's face tightened. Other things. The bargain with the Sea Folk was what Adeleas meant. "You may ride with the 
others," she said coolly. 
Adeleas made no protest, no attempts to press her argument. She just inclined her head and let her horse fall back. Her 
small smile never altered a whit. The older Aes Sedai accepted that Nynaeve and Elayne stood above them and spoke 
with Egwene's authority at their backs, but the truth was, that changed little beyond the surface. Perhaps nothing. They 
were outwardly respectful, they obeyed, and yet. . . . 
After all was said and done, Elayne, at least, was Aes Sedai at an age when most initiates of the Tower still wore 
novice white and very few had reached the Accepted. And she and Nynaeve had agreed to that bargain, hardly a 
display of wisdom and acumen. Not just the Sea Folk getting the Bowl, but twenty sisters going to the Atha'an Miere, 
subject to their laws, required to teach anything the Windfinders wanted to learn and unable to leave until others came 
to replace them. Windfinders allowed to enter the Tower as guests, allowed to learn whatever they wished, leave 
whenever they wished. Those alone would make the Wall scream, and probably Egwene as well, yet the rest. . . . Every 
ast one of the older sisters thought she would have found a way around making that bargain. Perhaps they really could 
have. Wayne did not believe it, but she was not sure. 
She did not say anything to Aviendha, but after a few moments, the other woman spoke. "If I can serve honor and help 
you at the same time, I do not care whether it serves some Aes Sedai end." She never seemed to take it in that Elayne 
was also Aes Sedai, not completely. 
Elayne hesitated, then nodded. Something had to be done to temper the Sea Folk. Merilille and the others had displayed 
a remarkable forbearance so far, but how long would that last? Nynaeve might explode, once she actually turned her 
attentions to the Windfinders. Matters had to be kept as smooth as possible for as long as possible, but if the Atha'an 
Miere went on believing they could stare down any Aes Sedai, there would be trouble. Life was more complex than she 
had imagined back in Caemlyn, no matter how many lessons she had received as Daughter-Heir. So much more 
complicated since she entered the Tower. 
"Just don't be too . . . emphatic," she said softly. "And please have a care. There are twenty of them, after all, and only 
one of you. I wouldn't want anything to happen before I could help you." Aviendha gave her a grin with a good bit of 
wolf in it and drew her dun mare off at the edge of the stones to wait for the 
Atha'an Miere. 



From time to time Elayne glanced back, but all she saw through the trees was Aviendha riding next to Kurin, speaking 
quite calmly and not even looking at the Sea Folk woman. Certainly not glaring, though Kurin seemed to stare at her 
with considerable astonishment. When Aviendha thumped her horse back up to join Elayne, flapping her reins—she 
would never be a horsewoman—Kurin rode forward to speak with Renaile, and a short time later Renaile angrily sent 
Rainyn to the head of the column. The most junior of the Windfinders sat her horse even more awkwardly than 
Aviendha, whom she pretended to ignore on Elayne's other side just as she ignored the small green flies buzzing around 
her dark face. "Renaile din Calon Blue Star," she said stiffly, "demands that you snub in the Aiel woman, Elayne Aes 
Sedai." Aviendha grinned toothily at her, and Rainyn must have been watching at least a little, because her cheeks 
reddened beneath the sheen of sweat. 
"Tell Renaile that Aviendha is not Aes Sedai," Elayne replied. "I will ask her to be careful," no lie there; she had, and 
would again, "but I can't make her do anything." On impulse, she added,"You know how Aiel are." The Sea Folk had 
some very odd ideas of how the Aiel were. Rainyn stared wide-eyed at a still-grinning Aviendha, her face going gray, 
then jerked her horse around and galloped back to Renaile, bouncing in her saddle. 
Aviendha gave a pleased chuckle, but Elayne wondered whether the whole notion had been a mistake. Even with a 
good thirty paces between them, she could see Renaile's face swell up at Rainyn's report, and the others began to buzz 
like bees. They did not look frightened, they looked angry, and the glares they directed at the Aes Sedai ahead of them 
grew baleful. Not at Aviendha, at the sisters. Adeleas nodded thoughtfully when she saw that, and Merilille just barely 
failed to hide a smile. At least they were pleased. 
If that had been the only incident during the ride it would have taken the edge off any enjoyment of flowers and birds, 
but it was not even the first. Beginning shortly after leaving the clearing, the Knitting Circle had made their way 
forward to Elayne one by one, all but Kirstian, and no doubt she would have come too had she not been ordered to keep 
Ispan shielded. One by one they came, each hesitant, smiling timorously until Elayne wanted to tell them to act their 
ages. They certainly made no demands, and they were too smart to ask straight out for what already had been denied, 
but they found other paths. 
"It occurred to me," Reanne said brightly, "that you must want to question Ispan Sedai quite urgently. Who can say 
what else she was up to in the city besides trying to find the storeroom?" She pretended to just be making conversation, 
but from time to time she darted quick looks at Elayne to see how she was taking it. "I'm sure we'll take over an hour to 
reach the farm, the way we're going, perhaps two, and you certainly don't want to waste two hours. The herbs Nynaeve 
Sedai gave her make her quite talkative, and I'm sure she would sit up for sisters." 
The bright smile faded when Elayne said that questioning Ispan could wait and would. Light, did they really expect 
anyone fo ask questions riding through forests on paths that barely deserved the name? Reanne rode back to the other 
Kinswomen muttering to herself. 
“Forgiveness, Elayne Sedai," Chilares murmured a short time later, the traces of Murandy clinging to her accent. Her 
green straw hat matched some of her layered petticoats exactly. "Your forgiveness, if I intrude." She did not wear the 
red belt of a Wise Woman; most of the Knitting Circle did not. Famelle was a goldsmith, and Eldase supplied 
lacquerware to the merchants for export; Chilares was a rug seller, while Reanne herself arranged shipping for small 
traders. Some worked at simple tasks— Kirstian ran a tiny weaver's shop, and Dimana was a seamstress, though a 
prosperous one—but then, in the course of their lives, they had all followed many crafts. And used many names. "Ispan 
Sedai appears to be unwell," Chilares said, shifting uneasily in her saddle. "Perhaps the herbs are affecting her more 
than Nynaeve Sedai thought. It would be terrible if anything happened to her. Before she can be questioned, I mean. 
Perhaps the sisters would look at her? Healing, you know. . . ." She trailed off, blinking those big brown eyes 
nervously. As well she might, with Sumeko 
among her companions. 
A glance back showed the stout woman standing in her stirrups to peer past the Windfinders, until she saw Elayne 
looking and sat back down hurriedly. Sumeko, who knew more of Healing than any sister except Nynaeve. Perhaps 
more than Nynaeve. Elayne simply pointed to the rear until Chilares colored and reined her mount around. 
Merilille joined Elayne only moments after Reanne left, and the Gray sister made a much better pretense at simple chat 
than the Kinswoman had. In her manner of speaking, at least, she was poise itself. What she had to say was another 
matter. "I wonder how trustworthy those women are, Elayne." Her lips pursed in distaste as she brushed dust from her 
divided blue skirts with a gloved hand. "They say they do not take in wilders, but Reanne herself may well be a wilder, 
whatever she claims about failing her test for Accepted. Sumeko, as well, and certainly Kirstian." A slight frown for 
Kirstian, a dismissive shake of her head. "You must have noticed how she leaps at any mention of the Tower. She 



knows no more than she might have picked up in conversation with someone who really was put out." Merilille sighed, 
regretting what she had to say; she really was very good. "Have you considered that they may be lying about other 
things? They could be Darkfriends, for all we know, or dupes of Darkfriends. Perhaps not, but they are hardly to be 
trusted very far. I believe there is a farm, whether they really use it for a retreat or not, or I would not have agreed to 
this, but I will not be surprised to find a few ramshackle buildings and a dozen or so wilders. Well, not ramshackle— 
they do seem to have coin— but the principle is the same. No, they are simply not trustworthy." 
Elayne began a slow burn as soon as she realized the direction Merilille was taking, and it grew hotter. As this slipping 
around, all this "may" and "could" so the woman could insinuate things she herself did not believe. Darkfriends? The 
Knitting Circle had fought Darkfriends. Two had died. And without Sumeko and Ieine, Nynaeve might be dead instead 
of Ispan a prisoner. No, the reason they were not to be trusted was not because Merilille feared they were sworn to the 
Shadow, or she would have said so. They were not to be trusted because if they were not trusted, then they could not be 
allowed to hold Ispan. 
She swatted a big green fly that had settled on Lioness's neck, punctuating Merilille's last word with a loud crack, and 
the Gray sister jerked in surprise. "How dare you?" Elayne breathed. "They faced Ispan and Falion in the Rahad, and 
the gholam, not to mention two dozen or more toughs with swords. You weren't there." That was hardly fair. Merilille 
and the rest had been left behind because Aes Sedai in the Rahad, obvious Aes Sedai, might as well be trumpets and 
drums for the attention they attracted. She did not care. Her anger grew by the moment, and her voice rose by the word. 
"You will never suggest such a thing to me again. Never! Not without hard evidence! Not without proof. If you do, I'll 
set you a penance that will make your eyes pop!" No matter how high she stood above the other woman, she had no 
authority to set her any penance at all, but she did not care about that, either. “I’ll make you walk the rest of the way to 
Tar Valon! Eating nothing but bread and water the entire way! I'll put you in their charge, and tell them to slap you 
down if you say boo to a goose!" It dawned on her that she was shouting. Some sort of gray-and-white birds went 
flittering past overhead in a broad band, and she was drowning out their cries. Drawing a deep breath, she tried to calm 
herself. She did not have a voice for shouting; it always came out as a shriek. Everyone was looking at her, most 
astonishment. Aviendha nodded approvingly. Of course, she’d have done the same had Elayne plunged a knife into 
Merilille's heart. Aviendha stood beside her friends no matter what. Merilille's Cairhienin paleness had become dead 
white. 
"I mean what I say," Elayne told her, in a much cooler tone. It seemed to make even more blood leave Merilille's face. 
She did mean every word; they could not afford that sort of rumor floating among them. One way or another she would 
see it done, though the Knitting Circle very likely would faint. 
She hoped that was the end of it. It should have been. But when Chilares left, Sareitha replaced her, and she too had a 
reason the Kinswomen were not to be trusted. Their ages. Even Kirstian claimed to be older than any living Aes Sedai, 
while Reanne was over a hundred years more than that and not even the oldest of the Kin. Her title of Eldest went to 
the oldest of them in Ebou Dar, and the rigid schedule they followed to avoid notice had a number of still older women 
off in other places. It was obviously impossible, Sareitha maintained. 
Elayne did not shout; she very carefully did not shout. "We will learn the truth eventually," she told Sareitha. She did 
not doubt the Kinswomen's word, but there had to be a reason why the Kinswomen looked neither ageless nor anything 
near the ages they claimed. If she could only puzzle it out. Something told her it was obvious, but nothing leaped up 
said what. "Eventually," she added firmly when the Brown opened her mouth again. "That will be enough, Sareitha." 
Sareitha nodded uncertainly and fell back. Not ten minutes later, Sibella replaced her. 
Every time one of the Kinswomen came to make her roundabout plea to be relieved of Ispan, one of the sisters came 
soon after to offer the same plea. All save Merilille, who still blinked whenever Elayne looked at her. Perhaps shouting 
did have its uses. Certainly no one else tried to be so straightforward in attacking the Kin. 
For instance, Vandene began with discussing the Sea Folk and how to counter the effects of the bargain made with 
them, why it was necessary to counter them as much as possible. She was quite matter-of-fact, with never a word or 
gesture to lay any blame. Not that she needed any; the subject did that, however delicately handled. The White Tower, 
she said, maintained its influence in the world not by force of arms, or persuasion, or even by plotting or manipulation, 
though those two she brushed past lightly. Rather the White Tower controlled or influenced events to whatever extent 
they did because everyone saw the Tower as standing apart and above, as more even than kings or queens. That in turn 
depended on every Aes Sedai being seen that way, as mysterious and apart, different from everyone else. A different 
flesh. Historically, Aes Sedai who could not manage that— and there were a few— were kept out of public view as 
much as possible. 



It took Elayne a little while to realize that the thrust of the conversation had shifted away from the Sea Folk, and to see 
where it was headed. A different flesh, mysterious and apart, could not have a sack thrust over its head and be tied 
across a saddle. Not where anyone who was not Aes Sedai could see, anyway. In truth, the sisters would be rougher on 
Ispan than the Knitting Circle could possibly make themselves be, just not in public. The argument might have borne 
more weight had it come first, but as it was, Elayne sent Vandene packing as quickly as she did anyone else. And saw 
her replaced by Adeleas, right after Sibella was told that if none of the Knitting Circle could understand what Ispan was 
mumbling, then none of the sisters was likely to either. Mumbling! Light! The Aes Sedai took their repeated turns, and 
even knowing what they were up to, sometimes it was hard to see the connection at first. By the time Careane began by 
telling her that those boulders really had been toes once, supposedly on a statue of some warrior queen nearly two 
hundred feet high. . . . "Ispan stays where she is," she told Careane coolly without waiting for more. "Now, unless you 
really want to tell me why the Shiotans thought of putting up a statue like that. ..." The Green said ancient records 
claimed it had worn little more than armor, and not a great deal of that! A queen! "No? Then, if you don't mind, I'd like 
to talk with Aviendha alone. Thank you so much." Even being curt did not stop them, of course. She was surprised they 
did not send Merilille's maid to take a turn. 
None of this would have happened had Nynaeve been where she was meant to be. At least, Elayne was sure that 
Nynaeve could have quelled the Knitting Circle and the sisters both, in short order. She was a great one for quelling. 
The problem was that Nynaeve had glued herself tight to Lan's side before they left "e first clearing. The Warders 
scouted ahead and to both sides of their path, and sometimes to the rear, only riding back to the column long enough to 
report what they had seen or give directions on how to avoid a farm or a shepherd. Birgitte ranged far, never spending 
more than moments with Elayne. Lan ranged farther. And where Lan went, Nynaeve went. 
"No one's making any trouble, are they?" she demanded with a dark stare for the Sea Folk, the first time she followed 
Lan back. "Well, that's all right, then," she said before Elayne had a chance to open her mouth. Spinning her 
round-bellied mare like a racer, she nicked the reins and galloped after Lan holding her hat on with one hand, catching 
up to him just as he vanished around the flank of the hill ahead. Of course, then there really was nothing to complain 
about. Reanne had made her visit, and Merilille hers, and everything seemed settled. 
By the next time Nynaeve appeared, Elayne had suffered through a number of disguised attempts to have Ispan turned 
over to the sisters, Aviendha had spoken to Kurin, and the Wind-finders were on a slow boil, but when Elayne 
explained, Nynaeve simply looked around, frowning. Of course, right at that moment everyone had to be where they 
belonged. The Atha'an Miere wore glares, true, but the Knitting Circle were all behind them, and as for the other 
sisters, no group of novices could have appeared more well-behaved and innocent. Elayne wanted to shriek! 
"I'm sure you can handle everything, Elayne," Nynaeve said. "You have had all that training to be a queen. This can't 
be anywhere near so— Drat the man! He's going again! You can handle it." And off she went, galloping that poor mare 
as though it were a warhorse. 
That was when Aviendha chose to discuss how Rand seemed to like kissing the sides of her neck. And incidentally 
how much she had liked it. Elayne had liked that when he did it to her, too, but however used to discussing this sort of 
thing she had become—uncomfortably used to it—she did not want to talk about it right then. She was angry with 
Rand. It was unfair, but if not for him, she could have told Nynaeve to stop treating Lan like a child who might trip 
over his own feet and attend to her own duties. She almost wanted to blame him for the way the Knitting Circle was 
behaving, too, and the other sisters, and the Windfinders. It's one of the things men are for, taking the blame, she 
remembered Lini saying once, and laughing while she did. They usually deserve it, even if you don't know exactly 
how. Not fair, yet she wished he were there long enough for her to box his ears, just once. Long enough to kiss him, to 
have him kiss the sides of her neck softly. Long enough to. ... 
"He will listen to advice, even when he doesn't like hearing it," she said abruptly, her face reddening. Light, for all her 
talk about shame, in some areas Aviendha had none. And it seemed that she herself no longer had any, either! "But if I 
tried to push him, he dug in his heels even when it was plain that I was right. Was he that way with you?" 
Aviendha glanced at her and appeared to understand. Elayne was not sure whether she liked that or not. At least there 
was no more talk of Rand and kissing. For a while, anyway. Aviendha had some knowledge of men—she had traveled 
with them as a Maiden of the Spear, fought beside them—but she had never wanted to be anything but Far Dareis Mat, 
and there were . . . gaps. Even with her dolls as a child she had always played at the spears and raiding. She had never 
flirted, did not understand it, and she did not understand why she felt the way she did when Rand's eyes fell on her, or a 
hundred other things Elayne had begun learning the first time she noticed a boy looking at her differently than he did at 
the other boys. She expected Elayne to teach her all of it, and Elayne tried. She really could talk to Aviendha about 



anything. If only Rand had not been the example used quite so often. If he had been there, she would have boxed his 
ears. And kissed him. Then boxed his ears again. Not a pleasant ride at all. A miserable ride. Nynaeve made several 
more brief visits, before finally coming to announce that the Kin's farm lay just ahead, out of sight around a low 
rounded hill that appeared ready to fall on its side. Reanne had been pessimistic in her estimate; the sun had not fallen 
nearly two hours' worth. 
We'll be there very quickly, now," Nynaeve told Elayne, not seeming to notice the sullen stare Elayne gave in return. 
"Lan, retch Reanne up here, please. Best if they see a familiar face right /«. He whirled his horse away, and Nynaeve 
turned in her saddle briefly to fix the sisters with a firm eye. "I don't want you frightening them, now. You hold your 
tongues until we have a chance to explain what's what. And hide your faces. Pull up the hoods of your cloaks." 
Straightening without waiting for any reply, she gave a satisfied nod. "There. All settled, and all right. I vow, Elayne, I 
don't know what you were moaning so about. Everyone's doing exactly as they should, so far as I can see." 
Elayne ground her teeth. She wished they were in Caemlyn already. That was where they were heading once this was 
done. She had duties long overdue in Caemlyn. All she had to deal with there was convincing the stronger Houses that 
the Lion Throne was hers despite her long absence, that and handling a rival claimant or two. There might not have 
been any had she been there when her mother vanished, when she died, but the history of Andor said there would be by 
now. Somehow, it seemed ever so much easier than this. 

Chapter 4 A Quiet Place 

The Kin's farm lay in a broad hollow surrounded by three low hills, a sprawling affair of more than a dozen large, 
white-plastered buildings with flat roofs, gleaming in the sun. Four great barns were built right into the slope of the 
highest hill, a flat-topped thing with one side that fell away in steep cliffs beyond the barns. A few tall trees that had 
not lost all of their leaves provided a modicum of shade in the farmyard. To the north and east, olive groves marched 
away and even up the sides of the hills. A sort of slow bustle enveloped the farm, with easily over a hundred people in 
evidence despite the afternoon heat, carrying on all the everyday tasks but none quickly. 
It might almost have passed for a small village instead of a farm, except that there was not a man or a child to be seen. 
Wayne did not expect any. This was a waypoint for Kinswomen passing through Ebou Dar to elsewhere, so there 
would not be too many in the city itself at one time, but that was a secret matter, as secret as the Kin themselves. 
Publicly this farm was known for two hundred miles or more as a retreat for women, a place for contemplation and 
escape from the cares of the world tor a time, a few days, a week, sometimes longer. Elayne could almost feel serenity 
in the air. She might have regretted bringing the world into this quiet place, except that she also brought new hope. 
The first appearance of the horses coming around the leaning hill produced far less stir than she expected. A number of 
the women stopped to watch, but no more than that. Their clothing varied widely—Elayne even saw a sheen of silk 
here and there— but some carried baskets and others buckets, or great white bundles of what had to be wash. One held 
a pair of bound ducks by the feet in either hand. Noblewoman and craftswoman, farmer and beggar, all were equally 
welcome here, but everyone did a share of the work during her stay. Aviendha touched Elayne's arm, then pointed to 
the top of one of the hills, a thing like an inverted funnel skewed to one side. Elayne added a hand to the shade of her 
hat and after a moment saw movement. Small wonder no one was surprised. Lookouts up there could see anyone 
coming from a long way. 
A middling woman walked out to meet them short of the farm buildings. Her dress was in the Ebou Dari style, with a 
deep narrow neckline, but her dark skirts and brightly colored petticoats were short enough that she did not need to 
hold them up out of the dust. She did not wear a marriage knife; the Kin's rules prohibited marriage. The Kin had too 
many secrets to keep. "That's Alise," Reanne murmured, reining in between Nynaeve and Elayne. "She runs the farm 
this turn. She's very intelligent." Almost like an afterthought, she added, even more quietly, "Alise does not suffer fools 
gladly." As Alise approached, Reanne drew herself up in her saddle, squaring her shoulders as though for an ordeal. 
Middling was exactly how Elayne thought of Alise, not someone to give Reanne pause, certainly, even had she not 
been the Eldest of the Knitting Circle. Straight-backed, Alise appeared to be somewhere in her middle years, neither 
slender nor stout, tall nor short, a little gray flecking dark brown hair that was tied back with a piece of ribbon, but in a 
very practical manner. Her face was unremarkable, though pleasant enough, a mild face, perhaps a little long in the 
jaw. When she saw Reanne, she gave a fleeting look of surprise, then smiled. That smile transformed everything. It did 
not make her beautiful or even pretty, but Elayne felt warmed by it, comforted. 
"I hardly expected to see you . . . Reanne," Alise said, barely hesitating over the name. Obviously she was unsure 



whether to use Reanne's rightful title in front of Nynaeve and Elayne and Aviendha. She studied them with quick 
glances as she spoke. There seemed to be a bit of Tarabon in her voice. "Berowin brought word of trouble in the city, of 
course, but I didn't think it was so bad you would have to leave. Who are all these. . . ." Her words trailed off, and her 
eyes widened, staring beyond them. 
Elayne glanced back, nearly loosing a few of the choice phrases she had picked up in various places, most recently 
from Mat Cauthon. She did not understand all of them, not most of them really— nobody ever wanted to explain what 
they meant exactly— but they did have a way of relieving emotion. The Warders had doffed their color-shifting cloaks, 
and the sisters had drawn up the hoods of their dust-cloaks as instructed, even Sareitha, who had no need to hide her 
youthful face, but Careane had not pulled hers forward far enough. It simply framed her ageless features. Not everyone 
would know what they were seeing, yet anyone who had been in the Tower surely would. Careane jerked the hood 
forward at Elayne's glare, but the damage was done. 
Others at the farm beside Alise possessed sharp eyes. "Aes Sedai!" a woman howled in tones suitable for announcing 
the end of the world. Perhaps she was, for her world. Shrieks spread like dust blown on the wind, and that quickly, the 
farm became a kicked anthill. Here and there a woman simply fainted dead away, but most ran wildly, screaming, 
dropping what they carried, bumping into one another, falling down and scrambling up to run on. Flapping ducks and 
chickens and short-horned black goats darted wildly to avoid being trampled. In the midst of it au, some women stood 
gaping, plainly those who had come to the retreat with no knowledge of the Kin, though a few of them began to move 
hurriedly, too, caught up in the frenzy. 
Light!" Nynaeve barked, yanking her braid. "Some of them are running into the olive groves! Stop them! The last thing 
we want is a panic! Send the Warders! Quick, quick!" Lan raised a questioning eyebrow, but she waved a peremptory 
hand at him. “Quick! Before they all run away!" With a nod that seemed to begin as a shake of his head, he sent 
Mandarb galloping after the other men, curving to avoid the spreading pandemonium among the buildings. 
Elayne shrugged at Birgitte, then motioned her to follow. She agreed with Lan. It seemed a bit late to try stopping a 
panic, and Warders on horseback attempting to herd frightened women probably was not the best way. But she could 
not see how to change matters now, and there was no point letting them run off into the countryside. They would all 
want to hear the news she and Nynaeve brought. 
Alise gave no sign of running, or even fidgeting. Her face paled slightly, but she stared up at Reanne with a steady 
gaze. A firm gaze. "Why?" she breathed. "Why, Reanne? I could not have imagined you doing this! Did they give you 
bribes? Offer immunity? Will they let you walk free while we pay the price? They probably won't allow it, but I vow 
I'll ask them to let me call you down. Yes, you! The rules apply even to you, Eldest\ If I can find a way to manage it, I 
vow you won't walk away from this smiling!" A very firm gaze. Steely, in fact. 
"It isn't what you think," Reanne said hurriedly, dismounting and dropping her reins. She caught both of Alise's hands 
in hers despite the other woman's efforts to free them. "Oh, I did not want it to be like this. They know, Alise. About 
the Kin. The Tower has always known. Everything. Almost everything. But that isn't what is important." Alise's 
eyebrows tried to climb onto her scalp at that, but Reanne rushed on, beaming eagerly from under her large straw hat. 
"We can go back, Alise. We can try again. They said we can." The farm buildings seemed to be emptying as well, 
women rushing out to learn what the commotion was, then joining the flight without a pause for more than hiking 
skirts. Shouts from the olive groves said the Warders were at work, but not how much they were achieving. Perhaps not 
a great deal. Elayne sensed growing frustration from Birgitte, and irritation. Reanne eyed the turmoil and sighed. "We 
must gather them in, Alise. We can go back." 
"That's all very well for you and some of the others," Alise said doubtfully. "If it's true. What about the rest of us? The 
Tower would not have let me stay as long as I did had I been quicker to learn." She darted a frown at the now 
well-hooded sisters, and the stare she returned to Reanne held no little anger. "What would we go backer? To be told 
again we aren't strong enough and be sent on our way? Or will they just keep us as novices the rest of our lives? Some 
might accept that, but I won't. What for, Reanne? What for?" 
Nynaeve climbed down, tugging her mare forward at the end of her reins, and Elayne imitated her, though leading 
Lioness more easily. "To be part of the Tower, if that's what you wish," Nynaeve said impatiently before even reaching 
the two Kinswomen. "Maybe to be Aes Sedai. Myself, I don't know why you have to be a certain strength, if you can 
pass the fool tests. Or don't go back; run away, for all I care. Once I'm done here, anyway." Planting her feet, she pulled 
off her hat and planted her fists on her hips. "This is wasting time, Reanne, and we have work to do. Are you sure 
there's anybody here we can use? Speak up. If you're not sure, then we might as well get on with it. The hurry might be 
out of the way, but now we have the thing, I'd as soon it was over and done with." 



When she and Elayne were introduced as Aes Sedai, the Aes Sedai who had given the promises, Alise made a choked 
sound and began smoothing her woolen skirts as though her hands wanted to latch on to Reanne's throat. Her mouth 
opened angrily— then snapped shut without a sound when Merilille joined them. That stern gaze did not fade 
completely, but it became mixed with a touch of wonder. And more than a touch of wariness. 
"Nynaeve Sedai," Merilille said calmly, "the Atha'an Miere are ... impatient ... to be off their horses. I think some may 
ask for Healing." A brief smile flickered across her lips. 
That settled that question, though Nynaeve grumbled extravagantly about what she was going to do to the next person 
who doubted her. Elayne might have said a few choice words herself, but the truth was, Nynaeve looked more than a 
little silly carrying on that way with Merilille and Reanne both waiting attentively for her to finish and Alise staring at 
all three. That settled lf» or perhaps it was the Windfinders, afoot and pulling their horses behind them. Every shred of 
grace had vanished during the ride, worn away by hard saddles— their legs seemed as stiff as their faces— yet no one 
could mistake them for anything but who they were. 
"If there are twenty Sea Folk this far from the sea," Alise muttered, "I'll believe anything." Nynaeve snorted but said 
nothing, for which Elayne was grateful. The woman seemed to be having a hard enough time accepting even with 
Merilille naming them Aes Sedai. Neither tirade nor tantrum would help. 
"Then Heal them," Nynaeve told Merilille. Their eyes went to the hobbling women together, and Nynaeve added, "If 
they ask. Politely." Merilille smiled again, but Nynaeve had already abandoned the Sea Folk and gone back to frowning 
at the now all but empty farm. A few goats still trotted around a farmyard littered with dropped wash and rakes and 
brooms, spilled buckets and baskets, not to mention the crumpled forms of Kinswomen who had fainted, and a handful 
of chickens had gone back to scratching and pecking, but the only conscious women still in sight among the farm 
buildings were plainly not of the Kin. Some wore embroidered linen or silk and some rough country woolens, yet the 
fact that they had not run spoke that much of them. Reanne said that at any given time as many as half those at the farm 
might fall into that group. Most appeared stunned. 
Despite her grumbling, Nynaeve wasted no time taking charge of Alise. Or perhaps Alise took charge of Nynaeve. It 
was difficult to tell, since the Kinswoman showed little of the deference toward Aes Sedai that the Knitting Circle did. 
Perhaps she was still just too numbed by the sudden turn of events. In any case, they moved off together, Nynaeve 
leading her mare and gesturing with the hat in her other hand, instructing Alise on how to bring in the scattered women 
and what to do with them once they were collected. Reanne had been sure that at least one woman strong enough to 
join the circle was there, Garenia Rosoinde, and possibly two more. In truth, Elayne was hoping they had all gone. 
Alise alternated between nodding and giving Nynaeve very level looks that Nynaeve seemed not to notice. 
Now, in the wait while the gathering was done, seemed a good time to do a bit more searching through the panniers, 
but when Elayne turned toward the packhorses, which were just beginning to be lead toward the farm buildings, she 
noticed the Knitting Circle, Reanne and the whole lot of them, making their own way into the farm on foot, some 
hurrying toward women lying on the ground, others toward those standing about gaping. The whole lot of them, and no 
sign of Ispan. It took only a glance to find her, though. Between Adeleas and Vandene, each holding an arm as they 
half-dragged her along, their dust-cloaks streaming behind. 
The white-haired sisters were linked, the glow of saidar somehow encompassing them both without including Ispan. 
There was no way to tell which led the small circle and held the shield on the Darkfriend, but not even one of the 
Forsaken could have broken it. They stopped to speak to a stout woman in plain brown wool, who gaped at the leather 
sack covering Ispan's head but still curtsied and pointed toward one of the white-plastered buildings. Elayne exchanged 
angry glances with Aviendha. Well, hers was angry, anyway. Sometimes Aviendha gave away no more than a stone. 
Handing their horses over to two of the palace stablemen, they hurried after the three. Some of the women who were 
not of the Kin tried to question them about what was happening, a few in rather overbearing fashion, but Elayne gave 
them short shrift, leaving behind a wake of indignant sniffs and snorts. Oh, what she would not give to have the ageless 
face already! That tweaked a thread in the back of her thoughts, but it vanished as soon as she tried to examine it. 
When she pushed open the plain wooden door where the trio had vanished, Adeleas and Vandene had Ispan seated in a 
ladder-back chair with her head bare, the sack lying atop a narrow trestle table with their linen cloaks. The room 
possessed only one window, set in the ceiling, but with the sun still high it let in a good light. Shelves lined the walls, 
stacked with large copper pots and big white bowls. By the smell of bread baking, the only other door led into a 
kitchen. 
Vandene looked around sharply at the sound of the door, but seeing them, she smoothed her face to a total lack of 
expression. Sumeko said the herbs Nynaeve gave her were wearing off," she said, "and it seemed best to question her a 



little before fuzzing her brain again. We do seem to have time, now. It would be good to know what the . . . the Black 
Ajah," her mouth twisted in distaste, "was up to in Ebou Dar. And what they know." 
"I doubt they are aware of this farm, since we were not," Adeleas said, tapping a finger thoughtfully on her lips as she 
studied the woman in the chair, "but it is better to be sure than to weep later, as our father used to say." She might have 
been examining an animal she had never seen before, a creature she could not fathom existing. 
Ispan's lip curled. Sweat rolled down her bruised face, and her dark, beaded braids were disheveled and her clothing all 
disarrayed, but despite bleary eyes, she was not nearly so woozy as she had been. "The Black Ajah, it is a fable, and a 
filthy one," she sneered, a trifle hoarsely. It must have been very hot inside that leather sack, and she had had no water 
since leaving the Tarasin Palace. "Me, I am surprised that you will give it voice. And to cast the charge on me! What I 
have done, I have done on the orders of the Amyrlin Seat." 
"Elaida!" Elayne spat incredulously. "You have the nerve to claim that Elaida ordered you to murder sisters and steal 
from the Tower? Elaida ordered what you did in Tear and Tanchico? Or do you mean Siuan? Your lies are pathetic! 
You've forsaken the Three Oaths, somehow, and that names you Black Ajah." 
"I do not have to answer the questions from you," Ispan said sullenly, hunching her shoulders. "You are rebels against 
the lawful Amyrlin Seat. You will be punished, perhaps stilled. Especially if you harm me. I serve the true Amyrlin 
Seat, and you will be punished severely if you harm me." 
"You will answer any questions my near-sister asks." Aviendha tested her belt knife on a thumbnail, but her eyes were 
on Ispan's. "Wetlanders fear pain. They do not know how to embrace it, accept it. You will answer as you are asked." 
She did not glare or snarl, she just spoke, but Ispan shrank back in the chair. "I fear that is proscribed, even were she 
not an initiate of the Tower," Adeleas said. "We are forbidden to shed blood in questioning, or to allow others to do so 
in our name." She sounded reluctant, though whether over the prohibition or over admitting that Ispan was an initiate, 
Elayne could not say. She herself had not really considered that Ispan might still be considered one. There was a saying 
that no woman was finished with the Tower until it was finished with her, but truthfully, once the White Tower touched 
you, it never was finished. 
Her brow furrowed as she studied the Black sister, so bedraggled and still so sure of herself. Ispan sat up a little 
straighter, and darted glances full of amused contempt at Aviendha— and Elayne. She had not been so poised earlier, 
when she thought it was Nynaeve and Elayne alone who had her; regained composure had come with remembering that 
there were older sisters present. Sisters who would hold White Tower law as part of themselves. That law forbade not 
only shedding blood, but breaking bones and a number of other things that any Whitecloak Questioner would be more 
than ready to do. Before any session began, Healing had to be given, and if the questioning started after sunrise, it had 
to end before sundown; if after sunset, then before sunrise. The law was even more restrictive when it came to initiates 
of the Tower, the sisters and Accepted and novices, banning the use of saidar in questioning, punishment, or penance. 
Oh, a sister might flick a novice's ear with the Power if she was exasperated, or even give her a swat on the bottom, but 
not very much more. Ispan smiled at her. Smiled! Elayne took a deep breath. 
"Adeleas, Vandene, I want you to leave Aviendha and me alone with Ispan." Her stomach tried to tie itself into a knot. 
There had to be a way to press the woman sufficiently to learn what was needed without breaking Tower law. But 
how? People who were to be questioned by the Tower usually began talking before a finger was laid on 
them—everyone knew that no one held out against the Tower; no one!—but they were very seldom initiates. She could 
hear another voice, not Lini's this time, but her mother's. What you order done, you must be willing to do with your 
own hand. As a queen, what you order done, you have done. If she did break the law. . . . Her mother's voice again. 
Even a queen cannot be above the law, or there is no law. And Lini's. You can do whatever you wish, child. So long as 
you're willing to pay the price. She dragged her hat off without untying the ribbons. Keeping her voice steady took an 
effort. "When we are—when we are done talking with her, you can take her back to the Knitting Circle." Afterward, 
she would submit herself to Merilille. Any five sisters could sit in judgment to set a penance, if they were asked. 
Ispan's head swung, swollen eyes going from Elayne to Aviendha and back, slowly widening until the whites showed 
all the around. She was not so sure of herself now. Silent glances passed between Vandene and Adeleas, in the manner 
of people who had spent so much time together they hardly needed to speak aloud any longer; then Vandene took 
Elayne and Aviendha each by an arm. "If I may speak with you outside a moment," she murmured. It sounded a 
suggestion, but she was already urging them to the door. 
Outside in the farmyard, perhaps two dozen or so Kinswomen were huddled together like sheep. Not all wore Ebou 
Dari clothes, but two had the red belts of Wise Women, and Elayne recognized Berowin, a stout little woman who 
normally showed a pride far greater than her strength in the Power. Not now. Like the rest, her face was frightened, her 



eyes darting, despite the entire Knitting Circle surrounding them and talking urgently. Down the way, Nynaeve and 
Alise were trying to herd perhaps twice as many women inside one of the larger buildings. "Trying" did seem to be the 
word. 
"... don't care what estates you hold," Nynaeve was shouting at a proud-necked woman in pale green silk. "You get in 
there and stay in there, out of the way, or I'll kick you inside!" 
Alise simply seized the green-clad woman by the scruff of the neck and ran her through the doorway despite voluble 
and heated protests. There was a loud squawk like a huge goose being stepped on, then Alise reappeared, dusting her 
hands. The others seemed to give no trouble after that. 
Vandene released them, studying their eyes. The glow still enveloped her, yet Adeleas must have been focusing their 
combined flows. Vandene could have maintained the shield, once woven, without being able to see it, but had she been 
the one, it was much likelier that Adeleas would have brought them out. Vandene could have gone several hundred 
paces before the link began to attenuate—it would not break if she and Adeleas went to opposite corners of the earth, 
though it would have been useless long before that—but she remained close to the door. She seemed to sort words in 
her head. 
"I've always thought it best if women with experience handle this sort of thing," she said finally. "The young can easily 
be caught up in hot blood. Then they do too much. Or sometimes, they realize they can't bring themselves to do 
enough. Because they haven't really seen enough, yet. Or worst of all, they find a ... taste for it. Not that I believe either 
of you has that flaw." She gave Aviendha a weighing glance without pausing; Aviendha hastily sheathed her belt knife. 
"Adeleas and I have seen enough to know why we must do what must be done, and we left hot blood behind long ago. 
Perhaps you will leave this to us. Much better that way, all around." Vandene seemed to take the recommendation as 
accepted. She nodded and turned back toward the door. 
No sooner had she disappeared behind it, than Elayne felt the use of the Power within, a weave that must have 
blanketed the room inside. A ward against eavesdropping, certainly. They would not want stray ears to catch whatever 
Ispan said. Then another use hit her, and suddenly the silence from within was more ominous than any shrieks that 
ward would contain. 
She crushed her hat back onto her head. The heat she could not feel, but the sun's glare suddenly made her queasy. 
"Maybe you'll help me look over what the packhorses are carrying," she said breathily. She had not ordered it done— 
whatever it was— but that did not seem to change anything. Aviendha nodded with surprising quickness; she seemed 
to want to be away from that silence, too. 
The Windfinders were waiting not far from where the servants had the pack animals, waiting impatiently and staring 
about imperiously, arms folded beneath their breasts, copying Renaile. Alise marched up to them, marking Renaile out 
as the leader after one sweeping glance. Elayne and Aviendha she ignored. 
"Come with me," she said in brisk tones that brooked no argument. "The Aes Sedai say you will want to be out of the 
sun until matters are more settled." The words "Aes Sedai" held as much bitterness as they did the awe Elayne was 
used to from Kinswomen. Maybe more. Renaile stiffened, her dark face grow-mg darker, but Alise plowed on. "You 
wilders can sit out here and sweat if that's what you want, for all of me. If you can sit." It was obvious none of the 
Atha'an Miere had received Healing tor their saddle soreness; they stood like women who wanted to forget they existed 
below the waist. "What you will not do is keep me waiting." 
'Do you know who I am?" Renaile demanded in a tight fury, but Alise was already walking away and not looking back. 
Struggling with herself visibly, Renaile dashed sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, then angrily ordered 
the other Wind-finders to leave the "shore-cursed" horses and follow her. They made a spraddle-legged line wobbling 
along after Alise, everyone but the two apprentices muttering to herself—Alise included. 
Instinctively, Elayne began to plan how to smooth matters over, how to get the Atha'an Miere's pains Healed without 
them having to ask. Or a sister having to offer too strenuously; Nynaeve had to be appeased, too, and the other sisters. 
To her surprise, she suddenly realized that for once in her life she had no real desire to smooth anything. Watching the 
Windfinders limp toward one of the farm buildings, she decided that matters were fine just as they were. Aviendha 
wore a large, open grin as she watched the Atha'an Miere. Elayne snatched the much smaller smile from her own face 
and turned to the packhorses. They did deserve it, though. Not grinning was very hard. 
With Aviendha's help, the searching went more quickly than before, though Aviendha did not recognize what they 
were after as quickly as she did. Not a great surprise. A few of the sisters Elayne had trained showed a greater skill in 
this than she did herself, but most came nowhere near. Still, two sets of hands found more than one, and there was a 
great deal to be found. Liveried stablemen and women carried away the rubbish, while a collection of ter'angreal grew 



on the broad stone lid of a square 
cistern. 
Four more horses were unloaded quickly, and they accumulated a selection that would have caused a celebration, 
brought into the Tower. Even with no one studying ter'angreal. They took every form imaginable. Cups and bowls and 
vases, no two the same size or design or in the same material. A flat, worm-eaten box, half-falling apart and whatever 
had lined it long since gone to dust, held pieces of jewelry—a necklace and bracelets set with colored stones, a slim 
gem-studded belt, several finger rings— and there were spaces for more. Every single one was a ter'angreal, and they 
all matched, meant to be worn together, though Elayne could not imagine why any woman would want to carry so 
many about her at one time. Aviendha found a dagger with gold wire wrapped around a hilt of rough deerhorn; the 
blade was dull, and by all evidence, always had been. She kept turning that over and 
over in her fingers— her hands actually began to tremble— until Elayne took it away from her and put it with the 
others on the cistern's lid. Even then Aviendha stood for a time, looking at it and licking her lips as though they had 
gone dry. There were finger rings, earrings, necklaces, bracelets and buckles, many of very peculiar pattern indeed. 
There were statuettes and figures of birds and animals and people, several knives that did have edges, half a dozen 
large medallions in bronze or steel, most worked with strange patterns and not one carrying an image Elayne could 
really understand, a pair of peculiar hats seemingly made of metal, too ornate and too thin to be helmets, and any 
number of items she could not think what to call. A rod, as thick as her wrist, bright red and smooth and rounded, firm 
rather than hard for all that it seemed to be stone; it did not warm slightly in her hand, it almost felt hot! Not real heat 
any more than the warmth was real, but still! What about a set of metal basketwork balls, one inside the other? Any 
movement produced a faint musical chime, a different tone every time, and she had the feeling that no matter how hard 
she looked into it, there would always be a still smaller ball waiting to be discovered. A thing that looked like a 
blacksmith's puzzle made of glass? It was heavy enough that she dropped it, and it broke a chip off the edge of the 
cistern cover. A collection to stir amazement in any Aes Sedai. More important, they found two more angreal. Those 
Elayne set very carefully aside, within arm's reach. 
One was an odd piece of jewelry, a golden bracelet attached by four flat chains to finger rings, every bit of it engraved 
in an intricate mazelike pattern. That was the stronger of the two, stronger than the turtle still in her pouch. It was made 
for a smaller hand than hers or Aviendha's. Strangely, the bracelet had a tiny lock, complete with a minuscule, tubular 
key dangling from a fine chain that was obviously made to be removed. Along with the key! The other was a seated 
woman in age-darkened ivory, her legs folded in front of her, her exposed knees bare, but with hair so long and 
luxuriant she could not have been more muffled in the heaviest cloak. It was not even as strong as the turtle, but she 
found it very appealing. One hand rested on a *nee, palm up and fingers arranged so the thumb touched the tips of the 
middle two fingers, while the other hand was lifted, the first two fingers raised and the others folded. The whole figure 
carried an air of supreme dignity, yet the delicately worked face showed amusement and delight. Maybe it had been 
made for a particular woman? It seemed personal, somehow. Perhaps they had done that, in the Age of Legends. Some 
ter'angreal were immense, needing men and horses, or even the Power, to move, but most angreal were small enough to 
carry about your person; not all, but most. 
They were tossing back the canvas covers on another set of wicker panniers when Nynaeve came striding up. The 
Atha'an Miere began filing out of one of the farm buildings, no longer limping. Merilille was talking with Renaile, or 
rather, the Wind-finder was talking and Merilille listening. Elayne wondered what had happened in there. The slim 
Gray did not look so satisfied anymore. The huddle of Kinswomen had grown larger, but even as Elayne looked up, 
three more came hesitantly into the farmyard, and another two stood at the edge of the olive trees, peering about 
indecisively. She could sense Birgitte, somewhere out among the groves and only a little less irritated than earlier. 
Nynaeve glanced at the display of ter'angreal and gave her braid a tug. Her hat had gone missing somewhere. "That can 
wait," she said, sounding disgusted. "It's time." 

Chapter 5 The Breaking Storm 

The sun stood little more than halfway down toward the horizon by the time they clammered up the well-worn, snaking 
path to the top of the steep-sided hill above the barns. That was the spot Renaile had chosen. It did make sense from 
what Elayne knew of working weather, all learned from a Sea Folk Windfinder, to be sure. Changing anything beyond 
your immediate vicinity required working over long distances, which meant being able to see a long distance, much 
easier on the ocean than on land. Except from a mountain or hilltop. It also needed a deft hand to avoid causing 



torrential rains or whirlwinds or the Light alone knew what elsewhere. Whatever you did, the effects spread like ripples 
from a stone tossed into a pond. She had no desire whatsoever to lead the circle that would use the Bowl. 
The top of the hill was clear of brush and flat, if far from level, a rough stone table, fifty paces long and broad, with 
plenty of room for everybody who needed to be there, and some who did not, strictly speaking. From at least fifty paces 
above the farm, the spectacular view stretched for miles over a patchwork quilt of forms and pastures, forests and olive 
groves. Far too many browns and sere yellows were mixed in with a hundred shades of green, crying the need for what 
they were to do, yet even so, the beauty of it struck Elayne. Despite dust in the air like a faint mist, she could see so far! 
The land really was quite flat here except for those few hills. Ebou Dar lay just out of sight to the south even if she 
embraced the Power, yet it seemed she should be able to see it, by straining just a little. Surely with a little effort she 
could see the River Eldar. A marvelous view. Not everyone was 
interested. 
"An hour wasted," Nynaeve grumbled, glaring sideways at Reanne. And at just about everyone else. With Lan not 
there, it seemed she might take the opportunity to unleash her temper. "Almost an hour. Maybe more. Completely 
wasted. Alise is capable enough, I suppose, but you'd think Reanne would know who was there! Light! If that fool 
woman faints on me again . . . !" Elayne hoped she held on a little longer. It looked to be quite a storm once she let it 
break. 
Reanne tried to keep a cheerful, eager face, yet her hands were never still on her skirts, constantly plucking and 
smoothing. Kirstian simply clutched hers and sweated, appearing ready to empty her stomach any minute; when 
anyone looked at her, anyone at all, she shivered. The third Kinswoman, Garenia, was a Saldaean merchant with a 
strong nose and a wide mouth, a short slim-hipped woman, stronger than the other two, who looked not that much older 
than Nynaeve. A greasy dampness glistened on her pale face, and her dark eyes grew wider whenever they fell on an 
Aes Sedai. Elayne thought she might soon discover whether someone's eyes actually could pop out of her head. At least 
Garenia had stopped moaning, which she had done all the way up the hill. There really had been another pair who 
might have been strong enough—possibly; the Kin did not pay much attention to that—but the last had gone on her 
way three days past. No one else at the farm even came close. Which was why Nynaeve was still disgusted. One 
reason. The other was that Garenia had been one of the very first found, passed out in the farmyard. For that matter, she 
fainted again the first two times she was roused, as soon as her eyes fell on one of the sisters. Of course, Nynaeve being 
Nynaeve, she was not about to admit that she should have done anything so simple as ask Alise who was still at the 
farm. Or even tell Alise what she was looking for before the woman inquired. Nynaeve never expected anyone to have 
sense to know up from down. Except herself. 
"We could be done by now!" Nynaeve growled. "We could be shut of—!" She almost quivered with the effort of not 
scowling at the Sea Folk as they gathered near the east end of the stone table. Renaile, gesturing emphatically, 
appeared to be giving instructions. Elayne would have given a pretty to hear those. 
Nynaeve's glares certainly took in Merilille and Careane and Sareitha, who still clutched the silk-wrapped Bowl tightly. 
Adeleas and Vandene had remained below, sequestered with Ispan. The three sisters stood chatting together, not paying 
any mind to Nynaeve unless she spoke to them directly, but Merilille's gaze sometimes slipped to the Windfinders, then 
jerked away; her mask of serenity faltered slightly, and she licked her lips with the tip of her tongue. 
Had she made some mistake down below while Healing them? Merilille had negotiated treaties and mediated disputes 
between nations; few in the White Tower were better than she. But Elayne remembered hearing a story once, a joke of 
sorts, about a Domani merchant, a Sea Folk Cargomaster and an Aes Sedai. Not many people told jokes involving Aes 
Sedai; telling one might not be entirely safe. The merchant and the Cargomaster found an ordinary rock on the shore 
and proceeded to sell it back and forth between them, somehow making a profit each time. Then an Aes Sedai came 
along. The Domani convinced the Aes Sedai to buy the simple stone for twice what she herself had last paid. After 
which the Atha'an Miere convinced the Aes Sedai to buy the same rock from him for twice that again. Only a joke, but 
it showed what people believed. Maybe the older sisters would not have done any better bargaining with the Sea Folk. 
Aviendha strode straight to the edge of the cliffs as soon as she reached the hilltop, and stood staring north, motionless 
as a statue. After a moment, Elayne realized that she was not admiring the view; Aviendha was simply staring. 
Gathering her skirts a bit awkwardly with the three angreal in hand, she joined her friend. 
The cliff fell in fifty-foot steps to olive groves, steep swathes of ridged gray stone, bare except for a few small, dying 
bushes. The drop was not really bothersome, but it was hardly the same as looking at the ground from the top of a tree, 
either. Strangely, looking down made Elayne feel a trifle dizzy. Aviendha did not seem to notice that the edge was right 
at her toes. 



"Is something troubling you?" Elayne asked quietly. Aviendha kept her gaze on the distance. "I have failed you," she 
said finally. Her voice was flat, empty. "I cannot form the gateway properly, and all saw me shame you. I thought a 
servant was one of the Shadowwrought, and behaved worse than foolishly. The Atha'an Miere ignore me and glare at 
the Aes Sedai, as if I am an Aes Sedai dog yapping at their command. I pretended I could make the Shadowrunner talk 
for you, but no Far Dareis Mai is allowed to question prisoners until she has been wed to the spear for twenty years, or 
even to watch until she has carried it ten. I am weak and soft, Elayne. I cannot bear to shame you further. If I fail you 
again, I will die." 
Elayne's mouth went dry. That sounded too close to a promise. Gripping Aviendha's arm firmly, she drew her back 
from the edge. Aiel could be almost as peculiar as the Sea Folk thought they were. She did not really think Aviendha 
would jump off— not really—but she was not about to take any chances. At least the other woman did not try to resist. 
Everyone else seemed to be engrossed in themselves, or in each other. Nynaeve had begun speaking to the Atha'an 
Miere, both hands tight on her braid and her face almost as dark as theirs from the strain of not shouting, while they 
listened with contemptuous arrogance. Merilille and Sareitha still guarded the Bowl, but Careane was attempting to 
talk with the Kinswomen, without much success. Reanne answered, if blinking uneasily and licking her lips, but 
Kirstian stood trembling and silent, while Garenia's eyes were squeezed shut. Elayne kept her voice low anyway; this 
was none of their business. 
"You haven't failed anyone, least of all me, Aviendha. Nothing you've done has ever shamed me, and nothing you do 
ever could." Aviendha blinked at her doubtfully. "And you're about as weak and soft as a stone." That had to be the 
oddest compliment she had ever paid anyone, yet Aviendha actually looked gratified. "I'll bet the Sea Folk are scared 
silly of you, too." Another strange one; it made Aviendha smile, if only faintly. Elayne drew a breath-"As for Ispan. ..." 
She did not like even thinking about this. "I thought I could do what was necessary, too, but just letting my mind dwell 
on it makes my hands sweat and my stomach roil. I'd throw up if I even tried. So we share that." 
Aviendha made the Maiden handtalk sign for "You startle me"; she had started teaching some of them to Elayne, 
though she said it was forbidden. Apparently, being near-sisters who were learning to be more changed that. Except 
that it did not, really. Aviendha seemed to think her explanation had been perfectly clear. "I did not mean I could not," 
she said aloud, "only that I do not know how. Likely I would have killed her, trying." Suddenly she smiled, much wider 
and warmer than before, and lightly touched Elayne's cheek. "We both have weakness in us," she whispered, "but it 
brings no shame so long as only we two know." 
"Yes," Elayne said weakly. She just did not know how! "Of course it doesn't." This woman contained more surprises 
than any gleeman. "Here," she said, pressing the woman-wrapped-in-her-hair into Aviendha's hand. "Use this in the 
circle." Letting the angreal go was not easy. She had intended to use it herself, but smiles or no smiles, her friend's 
spirits— her near-sister's spirits— needed raising. Aviendha turned the small ivory figure over in her hands; Elayne 
could almost see her trying to decide how to give it back. "Aviendha, you know how it feels when you hold as much of 
saidar as you can? Think of holding almost twice as much. Really think of it. I want you to use it. Please?" 
Perhaps Aiel did not show a great deal on their faces, but Aviendha's green eyes widened. They had discussed angreal, 
considering their search, but she probably never had thought what it would be like to use one before this. "Twice as 
much," she murmured. "To hold all that. I can barely make myself imagine. This is a very great gift, Elayne." She 
touched Elayne's cheek again, pressing her fingertips; that was the Aiel equivalent of a kiss and a hug. 
Whatever Nynaeve had to say to the Sea Folk, it did not take long. She stalked away from them twitching at her skirts 
furiously. Approaching Elayne, she frowned equally at Aviendha and at the edge of the cliff. Usually she denied her 
poor head for heights, but she kept them between herself and the drop. "I have to talk to you," she muttered, guiding 
Elayne a little distance along the hilltop. And farther from the edge. A little way, but far enough from anyone to avoid 
being overheard. She drew several deep breaths before beginning, in a low voice, and she did not 
look at Elayne. 
"I. . . . I've been behaving like a fool. It's that bloody man's fault! When he's not right in front of me, I can hardly think 
of anything else, and when he is, I can hardly think at all! You . . . you have to tell me when I ... when I'm acting the 
fool. I depend on you, Elayne." Her voice stayed low, but her tone became almost a wail. "I can't afford to lose my wits 
in a man, not now." 
Elayne was so shocked, she could not speak for a moment. Nynaeve, admitting she had been a fool? She almost looked 
to see whether the sun had turned green! "It isn't Lan's fault, and you know it, Nynaeve," she said at last. She pushed 
away memories of her own recent thoughts about Rand. This was not the same. And the opportunity was a gift of the 
Light. Tomorrow, Nynaeve would likely try to box her ears if she said Nynaeve was being foolish. "Take hold of 



yourself, Nynaeve. Stop behaving like a giddy girl." Definitely not thoughts of Rand! She had not been mooning over 
him that badly! "You're an Aes Sedai, and you are supposed to be leading us. Lead! And think!" 
Folding her hands at her waist, Nynaeve actually hung her head. "I'll try," she mumbled. "I will, truly. You don't know 
what it's like, though. I. ... I'm sorry." 
Elayne nearly swallowed her tongue. Nynaeve, apologizing on top of the other? Nynaeve, abashed? Maybe she was ill. 
It did not last, of course., Abruptly frowning at the angreal, Nynaeve cleared her throat. "You gave one to Aviendha, 
did you?" she said briskly. "Well, I suppose she's all right. A pity we have to let the Sea Folk use one. I'll wager they 
try to hang on to it! Well, just let them try! Which one is mine?" 
With a sigh, Elayne handed her the bracelet-and-rings, and she stalked away, fumbling the piece of jewelry onto her 
left hand and calling loudly for everyone to take their places. Sometimes, it was difficult to tell Nynaeve leading from 
Nynaeve bullying. As long as she did lead, though. 
The Bowl of the Winds sat atop its unfolded white wrappings in the center of the hilltop, a shallow, heavy disc of clear 
crystal two feet across, worked inside with thick swirling clouds. An ornate piece, yet simple when you thought of what 
it could do. What they hoped it could do. Nynaeve took up her place nearby, the angreal finally clicking shut on her 
wrist. She worked her hand, looking surprised that the chains did not seem to inconvenience her; it fit as if made for her 
hand. The three Kinswomen were already there, Kirstian and Garenia huddling at Reanne's back and appearing more 
frightened than ever, if that was possible. The Windfinders still stood arrayed behind Renaile, almost twenty paces 
away. 
Lifting her divided skirts, Elayne met Aviendha at the Bowl and eyed the Sea Folk suspiciously. Did they intend to 
create a fuss? She had been afraid of exactly that from the first mention of women at the farm who might be strong 
enough to join the link. The Atha'an Miere were sticklers for rank enough to shame the White Tower, and Garenia's 
presence meant that Renaile din Calon Blue Star, Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships to the Atha'an Miere, would 
not be part of the circle. Should not be. 
Renaile frowned searchingly at the women around the Bowl. She seemed to be weighing them, judging their 
capabilities. "Talaan din Gelyn," she barked suddenly, "take your station!" It was like a whip-crack! Even Nynaeve 
jumped. 
Talaan bowed low, touching her heart, then ran to the Bowl. As soon as she moved, Renaile barked again. "Metarra din 
Junalle, take your station!" Metarra, plump yet solid, sped on Talaan's heels. Neither apprentice was old enough to have 
earned what the Sea Folk called a "salt name." 
Once begun, Renaile rattled off names quickly, sending Rainyn and two other Windfinders, all of whom moved 
quickly, yet not so fast as the apprentices. By the number of their medallions, Naime and Rysael were higher in rank 
than Rainyn, dignified women with a quiet air of command, but markedly weaker. Then Renaile paused, only for a 
heartbeat, yet in that rapid listing K stood out. "Tebreille din Gelyn South Wind, take your station! Caire din Gelyn 
Running Wave, assume the command!" 
Elayne felt a moment of relief that Renaile had not named herself, but it lasted about as long as Renaile's pause had. 
Tebreille and Caire exchanged one look, Tebreille grim and Caire smug, before moving to the Bowl. Eight earrings and 
a multitude of overlapping medallions marked each Wavemistress. Only Renaile stood above them; only Dorile among 
the Sea Folk on the hilltop was their equal. In brocaded yellow silks, Caire was slightly the taller, Tebreille in brocaded 
green somewhat sterner of face, both more than handsome women, and it did not take their names to know them blood 
sisters. They had the same big, almost black eyes, the same straight nose, the same strong chin. Caire silently pointed to 
a spot at her right side; Tebreille did not speak either, nor did she hesitate in standing where her sister pointed, but her 
face was stone. With her, a circle of thirteen women surrounded the Bowl nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. Caire's eyes 
almost sparkled. Tebreille's were leaden. Elayne was reminded of another of Lini's sayings. No knife is sharper than a 
sister's hate. 
Caire glared around the circle of women surrounding the Bowl, not yet truly a circle, as though trying to fix each face 
in her mind. Or maybe to fix her scowl in theirs. Remembering herself, Elayne hurriedly passed the last angreal, the 
small amber turtle, to Talaan and started to explain how it was used. The explanation was simple, yet anyone who tried 
without knowing how could fumble for hours. She was not given the chance for five 
words. 
"Silence!" Caire roared. Tattooed fists on her hips and bare feet apart, she belonged on the deck of a ship going into 
battle. "There will be no talking on station without my permission. Talaan, report yourself immediately on returning to 
your ship." Nothing in Caire's tone suggested that she was speaking to her own daughter. Talaan bowed deeply, 



touching her heart, and murmured something inaudible. Caire snorted contemptuously— and gave Elayne a glare that 
suggested a wish that she could order her to report herself to someone as well—before going on in a voice that might 
have been heard at the base of the hill. "Today, we shall do what has not been done since the Breaking of the World, 
when our ancestors fought wind and wave gone mad. By the Bowl of the Winds and the mercy of the Light, they 
survived. Today, we will use the Bowl of the Winds, lost to us for more than two thousand years, and now returned. I 
have studied the ancient lore, studied the records of the days when our fore-mothers first learned the sea and the 
Weaving of the Winds, and the salt entered our blood. What is known of the Bowl of the 
Winds, I know, more than anyone else." Her eyes cut toward her sister, a satisfied glance that Tebreille did not 
acknowledge. Which seemed to satisfy Caire even more. "What the Aes Sedai cannot do, I will do today, if it pleases 
the Light. I expect every woman to stand her station to the last. I will not accept failure." The rest of the Atha'an Miere 
seemed to accept that speech as expected and proper, but the Kinswomen gaped at Caire in astonishment. In Elayne's 
opinion, grandiose did not begin to describe it; plainly Caire fully expected that the Light would be pleased, and she 
would be most displeased if it was not! Nynaeve rolled her eyes to the heavens and opened her mouth. Caire forestalled 
her. 
"Nynaeve," the Windfinder announced loudly, "you will now demonstrate your skill at linking. Be about it, woman, 
and quickly!" 
In response, Nynaeve shut her eyes tight. Her lips . . . writhed. She looked about to burst a blood vessel. "I assume that 
means I have permission to speak!" she murmured. Fortunately too low to be heard by Caire, on the far side of the 
circle. Opening her eyes, she put on a smile that was quite horrible when added to the rest of her expression. She was a 
sour stomach and several other complaints rolled into one. 
"The first thing is to embrace the True Source, Caire." The light of saidar suddenly shone bright around Nynaeve; she 
was using the angreal on her hand already, by what Elayne could feel. "I assume you know how to do that, of course." 
Ignoring the abrupt tightening of Caire's mouth, Nynaeve went on. "Elayne will now assist me in the demonstration. If 
we have your permission?" 
"I prepare myself to embrace the Source," Elayne put in quickly, before Caire could erupt, "but I don't actually embrace 
it." She opened herself, and the Windfinders leaned forward, peering at her, though there really was nothing to see yet. 
Even Kirstian and Garenia forgot their fear enough to show interest. While I'm at this point, the rest is up to Nynaeve." 
"Now I will reach out to her. ..." Nynaeve paused, looking at Talaan. Elayne had not had a chance to tell her anything, 
really. It’s much the same as with an angreal" Nynaeve said, addressing 
the slender apprentice. Caire growled, and Talaan tried to watch Nynaeve with her head down. "You open yourself to 
the Source through an angreal, just as I will through Elayne. As though you mean to embrace the angreal and the 
Source at the same time. It isn't very difficult, really. Watch, and you'll see. When it's time to bring you into the circle, 
just put yourself on the brink. That way, when I embrace through you, I'll embrace through the angreal as well." 
Concentration or no concentration, sweat began to bead on Elayne's forehead. But then, the heat had nothing to do with 
it. The True Source beckoned; it throbbed, and she throbbed with it. It demanded. The longer she hung just a hair’sbreadth 
from touching the Power, the worse the desire, the need, would grow. Hanging, she began to tremble slightly. 
Vandene had told her that the longer you channeled, the worse that anticipation grew. 
"Watch with Aviendha," Nynaeve told Talaan. "She knows how to—" She caught sight of Elayne's face and finished 
hurriedly. "Watch!" 
It was not exactly the same as using an angreal, though very close. It was not meant to be done hurriedly, either; 
Nynaeve did not have a soft touch, at best. Elayne felt as though she were being shaken; nothing happened physically, 
but inside her head she seemed to be bouncing around, tumbling wildly downhill. Worse, she was jostled toward 
embracing saidar with excruciating slowness. It took less than a heartbeat, and seemed to take hours, days. She wanted 
to howl, but she could not breathe. Abruptly, like a dam bursting, the One Power flowed through her, a rush of life and 
joy, of bliss, and breath left her in a long gasp of pleasure and relief so overwhelming that her legs wobbled. It was all 
she could do to keep from panting. Tottering, pulling herself up, she gave Nynaeve a stern look, and Nynaeve shrugged 
apologetically. Twice in one day! The sun had to be turning green. 
"I now control the flow of saidar from her as well as my own," Nynaeve went on, not quite meeting Elayne's eyes, "and 
will until I let her go. Now, don't fear that whoever leads the circle," she shot a frown at Caire and sniffed, "can make 
you draw too much. This really is a great deal like an angreal. The angreal buffers you against the extra Power, and in 
somewhat the same way, in a circle you can't be made to draw too much. In fact, in a circle you can't draw quite as 
much as you can otherwi—" 



"This is dangerous!" Renaile broke in, shouldering roughly between Caire and Tebreille. Her scowl took in Nynaeve, 
Elayne, and the sisters standing off from the circle as well. "You say that one woman can simply seize another, hold her 
captive, use her? How long have you Aes Sedai known this? I warn you, if you try to use it on one of us—" It was her 
turn to be cut off. 
"It doesn't work that way, Renaile." Sareitha touched Garenia, and she and Kirstian leaped apart to make room. The 
young Brown eyed Nynaeve uncertainly, then folded her hands and took on a lecturing tone, as if addressing a class. 
With it came composure; perhaps she did see Renaile as a pupil right then. "The Tower studied this for many years, 
long before the Trolloc Wars. I have read every page that survives in the Tower Library of those studies. It was proven 
conclusively that one woman cannot form a link with another against her will. It simply cannot be done; nothing 
happens. A willing surrender is necessary, just as in embracing to saidar itself." She sounded absolutely definite, but 
Renaile still frowned; too many people knew how Aes Sedai could sidestep the Oath against lying. 
"And why did they study it?" Renaile demanded. "Why was the White Tower so interested in such a thing? Perhaps 
you Aes Sedai still study?" 
"That is ridiculous." Exasperation dripped from Sareitha's voice. "If you must know, it was the problem of men who 
can channel that drew them to it. The Breaking of the World was a living memory to some, then. I don't suppose even 
very many sisters remember— it hasn't been part of the required instruction since before the Trolloc Wars— but men 
can be brought into a circle, too, and as the circle doesn't break even if you go to sleep. . . . Well, you can see the 
advantages. That was an utter failure, unfortunately. More to the point here, I say again that it is impossible to force a 
woman into a circle. If you doubt, try it yourself. You will see." 
Renaile nodded, accepting at last; there was very little else to do when an Aes Sedai made a simple statement of fact. 
Yet Elayne wondered. What was in the pages that had not survived? She had noticed a slight change in Sareitha's 
inflection at one point. She had questions. For later, when there were fewer ears around. 
When Renaile and Sareitha withdrew, Nynaeve twitched her divided skirts straight, plainly irritated at the interruption, 
and opened her mouth again. 
"Continue your demonstration, Nynaeve," Caire commanded harshly. Her dark face might have been smooth as a 
frozen pond, but she was not very pleased, either. 
Nynaeve's mouth worked before she could make any sound come out, and when it did, she went on in a rush, as though 
afraid someone else might break in. 
The next part of the lesson was passing control of the circle. That had to be done voluntarily, too, and even as she 
reached out toward Nynaeve, Elayne held her breath until she felt the subtle shift that meant she now controlled the 
Power flowing into her. And that flowing through Nynaeve, of course. She had not been sure it would work. Nynaeve 
could form a circle easily, if not with any finesse, but passing guidance also involved a form of surrender; Nynaeve had 
considerable difficulties relinquishing control or being brought into a circle, just as she had once had difficulty 
surrendering to saidar. Which was why Elayne kept the guidance for now. It would have to be passed to Caire, and 
Nynaeve might not be able to manage letting go twice. Those apologies must have been much easier for her. 
Elayne linked next with Aviendha, so Talaan could actually see how it was done with an angreal, as much as there was 
to see, and it went perfectly; Aviendha was a very quick study, blending in easily. Talaan was quick as well, it turned 
out, adding her still greater angreal-aided flow without a hitch. One by one, Elayne brought them in, and she herself 
almost shivered at the river of the Power that streamed into her. No one yet was drawing nearly as much as she could, 
but it added up, especially with angreal involved. Elayne's awareness climbed higher with each addition of saidar. She 
could smell the heavy scents in the lacework gold boxes that the Windfinders wore around their necks, and separate 
one from another. She could make out each fold and crease in everyone's clothes as sharply as if she had her nose 
pressed to the cloth, more sharply. She was aware of the faintest movement of the air against her hair and skin, caresses 
she never would have noticed without the Power. 
That was not the whole of her awareness, of course. The link had a certain kinship to the Warder bond, just as intense 
and somehow even more intimate. She knew that a tiny blister from climbing the hill made a spot of pain on Nynaeve's 
right heel; Nynaeve always talked about good stout shoes, but she had a weakness for slippers with a great deal of 
embroidery. Nynaeve wore a fixed frown, directed at Caire, her arms were crossed, her fingers wearing the angreal 
played on the braid pulled over her right shoulder, every line of her of a piece, yet inside she was a maelstrom of 
emotions. Fear, worry, anticipation, irritation, wariness and impatience bounced over each other, and washing through 
it all, sometimes submerging the rest, ripples of warmth and waves of heat that threatened to burst into flame. Those 
last Nynaeve suppressed quickly, especially the heat, but they always returned. Elayne almost thought she could 



recognize them, but it was like something glimpsed from the corner of your eye that was gone when you turned your 
head. 
Surprisingly, Aviendha felt fear, too, but small and tightly contained, and all but swallowed by determination. Garenia 
and Kirstian, shaking visibly, were nearly pure terror, so strong it was amazing that they could even have begun to 
embrace the Source. What filled Reanne to overflowing was eagerness, and no matter her skirt smoothing. As for the 
Atha'an Miere. . . . Even Tebreille exuded a wary alertness, and it did not take the quick darting of Metarra's eyes, and 
Rainyn's, to know the focus was Caire, watching them all, impatient and commanding. 
Her, Elayne left to last, and it was no real surprise that she had to make four tries—four!—to bring the woman into the 
circle. Caire was no better at yielding than Nynaeve. Elayne desperately hoped the woman had been chosen for ability, 
not rank. 
"I will now pass the circle to you," she told the Windfinder when it finally was done. "If you recall what I did with 
Ny—" Words froze momentarily in her throat as guidance of the circle was torn from her surrender, a sensation like 
having a sudden burst of wind rip all of her clothes off or yank the bones out of her. She exhaled fiercely, and if it 
sounded close to spitting, well, so be it. 
"Good," Caire said, rubbing her hands together. "Good." Her attention focused on the Bowl, her head twisting this way 
and that as she studied it. Well, perhaps not all her attention. Reanne started to sit down, and without looking up, Caire 
snapped, "Hold your station, woman! This isn't a fish lolly! Stand till you're told to move!" 
Startled, Reanne jerked back to her feet, muttering under her breath, but she might as well have ceased to exist as far as 
Caire was concerned. The Windfinder's eyes remained on the flattened crystal shape. Elayne felt resolve in her great 
enough to move a mountain. And something else, tiny and quickly stamped out. Uncertainty. Uncertainty? If after all of 
this, the woman really did not know what to do— 
At that moment, Caire drew deeply. Saidar flooded through Elayne, almost as much as she could hold; an unbroken 
ring of light blazed into being, joining the women in the circle, brighter wherever one used an angreal, but nowhere 
faint. She watched closely as Caire channeled, forming a complex weave of all Five Powers, a four-pointed star that 
she laid atop the Bowl with what Elayne somehow was sure was exquisite precision. The star touched, and Elayne 
gasped. Once, she had channeled a trickle into the Bowl—in Tel'aran'rhiod, to be sure, and only a reflection of the 
Bowl, though still a dangerous thing to do—and that clear crystal had turned a pale blue, and the carved clouds moved. 
Now, the Bowl of the Winds was blue, the bright blue of a summer sky, and fleecy white clouds billowed across it. 
The four-point star became five-pointed, the composition of the weave altered slightly, and the Bowl was a green sea 
with great heaving waves. Five points became six, and it was another sky, a different blue, darker, winter perhaps, with 
purple clouds heavy with rain or snow. Seven points, and a gray-green sea raged in storm. Eight points and sky. Nine 
and sea, and suddenly, Elayne felt the Bowl itself drawing saidar, a wild torrent far greater than all the circle together 
could manage. 
The changes continued unabated inside the Bowl, sea to sky, waves to clouds, but a writhing, braided column of saidar 
shot up from that flattish crystal disc, Fire and Air, Water and Earth and Spirit, a column of intricate lace as wide as the 
Bowl, climbing up and up into the sky, until its top rose out of sight. Caire continued her weaving, sweat streaming 
down her face; she paused seemingly only to blink salty drops away from her eyes as she examined the images in the 
Bowl, then laid a new weave. The pattern of the braiding in the thick column altered with every weave, subtly echoing 
what Caire wove. 
It was a very good thing she had not wanted to focus the flows for this circle, Elayne realized; what the woman was 
doing required years more study than she had. Many years more. Suddenly, she realized something else. That 
ever-changing lacework of saidar bent itself around something else, something unseen that made the column solid. She 
swallowed, hard. The Bowl was drawing saidin as well as saidar. 
Her hope that no one else had puzzled that out vanished with one glance at the other women. Half stared at the twisting 
column with a revulsion that should have been reserved for the Dark One. Fear grew stronger among the emotions 
shared in her head. Some were approaching the level of Garenia and Kirstian, and it was a wonder those two had not 
fainted. Nynaeve was a hair from sicking up, for all her suddenly too smooth face. Aviendha appeared just as calm 
outwardly, but inside, that tiny fear quivered and pulsed, trying to grow. 
From Caire came only determination, as steely hard as her expression. Nothing was going to stand in Caire's way, 
certainly not the mere presence of Shadow-tainted saidin mixed into her weaving. Nothing was going to stop her. She 
worked the flows, and abruptly spiderwebs of saidar blossomed from the unseen top of the column, like uneven spokes 
of a wheel, almost a solid fan to the south, sparser fans reaching north and northwest, single lacy spokes stretching in 



other directions. They changed as they grew, never the same from one moment to the next, spreading across the sky, 
farther and farther, until the ends of the pattern also passed out of sight. Not just saidar there either, Elayne was certain; 
in places that spiderweb caught and curved around something she could not see. Still Caire wove, and the column 
danced to her bidding, saidar and saidin together, and the spiderweb altered and flowed like a lopsided kaleidoscope 
spinning across the heavens, vanishing into the distance, on and on and on. 
Without warning, Caire straightened, knuckling her back, and released the Source completely. Column and spiderweb 
evaporated, and she collapsed as much as sat down, breathing hard. The Bowl turned clear again, but small patches of 
saidar flashed and crackled around its edges. "It is done, the Light willing," she said tiredly. 
Elayne hardly heard. That was not the way to end a circle. When Caire let go in that way, the Power disappeared from 
every woman simultaneously. Elayne's eyes popped. For one instant, it was as though she stood atop the highest tower 
in the world, and suddenly the tower was not there anymore! Just an instant, yet hardly pleasant. She felt tired, if not 
anywhere near what she would have had she actually done anything beyond serve as a conduit, but what she felt most 
was loss. Letting go of saidar was bad enough; having it simply vanish out of you went beyond thinking about. 
Others had suffered far worse than she. As the glow joining the circle winked out, Nynaeve sat down right where she 
stood as though her legs had melted, sat stroking the bracelet-and-rings, staring at it and panting. Sweat rolled down 
her face. "I feel like a kitchen sieve that just had the whole mill poured through it," she murmured. Carrying that much 
of the Power had its cost even if you did nothing, even with an angreal. 
Talaan wavered, a reed in the wind, casting surreptitious glances at her mother, plainly afraid to sit. Aviendha stood 
straight, her fixed expression saying that willpower had as much to do with that as anything else. She gave a slight 
smile, though, and made a gesture in Maiden handtalk—worth the price—and then another—more—right behind. 
More than worth the price. Everyone looked weary, if not so much as those who had used angreal. The Bowl of the 
Winds went quiet at last, just a wide bowl of clear crystal, but decorated now with towering waves. Saidar still seemed 
to be there, though, not being wielded by anyone, not visible, but in dimly felt flashes like those that had played around 
the Bowl at the end. 
Nynaeve raised her head to glower at the cloudless sky, then lowered her gaze to Caire. "All that, for what? Did we do 
anything, or not?" A breath of air stirred across the hilltop, warm as the air in a kitchen. 
The Windfinder struggled her feet. "Do you think Weaving the Winds is like throwing the helm over on a darter?" she 
demanded contemptuously. "I just moved the rudder on a skimmer with a beam as broad as the world! He will take 
time to turn, time to know he is supposed to turn. That he must turn. But when he does, not the Father of Storms 
himself will be able to stand in his way. I have done it, Aes Sedai, and the Bowl of the Winds is ours!" 
Renaile moved into the circle, kneeling beside the Bowl. Carefully she began folding the white silk around it. "I will 
take this to the Mistress of the Ships," she said to Nynaeve. "We have fulfilled our part of the bargain. Now, you Aes 
Sedai must fulfill the rest of yours." Merilille made a sound in her throat, but when Elayne glanced at her, the Gray 
appeared a study in composure. 
"Maybe you've done your part," Nynaeve said, rising unsteadily. "Maybe. We'll see when this . . . this skimmer of 
yours turns. If it turns!" Renaile stared hard at her across the Bowl, but Nynaeve ignored her. "Strange," she muttered, 
rubbing her temple. The bracelet-and-rings caught in her hair, and she grimaced. "I can almost feel an echo of saidar. It 
must be this thing!" 
"No," Elayne said slowly. "I can feel it, too." Not just the dimly perceived crackling in the air, and not an echo, exactly. 
More the shadow of an echo, so faint that it was as if she were feeling someone use saidar at a. ... She turned. On the 
horizon to the south, lightning flashed, dozens of bolts vivid silver-blue against the afternoon sky. Very near to Ebou 
Dar. 
"A rainstorm?" Sareitha said eagerly. "The weather must be righting itself already." But there were no clouds in the sky 
even where the lightning forked and fell. Sareitha was not strong enough to sense saidar being wielded at that distance. 
Elayne shivered. She was not strong enough. Unless someone was using as much as they had on this hilltop. Fifty or 
even a hundred Aes Sedai, all channeling at once. Or. . . . "Not one of the Forsaken," she murmured. Someone behind 
her moaned. 
"One couldn't do that," Nynaeve agreed quietly. "Maybe they didn't feel us the way we do them, maybe, but they'll 
have seen, unless they're all blind. The Light burn our luck!" Quiet or not, she was agitated; she often called Elayne 
down for using language like that. "Take everyone who will go to Andor with you, Elayne. I'll. . . . I'll meet you there. 
Mat's in the city. I have to go back for him. Burn the boy; he came for me, and I have to." 
Elayne wrapped her arms around herself and drew a deep breath. Queen Tylin she left to the mercies of the Light; Tylin 



would survive if it was possible. But Mat Cauthon, her very strange, very instructive subject; her most unlikely rescuer. 
He had come for her, too, and offered more. And Thorn Merrilin; dear Thorn, who she sometimes still wished would 
turn out to be her real father, and the Light burn what that would make of her mother. And the boy, Olver, and Chel 
Vanin, and. . . . She had to think like a queen. The Rose Crown is heavier than a mountain, her mother had told her, and 
duty will make you weep, but you must bear and do what must be done. 
"No," she said, then more firmly, "No. Look at you, Nynaeve; you can hardly stand. Even if we all went, what could we 
do? How many of the Forsaken are there? We'd die, or worse, for no gain. The Forsaken have no reason to look for Mat 
or the others. It's us they will be after." 
Nynaeve gaped at her, stubborn Nynaeve with sweat running down her face and her legs unsteady. Wonderful, gallant, 
foolish Nynaeve. "You're saying leave him, Elayne? Aviendha, talk to her. Tell her about that honor you're always 
going on about!" 
Aviendha hesitated, then shook her head. She was almost as sweaty as Nynaeve, and from the way she moved, just as 
tired. "There are times to fight without hope, Nynaeve, but Elayne is right. The Shadowsouled will not be looking for 
Mat Cauthon; they will be after us, and the Bowl. He may have left the city already. If we go, we risk giving them what 
can undo what we have done. Wherever we send the Bowl, they will be able to make us tell them who we sent it with 
and where." 
Nynaeve's face crumpled in pain. Elayne reached to put her arms around her. 
"Shadowspawn!" someone screamed, and suddenly women were embracing saidar all over the hilltop. Balls of fire shot 
up from Merilille's hands, from Careane's and Sareitha's, as fast as they could throw. A huge winged shape enveloped 
in flame tumbled out of the sky trailing oily black smoke, falling just beyond the cliff. 
"There's another one!" Kirstian shouted, pointing. A second winged creature dove away from the hill, body as big as a 
horse, ribbed wings spanning thirty paces or more, long neck stretched out before and longer tail streaming behind. 
Two figures crouched low on its back. A storm of fire rained after it, quickest of all from Aviendha and the Sea Folk, 
who made no throwing gesture as part of their weaving. A hail of fire so thick it seemed that Fire must be forming itself 
out of the air, and the thing dodged behind the hill on the other side of the farm and appeared to vanish. 
"Did we kill it?" Sareitha asked. Her eyes shone bright, and she breathed hard in agitation. 
"Did we even hit it?" one of the Atha'an Miere growled disgustedly. 
"Shadowspawn," Merilille murmured in amazement. "Here! At least that proves it's the Forsaken in Ebou Dar." 
"Not Shadowspawn," Elayne said hollowly. Nynaeve's face was a picture of anguish; she knew, too. "They call it a 
raken. It's the Seanchan. We must go, Nynaeve, and take every woman at the farm with us. Whether we killed that 
thing or not, more will come. Anyone we leave behind will be wearing a damane leash by tomorrow morning." 
Nynaeve nodded, slowly, painfully; Elayne thought she murmured, "Oh, Mat." 
Renaile strode up with the Bowl in her arms, once more swathed in its white covering. "Some of our ships have 
encountered these Seanchan. If they are in Ebou Dar, then the ships beat to sea. My ship fights for his life, and I am not 
on his deck! We go now!" And she formed the weave for a gateway, right there. 
It tangled uselessly, of course, flared bright for an instant then collapsed into nothing, but Elayne squeaked in spite of 
herself. Right there in the middle of them! "You aren't going anywhere from here unless you mean to stay long enough 
to learn this hilltop!" she snapped. She hoped none of the women who had been in the circle tried the weave; holding 
saidar was the fastest way to learn a place. She could have made it work here, and very likely so could they. "You 
aren't going to a moving ship from anywhere; I don't think it's even possible." Merilille nodded, though that meant 
little; Aes Sedai believed a great many things to be true, and some of them actually were. As well if the Sea Folk 
believed it proven, in any case. Nynaeve, haggard and staring, was in no condition to do any leading at the moment, so 
Elayne went on. She hoped she managed to do her mother's memory proud. "But most of all, you aren't going anywhere 
except with us, because our bargain isn't complete; the Bowl of the Winds is not yours until the weather is right." Not 
precisely true unless you twisted the words of the bargain a little, and Renaile opened her mouth, but Elayne plowed 
on. "And because you made a bargain with Matrim Cauthon, my subject. You go voluntarily where I want you to, or 
you go tied to a packsaddle. Those were the choices you accepted. So, get down this hill now, Renaile din Calon Blue 
Star, before the Seanchan sweep down on us with an army and a few hundred women who can channel and would like 
nothing better than to see us collared alongside them. Now! Run!" 
To her astonishment, they ran. 

Chapter 6 Threads 



Elayne ran, too, of course, holding her skirts up, and quickly took the lead on the well-worn dirt path. Only Aviendha 
stayed close, though she seemed to have no idea how to run in a dress, divided or not; tired as she was, she certainly 
would have passed Elayne otherwise. Everyone else strung out behind them along the narrow, winding track. None of 
the Atha'an Miere would push by Renaile, and despite her silk trousers she could not move very fast carrying the Bowl 
hugged to her chest. Nynaeve had no such compunctions, elbowing past and running hard, shouting for people to get 
out of her way when she stumbled into them whether they were Windfinders, Kinswomen, or Aes Sedai. 
Bounding down the hillside, tripping and catching herself, Elayne wanted to laugh despite the urgency. Despite the 
danger. Lini and her mother had been death on running and climbing trees from the time she was twelve, but it was not 
just the sheer pleasure of running again that made delight bubble up in her middle. She had behaved as a queen was 
supposed to behave, and it had worked exactly as it was supposed to! She had taken charge, to lead people out of 
danger, and they followed\ Her whole life had been training for this. It was satisfaction that made her laugh, and the hot 
glow of pride seemed about to burst through her skin like the radiance of saidar. 
Rounding the last curve, she pounded down the final straight beside one of the tall white-plastered barns. And her toe 
caught an almost buried stone. She pitched forward heavily, windmilling her arms, and suddenly she was somersaulting 
head-over-heels through the air. No time even to yell. With a thump that jarred her teeth and took all the wind out of 
her, she landed hard at the foot at the path, sitting right in front of Birgitte. For an instant she could not even think, and 
when she could, little satisfaction remained. So much for queenly dignity. Brushing her hair out of her face, she tried to 
catch her breath as she waited for Birgitte's cutting comment. This was a chance for the other woman to play the older 
and wiser sister with a vengeance, and she seldom let an opportunity pass. 
To Elayne's surprise, Birgitte heaved her to her feet even before Aviendha could reach her, and without so much as the 
faint grin on Aviendha's face. All Elayne could feel from her Warder was a sense of... focus; she thought an arrow 
nocked on a drawn bowstring might feel that way. "Do we run or fight?" Birgitte asked. "I recognized those Seanchan 
fliers from Falme, and truth for true, I suggest running. My bow is the ordinary sort, today." Aviendha gave her a slight 
frown, and Elayne sighed; Birgitte had to learn to guard her tongue if she really intended to hide who she was. 
"Of course we run," Nynaeve panted, laboring down the final stretch of path. "Fight or run! Fool question! Do you 
think we're utter—? Light! What are they doing?" Her voice started climbing and kept right on. "Alise! Alise, where 
are you? Alise! Alise!" 
With a start, Elayne realized the farm was boiling as badly as it had when Careane's face was recognized. Maybe 
worse. A hundred and forty-seven Kinswomen inhabited the place at present, Alise had reported, including fifty-four 
red-belted Wise Women sent out days ago and a number of others who had been passing through the city; now it 
looked as though every last one was running somewhere, and a good many of the other women, too. Most of the 
Tarasin Palace servants in their green-and-white livery dashed this way and that carrying burdens. Ducks and chickens 
darted through the tumult, flapping and squawking, adding to the apparent confusion. Elayne even saw a Warder, 
Vandene's grizzled Jaem, trot by with his wiry arms wrapped around a big jute sack! 
Alise appeared as though from the air, poised and collected despite the perspiration on her face. Every strand of her 
hair was in place, and her dress looked as if she were merely out for a stroll. "There's no need to screech," she said 
calmly, planting hands on hips. "Birgitte told me what those big birds are, and I thought we might be leaving sooner 
rather than later, especially with all of you galloping down the hill like the Dark One himself was after you. I told 
everybody to collect one clean dress apiece, three changes of shift and stockings, soap, mending baskets, and all the 
coin they have. That, and no more. The last ten to finish will do the washing-up till we get where we're going; that will 
speed their feet. I told those servants to gather all the food they could, too, just in case. And your Warders. Sensible 
fellows, most of them. Surprisingly sensible, for men. Does being a Warder do something to them?" 
Nynaeve stood there with her jaw hanging, ready to issue orders and none left to give. Emotions played across her face 
too fast to catch. "Very good," she mumbled finally. And sourly. Suddenly she brightened. "The women who aren't 
Kin. Yes! They have to be—" 
"Calm yourself," Alise broke in, making a soothing gesture. "They are already gone, for the most part. Mainly those 
with husbands or families they're worried about. I couldn't have held those back had I wanted. But a good thirty think 
those birds really are Shadowspawn, and want to stay as close to Aes Sedai as they can get." A sharp sniff said what 
she thought of that. "Now, you just gather yourself. Drink some cool water; not too fast. Put a little on your face. I have 
to keep an eye on things." Casting her eye over the bustle, everybody running in bounds, Alise shook her head. "Some 
would slack off if Trollocs were coming over the hill, and most of the noblewomen never really do get used to our 
rules. For sure, I'll need to remind two or three before we go." With that, she waded serenely back into the turmoil of 



the farmyard and left Nynaeve gaping. 
"Well," Elayne said, brushing her skirt, "you did say she was a very capable woman." 
"I never said that," Nynaeve snapped. "I never said 'very.' Hmmph! Where did my hat get to? Thinks she knows 
everything. I'll wager she doesn't know that\" She flounced off in a different direction than Alise. 
Elayne stared after her. Her hat? She would have liked to know where her own hat had gone to—it was a beautiful 
thing— but really! Maybe being in a circle working that much of the Power, using an angreal doing it, had unsettled 
Nynaeve's wits temporarily. She still felt a trifle odd, herself, as though she could pluck little bits of saidar out of the air 
around her. In any case, she had other matters to worry about right then. Like being ready to get away before the 
Seanchan descended. From what she had seen in Falme, they really might bring a hundred damane, or more, and based 
on the little Egwene would let herself say of her captivity, most of those women really would be eager to help collar 
others. She said that what had turned her stomach most had been the sight of damane from Seanchan laughing with 
their sul’dam, fawning and playing with them, well-trained hounds with their affectionate handlers. Egwene said some 
of the women collared in Falme had been that way, too. It made Elayne's blood run cold. She would die before letting 
them put that leash on her! And she would as soon let the Forsaken have what she had found as the Seanchan. She went 
running to the cistern, Aviendha at her side breathing almost as hard as she was herself. 
It seemed Alise really had thought of everything, though. The ter'angreal were already stowed away on the packhorses. 
The un-searched panniers remained full of jumbled odds and ends and the Light knew what, but those she and 
Aviendha had emptied now bulged with coarse sacks of flour and salt, beans and lentils. A handful of stable folk 
minded the pack animals instead of running about with their arms full. Doing Alise's bidding, no doubt. Even Birgitte 
went trotting off at the woman's call with no more than a rueful grin! 
Elayne lifted canvas covers to examine the ter'angreal as well as she could without unloading them again. Everything 
appeared to be there, a bit tumbled together in two panniers, not enough to fill them, but nothing broken. Not that 
anything short of the One Power itself could break most ter'angreal, yet even so .... 
Aviendha took a seat cross-legged on the ground, blotting sweat from her face with a large, plain linen handkerchief 
that seemed very much at odds with her pretty silk riding dress. Even she was beginning to show weariness. "What are 
you muttering about, Elayne? You sound like Nynaeve. This Alise has only saved us the trouble of packing those 
things ourselves." 
Elayne colored faintly. She had not meant to speak aloud. "I just don't want anyone handling them who doesn't know 
what they are doing, Aviendha." Some ter'angreal could trigger even for people unable to channel, if they did the 
wrong thing, but the truth was, she did not want anyone handling them. They were hers! The Hall was not going to 
hand these over to some other sister just because she was older and more experienced, or hide them away because 
studying ter'angreal was too dangerous. With this many examples to study, maybe she could finally figure out how to 
make ter'angreal that worked every time; there had been far too many failures and half-successes. "They need someone 
who knows what she's doing," she said, lashing the stiff canvas back in place. 
Order began to appear out of pandemonium more rapidly than Elayne expected, though not as fast as she could have 
wished. Of course, she admitted reluctantly, nothing slower than instantaneous could have matched her wishes. Unable 
to keep her eyes off the sky, she sent Careane running back to the top of the hill to watch toward Ebou Dar. The stocky 
Green grumbled a bit under her breath before curtsying, and even frowned at the Kinswomen dashing about as if on the 
point of suggesting one of them instead, but Elayne wanted someone who would not faint at the sight of 
"Shadowspawn" approaching, and Careane stood lowest among the sisters. Adeleas and Vandene brought out Ispan 
between them, firmly shielded and the leather sack back over her head. She walked quite easily, and nothing visible 
said that anything at all had been done to her, except. . . . Ispan kept her hands folded at her waist, never so much as 
trying to raise the sack for a peek, and when she was boosted into a saddle, she held out her wrists to be corded to the 
pommel without being told. If she was that amenable, perhaps they had learned something from her. Elayne just did not 
want to contemplate how the learning might have been achieved. 
There were . . . bumps, of course, of sorts, even with what might be rushing toward them. What surely was rushing 
toward them. Nynaeve getting her blue-plumed hat back was not really a bump, though it almost turned into one; Alise 
had found it, and handed it back telling Nynaeve she needed to shield her face from the sun if she wanted to keep that 
smooth pretty skin. An open-mouthed Nynaeve watched the graying woman hurry off to deal with one of the numerous 
small problems, then ostentatiously shoved the hat under a strap of her saddlebags. 
From the beginning Nynaeve set about flattening the real bumps, but Alise was nearly always there first, and where 
Alise met a bump, the bump flattened itself. Several noblewomen demanded help packing their belongings, only to be 



informed in no uncertain terms that she had meant what she said and if they did not hop to it, they could live in what 
they stood in. They hopped. Some, and not only nobles, changed their minds about going when they learned the 
destination was Andor, and were literally chased away. Afoot, and told to keep running as long as they could. Every 
horse was needed, but they had to be well away before the Seanchan appeared; at the very least they could be expected 
to put anyone near the farm to the question. As should have been expected, Nynaeve got into a shouting match with 
Renaile over the Bowl, and the turtle Talaan had used, which Renaile apparently had tucked behind her sash. Hardly 
had they reached the stage of waving arms, however, than Alise was right there, and in short order the Bowl was back 
in Sareitha's care and the turtle in Merilille's. Following which, Elayne was treated to the sight of Alise shaking her 
finger under the astonished nose of the Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships to the Atha'an Miere, delivering a 
tongue-lashing on the subject of theft that left Renaile spluttering indignantly. Nynaeve did a little spluttering, too, 
stalking away empty-handed, yet Elayne thought she had never seen anyone look so forlorn. 
All in all, it did not take very long, though. The remaining women who had been at the farm gathered under the 
watchful eyes of the Knitting Circle—and of Alise, who carefully noted the last ten to arrive, all but two in fine 
embroidered silks, not much 
different from Elayne's. Definitely not Kinswomen. Elayne felt sure they really would do the washing-up anyway; 
Alise would not let a little thing like noble birth stand in her way. The Wind-finders lined up with their horses, 
surprisingly silent except for Renaile, who muttered imprecations whenever she saw Alise. Careane was summoned 
back from the hilltop. The Warders brought the sisters their mounts. Almost everyone kept an eye on the sky, and 
saidar made halos around all of the older Aes Sedai and most of the Windfinders. Around a few of the Kin, as well. 
Leading her mare to the head of the line, at the cistern, Nynaeve fingered the angreal still on her hand as if she were 
going to be the one to make the gateway, ridiculous as the very idea might be. For one thing, though she had washed 
her face— and donned her hat; strangely, all things considered— she still tottered whenever her self-control slipped. 
Lan stayed practically at her shoulder, stone-faced as always, but if ever there was a man ready to catch a woman when 
she fell, it was he. Even with the bracelet-and-rings, Nynaeve might not be able to manage enough to weave a gateway. 
More important, she had been dashing about the farm ever since they first arrived; Elayne had spent a considerable 
time holding saidar right where they now stood. She knew that spot. Nynaeve scowled sulkily when Elayne embraced 
the Source, but at least she had sense enough to say nothing. 
Right from the first Elayne wished that she had asked Aviendha for the woman cloaked in her own hair; she was weary, 
too, and all the saidar she could draw was barely enough to form the weave so it would work. The flows wavered in her 
grasp almost as if trying to twist free, then snapped into place so suddenly that she jumped; channeling when you were 
tired was not at all like other times, but this was the worst ever. At least the familiar vertical slash of silver appeared as 
it should, and widened into an opening right alongside the cistern. An opening no bigger than the one Aviendha had 
made, and at that, Elayne was grateful it was large enough to fit a horse through. At the last, she had not been certain it 
would be. Gasps rose from the Kinswomen, seeing a view of an upland meadow suddenly standing between them and 
the familiar gray bulk of the cistern. 
"You should have let me try," Nynaeve said softly. Softly, but with a sharp point even so. "You nearly fubbed it 
altogether." 
Aviendha gave Nynaeve a flat look that almost made Elayne grab her arm. The longer they remained near-sisters, the 
more she seemed to think she had to defend Elayne's honor; if they did become first-sisters, Elayne could see having to 
keep her away from Nynaeve, and Birgitte, completely! 
"It's done, Nynaeve," she said quickly. "That's all that counts." Nynaeve directed a flat look at her and muttered 
something about the day being prickly, as if Elayne were the one showing her snappish side. 
Birgitte was the first through, grinning impudently at Lan, leading her horse with her bow already in her other hand. 
Elayne could sense eagerness in her, a touch of satisfaction, perhaps that this time she had the lead instead of 
Lan—there was always a bit of rivalry between Warders—and a small measure of wariness. Very small. Elayne knew 
that meadow well; Gareth Bryne had taught her to ride not far from there. About five miles over those first sparsely 
treed hills lay the manor house of one of her mother's estates. One of her estates; she had to get used to that. The seven 
families who tended the house and its grounds would be the only people for half a day's journey in any direction. 
Elayne had chosen that destination because they could reach Caemlyn in two weeks from there. And because the estate 
was so isolated, she might be entering Caemlyn before anyone knew she was in Andor. That could be a very necessary 
precaution; at various times in Andor's history, rivals for the Rose Crown had been kept as "guests" until they 
relinquished their claims. Her mother had kept two, until she took the throne. With luck, she could have a solid base 



established by the time Egwene and the others arrived. 
Lan took Mandarb right behind Birgitte's brown gelding, and Nynaeve lurched as if to rush after the black warhorse, 
then pulled herself up short with a level stare that dared Elayne to say a word. Fiddling furiously with her reins, she 
made a visible effort to look anywhere except through the gateway after Lan. Her lips moved. After a moment, Elayne 
realized that she was counting. 
"Nynaeve," she said quietly, "we really don't have time for—" 
"Move along," Alise called from the rear, the sound of her hands clapping a sharp punctuating crack. "No pushing or 
shoving, now, but I'll have no laggards either! Move along." 
Nynaeve's head swung wildly, pained indecision painting her face. For some reason she touched her wide hat, a few of 
its blue plumes broken and drooping, before pulling her hand away. "Oh, that goat-kissing old . . . !" she growled, the 
rest lost as she dragged her mare through the gateway. Elayne sniffed. And Nynaeve had the nerve to speak to anybody 
about their language! She wished she could have heard the rest, though; she already knew the first bit. 
Alise continued her urging, but there really did not seem to be much need after the first. Even the Windfinders hurried, 
glancing worriedly over their shoulders at the sky. Even Renaile, who mumbled something about Alise that Elayne 
noted in the back of her head. Though calling someone "a fish-loving scavenger" did seem rather mild. She would have 
expected the Sea Folk to eat fish all the time. 
Alise herself brought up the very rear, except for the remaining Warders, as if to herd even the packhorses along. She 
paused long enough to hand Elayne her green-plumed hat. "You'll want to keep the sun off that sweet face of yours," 
she said with a smile. "Such a pretty girl. No need to turn to leather before your time." 
Aviendha, sitting on the ground nearby, fell over backward and kicked her heels laughing. 
"I think I'll ask her to find you a hat. With lots of plumes, and big bows," Elayne said in dulcet tones before quickly 
following the Kinswoman. That certainly cut off Aviendha's laughter. 
The gently rolling meadow was broad and nearly a mile long, surrounded by hills taller than those she had left behind, 
and by trees she knew, oak and pine and blackwood, sour gum and leatherleaf and fir, thick forest with good, tall 
timber to south and west and east, though there might not be any cutting this year. Most of the more scattered trees to 
the north, toward the manor, were better suited for firewood. Small gray boulders dotted the thick brown grass here and 
there, and not even a withered stalk marked the death of a wildflower. That was not so different from the south. 
For once Nynaeve was not peering at the surrounding countryside trying to find Lan. He and Birgitte would not be 
gone long anyway, not here. Instead she strode briskly among the horses, ordering people to mount in a loud, 
commanding voice, chivvying the servants with the pack animals, curtly telling some of the Kinswomen who had no 
horses that any child could walk five miles, shouting at a slender Altaran noblewoman with a scar on her cheek and 
carrying a bundle nearly as big as herself that if she had been fool enough to bring all of her dresses then she could 
carry them. Alise had gathered the Atha'an Miere around her and was instructing them on how to mount a horse. For a 
wonder, they actually appeared to be paying attention. Nynaeve glanced her way and seemed pleased to see Alise 
standing in one spot. Until Alise smiled encouragingly and motioned her to go on with what she was doing. 
For an instant Nynaeve stood stock-still, staring at the woman. Then she came striding through the grass to Elayne. 
Reaching up to her hat with both hands, she hesitated, glowering up at it her through her lashes before giving it a twitch 
straight. "I'll just let her take care of everything this time," she said in a suspiciously reasonable tone. "We'll just see 
how well she does with those . . . Sea Folk. Yes, we will." Too reasonable a tone by half. Abruptly she frowned at the 
still-open gateway. "Why are you holding it? Let go." Aviendha was frowning, too. 
Elayne drew a deep breath. She had thought about this, and there was no other way, but Nynaeve would try to argue 
her out of it, and there no time for arguing. Through the gateway, the farmyard stood empty, even the chickens finally 
frightened away by the hubbub, yet how long before it filled up again? She studied her weave, melded together so 
snugly that only a few threads remained distinct. She could see every flow, of course, but except for those few, they 
appeared inseparably combined. "Take everyone to the manor house, Nynaeve," she said. The sun did not have very 
much farther to fall; perhaps two hours of light remained. "Master Hornwell will be surprised at so many visitors 
arriving at dark, but tell him you're guests of the girl who cried over the redbird with the broken wing; he'll remember 
that. I will be along as soon as I can." 
"Elayne," Aviendha began in a surprisingly anxious voice, and 
THREADS 
at the same time, Nynaeve said sharply, "Just what do you think you're—" 
There was only one way to stop it. Elayne plucked one of the discernible threads free of the weave; it wavered and 



flailed like a living tentacle; it fuzzed and spluttered, tiny fluffs of saidar breaking off and fading away. She had not 
noticed that when Aviendha unmade her weave, but she had only seen the tail of that, really. "Go on," she told 
Nynaeve. "I'll wait for the rest until you are all out of sight." Nynaeve stared out, her jaw hanging. "It has to be done," 
Elayne sighed. "The Seanchan will be at the farm in hours, for sure. Even if they wait until tomorrow, what if one of 
the damane has the Talent to read residues? Nynaeve, I won't give Traveling to the Seanchan. I won't!" 
Nynaeve growled something under her breath about the Seanchan that must have been particularly pithy, judging by 
her tone. "Well, I won't let you burn yourself out!" she said aloud. "Now, put that back! Before the whole thing 
explodes the way Vandene said. You could kill all of us!" 
"It cannot be put back," Aviendha said, laying a hand on Nynaeve's arm. "She has begun, and now she must finish. You 
must do as she says, Nynaeve." 
Nynaeve's brows drew down. "Must" was a word she did not like hearing one bit, not applied to her. She was not a 
fool, though, so after a bit of glaring—at Elayne, at the gateway, at Aviendha, at the world in general—she flung her 
arms around Elayne in a hug that made her ribs creak. 
"You be careful, you hear me," she whispered. "If you get yourself killed, I swear I'll skin you alive!" In spite of 
everything, Elayne burst out laughing. Nynaeve snorted, pushing her out to arm's length by her shoulders. "You know 
what I mean," she grumbled. "And don't think I don't mean it, because I do! I do," she added in a softer voice. "You 
take care." 
It took Nynaeve a moment to gather herself, blinking and pulling her blue riding gloves tight. There seemed to be a hint 
of moisture in her eyes, though that could not have been; Nynaeve made other people cry, she did not cry herself. 
"Well, then," she said loudly. "Alise, if you don't have everyone ready yet—" Turning, she cut off with a strangled 
croak. 
Those who were supposed to be mounted were, even the Atha'an Miere. The Warders were all gathered around the 
other sisters; Lan and Birgitte had returned, and Birgitte watched Elayne worriedly. The servants had the pack animals 
in a line, and the Kinswomen were waiting patiently, most afoot except for the Knitting Circle. A number of horses that 
could have been used for riding were loaded with sacks of food and bundles of belongings. Women who had brought 
more than Alise allowed— none of them Kin—carried their bundles on their own backs. The slender noble with the 
scar was bent at an awkward angle beneath hers, and glaring at anyone but Alise. Every woman who could channel was 
staring at the gateway. And every woman who had been there to hear Vandene tell of the dangers watched that one 
whipping filament as she would have a red adder. 
It was Alise herself who brought Nynaeve her horse. And straightened the blue-plumed hat as Nynaeve put a foot in the 
stirrup. Nynaeve turned the plump mare north with Lan riding Mandarb at her side and a look of utter mortification on 
her face. Why she did not just set Alise down, Elayne did not understand. To hear Nynaeve tell it, she had been putting 
women older than herself in their place since she was little more than a girl. And she was Aes Sedai, now, after all; that 
should carry mountains of weight with any Kinswoman. 
As the column began to wend its way toward the hills, Elayne looked at Aviendha and Birgitte. Aviendha simply stood 
there with her arms folded beneath her breasts; she had the woman-wrapped-in-her-own-hair angreal clutched in one 
hand. Birgitte took Lioness's reins from Elayne, adding them to those of her own horse and Aviendha's, then walked 
over to a small boulder twenty paces away and sat down. 
"You two must," Elayne began, then coughed when Aviendha's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Sending Aviendha out of 
danger was impossible without shaming her. Perhaps impossible altogether. "I want you to go with the others," she told 
Birgitte. "And take Lioness. Aviendha and I can take turns riding her gelding. I'd like a walk before bedtime." 
"If you ever treat a man half as well as you do that horse," Birgitte said dryly, "he'll be yours for life. I think I'll just sit 
awhile; I've ridden long enough today. I'm not at your beck and call all the time. We can play that game in front of the 
sisters and 
the other Warders, to spare your blushes, but you and I know better." Despite the mocking words, what Elayne felt 
from her was affection. No; stronger than affection. Her own eyes stung suddenly. Her death would hurt Birgitte to the 
bone—the Warder bond made that certain—but it was friendship that made her stay now. 
"I am thankful to have two friends such as you," she said simply. Birgitte grinned at her as if she had said something 
silly. 
Aviendha, however, blushed furiously and stared at Birgitte, wide-eyed and flustered, as though the Warder's presence 
were to blame for her fiery cheeks. Hurriedly she shifted her gaze to the people still short of the first hill, perhaps half a 
mile distant. "Best to wait until they are out of sight," she said, "but you cannot wait too long. Once you have started 



the unweaving, the flows begin to grow . . . slick . . . after a time. Letting one slip free before it is out of the weave is 
the same as letting go of the weave; it will fall into whatever it wishes, then. But you must not hurry, either. Each 
thread must be pulled free as far as it will go. The more that come loose, the easier others will be to see, but you must 
always pick the thread that is easiest to see." Smiling warmly, she pressed her fingers firmly against Elayne's cheek. 
"You will do well, if you are careful." 
It did not sound that difficult. She just had to be careful. It seemed to take a long time for the last woman to vanish over 
the hill, the slender noble bent under the bulk of her dresses. The sun barely appeared to settle any at all, but it seemed 
like hours. What did Aviendha mean precisely by "slick"? She could not explain beyond variations on the word; they 
became difficult to hold, that was all. 
Elayne found out as soon as she began again. "Slick" was what you would get if you coated a live eel with grease. She 
gritted her teeth just holding on to that first thread, and that was on top of trying to pull it free. All that stopped her 
from gasping in relief when the thread of Air began whipping about, finally loose, was that there were more to go. If 
they became much more "slick," she was not sure she could manage it. Aviendha watched closely, but did not say 
another word, though she always had an encouraging smile when Elayne needed one. Elayne could not see Birgitte— 
she did not dare look away from her work— yet she could feel her, a small knot of rock-solid confidence in her own 
head, enough confidence to fill her. 
Sweat slid down her face, down her back and belly, until she began to feel "slick" herself. A bath tonight would be 
most welcome. No, she could not think of that. All attention on the weaves. They were getting harder to handle, 
quivering in her grip as soon as she touched one, but they still came free, and every time one thread began to lash 
about, another seemed to leap out of the mass, to suddenly be clearly perceptible where there had only been solid saidar 
before. To her eye the gateway resembled some monstrous, distorted hundred-heads on the bottom of a pond, 
surrounded by flailing tendrils, every one thickly haired with threads of the Power that grew and writhed and vanished 
only to be replaced by new. The opening visible to anyone flexed along its edges, changing shape and even size 
continuously. Her legs began to tremble; strain stung her eyes as much as sweat did. She did not know how much 
longer she could go on. Gritting her teeth, she fought. One thread at a time. One thread at a time. 
A thousand miles away, less than a hundred paces away through the shuddering gateway, dozens of soldiers swept 
around the white farm buildings, short men carrying crossbows, in brown breastplates and painted helmets that looked 
like the heads of huge insects. Behind them came a woman with red panels bearing silver lightning on her skirts, a 
bracelet on her wrist linked by a silvery leash to the collar around the neck of a woman in gray, and then another 
sul'dam and her damane, then another pair. One of the sul'dam pointed at the gateway, and the glow of saidar abruptly 
enveloped her sul'dam. 
"Get down!" Elayne screamed, falling backward, out of sight of the farmyard, and silver-blue lightning shot through 
the gateway with a roar that filled her ears, forking savagely in every direction. Her hair lifted, every strand trying to 
stand on its own, and thunderous fountains of earth erupted wherever one of the forks struck. Dirt and pebbles rained 
down on her. 
Hearing returned suddenly, and a man's voice from the other side of the opening, a slurred, drawling accent that made 
her skin crawl as much as the words. "... must take them alive, you fools!" 
Abruptly one of the soldiers was leaping into the meadow right in front of her. Birgitte's arrow punched through the 
clenched fist embossed on his leather breastplate. A second Sean-chan soldier stumbled over the first as he fell, and 
Aviendha's belt knife stabbed into his throat before he could recover. Arrows flew from Birgitte's bow like hail; with 
one boot on the horses' reins, she grinned grimly as she shot. The trembling horses tossed their heads and danced as if 
they would jerk free and run, but Birgitte simply stood and shot as fast as she could draw. Shouts from beyond the 
gateway said Birgitte Silverbow still struck home with every shaft she loosed. Answer came, quick as bad thought, 
black streaks, crossbow bolts. So quick, all happening so fast. Aviendha fell, blood running over the fingers clutching 
her right arm, but she let go of her wound immediately, crawling clear, scrabbling on the ground for the angreal, her 
face set. Birgitte cried out; dropping her bow, she grabbed her thigh where a quarrel stuck out. Elayne felt the stab of 
agony as sharply as if it were her own. Desperately, she seized another thread from where she lay half on her back. And 
realized to her horror after one tug that it was all she could do to hold on. Had the thread moved? Had it slipped free 
any at all? If it had, she did not dare let go. The thread trembled greasily in her grasp. 
"Alive, I said!" that Seanchan voice roared. "Anyone who kills a woman gets no share of the taking gold!" The flurry 
of crossbow bolts ceased. 
"You wish to take me?" Aviendha shouted. "Then come and dance with me!" Saidar's glow abruptly surrounded her, 



dim even with the angreal, and balls of fire sprang into being in front of the gateway and sprayed through again and 
again. Not very large balls, but the blasts as they burst back in Altara sounded in a steady stream. Aviendha panted 
with effort, though; her face glistened with sweat. Birgitte had recovered her bow; she looked every inch the hero of 
legend, blood streaming down her leg, barely able to stand, but an arrow half drawn, searching for a target. 
Elayne tried to control her breathing. She could not embrace one shred more of the Power, nothing to help. "The two of 
you must get away," she said. She could not believe how she sounded, calm as ice; she knew she should have been 
wailing. Her heart was trying to pound through her ribs. "I don't know how much longer I can hold this." That held true 
for the entire weave as much as for that single thread. Was it sliding? Was it? "Go, as fast as you can. The other side of 
the hills should be safe, but every span you can cover gains something. Go!" 
Birgitte growled in the Old Tongue, but nothing that Elayne knew. It sounded like phrases she would like to learn. If 
there was ever a chance. Birgitte went on in words Elayne could understand. "You let that bloody thing go before I tell 
you, and you won't have to worry about waiting for Nynaeve to skin you; I'll do it myself. And then let her have a turn. 
Just be quiet and hang on! Aviendha, get around here—behind that thing!—can you keep that up from behind it?—get 
around here and on one of these bloody horses." 
"As long as I can see where to weave," Aviendha replied, staggering to her feet. She wobbled sideways and barely 
caught herself short of falling. Blood flowed down her sleeve from a wicked gash. "I think I can." She vanished behind 
the gateway, and the fireballs continued. You could see through a gateway from the other side, though it appeared to be 
a heat haze hanging in the air. You could not walk through from that side, though— the attempt would be extremely 
painful—and when Aviendha reappeared, she was stumbling well wide. Birgitte helped her mount her gelding, but 
backwards, of all things! 
When Birgitte motioned fiercely to her, Elayne did not bother with shaking her head. For one thing, she feared what 
might happen if she did. "I'm not certain I can hold on if I try to get up." In truth, she was not certain she could get up; 
tired was no longer in it; her muscles were water. "Ride as fast as you can. I'll hold on as long as I'm able. Please, go!" 
Muttering curses in the Old Tongue—they had to be; nothing else ever had the sound!—Birgitte shoved the horses' 
reins into Aviendha's hands. Nearly falling twice, she hobbled to Elayne and bent to take her by the shoulders. "You 
can hang on," she said, her voice filled with the same conviction Elayne felt from her. "I never met a Queen of Andor 
before you, but I've known queens like you. A backbone of steel and a lion's heart. You can do it!" 
Slowly she pulled Elayne up, not waiting for an answer, her face tight, every stab in her leg echoing in Elayne's head. 
Elayne quivered with the effort of holding the weave, holding that one thread; she was surprised to find herself erect. 
And alive. Birgitte's leg throbbed madly in her head. She tried not to lean on Birgitte, but her own trembling limbs 
would not support her completely. As they lurched toward the horses, each half leaning on the other, she kept looking 
back over her shoulder. She could hold a weave without looking at it— she could normally— but she needed to 
reassure herself that she really did still have a grip on that one thread, that it was not slipping. The gateway now 
appeared like no weave she had ever seen, twisting wildly, wreathed with fuzzed tentacles. 
With a groan, Birgitte heaved her into her saddle more than helped her. Backward, just like Aviendha! "You have to 
see," she explained, limping to her gelding; holding the reins of all three horses, she pulled herself up painfully. 
Without a sound, but Elayne felt the agony. "You do what needs doing and leave where we're going to me." The horses 
leaped away, perhaps as much from eagerness to be gone as from Birgitte's heel in her own mount's flank. 
Elayne hung on to the high cantle of her saddle as grimly as she did to the weave, to saidar itself. The galloping horse 
flung her about, and it was all she could do to remain in the saddle. Aviendha used her saddle's cantle as a prop to keep 
herself upright; her mouth hung open, sucking air, and her eyes seemed fixed. The glow surrounded her, though, and 
that stream of fireballs continued. Not as fast as before, true, and some shot wide of the gateway, streaking trails of 
flame through the grass or exploding on the ground beyond, but they still formed and flew. Elayne took strength, made 
herself take strength; if Aviendha could keep on when she looked ready to fall on her face, she could, too. 
At a gallop, the gateway began to dwindle, brown grass stretching out between them and the opening, and then the 
ground was slanting upward. They were climbing the hill! Birgitte was again the arrow in the bow, all focus, fighting 
down the agony in her legs, urging her horses for more speed. All they had to do was reach the crest, reach the other 
side. 
With a gasp, Aviendha sagged onto her elbows, bouncing on her saddle like a loose sack; the light of saidar flickered 
around her and was gone. "I cannot," she panted. "I cannot." That was all she could get out. Seanchan soldiers began 
leaping into the meadow almost as soon as the hail of fire ceased. 
"It's all right," Elayne managed. Her throat was sand; all the moisture that had been in her now coated her skin and 



soaked her clothes. "Using an angreal is tiring. You did well, and they can't catch us now." 
As if to mock her, a sul'dam appeared in the meadow below; even at half a mile there was no mistaking the two 
women. The sun, low in the west, still flashed glints off the a'dam linking them. Another pair joined them, then a third, 
and a fourth. A fifth. 
"The crest!" Birgitte shouted joyfully. "We made it! It's good wine and a well set-up man tonight!" 
In the meadow, a sul'dam pointed, and time seemed to slow for Elayne. The glow of the One Power sprang up around 
the woman's damane. Elayne could see the weave forming. She knew what it was. And there was no way to stop it. 
"Faster!" she shouted. The shield struck her. She should have been too strong for it—she should have been!—but 
exhausted as she was, barely clinging to saidar as she was, it sliced between her and the Source. Down in the meadow, 
the weave that had been a gateway fell in on itself. Haggard, looking as though she could not possibly move, Aviendha 
hurled herself from her saddle at Elayne, carrying them both off. Elayne had just time to see the far slope of the hill 
below her as she fell. 
The air turned white, blanking her sight. There was sound— she knew there was sound, a great roar—but it lay beyond 
hearing. Something struck her, as if she had fallen from a rooftop onto hard pavement, from a tower top. 
Her eyes opened, staring at the sky. The sky looked, strange somehow, blurry. For a moment she could not move, and 
when she did, she gasped. She hurt everywhere. Oh, Light, she hurt! Slowly she raised a hand to her face; her fingers 
came away red. Blood. The others. She had to help the others. She could feel Birgitte, feel pain as bad as what gripped 
her, but at least Birgitte was alive. And determined, and angry apparently; she could not be injured too badly. 
Aviendha. 
With a sob, Elayne rolled over, then pushed up to hands and knees, her head spinning, agony stabbing her side. 
Vaguely she recalled that moving with even one broken rib could be dangerous, but the thought was as hazy as the 
hillside. Thinking seemed . . . 
difficult. Blinking appeared to help her sight, though. Some. She was almost to the bottom of the hill! High above, a 
haze of smoke rose from the meadow beyond. Unimportant, now. Not important at all. 
Thirty paces up the slope, Aviendha was on her hands and knees, too, almost falling over when she raised a hand to 
wipe away blood that poured down her face, but searching anxiously. Her gaze fell on Elayne, and she froze, staring. 
Elayne wondered how bad she looked. Surely no worse than Aviendha herself; half of the other woman's skirt was 
gone, her bodice torn nearly off, and everywhere skin showed, there seemed to be blood. 
Elayne crawled to her. With her head, it seemed much easier than trying to stand and walk. As she came close, 
Aviendha gave a relieved gasp. 
"You are all right," she said, touching bloody fingers to Elayne's cheek. "I was so afraid. So afraid." 
Elayne blinked in surprise. What she could see of herself appeared in every bit as bad shape as Aviendha. Her own 
skirts remained intact, but half of her bodice was ripped away entirely, and she seemed to be bleeding from two dozen 
gashes. Then it struck her. She had not been burned out. She shivered at the thought. "We are both all right," she said 
softly. 
Well off to one side, Birgitte wiped her belt knife on the mane of Aviendha's gelding and straightened from the still 
horse. Her right arm dangled, her coat was gone, along with one boot, and the rest of her garments torn; as much blood 
stained her skin and clothes as either of theirs. The crossbow bolt standing out from her thigh seemed the worst of her 
injuries, but the rest certainly added up to as much again. "His back was broken," she said, gesturing to the horse at her 
feet. "Mine's well, I think, but the last I saw of him, he was running fit to win the Wreath of Megairil. I always thought 
he had a turn of speed. Lioness." She shrugged, and winced. "Elayne, Lioness was dead when I found her. I'm sorry." 
"We are alive," Elayne said firmly, "and that is what counts." She would weep for Lioness later. The smoke above the 
hilltop was not thick, but it rose over a wide area. "I want to see exactly what it was that I did." 
It took clinging to one another for all three of them to stand, and laboring up the hillside was an effort of panting and 
groans, even from Aviendha. They sounded as though they had been thrashed within an inch of their lives—which 
Elayne supposed they had been—and looked as though they had wallowed in a butcher's shambles. Aviendha still 
carried the angreal tight in her fist, but even if she or Elayne had possessed more than their small Talent with Healing, 
neither could have managed to embrace the Source, much less channel. At the top of the hill, they stood leaning on 
each other and stared at devastation. 
Fire ringed the meadow, but the heart of it was blackened, smouldering and swept clear even of boulders. Half the trees 
on the surrounding slopes were broken or leaning away from the meadow. Hawks began to appear, riding the hot air 
rising from the fire; hawks often hunted so, looking for small animals chased into the open by the flames. Of the 



Seanchan there was no sign. Elayne wished there were bodies, so she could be certain they were all dead. Especially all 
of the sul'dam. Gazing down at the burned, smoking ground, though, she was suddenly glad there was no evidence. It 
had been a terrible way to die. The Light have mercy on their souls, she thought. On all of their souls. 
"Well," she said aloud, "I did not do as well as you, Aviendha, but I suppose it worked out for the best, considering. I 
will try to do better next time." 
Aviendha glanced at her sideways. There was a gash on her cheek, and another across her forehead, as well as a long 
one laying open her scalp. "You did much better than I, for a first try. I was given a simple knot tied in a flow of Wind 
the first time. It took me fifty tries to unweave even that without having a clap of thunder in my face, or a blow that 
made my ears ring." 
"I suppose I should have started with something simpler," Elayne said. "I have a habit of leaping in over my head." 
Over her head? She had leaped before looking to see whether there was water! She stifled a chuckle, but not before it 
sent a stab through her side. So instead of chuckling, she moaned through her teeth. She thought some of them might be 
loose. "At least we've found a new weapon. Perhaps I should not be happy about that, but with the Seanchan back 
again, I am." 
"You do not understand, Elayne." Aviendha gestured toward the center of the meadow, where the gateway had been. 
"That could have been no more than a flash of light, or even less. You cannot tell until it happens. Is a flash of light 
worth the risk of burning out yourself and every woman closer to you than a hundred paces or more?" 
Elayne stared at her. She had stayed, knowing that? To risk your life was one thing, but to risk losing the ability to 
channel. ... "I want us to adopt each other as first-sisters, Aviendha. As soon as we can find Wise Ones." What they 
were to do about Rand, she could not imagine. The very idea that they would both marry him^-and Min, too!—was 
worse than ridiculous. But of this, she was sure. "I don't need to know any more about you. I want to be your sister." 
Gently, she kissed Aviendha's bloodstained cheek. 
She had only thought Aviendha blushed fiercely before. Even Aiel lovers did not kiss where anyone could see. Fiery 
sunsets paled beside Aviendha's face. "I want you for my sister, too," she mumbled. Swallowing hard—and eyeing 
Birgitte, who was pretending to ignore them—she leaned over and quickly pressed her lips to Elayne's cheek. Elayne 
loved her as much for that gesture as for the rest. 
Birgitte had been gazing behind them, over her shoulder, and perhaps she had not been pretending after all, because she 
suddenly said, "Someone's coming. Lan and Nynaeve, unless I miss my guess." 
Awkwardly, they turned, hobbling and stumbling and groaning. It seemed quite ludicrous; heroes in stories never got 
hurt so they could barely stand. In the distance to the north, two riders appeared briefly through the trees. Briefly, but 
long enough to make out a tall man on a tall horse, galloping hard, and a woman on a shorter animal running just as 
hard at his side. Gingerly, the three of them sat down to wait. That was another thing heroes in stories never did, Elayne 
thought with a sigh. She hoped she could be a queen to make her mother proud, but it was clear that she would never 
make a hero. 
Chulein moved the reins slightly, and Segani banked smoothly, turning on a ribbed wing. He was a well-trained raken, 
swift and agile, her favorite, though she had to share flying him. There were always more morat'raken than raken; a fact 
of life. Down in the farm below, balls of fire were leaping out of the air apparently, scattering in every direction. She 
tried to pay no attention; her job was to watch for trouble approaching from the area around the farm. At least the 
smoke had stopped rising from where Tauan and Macu had died in the olive grove. 
A thousand paces above the ground, she had a very long view. All the other raken were off scouting the countryside; 
any woman who ran would be marked for checking, to see whether she was one of those who had caused all the 
excitement, though truth for sure, anyone in these lands who saw a raken in the air likely would run. All Chulein had to 
do was watch for approaching trouble here. She wished she did not feel an itch between her shoulder blades; it always 
meant trouble was on the way. The wind of Segani's flight was not bad at this speed, but she drew the drawstring of her 
waxed linen hood tighter under her chin, tested the leather safety straps that held her in the saddle, adjusted her crystal 
goggles, snugged her gauntlets. 
Over a hundred Fists of Heaven were on the ground already, and more importantly, six sul'dam with damane and 
another dozen carrying shoulder bags full of spare a'dam. The second flight would be lifting from the hills to the south 
with reinforcements. Better if more had come in the first strike, but there were few enough to'raken with the Hailene, 
and strong rumor had it that many of those had been given the task of ferrying the High Lady Suroth and her entire 
entourage down from Amadicia. Bad to think ill of the Blood, yet she wished more to'raken had been sent to Ebou Dar. 
No morat'raken could think well of the huge, ungainly to'raken, fit only to carry burdens, but they could have put more 



Fists of Heaven on the ground faster, more sul'dam. 
"Rumor says there are hundreds of marath'damane down there," Eliya said loudly against her back. In the sky, you had 
to speak loudly, over the rush of wind. "Do you know what I'm going to do with my share of the taking gold? Buy an 
inn. This Ebou Dar looks a likely place, what I saw of it. Maybe I'll even find a husband. Have children. What do you 
think of that." 
Chulein grinned behind her wind-scarf. Every flier talked of buying an inn—or a tavern, sometimes a farm—yet who 
could leave the sky? She patted the base of Segani's long, leathery neck. 
Every woman flier—three in four were women—talked of a husband and children, but children meant an end to flying, 
too. More women left the Fists of Heaven in a month than left the sky in half a year. 
"I think you should keep your eyes open," she said. But there was no harm in a little talk. She could have seen a child 
move in the olive groves below, much more anything that might threaten Fists of Heaven. The most lightly armored of 
soldiers, they were about as hard as the Deathwatch Guard; some said harder. "I'll use my share to buy a damane and 
hire a sul'dam." If there were half as many marath'damane down there as rumor claimed, her share would buy two 
damane. Three! "A damane trained to make Sky Lights. When I leave the sky, I'll be as rich as one of the Blood." They 
had something called "fireworks" here— she had seen some fellows vainly trying to interest the Blood in Tanchico— 
but who would watch such a pitiful thing compared to the Sky Lights? Those fellows had been bundled out and 
dumped in the road outside the city. 
"The farm!" Eliya shouted, and suddenly something hit Segani hard, harder than the worst storm gust Chulein had ever 
felt, tumbling him wing over wing. 
Down the raken plunged, screaming his raucous cry, spinning so fast that Chulein was pulled tight against her safety 
straps. She left her hands on her thighs, tensed on the reins but still. Segani had to pull out of this himself; any twitch 
on the reins would only hinder him. Rolling like a gambling wheel, they fell. Morat'raken were taught not to watch the 
ground if a raken fell, whatever the reason, but she could not help estimating her height every time a whip like tumble 
bought the ground into sight. Eight hundred paces. Six hundred. Four. Two. The Light illumine her soul, and the 
infinite mercy of the Creator protect her from— 
With a snap of his broad wings that jerked her sideways and rattled her teeth, Segani leveled out, the tips of his pinons 
brushing treetops as they swept down. With a calmness born of hard training, she checked the motion of his wings for 
strain. Nothing, but she would have a der'morat'raken examine him thoroughly anyway. A tiny thing that might slip by 
her eyes would not escape a master. 
"It seems we've escaped the Lady of the Shadows one more time, Eliya." Turning to look over her shoulder, she let her 
words tail off. A length of broken safety strap trailed back from the empty seat behind her. Every flier knew that the 
Lady waited at the bottom of the long fall, but knowing never made seeing easier. 
Offering a quick prayer for the dead, she firmly pushed herself back to duty and urged Segani to climb. A slow, 
spiraling climb, in case of some hidden strain, but as quick as she thought safe. Maybe a little quicker than safe. Smoke 
rising from beyond the knobby hill ahead made her frown, but what she saw as she cleared the crest dried her mouth. 
Her hands stilled on the reins, and Segani continued to climb on powerful sweeps of his wings. 
The farm was . . . gone. Foundations scoured clean of the white buildings that had stood on them, the big structures 
built into a hillside smashed heaps of rubble. Gone. Everything was blackened and burned. Fire raged through the 
undergrowth on the slopes and made fans a hundred paces long into the olive groves and the forest, stretching from the 
spaces between the hills. Beyond lay broken trees for another hundred or more, all leaning away from the farm. She 
had never seen anything like it. Nothing could be alive down there. Nothing could have lived through that. Whatever it 
had been. 
Quickly she came to herself and turned Segani south. In the distance she could make out to'raken, each one crowded 
with a dozen Fists of Heaven over this short distance, Fists of Heaven and sul'dam, coming too late. She began 
composing her report in her head; there was certainly no one else to make one. Everyone said this was a land full of 
marath'damane waiting to be collared, but with this new weapon, these women who called themselves Aes Sedai were 
a true danger. Something had to be done about them, something decisive. Perhaps, if the High Lady Suroth was on her 
way to Ebou Dar, she would see the need, too. 

Chapter 7 A Goatpen 

The Ghealdanin sky was cloudless, the forested hills hammered by a fierce morning sun. Even short of midday, the 



land sweltered. Pines and leatherleaf were yellowing in the drought, and others Perrin suspected also were evergreens. 
Not a whisper of air stirred. Sweat dripped down his face, ran into his short beard. His curly hair was matting on his 
head. He thought he heard thunder somewhere to the west, but he had almost stopped believing it would ever rain 
again. You hammered the iron that lay on your anvil instead of daydreaming about working silver. 
From the vantage of his sparsely treed ridge, he studied the walled town of Bethal through a brass-bound looking glass. 
Even his eyes could use help over this distance. It was a good-sized town of slate-roofed buildings, with half a dozen 
tall stone structures that might have been minor nobles' palaces or the homes of well-to-do merchants. He could not 
make out the scarlet banner hanging limply atop the tallest tower of the largest palace, the only flag in sight, but he 
knew who it belonged to. Alliandre Maritha Kigarin, Queen of Ghealdan, far from her capital in Jehannah. 
The town gates stood open, with a good twenty guards at each, yet no one came out, and the roads he could see were 
empty except for a lone rider galloping hard toward Bethal from the north. The soldiers were on edge, some shifting 
pikes or bows at sight of the horseman as though he waved a blood-dripping sword. More soldiers on watch crowded 
the wall towers or marched the walls between. Plenty of nocked arrows up there, too, and raised crossbows. Plenty of 
fear. 
A storm had swept over this part of Ghealdan. It still did. The Prophet's bands created chaos, bandits took advantage, 
and Whitecloaks raiding across the border from Amadicia might easily strike this far. A few scattered columns of 
smoke farther south probably marked burning farms, Whitecloak work or the Prophet's. Bandits seldom bothered with 
burning, and the other two left little for them in any case. Adding to the jumble, rumor in every village he had passed 
the last few days said that Amador had fallen, to the Prophet or Taraboners or Aes Sedai, depending on who told the 
tale. Some claimed Pedron Niall himself was dead in the fighting to defend the city. All in all, reason enough for a 
queen to be concerned for her own safety. Or the soldiers could be down there because of him. Despite his best efforts, 
his passage south had hardly gone unnoticed. 
He scratched his beard, considering. A pity the wolves in the surrounding hills could not tell him anything, but they 
seldom paid heed to men's doings except to stay clear of them. And since Dumai's Wells he had not felt right in asking 
any more of them than he absolutely had to. It might be best after all if he rode in alone, with just a few of the Two 
Rivers men. 
He often thought Faile could read his mind, usually when he least wanted her to, and she proved it now, heeling her 
night-black mare Swallow close to his dun. Her narrow-skirted riding dress was nearly as dark as the mare, yet she 
seemed to be taking the heat better than he. She smelled faintly of herbal soap and clean perspiration, of herself. Of 
determination. Her tilted eyes were very determined, and with her bold nose, she was very much her namesake falcon. 
"I would not like to see holes in that fine blue coat, husband," she said softly, for his ears alone, "and those fellows look 
as if they might just shoot at a group of strange men before asking who 
they are. Besides, how will you reach Alliandre without announcing your name to the world? This must be done 
quietly, remember." She did not say that she should be the one to go, that the gate guards would take a woman alone for 
a refugee from the troubles, that she could reach the Queen using her mother's name without exciting too much 
comment, but she did not need to. He had had all that and more from her every night since entering Ghealdan. He was 
here in part because of Alliandre's cautious letter to Rand, offering. . . . Support? Allegiance? Her desire for secrecy 
had been paramount, in any case. 
Perrin doubted that even Aram, sitting his leggy gray a few paces behind them, could have heard a word Faile said, yet 
before she finished speaking, Berelain brought her white mare up on his other side, sweat glistening on her cheeks. She 
also smelled determined, through a cloud of rose perfume. To him, it seemed a cloud. For a wonder, her green riding 
dress showed no more flesh than it had to. 
Berelain's two companions stayed back, though Annoura, her Aes Sedai advisor, studied him with an unreadable 
expression from beneath her cap of thin shoulder-long beaded braids. Not him and the two women at his sides; him in 
particular. No sweat there. He wished he were close enough to smell the beak-nosed Gray sister; unlike the other Aes 
Sedai, she had made no promises to anyone. For whatever those promises were worth. Lord Gallenne, commander of 
Berelain's Winged Guards, was seemingly busy examining Bethal through a looking glass raised to his one eye, and 
fiddling with his reins in a way Perrin had come to know meant that he was deep in calculations. Probably how to take 
Bethal by force; Gallenne always saw the worst possibility first. 
"I still think I should be the one to approach Alliandre," Berelain said. This, too, Perrin had heard every day. "It is why 
I came, after all." That was one of the reasons. "Annoura will be granted an audience at once, and take me in with none 
the wiser save Alliandre." A second wonder. There had not been a hint of flirtation in her voice. She seemed to be 



paying as much attention to smoothing her red leather gloves as to him. 
Which one? The trouble was, he did not want to choose either. 
Seonid, the second Aes Sedai who had come to the ridgeline, stood beside her bay gelding a little way off, near a tall 
drought-withered blackwood, looking not at Bethal but the sky. The two pale-eyed Wise Ones with her made a sharp 
contrast, faces sun-dark to her pale complexion, fair-haired to her dark, tall to her short, not to mention their dark skirts 
and white blouses contrasting to her fine blue wool. Necklaces and bracelets of gold and silver and ivory draped Edarra 
and Nevarin, while Seonid wore only her Great Serpent ring. They were young to her ageless. The Wise Ones matched 
the Green sister for self-possession, though, and they were studying the sky, too. 
"Do you see something?" Perrin asked, putting off the decision. 
"We see the sky, Perrin Aybara," Edarra said calmly, her jewelry making a soft clatter as she adjusted the dark shawl 
looped over her elbows. The heat seemed to touch the Aiel as little as it did the Aes Sedai. "If we saw more, we would 
tell you." He hoped they would. He thought they would. At least, if it was something they believed Grady and Neald 
might see, too. The two Asha'man would not keep it secret. He wished they were there instead of back in the camp. 
More than half a week ago, now, a lace of the One Power streaking high across the sky had created quite a stir among 
the Aes Sedai and Wise Ones. And with Grady and Neald. Which fact had made a bigger stir still, as close to panic as 
any Aes Sedai was likely to come. Asha'man, Aes Sedai and Wise Ones all claimed they could still feel the Power 
faintly in the air long after that bar of lace vanished, but nobody knew what it meant. Neald said it made him think of 
wind, though he could not tell why. No one would voice more of an opinion than that, yet if both the male and female 
halves of the Power were visible, it had to be the Forsaken at work, and on a huge scale. Wondering what they were up 
to had kept Perrin awake late most nights since. 
In spite of himself, he glanced to the sky. And saw nothing, of course, except a pair of pigeons. Abruptly a hawk 
plummeted into his sight, and one of the pigeons was gone in a spray of feathers. The other winged on frantically 
toward Bethal. 
"Have you reached a decision, Perrin Aybara?" Nevarin asked, a touch sharply. The green-eyed Wise One appeared 
even younger than Edarra, perhaps no older than he was, and she did not quite have the blue-eyed woman's serenity. 
Her shawl slid down her arms as she planted hands on hips, and he half expected her to shake a finger at him. Or a fist. 
She reminded him of Nynaeve, though they surely looked nothing alike. Nevarin would have made Nynaeve look 
plump. "What use our advice if you will not listen?" she demanded. "What use?" 
Faile and Berelain sat straight in their saddles, both as proud as they could be, both smelling expectant and uncertain at 
the same time. And irritated at being uncertain; neither liked that one speck. Seonid was too far to send her scent, but 
compressed lips gave her mood well enough. Edarra's command not to speak unless spoken to infuriated her. Still, she 
certainly wanted him to take the Wise Ones' counsel; she stared at him intently, as though the pressure of her eyes 
could push him the way they wanted him to go. In truth, he wanted to choose her, yet he hesitated. How far did her oath 
of fealty to Rand truly hold? Further than he would have believed, by the evidence seen so far, but still, how far could 
he trust an Aes Sedai? The arrival of Seonid's two Warders spared him for another few minutes. 
They rode up together, though they had gone out separately, keeping their horses well back into the trees along the 
ridgeline so they would not be seen from the town. Furen was a Tairen, nearly as dark as good soil, with gray streaking 
his curly black hair, while Teryl, a Murandian, was twenty years younger, with dark reddish hair, curled mustaches, 
and eyes bluer than Edarra's, yet they were stamped from the same mold, tall and lean and hard. They dismounted 
smoothly, cloaks shifting colors and vanishing in a queasy-making way, and made their reports to Seonid, deliberately 
ignoring the Wise Ones. And Perrin. 
"It's worse than back north," Furen said disgustedly. A few drops of sweat beaded on his forehead, but neither man 
appeared much affected by the heat. "The local nobles are shut up in their manors or the town, and the Queen's soldiers 
keep inside the town walls. They've abandoned the countryside to the Prophet's men. And the bandits, though those 
seem scarce around here. The Prophet's people are all over. I think Alliandre will be happy to see you." 
"Rabble," Teryl snorted, slapping his reins on his palm. "I never saw more than fifteen or twenty in one place, armed 
with pitchforks and boar spears mainly. Ragged as beggars, they were. Fit for scaring farmers, to be sure, but you'd 
think the lords would be rooting them out and hanging them in bunches. The Queen will kiss your hand to see a sister." 
Seonid opened her mouth, then glanced up at Edarra, who nodded. If anything, gaining permission to speak tightened 
the Green's mouth more. Her tone was mild as butter, though. "There is no more reason to put off your decision, Lord 
Aybara." She emphasized that title a bit, knowing exactly how much right he had to it. "Your wife can claim a great 
House, and Berelain is a ruler, yet Saldaean Houses count little here, and Mayene is the smallest of nations. An Aes 



Sedai for an emissary will put the weight of the White Tower behind you in Alliandre's eyes." Perhaps recalling that 
Annoura would do for that as well as she, she hurried on. "Besides, I have been in Ghealdan before, and my name is 
well known. Alliandre will not only receive me immediately, she will listen to what I say." 
"Nevarin and I will go with her," Edarra said, and Nevarin added, "We will make sure she says nothing she should 
not." Seonid ground her teeth audibly, to Perrin's ears, and busied herself smoothing her divided skirts, eyes carefully 
down. Annoura made a sound, very nearly a grunt, and turned her head from the sight; she herself stayed away from 
the Wise Ones, and did not like seeing the other sisters with them. 
Perrin wanted to groan. Sending the Green would lift him off a spike, yet the Wise Ones trusted Aes Sedai less than he 
did and kept Seonid and Masuri on short leashes. There had been tales about Aiel in the villages recently, too. None of 
those folk had ever seen an Aiel, but rumors about the Aiel following the Dragon Reborn drifted in the air, half of 
Ghealdan was sure there were Aiel just a day or two away, and each story was stranger and more horrible than the last. 
Alliandre might be too frightened to let him near her once she saw a pair of Aiel women telling an Aes Sedai when to 
hop. And Seonid was hopping, however much she ground her teeth! Well, he was not about to risk Faile without more 
assurance of her greeting than a vaguely worded letter received months ago. That spike dug deeper, right between his 
shoulder blades, yet he had no choice at all. 
"A small party will get through those gates easier than a 
large," he said finally, stuffing the looking glass into his saddlebags. It would set fewer tongues wagging, as well. "That 
means just you and Annoura, Berelain. And maybe Lord Gallenne. Likely they'll take him for Annoura's Warder." 
Berelain chortled in delight, leaning to clasp his arm with both hands. She did not leave it at that, of course. Her fingers 
squeezed caressingly, and she flashed a heated smile of promise, then straightened before he could move, her face 
suddenly innocent as a babe's. Expressionless, Faile focused on pulling her gray riding gloves snug. By her scent, she 
had not noticed Berelain's smile. She hid her disappointment well. "I'm sorry, Faile," he said, "but—" 
Outrage flared in the smell of her like thorns. "I am certain you have matters to discuss with the First before she goes, 
husband," she said calmly. Her tilted eyes were pure serenity, her scent sand burrs. "Best you see to her now." Pulling 
Swallow around, Faile walked the mare over to a plainly fuming Seonid and the tight-faced Wise Ones, but she did not 
dismount or speak to them. Instead she frowned down at Bethal, a falcon staring from her eyrie. 
Perrin realized he was feeling at his nose and pulled his hand down. There was no blood, of course; his nose only felt 
as if there should be. 
Berelain needed no last-minute instructions— the First of Mayene and her Gray advisor were all impatience to be off, 
all certainty they knew what to say and do— yet Perrin stressed caution anyway, and emphasized that Berelain and 
only Berelain was to speak with Alliandre. Annoura gave him one of those cool Aes Sedai looks and nodded. Which 
might have been agreement or might not; he doubted he could get more out of her with a pry-bar. Berelain's lips curled 
in amusement, though she agreed with everything he said. Or said she did. He suspected she would say anything to get 
what she wanted, and those smiles in all the wrong places bothered him. Gallenne had put his looking glass away, but 
he was still playing with his reins, no doubt calculating how to carve a way out of Bethal for the two women. Perrin 
wanted to growl. 
He watched them ride down to the road with worry. The message Berelain carried was simple. Rand understood 
Alliandre's caution, but if she wanted his protection she must be willing to announce support for him openly. That 
protection would come, soldiers and Asha'man to make it plain to everyone, and even Rand himself if need be, once 
she agreed to make the announcement. Berelain had no reason to change the message a hair, despite her smiles—he 
thought they might be another way of flirting—but Annoura. . . . Aes Sedai did what they did, and the Light alone 
knew why half the time. He wished he knew some way to reach Alliandre without using a sister or rousing talk. Or 
risking Faile. 
The three riders reached the gates with Annoura in the lead, and guards quickly raised pikes, lowered bows and 
crossbows, no doubt as soon as she named herself Aes Sedai. Not many people had the nerve to challenge that 
particular claim. There was barely a pause before she was leading the way into the town. In fact, the soldiers seemed 
eager to hurry them through, out of sight of anyone watching from the hills. Some peered at the distant heights, and 
Perrin did not need to smell them to sense their unease over who might be hidden up there, who might, improbably, 
have recognized a sister. 
Turning north, toward their camp, Perrin led the way along the ridge until they were out of sight from Bethal's towers, 
then slanted down to the hard-packed road. Scattered farms lined the road, thatch-roofed houses and long narrow barns, 
withered pastures and stubbled fields and high-walled stone goatpens, but there was little livestock to be seen and 



fewer people. Those few watched the riders warily, geese watching foxes, stopping chores where they stood until the 
horses passed on. Aram kept as close an eye on them in return, sometimes fingering the sword hilt rising above his 
shoulder, perhaps wishing to find more than farm folk. Despite his green-striped coat, little Tinker remained in him. 
Edarra and Nevarin walked beside Stepper, seemingly out for a stroll yet keeping pace easily despite their bulky skirts. 
Seonid heeled them on her gelding, Furen and Teryl at her own back. The pale-cheeked Green pretended that she 
simply wanted to ride a careful two paces behind the Wise Ones, but the men scowled openly. Warders often had a 
greater care for their Aes Sedai's dignity than the sister did herself, and Aes Sedai had enough for queens. 
Faile kept Swallow on the far side of the Aiel women, riding in silence, apparently studying the drought-scarred 
landscape. Slim and graceful, she made Perrin feel a little clumsy at the best of times. She was quicksilver, and he 
loved it in her, usually, but. ... A slight breath of air had begun to stir, enough to keep her scent mingled with the rest. 
He knew he should be thinking about Alliandre and what her answer would be, or better still, the Prophet and how to 
find him once Alliandre replied, however she did, but he could not find room in his head. 
He had expected Faile to be angry when he chose Berelain, for all that Rand supposedly had sent her for the purpose. 
Faile knew he did not want to send her into danger, into any risk of danger, a fact she disliked more than she did 
Berelain. Yet her scent had been soft as a summer morning—until he tried to apologize! Well, apologies usually stoked 
her anger if she already was angry—except when they melted her temper, anyway—but she had not been angry! 
Without Berelain, everything ran smooth as silk satin between them. Most of the time. But explanations that he did 
nothing to encourage the woman—far from it!—earned only a curt "Of course you don't!" in tones that called him a 
fool for bringing it up. But she still grew angry—with him!—every time Berelain smiled at him or found an excuse to 
touch him, no matter how brusquely he put her off, and the Light knew he did that. Short of tying her up, he did not 
know what more he could do to discourage her. Ginger attempts to find out from Faile what he was doing wrong 
received a light "Why do you think you've done anything?" or a not-so-light "What do you think you've done?" or a flat 
"I do not want to talk about it." He was doing something wrong, but he could not puzzle out what! He had to, though. 
Nothing was more important than Faile. Nothing! 
"Lord Perrin?" 
Aram's excited voice cut into his brown study. "Don't call me that," he muttered, following the direction of the man's 
pointing finger, to yet another abandoned farm some distance ahead, where fire had taken the roof from house and 
barn. Only rough stone walls stood. An abandoned farm, but not deserted. Angry shouts rose up there. A dozen or more 
rough-clad fellows carrying spears and pitchforks were trying to force their way over the chest-high stone wall of a 
goatpen, while a handful of men within tried to keep them out. Several horses ran loose inside, frightened at the noise 
and dodging about, and there were three women mounted. They were not simply waiting to see how it would all turn 
out, though; one of the women appeared to be hurling rocks, and even as he looked, another dashed close to the wall to 
lash out with a long cudgel while the third reared her horse, and a tall fellow toppled back off the wall to get clear of 
flashing hooves. But there were too many attackers, too much wall to defend. 
"I advise you to ride wide," Seonid said. Edarra and Nevarin turned grim stares on her, but she plowed on, hurry 
overwhelming her matter-of-fact tone. "Those are surely the Prophet's men, and killing his people is a bad way to 
begin. Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, may die if you fail with him. Is it worth risking that to save a 
handful?" 
Perrin did not intend to kill anyone if he could help it, but he did not intend to look the other way either. He wasted no 
time in explanations, though. "Can you frighten them?" he asked Edarra. "Just frighten?" He remembered all too well 
what the Wise Ones had done at Dumai's Wells. And the Asha'man. Maybe as well Grady and Neald were not there. 
"Perhaps," Edarra replied, studying the crowd around the pen. She half-shook her head, shrugged a fraction. "Perhaps." 
That would have to be good enough. 
"Aram, Furen, Teryl," he snapped, "with me!" He dug in his heels, and as Stepper leaped forward, he was relieved to 
see the Warders following closely. Four men charging made a better show than two. He kept his hands on the reins, 
away from his axe. 
He was not so pleased when Faile galloped Swallow up alongside him. He opened his mouth, and she arched an 
eyebrow at him. Her black hair was beautiful, streaming in the wind of their rush. She was beautiful. An arched 
eyebrow; no more. He changed what he had been about to say. "Guard my back," he told her. Smiling, she produced a 
dagger from somewhere. With all the blades she carried hidden away, sometimes he wondered how he missed being 
stabbed just trying to hug her. 
As soon as she looked ahead again, he gestured frantically to Aram, trying to keep the motion where she could not see. 



Aram nodded, but he was leaning forward, sword bared, ready to skewer the first of the Prophet's folk he reached. 
Perrin hoped the man understood he was to guard Faile's back, and the rest of her, if they actually came to grips with 
those fellows. 
None of the ruffians had noticed them yet. Perrin shouted, but they seemed not to hear over their own yelling. A man in 
a coat too big for him managed to scramble atop the wall, and two others appeared about to get over. If the Wise Ones 
were going to do anything, it was past— 
A thunderclap nearly over their heads almost deafened Perrin, a mountainous crack that made Stepper stumble before 
regaining his pace. The attackers certainly noticed that, staggering and looking around wildly, some clapping hands 
over their ears. The man on the wall overbalanced and fell off outside. He leaped up immediately, though, angrily 
gesturing to the enclosure, and some of his companions leaped back at it. Others saw Perrin then and pointed, their 
mouths working, but still no one ran. A few hefted weapons. 
Suddenly a horizontal wheel of fire appeared above the goat-pen, as wide as a man was tall, flinging off sputtering tufts 
of flame as it spun with a moan that rose and fell, mournful groan to keening wail and back. 
The rough-clad men broke in every direction like scattering quail. For a moment longer the man in a too-big coat 
waved his arms and shouted at them, then with one last glance at the fiery wheel, he too darted away. 
Perrin almost laughed. He would not have to kill anyone. And he would not have to worry about Faile getting a 
pitchfork through her ribs. 
Apparently the people in the pen were as frightened as those outside, one of them at least. The woman who had reared 
her horse at the attackers slipped open the gate and kicked her mount to an awkward gallop. Up the road, away from 
Perrin and the others. 
"Wait!" Perrin shouted. "We won't harm you!" Whether she heard or not, she kept whipping her reins. A bundle tied 
behind her saddle bounced wildly. Those men might be running as hard as they could now, but if she went off by 
herself, even two or three could do her injury. Lying flat on Stepper's neck, Perrin dug in his heels, and the dun shot 
forward like an arrow. 
He was a big man, yet Stepper had earned his name for more than prancing feet. Besides, by its lumbering run, the 
woman's mount was hardly fit for a saddle. With every stride Stepper closed the gap, nearer, nearer, until Perrin was 
able to reach out and seize the other horse's bridle. Up close, her hammer-nosed bay was little better than crowbait, 
lathered and worn out more than the short run could account for. Slowly he drew both horses to a halt. 
"Forgive me if I frightened you, Mistress," he said. "Truly, I mean you no harm." 
For the second time that day an apology did not get the response he expected. Angry blue eyes glared at him from a 
face surrounded by long red-gold curls, a face as regal as any queen's for all that it was plastered with sweat and dust. 
Her dress was plain wool, travel-stained and as dusty as her cheeks, but her face was furious as well as queenly. "I do 
not need," she began in chill tones, trying to jerk her horse free, then cut off as another of the women, white-haired and 
bony, galloped up on a slab-sided brown mare in worse condition than the bay. They had been riding hard for some 
time, these folk. The older woman was just as worn and dust-covered as the younger. 
She alternated between beaming at Perrin and scowling at the woman whose bridle he still held. "Thank you, my 
Lord." Her voice, thin but strong, gave a hitch as she noticed his eyes, but golden-yellow eyes on a man slowed her 
only an instant. Not a woman fazed by much. She still carried the stout stick she had been using for a weapon. "A most 
timely rescue. Maighdin, whatever were you thinking? You could have gotten yourself killed! And the rest of us, too! 
She's a headstrong girl, my Lord, always leaping before she looks. Remember, child, a fool abandons friends, and gives 
up silver for shiny brass. We do thank you, my Lord, and Maighdin will, too, when she comes to her senses." 
Maighdin, a good ten years older than Perrin, could only be called a girl in comparison to the older woman, but despite 
weary grimaces that matched her scent, frustration tinged with anger, she accepted the tirade, only pulling once more in 
a halfhearted attempt to free her horse, then giving up. Letting her hands rest on her can tie, she frowned at Perrin 
accusingly, then blinked. The yellow eyes again. Yet despite that strangeness, she still did not smell afraid. The old 
woman did, but Perrin did not think it was of him. 
Another of Maighdin's companions, an unshaven man mounted on yet another bedraggled horse, this a knob-kneed 
gray, approached while the old woman was talking, but kept back. He was tall, as tall as Perrin if not nearly so wide, in 
a travel-worn dark coat with a sword belted over. Like the women, he had a bundle tied on behind his saddle. That tiny 
breeze swirled to bring Perrin his scent. He was not afraid; he was wary. And if the way he looked at Maighdin was 
any guide, it was she he was wary of. Maybe this was not so simple as rescuing travelers from a gang of ruffians after 
all. 



"Perhaps you should all come to my camp," Perrin said, finally releasing the bridle. "You'll be safe from . . . brigands . . 
. there." He half expected Maighdin to make a break for the nearest tree line, but she turned her horse with his, back 
toward the goatpen. She smelled . . . resigned. 
Even so, she said, "I thank you for the offer, but I ... we ... must continue our journey. We will go on, Lini," she added 
firmly, and the older woman frowned at her so sternly that he wondered whether they were mother and daughter 
despite her use of the woman's name. They certainly looked nothing alike. Lini was narrow-faced and 
parchment-skinned, all sinew, while Maighdin might be beautiful under that dust. If a man liked fair hair. 
Perrin glanced over his shoulder at the man trailing after. A hard-looking fellow, in need of a razor. Perhaps he liked 
fair hair. Perhaps he liked it too much. Men had made trouble for themselves as well as others for that reason before 
this. 
Ahead, Faile was sitting Swallow and peering over the wall of the pen at the people inside. Perhaps one of them had 
been hurt. Seonid and the Wise Ones were nowhere in sight. Aram had understood, apparently; he was close to Faile, 
though looking impatiently toward Perrin. The danger was clearly past, though. 
Before Perrin was halfway to the goatpen, Teryl appeared with a narrow-eyed, stubble-cheeked man stumbling along 
beside his roan, the collar of his coat gripped in the Warder's fist. "I thought we should catch one of them," Teryl said 
with a hard grin. "Always best to hear both sides, whatever you thought you saw, my old da always said." Perrin was 
surprised; he had thought Teryl could not think beyond the end of his sword. 
Even hiked up as it was, the stubble-cheeked fellow's frayed coat was plainly too big for him. Perrin doubted anyone 
else had been able to see well enough at the distance, but he recognized that thrusting nose, too. This man had been the 
last to run, and he was not cowed now, either. His sneer took them all in. "You're all in deep muck, for this," he rasped. 
"We was doing the Prophet's bidding, we was. The Prophet says if a man bothers a woman as doesn't want him, he dies. 
This lot was chasing after her" —he jerked his chin at Maighdin— "and she was running hard. The Prophet'll have your 
ears for this!" He spat for emphasis. 
"That is ridiculous," Maighdin announced in a clear voice. "These people are my friends. This man completely 
misunderstood what he saw." 
Perrin nodded, and if she thought he was agreeing with her, all well and good. But putting what this fellow said 
alongside what Lini had. . . . Not simple at all. 
Faile and the others joined them, followed by the rest of Maighdin's traveling companions, three more men and another 
woman, all leading worn-down horses with few miles left in them. Not that they had been prime horseflesh in some 
years, if ever. A finer collection of buck knees, bow hocks, spavins, and sway backs, Perrin could not recall. As always, 
his gaze went first to Faile— his nostrils strained for her scent—but Seonid snagged his eyes. Slumped in her saddle, 
flushing scarlet, she wore a sullen glower, and her face looked odd, her cheeks puffed out and her mouth not quite 
closed. There was something, a bit of red-and-blue. . . . Perrin blinked. Unless he was seeing things, she had a 
wadded-up scarf stuffed into her mouth! Apparently when Wise Ones told an apprentice to be quiet, even an Aes Sedai 
apprentice, they meant it. 
He was not the only one with sharp eyes; Maighdin's mouth fell open when she saw Seonid, and she gave him a long, 
considering look as if he were responsible for the scarf. So she knew an Aes Sedai on sight, did she? Uncommon, for 
the country woman she appeared. She did not sound one, though. Furen, riding behind Seonid, wore a thunderhead for 
a face, but it was Teryl who made everything even less simple by tossing something to the ground. "I found this behind 
him," he said, "where he might have dropped it, running." 
At first, Perrin did not know what he was looking at, a long loop of rawhide thickly strung with what appeared to be 
tags of shriveled leather. Then he did know, and his teeth bared in a snarl. "The Prophet would have our ears, you 
said." 
The stubble-cheeked man stopped gaping at Seonid and licked his lips. "That . . . that's Hari's work!" he protested. 
"Hari's a mean one. He likes to keep count, take trophies, and he ... uh. ..." Shrugging in his captive coat, he sank in on 
himself like a cornered dog. "You can't tie that to me! The Prophet'll hang you if you touch me! He's hanged nobles 
before, fine lords and ladies. I walk in the Light of the blessed Lord Dragon!" Perrin walked Stepper to the man, careful 
to keep the dun's hooves clear of the . . . thing ... on the ground. He wanted nothing less than to have the fellow's scent 
in his nose, but he bent down, putting his face closer. Sour sweat warred with fear, panic, a tinge of anger. A pity he 
could not sniff out guilt. "Might have dropped" was not "had dropped." Close-set eyes widened, and the man pressed 
back against Teryl's gelding. Yellow eyes had their uses. 
"If I could tie that to you, you'd hang from the nearest tree," he growled. The fellow blinked, began to brighten as he 



understood what that meant, but Perrin gave him no time to regain his bluster. "I'm Perrin Aybara, and your precious 
Lord Dragon sent me here. You spread the word. He sent me, and if I find a man with . . . trophies ... he hangs! If I find 
a man burning a farm, he hangs! If one of you looks at me cross-eyed, he hangs! And you can tell Masema I said so, 
too!" Disgusted, Perrin straightened. "Let him go, Teryl. If he isn't out of my sight in two shakes . . . !" Teryl's hand 
opened, and the fellow dashed off at a dead run for the nearest trees, never so much as glancing back. Part of Perrin's 
disgust was for himself. Threatening! If one of them looked at him cross-eyed? But if the nameless man had not cut off 
ears himself, he had watched it and done nothing. 
Faile was smiling, pride shining through the sweat on her face. Her look washed away some of Perrin's revulsion. He 
would walk barefoot through fire for that look. 
Not everyone approved, of course. Seonid's eyes were squeezed shut, and her gloved fists quivered on her reins as 
though she desperately wanted to yank that scarf from her mouth and tell him what she thought. He could guess 
anyway. Edarra and Nevarin had gathered their shawls around them and were eyeing him darkly. Oh, yes; he could 
guess. 
"I thought it was to be all secrecy," Teryl said casually, watching the stubble-cheeked man run. "I thought Masema 
wasn't to know you were here till you spoke in his pink ear." 
That had been the plan. Rand had suggested it as a precaution, Seonid and Masuri had insisted on it every chance they 
got. After all, Prophet of the Lord Dragon or no, Masema might not want to come face-to-face with someone Rand 
sent, considering the things he was said to have allowed. Those ears were not the worst, if the tenth part of rumor was 
to be believed. Edarra and the other Wise Ones saw Masema as a possible enemy, to be ambushed before he could set 
his own trap. 
"I'm supposed to stop . . . that," Perrin said, gesturing angrily to the rawhide string on the ground. He had heard the 
rumors, and done nothing. Now he had seen. "I might as well start now." And if Masema decided he was an enemy? 
How many thousands followed the Prophet, out of belief or fear? It did not matter. "It stops, Teryl. It stops!" 
The Murandian nodded slowly, eyeing Perrin as though seeing him for the first time. 
"My Lord Perrin?" Maighdin said. He had forgotten all about her and her friends. The others had gathered with her a 
little way off, most still afoot. There were three men aside from the fellow who had followed Maighdin, and two of 
those were hiding behind their horses. Lini appeared the wariest of all, eyes focused on him worriedly; she had her 
horse close to Maighdin's and seemed ready to seize the bridle herself. Not to stop the younger woman bolting, but to 
bolt herself and take Maighdin with her. Maighdin herself appeared completely at ease, but she also studied Perrin. 
Little wonder, after all that talk of the Prophet and the Dragon Reborn, on top of his eyes. Not to mention an Aes Sedai 
gagged. He expected her to say that they wanted to go now, immediately, but what she said instead was "We will 
accept your kind offer. A day or two resting in your camp might be just the thing." 
"As you say, Mistress Maighdin," he said slowly. Masking his surprise was difficult. Especially since he had just 
recognized the two men trying to keep their horses between them and him. Ta'veren work, to bring them here? A 
strange twist in any case. "It might be just the thing at that." 

Chapter 8 A Simple Country Woman 

The camp lay about a league farther on, well back from the road among low, wooded hills, just beyond a stream that 
was ten paces' width of stones and only five of water never deeper than a man's knees. Tiny green and silver fish darted 
away from the horses' hooves. Casual passersby were unlikely to come on them here. The nearest inhabited farm was 
over a mile away, and Perrin had checked personally to make sure those folk took their animals to water elsewhere. 
He truly had been trying to avoid notice as much as possible, traveling by back roads and the smallest country paths 
when they could not keep to the forests. A futile effort, really. The horses could be pastured wherever there was grass, 
but they required at least some grain, and even a small army had to buy food, and a lot of it. Every man needed four 
pounds a day, in flour and beans and meat. Rumors must have been floating all over Ghealdan, though with luck, no 
one suspected who they were. Perrin grimaced. Perhaps they had not, until he went and opened his mouth. Still, he 
would have done nothing differently. 
It was three camps really, close to one another and none far from the stream. They traveled together, all following him, 
obeying him supposedly, but there were too many personalities involved, and no one was entirely sure the others aimed 
at the same goal. Some nine hundred or so Winged Guards had their cook fires crowded between rows of picketed 
horses in a broad meadow of trampled brown grass. He tried to close his nose to the mingled smells of horses, sweat, 



dung and boiling goat meat, an unpleasant combination on a hot day. A dozen mounted sentries rode a slow circuit in 
pairs, their long, red-streamered lances all at precisely the same angle, but the rest of the Mayeners had shed 
breastplates and helmets. Coatless and often shirtless in the sun, they lay sprawled on their blankets or diced as they 
waited on the food. Some looked up as Perrin passed, a number straightened from what they were doing to study the 
additions to his party, but none came running, so the patrols were still out. Small patrols, without lances, who could see 
without being seen. Well, that was the hope. It had been. 
A handful of gai’shain moved at various chores among the Wise Ones' low gray-brown tents on the sparsely wooded 
crest of the hill above the Mayeners. At this distance, the white-robed figures appeared harmless, eyes downcast and 
meek. Up close, they would look the same, but most were Shaido. The Wise Ones claimed gai'shain were gai’shain; 
Perrin did not trust any Shaido out of his sight. Off to one side on the slope, beneath a bedraggled sour gum, perhaps a 
dozen Maidens in cadin'sor knelt in a circle around Sulin, the toughest of them despite her white hair. She had sent out 
scouts, too, women who could move as fast afoot as the Mayeners on their horses and were much more likely to escape 
unwanted attention. None of the Wise Ones up there were in the open, but a slender woman stirring a large stew kettle 
straightened, knuckling her back as she watched Perrin and the others pass. A woman in a green silk riding dress. 
He could see the glare on Masuri's face. Aes Sedai did not stir kettles, nor perform twenty other tasks the Wise Ones 
had her and Seonid doing. Masuri laid it at Rand's feet, but he was not here, and Perrin was. Given half a chance, she 
would peel his hide for him. 
Edarra and Nevarin turned up that way, even in those bulky skirts barely disturbing the layers of dead leaves that 
carpeted the ground. Seonid followed, her cheeks still bulging around that scarf. She twisted in her saddle, peering 
back at Perrin. If he could have believed an Aes Sedai looking anxious, that was what he would have called her. Riding 
behind her, Furen and Teryl wore scowls. 
Masuri saw them coming and hastily bent back to the black kettle, stirring with renewed vigor, trying to make out that 
she had never stopped. So long as Masuri stayed in the Wise Ones' charge, Perrin thought he did not have to worry 
about his hide. The Wise Ones seemed to keep a very short leash. 
Nevarin looked back over her shoulder at him, another of those dark stares he had been getting from her and Edarra 
since sending his warning, his threat, by the stubble-cheeked fellow. Perrin exhaled in exasperation. He did not have to 
worry about his pelt unless the Wise Ones decided they wanted it. Too many personalities. Too many goals. 
Maighdin rode at Faile's side, seemingly paying no attention to what they passed, but he would not have wagered a 
split copper on it. Her eyes had widened a hair at sight of the Mayener sentries. She knew what red breastplates and 
helmets like rimmed pots meant, as surely as she had recognized an Aes Sedai face. Most people would not have 
known either, especially not folk dressed as she was. She was a mystery, this Maighdin. For some reason, she seemed 
vaguely familiar. 
Lini and Tallanvor—that was what he had heard Maighdin call the fellow who had ridden after her; "young" Tallanvor, 
though there could not have been more than four or five years between them if that— stayed as close behind Maighdin 
as possible, with Aram in the way trying to heel Perrin. So did a little stick of a fellow with a pursed mouth, called 
Balwer, who seemed to pay less heed to their surroundings than Maighdin pretended. Even so, Perrin thought Balwer 
saw more than she did. He could not say why, precisely, but the few times he had caught the bony little man's scent, he 
had been minded of a wolf testing the air. Strangely, there was no fear in Balwer, only quickly suppressed ridges of 
irritation shot through with the quivery smell of impatience. The remainder of Maighdin's companions trailed along 
well back. The third woman, Breane, was whispering fiercely to a hulking fellow who kept his eyes down and 
sometimes nodded silently, sometimes shook his head. A shoulder striker and street tough if ever there was one, but the 
short woman had an edge of toughness about her, too. The last man sheltered behind those two, a stout man with a 
battered straw hat pulled low to hide his face. On him, the sword the men all wore looked as strange as it did on 
Balwer. 
The third part of the camp, spread out among the trees just around the curve of the hill from the Mayeners, covered as 
much ground as the Winged Guards' though it held far fewer people. Here, the horses were picketed well away from 
the cook fires, so the unblemished smell of dinner filled the air. Roasting goat, this time, and hard turnips the farmers 
probably had intended to feed to their pigs even with times as hard as they were. Close on to three hundred Two Rivers 
men who had followed Perrin away from home were tending meat on spits, mending clothes, checking over arrows and 
bows, all scattered in haphazard clumps of five or six friends around a fire. Nearly every one of them waved and 
shouted greetings, though there was too much of "Lord Perrin" and "Perrin Goldeneyes" to suit him. Faile had a right to 
the titles they gave her. 



Grady and Neald, unsweating in their night-black coats, did not cheer; standing beside the cook fire they had built a 
little away from everyone else, they merely looked at him. Expectant looks, he thought. Expecting what? That was the 
question he always asked himself about them. The Asha'man made him uneasy, more than Aes Sedai or Wise Ones. 
Women channeling the Power was natural, if not exactly anything a man could be comfortable around. Plain-faced 
Grady appeared a farmer despite his coat and sword, and Neald a popinjay with his curled mustaches, yet Perrin could 
not forget what they were, what they had done at Dumai's Wells. But then, he had been there, too. The Light help him, 
he had. Pulling his hand from the axe at his belt, he dismounted. 
Servants, men and women from Lord Dobraine's estates in Cairhien, came running from the lines where the horses 
were picketed, to take their mounts. None stood taller than Perrin's shoulder, country-clad folk, forever bowing and 
curtsying obsequiously. Faile said he just upset them when he tried to make them stop, or at least not to bob around him 
so often; in truth, that was how they smelled when he did, and they always went 
back to bobbing in an hour or two. Others, nearly as many as the Two Rivers men, were working with the horses or 
around the long rows of high-wheeled carts that hauled all their supplies. A few were darting in and out of a large 
red-and-white tent. 
As usual, that tent made Perrin grunt gloomily. Berelain had a larger one back in the Mayener part of the camp, plus 
one for her two maids and another for the pair of thief-catchers she had insisted on bringing. Annoura had a tent of her 
own, and Gallenne as well, but only he and Faile possessed one here. For himself, he would have slept under the sky 
like the other men from home. They had nothing over them at night but a blanket. There was certainly no fear of rain. 
The Cairhienin servants bedded down beneath the carts. He could not ask Faile to do that, though, not when Berelain 
had a tent. If only he could have left Berelain in Cairhien. But then he would have had to send Faile into Bethal. 
A pair of banners on tall, fresh-cut poles in the middle of a clear space near the tent soured his mood further. The 
breeze had picked up a trifle, though it was still too warm; he thought he heard that thunder again, faint in the west. The 
flags unfolded in slow waves, collapsed of their own weight, rippled open again. His crimson-bordered Red Wolfhead 
and the Red Eagle of long-dead Manetheren, out in the open again despite his orders. Perhaps he had stopped trying to 
hide, after a fashion, but what was now Ghealdan had been part of Manetheren; Alliandre would not be soothed by 
hearing of that banner! He managed a pleasant face and a smile for the stocky little woman who curtsied deeply and 
took Stepper away, but it was a near thing. Lords were supposed to be obeyed, and if he was supposed to be a lord, 
well, he seemed to be making a poor job of it. 
Fists on her hips, Maighdin stood studying those rippling flags as her horse was taken off with the rest. Surprisingly, 
Breane had both their bundles, held awkwardly; she wore a petulant scowl, directed at the other woman. "I have heard 
about banners like those," Maighdin said suddenly. And angrily; there was no anger in her voice, and her face was 
smooth as ice, but her fury filled Perrin's nose. "They were raised by men in Andor, in the Two Rivers, who rebelled 
against their lawful ruler. Aybara is a Two Rivers name, I think." 
"We don't know much about lawful rulers in the Two Rivers, Mistress Maighdin," he growled. He was going to skin 
whoever had put them up this time. If stories about rebellion had spread this far. . . . He faced too many complications 
already without adding more. "I suppose Morgase was a good queen, but we had to fend for ourselves, and we did." 
Abruptly he knew who she minded him of. Elayne. Not that it meant anything; he had seen men a thousand miles from 
the Two Rivers who could have belonged to families he knew back home. Still, she had to have some reason for anger. 
Her accent could be Andoran. "Things aren't as bad in Andor as you might have heard," he told her. "Caemlyn was 
quiet, last I was there, and Rand— the Dragon Reborn— means to put Morgase's daughter Elayne on the Lion Throne." 
Far from being mollified, Maighdin rounded on him, blue eyes blazing. "He intends to put her on the throne? No man 
puts a queen on the Lion Throne! Elayne will claim the throne of Andor by her right!" 
Scratching his head, Perrin wished Faile would stop watching the woman so calmly and say something. But all she did 
was tuck her riding gloves behind her belt. Before he could think of what to say, Lini darted in, seizing Maighdin's arm 
and giving her a shake fit to rattle her teeth. 
"You apologize!" the old woman barked. "This man saved your life, Maighdin, and you forget yourself, a simple 
country woman speaking so to a lord! Remember who you are, and don't let your tongue land you in hotter water! If 
this young lord was at odds with Morgase, well, everyone knows she's dead, and it's none of your affair in any event! 
Now apologize before he grows angry!" 
Maighdin stared at Lini, her mouth working, even more startled than Perrin. Again she surprised him, though. Instead 
of erupting at the white-haired woman, she slowly drew herself up, shoulders squared, and looked him in the eye. "Lini 
is entirely right. I have no right to speak to you so, Lord Aybara. I apologize. Humbly. And I ask your pardon." 



Humble? Her jaw was stubborn, her tone proud enough for an Aes Sedai, and her scent said she was ready to chew a 
hole in something. 
"You have it," Perrin said hastily. Which did not seem to placate her one bit. She smiled, and maybe she intended 
gratitude, but he could hear her teeth grinding. Were women all crazy? 
"They are hot and dirty, husband," Faile said, putting a hand in at last, "and the last few hours have been trying for 
them, I know. Aram can show the men where to clean themselves. I will take the women with me. I'll have damp cloths 
brought to wash your hands and faces," she told Maighdin and Lini. Gathering up Breane with a gesture, she began 
herding them toward the tent. At a nod from Perrin, Aram motioned the men to follow him. 
"As soon as you finish your wash, Master Gill, I'd like to talk with you," Perrin said. 
He might as well have made that spinning wheel of fire. Maighdin whipped around to gape at him, and the other two 
women froze in their tracks. Tallanvor was suddenly gripping his sword hilt again, and Balwer rose on his toes, peering 
over his bundle, head tilting this way then that. Not a wolf, perhaps; some sort of bird, watching for cats. The stout 
man, Basel Gill, dropped his belongings and leaped a foot in the air. 
"Why, Perrin," he stammered, snatching off the straw hat. Sweat made tracks in the dust on his cheeks. He bent to pick 
up his bundle, changed his mind and straightened again hastily. "I mean, Lord Perrin. I ... ah ... I thought it was you, 
but . . . but with them calling you lord, I wasn't sure you'd want to know an old innkeeper." Scrubbing a handkerchief 
across his nearly bald head, he laughed nervously. "Of course, I'll talk to you. Washing can wait a little longer." 
"Hello, Perrin," the hulking man said. With his heavy-lidded eyes, Lamgwin Dorn appeared lazy despite his muscles 
and the scars on his face and hands. "We heard about young Rand being the Dragon Reborn, Master Gill and me. 
Should have figured you'd have come up in the world, too. Perrin Aybara's a good man, Mistress Maighdin. I think you 
could trust him with anything you've a mind to." He was not lazy, and he was not stupid, either. 
Aram jerked his head impatiently, and Lamgwin and the other two followed, but Tallanvor and Balwer dragged their 
feet, casting wondering glances back at Perrin and Master Gill. Concerned glances. And at the women. Faile had them 
moving again, as well, though with plenty of darted looks at Perrin and Master Gill, at the men trailing Aram. Suddenly 
they were not so pleased at being separated. 
Master Gill mopped his forehead and smiled uneasily. Light, why did he smell afraid? Perrin wondered. Of him? Of a 
man tied to the Dragon Reborn, calling himself lord and leading an army, however small, threatening the Prophet. 
Might as well throw gagging Aes Sedai into it, too; he would take the blame for that, one way or another. No, Perrin 
thought wryly; nothing in that to frighten anybody. The whole lot of them were probably afraid he might murder them 
all. 
Trying to put Master Gill at ease, he led the man to a large oak a hundred paces from the red-and-white tent. Most of 
the great tree's leaves were gone and half those left were brown, but massive limbs spreading low provided a little 
shade, and some of the gnarled roots stood high enough to serve as benches. Perrin had used one for just that, twiddling 
his thumbs while camp was being set. Whenever he tried to do anything useful, there were always ten hands snatching 
it away from him. 
Basel Gill was not eased, however much Perrin asked after the Queen's Blessing, his inn in Caemlyn, or recalled his 
own visit there. But then, perhaps Gill was remembering that that visit was not the thing to calm a man, with Aes Sedai 
and talk of the Dark One and a flight in the night. He paced anxiously and hugged his bundle to his chest, shifted it 
from one arm to the other and answered in a bare handful of words, licking his lips between. 
"Master Gill," Perrin told him finally, "stop calling me Lord Perrin. I'm not. It's complicated, but I'm not a lord. You 
know that." 
"Of course," the round man replied, at last seating himself on one of the oak roots. He appeared reluctant to set his 
bundled things down, drawing his hands from them slowly. "As you say, Lord Perrin. Ah, Rand ... the Lord Dragon ... 
he really means the Lady Elayne to have the throne? Not that I doubt your word, of course," he added hurriedly. 
Pulling off his hat, he began mopping his forehead again. Even for such a round man, he seemed to be sweating twice 
as much as the heat called for. "I'm sure the Lord Dragon will do just as you say." His laugh was shaky. "You wanted 
to talk to me. And not about my old inn, I'm sure." 
Perrin exhaled wearily. He had thought nothing could be worse than old friends and neighbors bowing and scraping, 
but at least they forgot sometimes and spoke their minds. And none of them was afraid of him. "You're a long way 
from home," he said in a gentle voice. No need to go too fast, not with a man ready to jump out of his skin. "I wondered 
what brought you here. Not troubles of any kind, I hope." 
"You tell him right, Basel Gill," Lini said sharply, marching up to the oak. "No embroidery, mind." She had not been 



gone very long, yet somehow she had found time to wash her face and hands and work her hair into a neat white bun on 
the back of her head. And to beat most of the dust from her plain woolen dress. Bobbing a perfunctory curtsy in Perrin's 
direction, she turned to shake a gnarled finger at Gill. " 'Three things annoy to distraction: a tooth that aches, a shoe 
that pinches, and a man that chatters.' So you hold to the point and don't go telling the young lord more than he wants 
to hear." For a moment she held the gaping innkeeper with an admonitory stare, then abruptly gave Perrin another 
quick curtsy. "He does love the sound of his own voice—most men do—but he'll tell it to you properly, now, my 
Lord." 
Master Gill glowered at her, and muttered under his breath when she waved sharply for him to speak. "Bony old . . ." 
was what Perrin heard. "What happened—the simple and straight of it—" The round man glared at Lini again, but she 
did not appear to notice, "was that I had some business down to Lugard. A chance to import wine. But you're not 
interested in that. I took Lamgwin along, of course, and Breane, because she won't let him out of her sight an hour she 
doesn't, have to. Along the way, we met Mistress Dorlain, Mistress Maighdin as we call her, and Lini, and Tallanvor. 
And Balwer, of course. On the road. Near to Lugard." 
"Maighdin and I were in service in Murandy," Lini put in impatiently. "Until the troubles. Tallanvor was an armsman 
to the House, and Balwer the secretary. Bandits burned the manor, and our lady couldn't afford to keep us, so we 
decided to travel together for protection." 
"I was telling it, Lini," Master Gill grumbled, scratching behind his ear. "The wine merchant had left Lugard for the 
country, for some reason, and . . ." He shook his head. "It's all too much to go into, Perrin. Lord Perrin, I mean. Forgive 
me. You know there's trouble everywhere nowadays, one kind or another. Seems like every time we ran from one kind, 
we found another, and always getting further from Caemlyn. Till here we are, tired and grateful for a rest. And that's 
the short of it." 
Perrin nodded slowly. That could be simple truth, though he had learned that people had a hundred reasons for lying, or 
just shading the truth. Grimacing, he raked fingers through his hair. Light! He was becoming suspicious as a 
Cairhienin, and the deeper Rand tangled him, the worse it got. Why on earth would Basel Gill, of all people, lie to him? 
A lady's maid, accustomed to privilege and fallen on hard times; that explained Maighdin. Some things were simple. 
Lini's hands were folded at her waist, but she watched with a keen eye, no little like a falcon herself, and Master Gill 
began fidgeting as soon as he stopped talking. He seemed to take Perrin's grimace as a demand for more. He laughed, 
more on edge than amused. "I haven't seen so much of the world since the Aiel War, and I was considerably skinnier, 
then. Why, we've been as far as Amador. Of course, we left after those Seanchan took the city, but truth, they aren't any 
worse than the Whitecloaks, that I could—" He cut off as Perrin leaned forward abruptly and seized his lapel. 
"Seanchan, Master Gill? Are you sure of that? Or is it one of those rumors, like the Aiel, or Aes Sedai?" 
"I saw them," Gill replied, exchanging uncertain looks with Lini. "And that's what they call themselves. I'm surprised 
you don't know. Word's been running ahead of us all the way from Amador. These Seanchan want people to know what 
they're about. Strange people, with strange creatures." His voice picked up intensity. "Like Shadowspawn. Big leathery 
things that fly, and carry men, and these things like lizards, only they're big as horses, and they have three eyes. I saw 
them! I did!" 
"I believe you," Perrin said, releasing the man's coat. "I've seen them, too." At Falme, where a thousand Whitecloaks 
died in minutes and it had taken dead heroes of legend, called by the Horn of Valere, to throw the Seanchan back. Rand 
had said they would return, but how could they have so soon? Light! If they held Amador, they had to have Tarabon as 
well, or most of it. Only a fool killed a deer when he knew there was a wounded bear behind his back. How much had 
they taken? "I can't send you to Caemlyn right away, Master Gill, but if you stay with me a while longer, I'll see you 
there safely." If staying with him any length of time was safe. The Prophet, Whitecloaks, and now maybe Seanchan 
added in. 
"I think you're a good man," Lini said suddenly. "I'm afraid we didn't tell you the whole truth, and maybe we should." 
"Lini, what are you saying?" Master Gill exclaimed, bounding to his feet. "I think the heat's getting to her," he told 
Perrin. "And all the travel. She has strange fancies, sometimes. You know how old folks can get. Hush, now, Lini!" 
Lini slapped away the hand he was trying to put over her mouth. "You mind yourself, Basel Gill! I'll 'old' you! 
Maighdin was running from Tallanvor, in a manner of speaking, and he was chasing her. We all were, four days now, 
and near killing us and the horses both. Well, it's no wonder she doesn't know her own mind half the time; you men 
snarl up a woman's wits so she can hardly think, then you pretend you've done nothing at all. The lot of you ought to 
have your ears boxed on general principle. The girl's afraid of her own heart! Those two should be married, and the 
quicker the better." 



Master Gill gaped at her, and Perrin was not sure his own mouth might not be hanging open. "I'm not certain I 
understand what it is you want of me," he said slowly, and the white-haired woman leaped in before he was well 
finished. 
"Don't pretend to be dense. I won't believe it in you for a moment. I can see you have more wits than most men. That's 
the worst habit you men have, making believe you don't see what's plain under your noses." What had happened to all 
those curtsies? Folding thin arms across her chest, she eyed him sternly. "Well, if you must pretend, I'll set it out for 
you. This Lord Dragon of yours does whatever he wants, the way I hear. Your Prophet picks out people and marries 
them on the spot. Very well; you snatch up Maighdin and Tallanvor and marry them. He'll thank you, and so will she. 
When her mind settles." 
Stunned, Perrin glanced at Master Gill, who shrugged and made a sickly grin. "If you will forgive me," Perrin told the 
frowning woman, "I have some matters I must see to." He hurried away, only looking back once. Lini was shaking a 
finger at Master Gill, berating him despite his protests. The breeze was wrong for Perrin to hear what they were saying. 
In truth, he did not want to. They were all crazy! 
Berelain might have her two maids and her thief-catchers, but Faile had her own attendants, of a sort. Close on twenty 
young Tairens and Cairhienin were sitting cross-legged near the tent, the women in coats and breeches with swords 
belted on just like the men. None wore their hair longer than the shoulder, and men and women both had it tied back 
with a ribbon, imitating the Aiel tail. Perrin wondered where the rest were; they seldom strayed far from the sound of 
Faile's voice. Not causing trouble, he hoped. She had taken them under her wing to keep them out of trouble, she said, 
and the Light knew they would have gotten into it, left back in Cairhien with a great lot of young fools just like them. 
In Perrin's opinion, the whole lashing of them needed a swift kick in the bottom to knock some sense into them. 
Dueling, playing at ji’e’toh, pretending to be some sort of Aiel. Idiocy! 
Lacile rose to her feet as Perrin came closer, a pale little woman with red ribbons pinned to her lapels, small gold hoops 
in her ears, and a challenging stare that sometimes made the Two Rivers men think she might like a kiss despite her 
sword. Right then, the challenge was stony hard. A moment behind her, Arrela stood too, tall and dark, with her hair 
cut short as a Maiden's and her clothes plainer than most of the men's. Unlike Lacile, Arrela made it clear she would as 
soon kiss a dog as any man. The pair made as if to move in front of the tent, to block Perrin's way, but a square-chinned 
fellow in a puffy-sleeved coat barked an order and they sat again. Reluctantly. For that matter, Parelean thumbed that 
block of a chin as though he might be reconsidering. He had worn a beard the first time Perrin saw him—several of the 
Tairen men had had them—but Aiel did not wear beards. Perrin muttered about foolishness under his breath. They 
were Faile's to the bone, and the fact that he was her husband meant little. Aram might be jealous of his attentions, yet 
Aram at least shared his affections with Faile. He could feel the young idiots' eyes on him as he strode inside. Faile 
would skin him if she ever learned that he hoped they would keep her from trouble. 
The tent was tall and spacious, with a flowered carpet for a floor and sparse furnishings that folded for storage on a 
cart, most of them. The heavy stand-mirror certainly could not. Except for brass-bound chests draped with embroidered 
cloths and doubling as extra tables, straight lines of bright gilt decorated everything down to the washstand and its 
mirror. A dozen mirrored lamps made the interior nearly as bright as outside, if considerably cooler, and there were 
even a pair of silk hangings dangling from the roof poles, too ornate for Perrin's taste. Too rigid, with the birds and 
flowers marching in lines and angles. Dobraine had set them up to travel like Cairhienin nobles, though Perrin had 
managed to "lose" the worst of it. The huge bed, for one, a ridiculous thing to travel with. It had taken up almost a 
whole cart to itself. 
Faile and Maighdin were sitting alone together, worked silver cups in hand. They had the air of women feeling one 
another out, all smiles on the outside yet with a hint of sharpness to the eyes, a hint of listening for something behind 
the words, and not a clue as to whether they would hug in the next instant or draw knives. Well, he thought most 
women would not actually go as far as knives, but Faile could. Maighdin appeared much less travel-worn than she had, 
washed and combed, the dust brushed from her dress. A small mosaic-topped table between them held more cups and a 
tall sweating silver pitcher that gave off the minty scent of herb tea. Both women looked around at his entrance, and for 
an instant, they had almost exactly the same expression, coolly wondering who was barging in and not at all pleased 
with the interruption. At least Faile softened hers immediately with a smile. 
"Master Gill told me your story, Mistress Dorlain," he said. "You've faced hard days, but you can be sure you're safe 
here till you decide to leave." The woman murmured thanks over the rim of her cup, but she smelled wary, and her eyes 
tried to read him like a book. 
"Maighdin also told me their story, Perrin," Faile said, "and I have an offer to make her. Maighdin, you and your 



friends have had trying months behind, and you tell me of no prospects ahead. Enter my service, all of you. You will 
still have to journey, but the circumstances will be much better. I pay well, and I am not a harsh mistress." Perrin 
voiced his approval immediately. If Faile wanted to indulge her fancy for taking in strays, at least he wanted to help 
this lot, too. Maybe they would be safer with him than wandering around alone at that. 
Choking on her tea, Maighdin nearly dropped her cup. She blinked at Faile, dabbing at the damp on her chin with a 
lace-edged linen handkerchief, and her chair creaked faintly as she turned, strangely, to study Perrin. "I ... thank you," 
she said at last, slowly. "I think. . . ." Another moment's perusal of Perrin, and her voice picked up. "Yes, I thank you, 
and I accept your kind offer gratefully. I must tell my companions." Rising, she hesitated in setting her cup on the tray, 
then straightened only to spread her skirts in a curtsy suitable for any palace. "I will try to give good service, my Lady," 
she said levelly. "May I withdraw?" At Faile's assent, she curtsied again and backed away two steps before turning to 
go! Perrin scratched his beard. Somebody else who would be bobbing at him every time she turned around. 
No sooner had the tentflap dropped behind Maighdin than Faile put her cup down and laughed, drumming her heels on 
the carpet. "Oh, I like her, Perrin. She has spirit! I'll wager she would have singed your beard over those banners if I 
hadn't saved you. Oh, yes. Spirit!" 
Perrin grunted. Just what he needed; another woman to singe his beard. "I promised Master Gill to look after them, 
Faile, but. . . . Can you guess what that Lini asked? She wanted me to marry Maighdin to that fellow Tallanvor. Just 
stand them up and marry them whatever they said! She claimed they want it." He filled a silver cup with tea and 
dropped into the chair Maighdin had vacated, ignoring its alarming groans under his sudden weight. "In any case, that 
nonsense is the least of my worries. Master Gill says it was the Seanchan took Amador, and I believe him. Light! The 
Seanchan!" 
Faile tapped her fingertips together, staring across them at nothing. "That might be just the thing," she mused. "Most 
servants do better married than not. Perhaps I should arrange it. And for Breane, too. The way she went running out of 
here to check on that big fellow as soon as her face was clean, I suspect they should be already. There was a gleam in 
her eye. I won't have that kind of behavior in my servants, Perrin. It just leads to tears and recriminations and sulking. 
And Breane will be worse than he is." Perrin stared at her. "Did you hear me?" he said slowly. "The Seanchan have 
captured Amador! The Seanchan, Faile!" 
She gave a start—she really had been thinking about marrying off those women!—then smiled at him, amused. 
"Amador is long way, yet, and if we do meet with these Seanchan, I'm sure you will deal with them. After all, you 
taught me to perch on your wrist, didn't you?" That was what she claimed, though he had never seen any sign of it. 
"They might be a touch more difficult than you were," he said dryly, and she smiled again. She smelled extremely 
pleased, for some reason. "I'm thinking about sending Grady or Neald to warn Rand, no matter what he said." She 
shook her head fiercely, smiles evaporating, but he pushed on. "If I knew how to find him, I would. There has to be 
some way to get word to him without anyone learning of it." Rand had insisted on that more than he had on secrecy 
about Masema. Perrin had been exiled from Rand's presence, and no one was to know anything remained between them 
except enmity. 
"He knows, Perrin. I'm sure of it. Maighdin saw pigeoncotes everywhere in Amador, and apparently the Seanchan 
didn't look at them twice. By this time, any merchant who has business with Amador has heard, and so has the White 
Tower. Believe me, Rand must have, too. You have to trust that he knows best. In this, he does." She was not always so 
certain of that. 
"Maybe," Perrin muttered irritably. He tried not to worry about Rand's sanity, but Rand made Perrin at his most 
suspicious look like a child skipping in a meadow. How much did Rand trust even him? Rand kept things back, had 
plans he never let on. 
Exhaling, Perrin settled back in the chair, gulped a swallow of tea. The truth of it was, mad or sane, Rand was right. If 
the Forsaken caught a suspicion of what he was up to, or the White Tower did, they would find some way to overturn 
the anvil on his feet. "At least I can give the Tower's eyes-and-ears less to talk about. This time, I'm burning that 
bloody banner." And the Wolf-head, too. He might have to play at being a lord, but he could do it without a bloody 
flag! 
Faile's full lips pursed judiciously, and she shook her head slightly. Slipping from her chair, she knelt beside him, took 
his wrist in her hands. Perrin met her level gaze warily. When she looked at him so intently, so seriously, she was about 
to tell him something important. That, or pull the wool over his eyes and spin him around till he did not know front 
from back. Her scent told him nothing. He tried to stop smelling her; it was all too easy to lose himself in that, and then 
she would pull the wool over his eyes. One thing he had learned since marrying: a man needed all of his wits dealing 



with a woman. Too often even that was not enough; women did what they wanted as surely as Aes Sedai. 
"You might want to reconsider, husband," she murmured. A tiny smile quirked her mouth as if she once again knew 
what he was thinking. "I doubt anyone who's seen us since we entered Ghealdan knew what the Red Eagle is. Around a 
town the size of Bethal, some will, though. And the longer we have to hunt for Masema, the greater the chance." 
He did not bother with saying that was all the more reason to get rid of the banner. Faile was no fool, and she thought 
much faster than he. "Then why keep it," he asked slowly, "when all it'll do is draw eyes to the idiot everybody will 
think is trying to pull Manetheren out of the grave?" Men had tried that in the past, and women, too; the name of 
Manetheren carried powerful memories, and it was convenient for anyone who wanted to start a rebellion. 
"Because it will draw eyes." She leaned toward him intently. "To a man trying to raise up Manetheren again. Lesser 
folk will smile to your face, hope you ride on soon, and try to forget you as soon as you do. As for the greater, they've 
too much in front of their faces right now to look twice unless you pinch their noses. Compared to the Seanchan, or the 
Prophet, or the Whitecloaks, a man trying to raise Manetheren is small turnips. And I think it's safe to say the Tower 
won't look twice either, not now." Her smile widened, and the light in her eyes said she was about to make her most 
telling point. "But most important, no one will think that man is doing anything else." Abruptly her smile vanished; she 
stuck a finger against his nose, hard. "And don't call yourself an idiot, Perrin t'Bashere Aybara. Not even sideways, like 
that. You aren't, and I do not like it." Her scent was tiny spikes, not true anger but definitely displeased. 
Quicksilver. A kingfisher flashing by faster than thought. Certainly faster than his thoughts. It would never have 
occurred to him to hide so ... flagrantly. But he could see the sense. It was like concealing the fact that you were a 
murderer by claiming to be a thief. Yet it might work. 
Chuckling, he kissed her fingertip. "The banner stays," he said. He supposed that meant the Wolfhead did, too. Blood 
and bloody ashes! "Alliandre has to know the truth, though. If she thinks Rand means to set me up as King of 
Manetheren and take her lands. . . ." 
Faile rose so suddenly, turning away, that he was afraid he had made a mistake bringing up the Queen. Alliandre could 
lead to Berelain all too easily, and Faile smelled . . . prickly. Wary. But what she said, over her shoulder, was 
"Alliandre won't be a bit of trouble for Perrin Goldeneyes. That bird's as good as netted, husband, so it's time to put our 
minds on how to find Masema." Kneeling gracefully beside a small chest against the tent wall, the only chest without 
draperies, she lifted the lid and began removing rolled maps. 
Perrin hoped she was right about Alliandre, because he did not know what to do if she was wrong. If only he were half 
what she thought him. Alliandre was a netted bird, the Seanchan would fall over like dolls for Perrin Goldeneyes, and 
he would snatch up the Prophet and take him to Rand if Masema had ten thousand men around him. Not for the first 
time he realized that however much her anger hurt and confused him, it was her disappointment he feared. If he ever 
saw that in her eyes, it would rip the heart out of his chest. 
He knelt beside her and helped her spread out the largest map, covering the south of Ghealdan and the north of 
Amadicia, and studied it as though Masema's name would leap off the parchment at him. He had more reason than 
Rand to want to succeed. Whatever else, he could not fail Faile. 
Faile lay in the darkness, listening until she was sure that Perrin's breath had the deep rhythm of sleep, then slipped out 
from the blankets they shared. Rueful amusement touched her as she pulled her linen nightdress up over her head. Did 
he really think she would not find out that he had hidden the bed deep in a copse one morning while the carts were 
being loaded? Not that she minded; not a great deal, at least. She was sure she had slept on the ground as often as he. 
She had pretended surprise, of course, and made light of it. Anything else, and he would have apologized, perhaps even 
gone back to fetch the bed. Managing a husband was an art, so her mother said. Had Deira ni Ghaline ever found it so 
difficult? 
Scuffing her bare feet into slippers, she shrugged into a silk robe, then hesitated, looking down at Perrin. He would be 
able to see her clearly, if he woke, but to her, he was just a shadowed mound. She wished her mother were there, now, 
to advise her. She loved Perrin with every fiber of her being, and he confused every fiber. Actually understanding men 
was impossible, of course, but he was so unlike anyone she had grown up with. He never swaggered, and instead of 
laughing at himself, he was . . . modest. She had not believed a man could be modest! He insisted that only chance had 
made him a leader, claimed he did not know how to lead, when men who met him were ready to follow after an hour. 
He dismissed his own thinking as slow, when those slow, considering thoughts saw so deeply that she had to dance a 
merry jig to keep any secrets at all. He was a wonderful man, her curly-haired wolf. So strong. And so gentle. Sighing, 
she tiptoed from the tent. His ears had caused her difficulties before. 
The camp lay quiet beneath a gibbous moon that gave as much light in a cloudless sky as it normally would have full, a 



brightness that washed out the stars. Some sort of night-bird cried shrilly, then fell silent at an owl's deep hoot. There 
was a small breeze, and for a wonder, it actually seemed a little cool. Probably her imagination. The nights were cool 
only in comparison to the days. 
Most of the men were asleep, dark humps among the shadows beneath the trees. A few remained awake, talking around 
the handful of fires still burning. She made no effort to hide, but none noticed her. Some appeared half asleep where 
they sat, heads nodding. If she had not known how well the men on sentry duty would be keeping watch, she might 
have thought the camp could be surprised by a herd of wild cattle. Of course, the Maidens would be on guard in the 
night, too. But it did not matter if they saw her, either. 
The high-wheeled carts made long, shadowed rows, the servants already snug and snoring beneath. Most of the 
servants. One fire still crackled there. Maighdin and her friends sat around it. Tallanvor was talking, gesturing fiercely, 
but only the other men seemed to be paying him any mind, though he appeared to be addressing himself to Maighdin. 
That they had had better garb in their bundles than those near rags was not surprising, but their former mistress must 
have had a very free hand to give out silk to her people, and Maighdin wore finely cut silk indeed, in a muted blue. 
None of the others was dressed so well, so perhaps Maighdin had been their lady's favorite. 
A twig snapped under Faile's foot, and heads whipped around, Tallanvor starting to his feet, half drawing his sword 
before he saw her gathering her robe in the moonlight. They were more alert than the Two Rivers men behind her. For 
an instant the lot of them just stared at her; then Maighdin rose gracefully and made a deep curtsy, and the others 
hastily followed her example with varying degrees of skill. Only Maighdin and Balwer appeared at all at ease. A 
nervous smile split Gill's round face. 
"Go on with what you were doing," Faile told them kindly. "But don't stay up too late; tomorrow will be full." She 
walked on, but when she glanced back, they were still standing, still peering after her. Their travels must have made 
them wary as rabbits, always watching for a fox. She wondered how well they would fit in. Over the next few weeks, 
she would be busy training them to her ways, learning theirs. One was as important as the other for a well-run 
household. The time would have to be found. They did not stay long in her thoughts tonight. Soon she was beyond the 
carts, not quite out to where Two Rivers men would be keeping sharp watch from up in the trees. Nothing larger than a 
mouse would get by them unseen— even some of the Maidens had been spotted upon occasion— but they were 
watching for anyone attempting to sneak in. Not for those who had a right to be there. In a small moonlit clearing, her 
people were waiting. 
Some of the men bowed, and Parelean nearly went to one knee before stopping himself. Several women instinctively 
made curtsies that looked quite peculiar in men's garb, then dropped their eyes or shifted in embarrassment at realizing 
what they had done. The manners of the court had been bred into them, though they tried very hard to adopt Aiel 
customs. What they believed were Aiel customs, at least. Sometimes they horrified the Maidens with what they 
believed. Perrin called them fools, and they were in some ways, but they had sworn fealty to her, these Cairhienin and 
Tairens— water oath, they named it, copying the Aiel, trying to— and that made them hers. Among themselves they 
had taken to calling their "society" Cha Faile, the Falcon's Talon, though they had seen the necessity of keeping that 
quiet. They were not fools in all ways. In fact, around the edges anyway, they were not too unlike the young men and 
women she had grown up with. 
Those she had sent off early that morning had just returned, for the women among them were still changing out of the 
dresses they had worn of necessity. Even one woman dressed as a man would have roused notice in Bethal, not to 
mention five. The clearing was a great flurry of skirts and shifts, coats and shirts and breeches. The women made 
believe they did not mind being unclothed in front of others, including men, since the Aiel apparently did not, but haste 
and labored breathing gave them the lie. The men were all shifting feet and turning heads, torn between looking away 
decently and watching, as they thought the Aiel did, while pretending they were not looking at half-dressed women. 
Faile held her robe close over her nightdress; she could not have dressed further without waking Perrin for sure, but she 
made no pretense at comfort. She was no Domani, to receive her retainers in her bath. 
"Forgive us for being late, my Lady Faile," Selande panted, tugging her coat on. The accents of Cairhien were sharp in 
the short woman's voice. Even for a Cairhienin, she was not tall. She managed a credible swagger, though, a suitable 
boldness in the tilt of her head and the set of her shoulders. "We would have returned sooner, but the gate guards made 
a bother letting us out." 
"A bother?" Faile said sharply. If only she could have seen with her own eyes, on top of theirs; if only Perrin had let 
her go instead of that trollop. No, she would not think about Berelain. It was not Perrin's fault. She repeated that to 
herself twenty times a day, like a prayer. But why was the man so blind? "What kind of bother?" She drew a chagrined 



breath. Troubles with your husband should never affect your tone with your vassals. 
"Nothing of note, my Lady." Selande buckled her sword belt and settled it on her hips. "They let some fellows ahead of 
us drive their wagons through without a second look, but they were worried about letting women go out into the night." 
Some of the other women laughed. The five men who had gone into Bethal stirred irritably, no doubt because they had 
not been thought enough protection. The rest of Cha Faile made a thick semicircle behind those ten, watching Faile 
closely, listening closely. Moonlight shadowed their faces. 
"Tell me what you saw," Faile commanded in a calmer tone. Much better. 
Selande made her report concisely, and for all Faile's wishes that she had gone herself, she had to admit they had seen 
almost as much as she could have wished. The streets of Bethal were nearly empty even at the busiest hours of the day. 
People stayed to their own homes as much as possible. A little commerce trickled in and out, but few merchants 
ventured into this part of Ghealdan, and barely enough food came in from the countryside to keep everyone fed. Most 
of the townspeople seemed stunned, afraid of what lay outside the walls, sinking deeper and deeper into apathy and 
despair. Everyone kept their mouths closed for fear of the Prophet's spies, and their eyes as well, for fear of being taken 
for spies. The Prophet had a deep effect. For instance, however many bandits roamed the hills, cutpurses and footpads 
had vanished from Bethal. It was said the Prophet's penalty for a thief was to cut off the man's hands. Though that did 
not seem to apply to his own people. 
"The Queen tours the city every day, showing herself to keep spirits up," Selande said, "but I do hot think it helps 
much. She is making a progress here in the south to remind people they have a Queen; maybe she has had more success 
elsewhere. The Watch has been added to the wall guards, and all but a handful of her soldiers, too. Perhaps it makes the 
townsfolk feel safer. Until she moves on. Unlike everyone else, Alliandre herself apparently feels no fear the Prophet 
will come storming over the walls. She walks alone in the gardens of Lord Telabin's palace, morning and evening, and 
keeps only a few soldiers, who spend most of their time in the kitchens. Everybody in the city seems as concerned with 
food, with how long there will be enough, as they are with the Prophet. In truth, my Lady, for all the guards on the 
walls, I think if Masema appeared at the gates alone, they might give him the town." 
"They would," Meralda put in contemptuously, buckling her own sword round her waist, "and beg for mercy." Dark 
and stocky, Meralda was as tall as Faile, but the Tairen woman ducked her head at a frown from Selande and 
murmured an apology. There were no doubts who led Cha Faile, after Faile herself. 
She had been pleased there was no need to change the precedence they had established. Selande was the brightest of 
them except perhaps for Parelean, and only Arella and Camaille were quicker. And Selande had something extra, a 
steadiness, as if she had already faced the worst fear in her life and nothing could ever be that bad again. Of course, she 
wanted a scar like those some of the Maidens had. Faile possessed several small scars, badges of honor most of them, 
but actually seeking one was idiocy. At least the woman was not too very eager in the matter. 
"We made a map, as you required, my Lady," the diminutive woman finished with a last, warning glance at Meralda. 
"We marked out Lord Telabin's palace on the back as much as we could, but I fear that is not much more than the 
gardens and stables." 
Faile did not try to make out the lines on the paper she unfolded in the moonlight. A pity she had not been able to go 
herself; she could have mapped the interior, too. No. Done was done, as Perrin liked to say. And it was enough. "You 
are certain no one searches wagons leaving the city?" Even in the pale light, she could see confusion on many of the 
faces in front of her. None knew why she had sent some of them into Bethal. 
Selande did not look confused. "Yes, my Lady," she said calmly. Quite bright, and more than quick enough. 
The wind gusted for a moment, rustling leaves on the trees, rustling dead leaves on the ground, and Faile wished she 
had Perrin's ears. His nose and eyes, too. It did not matter if anyone saw her here with her retainers, but eavesdroppers 
would be something else. "You've done very well, Selande. All of you have." Perrin knew the dangers here, as real as 
any farther south; he knew, but like most men, he thought with his heart as often as his head. A wife had to be practical, 
to keep her husband out of trouble. That had been her mother's very first piece of advice on married life. "At first light, 
you will return to Bethal, and if you receive word from me, this is what you will do. . . ." 
Even Selande's eyes widened in shock as she went on, but no one murmured the slightest protest. Faile would have 
been surprised if anyone had. Her instructions were to the point. There would be some danger, but under the 
circumstances, not nearly what might have been. 
"Are there any questions?" she said finally. "Does everyone understand?" 
With one voice, Cha Faile answered. "We live to serve our Lady Faile." And that meant they would serve her beloved 
wolf, whether he wanted them to or not. 



Maighdin shifted in her blankets on the hard ground, sleep eluding her. That was her name, now; a new name for a new 
life. Maighdin, for her mother, and Dorlain, for a family on an estate that had been hers. A new life for an old life gone, 
but ties of the heart could not be cut. And now. . . . Now. . . . 
A faint crackle of dead leaves brought her head up, and she watched a dim shape pass through the trees. The Lady 
Faile, returning to her tent from wherever she had gone. A pleasant young woman, kindhearted and well spoken. 
Whatever her husband's stock, she almost certainly was nobly born. But young. Inexperienced. That might be a help. 
Maighdin let her head fall back on the cloak she had wadded up for a pillow. Light, what was she doing here? Taking 
service as a lady's maid! No. She would hold on to her confidence in herself, at least. She could still find that. She 
could. If she dug deeply. Her breath caught at the sound of footsteps close by. 
Tallanvor knelt gracefully at her side. He was shirtless, moonlight gleaming on the smooth muscles of his chest and 
shoulders, his face in shadows. A slight breeze ruffled his hair. "What madness is this?" he asked softly. "Entering 
service? What are you up to? And don't tell me that nonsense about making a new life; I don't believe it. No one does." 
She tried to turn away, but he laid a hand on her shoulder. He exerted no pressure, yet it stopped her as surely as a 
halter. Light, please let her not tremble. The Light did not listen, but at least she managed to keep her voice steady. "If 
you haven't noticed, I must make my way in the world, now. Better as a lady's maid than a tavern maid. You may feel 
free to go on alone if service here doesn't suit." 
"You didn't abdicate your wits or your pride when you gave up the throne," he muttered. Burn Lini for revealing that! 
"If you mean to pretend that you did, I suggest you avoid letting Lini get you alone." The man chuckled at her! He 
chuckled, oh, so richly! "She wants a word with Maighdin, and I suspect she won't be as gentle with Maighdin as she 
was with Morgase." 
Angrily she sat up, brushing his hand away. "Are you blind, and deaf as well? The Dragon Reborn has plans for 
Elayne! Light, I wouldn't like it if he simply knew her name! It must be more than chance that brought me to one of his 
henchmen, Tallanvor. It has to be!" 
"Burn me, I knew it must be that. I hoped I was wrong, but. . . ." He sounded as angry as she. He had no right to be 
angry! "Elayne is safe in the White Tower, the Amyrlin Seat won't let her anywhere near a man who can channel, even 
if he is the Dragon Reborn— especially if he is!— and Maighdin Dorlain can do nothing about the Amyrlin Seat, the 
Dragon Reborn, or the Lion Throne. All she can do is get her neck snapped, or her throat cut, or—!" 
"Maighdin Dorlain can watch!" she broke in, at least partly to stop that awful litany. "She can listen! She can . . . !" 
Irritably, she trailed off. What could she do? Suddenly she realized she was sitting there in a thin shift and hurriedly 
folded her blankets around her. The night actually seemed a little cool. Or maybe the goose bumps on her skin were 
from Tallanvor's unseen eyes on her. The thought roused a flush in her cheeks she hoped he could not see. Luckily, it 
put a heat in her voice, too. She was not a girl, to go blushing because a man looked at her! "I will do what I can, 
whatever that is. The chance will come to learn something or do something that will help Elayne, and I will take it!" 
"A dangerous decision," he told her calmly. She wished she could make out his face in the darkness. Only to read his 
expression, of course. "You heard him threaten to hang anyone who looked at him the wrong way. I can believe it, in a 
man with those eyes. Like a beast. I was surprised he let that fellow go; I thought he'd rip his throat out! If he discovers 
who you are, who you used to be. ... Balwer might betray you. He never really explained why he helped us escape 
Amador. Maybe he thought Queen Morgase would give him a new position. Now he knows there's no chance of that, 
and he might want to curry favor with his new master and mistress." 
"Are you afraid of Lord Perrin Goldeneyes?" she demanded contemptuously. Light, the man frightened her! Those eyes 
belonged on a wolf. "Balwer knows enough to hold his tongue. Anything he says will reflect on him; he came with me, 
after all. If you're afraid, then ride on!" 
"You always fling that in my face," he sighed, settling back on his heels. She could not see his eyes, but she could feel 
them. "Ride on if you wish, you say. Once, there was a soldier loved a queen from afar, knowing it was hopeless, 
knowing he could never dare speak. Now the queen is gone, and only a woman remains, and I hope. I burn with hope! 
If you want me to leave, Maighdin, say it. One word. 'Go!' A simple word." 
She opened her mouth. A simple word, she thought. Light, it's only one word! Why can't I say it! Light, please! For the 
second time that night, the Light failed to hear. She sat there huddled in her blankets like a fool, her mouth open, her 
face growing hotter and hotter. 
If he had chuckled again, she would have put her belt knife in him. If he had laughed, or given any sign of triumph. . . . 
Instead, he leaned forward and gently kissed her eyes. She made a sound deep in her throat; she could not seem to 
move. Wide-eyed, she watched him stand. He loomed in the moonlight. She was a queen—she had been a queen—used 



to command, used to hard decisions in hard times, but right then the pounding of her heart drummed thought from her 
head. 
"Had you said 'go,'" he told her, "I'd have buried hope, but I could never leave you." 
Not until he was back in his own blankets could she make herself lie down and draw hers around her. She breathed as if 
she had been running. The night was cool; she was shivering, not trembling. Tallanvor was too young. Too young! 
Worse, he was right. Burn him for that! A lady's maid could do nothing to affect events, and if the Dragon Reborn's 
wolf-eyed killer learned that he had Morgase of Andor in his hands, she could be used against Elayne instead of 
helping her. He had no right to be right when she wanted him to be wrong! The illogic of that thought infuriated her. 
There was a chance she might do some good! There had to be! 
In the back of her head, a small voice laughed. You can't forget that you're Morgase Trakand, it told her scornfully, and 
even after she's abdicated her throne, Queen Morgase can't stop trying her hand in the affairs of the mighty, no matter 
how much ruin she's made of it so far. And she can't tell a man to go away, either, because she can't stop thinking how 
strong his hands are, and how his lips curve when he smiles, and— 
Furious, she pulled the blanket over her head, trying to shut out the voice. She was not staying because she could not 
walk away from power. As for Tallanvor. . . . She would set him firmly in his place. This time she would! But. . . . 
What was his place, with a woman who was no longer a queen? She tried to put him out of her mind and tried to ignore 
that mocking voice that would not be quiet, yet when sleep finally came, she could still feel the pressure of his lips on 
her eyelids. 

Chapter 9 Tangles 

Perrin woke before first light as usual, and as usual, Faile was already up and about. She could make a mouse seem 
noisy when she wanted to, and he suspected that if he woke an hour after lying down, she would still manage to be up 
first. The doorflaps were tied back, the side panels raised a little at the bottom, and a stir of air rose through the 
venthole in the peak, enough to create an illusion of coolness. Perrin actually shivered while searching for his shirt and 
breeches. Well, it was supposed to be winter, even if the weather did not know it. 
He dressed in the dark and scrubbed his teeth with salt, needing no lamps, and when he left the tent, stamping his feet 
into his boots, Faile had her new servants gathered around her in the deep grayness of early morning, some holding 
lighted lanterns. A lord's daughter needed servants; he should have arranged for it before this. There were Two Rivers 
folk in Caemlyn that Faile had trained herself, but with the need for secrecy there had been no way to fetch them along. 
Master Gill would want to go home as soon as possible, and Lamgwin and Breane with him, but maybe Maighdin and 
Lini would stay. 
Aram straightened from where he had been sitting cross-legged beside the tent, and waited silently on Perrin. If Perrin 
had not stopped him, Aram would have slept across the entrance. This morning his coat was striped red-and-white, 
though the white was a trifle dingy, and even here that wolfhead-pommeled sword hilt rose over his shoulder. Perrin 
had left his axe in the tent, and grateful to be rid of it. Tallanvor still wore his sword belted over his coat, but not 
Master Gill or the other two. 
Faile must have been watching, because no sooner did Perrin come out than she gestured toward the tent, clearly 
issuing orders. Maighdin and Breane came bustling past him and Aram with lanterns, their jaws set, smelling of 
determination for some reason. Neither curtsied, a pleasant surprise. Lini did, a quick bend of the knee before she 
darted after the other two muttering about "knowing their place." Perrin suspected Lini was one of those women who 
saw her "place" as being in charge. Come to think of it, most women did. That was the way of the world, it seemed, not 
just the Two Rivers. 
Tallanvor and Lamgwin followed close behind the women, and Lamgwin was as serious about bowing as Tallanvor, 
who was almost grim. Perrin sighed and bowed back, and they both gave a start, gaping at him. A curt shout from Lini 
jerked them into the tent. 
With only a quickly flashed smile for him, Faile strode off toward the carts, talking alternately to Basel Gill on one side 
of her and Sebban Balwer on the other. The men each held a lantern out to light her way. Of course, a double handful 
of those idiots kept pace where they could hear if she raised her voice, strutting and stroking sword hilts and staring 
about in the dimness as though they expected an attack or hoped for one. Perrin tugged at his short beard. She always 
found plenty of work to fill her hours, and nobody took it out of her hands. Nobody would dare. 
Not so much as the first fingers of dawn showed on the horizon yet, but the Cairhienin were beginning to stir around 



the carts, and moving more quickly the closer Faile came. By the time she reached them, they appeared to be trotting, 
their lanterns bobbing and swinging in the dimness. The Two Rivers men, used to farmers' days, were already making 
breakfast, some laughing and roughhousing around their cook fires, some grumping, but most getting the work done. A 
few tried to stay in their blankets and were unceremoniously tumbled out. Grady and Neald were up, too, as always off 
by themselves, shadows in black coats among the trees. Perrin could not recall seeing them without those coats, always 
buttoned to the neck, always clean and un-wrinkled come sunrise, whatever they had looked like the night before. 
Stepping through the forms in unison, the pair were practicing the sword as they did every morning. That was better 
than their evening practice, when they would sit cross-legged, hands on knees, staring at some distant nothing. They 
never did anything then that anyone could see, yet not a man in the camp but knew what they were about and kept as 
far off as possible. Not even the Maidens would step into their line of sight then. 
Something was missing, Perrin realized with a start. Faile always had one of the men meet him first thing with a bowl 
of the thick porridge they breakfasted on, but it seemed she had been too busy this morning. Brightening, he hurried 
toward the cook fires, hoping at least to be able to dip up his own porridge for once. A small hope. 
Flann Barstere, a lanky fellow with a dent in his chin, met him halfway and shoved a carved bowl into his hands. Flann 
was from up toward Watch Hill, and Perrin did not know him well, but they had been hunting together a time or two, 
and once Perrin had helped him dig one of his father's cows out of a bog-hole in the Waterwood. "The Lady Faile told 
me to bring this to you, Perrin," Flann said anxiously. "You won't tell her I forgot, will you? You won't tell? I found 
some honey, and I put in a good dollop." Perrin tried not to sigh. At least Flann had remembered his name. 
Well, maybe he could not get away with doing the simplest chores for himself, but he was still responsible for the men 
eating beneath the trees. Without him, they would be with their families, getting ready for the day's chores around the 
farm, milking cows and cutting firewood instead of wondering whether they might have to kill or be killed before 
sunset. Gulping down the honeyed porridge quickly, he told Aram to take his ease over breakfast, but the man looked 
so miserable that he relented, so Aram followed as he made his way around the camp. The journey was not one Perrin 
enjoyed. 
Men put down their bowls when he approached, or even stood until he passed. He gritted his teeth whenever somebody 
he had grown up with, or worse, a man who had sent him on errands as a boy, called him Lord Perrin. Not everyone 
did, but too many. Far too many. After a time, he gave up telling them to stop out of sheer weariness; all too often the 
reply was "Oh! Whatever you say, Lord Perrin." It was enough to make a man howl! 
Despite that, he made himself pause to speak a word or two to every man. Mainly, though, he kept his eyes open. And 
his nose. They all knew enough to keep their bows in good repair and tend the fletching and points on their arrows, but 
some would wear the soles out of their boots or the bottom out of their breeches without noticing, or let blisters fester 
because they could not be bothered to do anything about them just yet. Several had the habit of picking up brandy when 
they could, and two or three of those had no head for it at all. There had been a small village the day before reaching 
Bethal that held no fewer than three inns. It was very strange. Having Mistress Luhhan or his mother tell him he needed 
new boots or his breeches mended had always been embarrassing, and he was sure he would have been irritated at the 
same from anybody else, but from grizzled old Jondyn Barran on down, the Two Rivers men just said "Why, right you 
are, Lord Perrin; I'll see to it straight away" or some such. He caught a number of them grinning at one another when he 
moved on. And they smelled pleased! When he rooted a clay jar of pear brandy out of Jori Congar's saddlebags— a 
skinny fellow who ate twice as much as anyone else and always looked as if he had not had a bite in a week, Jori was a 
good shot with a bow, but given a chance he would drink until he could not stand, and he had light fingers 
besides—-Jori gave him a wide-eyed look and spread his hands as if he did not know where the jar had come from. But 
as Perrin walked on, emptying the brandy onto the ground, Jori laughed, "You can't put anything over on Lord Perrin!" 
He sounded proud! Sometimes, Perrin thought he was the only sane person left. Another thing, he noticed. One and all, 
they were very interested in what he did not say. Man after man cast an eye toward the two banners that occasionally 
flapped atop their poles in a brief gust, Red Wolfhead and Red Eagle. They eyed the banners and watched him, waiting 
for the order he had given every time the things had come out since reaching Ghealdan. And often enough before that. 
Except that he had said nothing yesterday, and he said nothing today, and he saw speculation blooming on men's faces. 
He left behind clusters of men peering at the banners and at him, murmuring excitedly among themselves. He did not 
try to listen. What would they say if he was wrong, if the White-cloaks or King Ailron decided they could look away 
from the Prophet and the Seanchan long enough to snuff out a supposed rebellion? They were his responsibility, and he 
had already gotten too many of them killed. 
The sun was more than peeking above the horizon, spreading a sharp morning light, by the time he finished, and over at 



the tent, Tallanvor and Lamgwin were lugging out chests under Lini's direction, while Maighdin and Breane appeared 
to be sorting the contents out on a broad patch of dead grass, blankets and linens mainly, and long bright swaths of silk 
satin that had been intended to drape the bed he had misplaced. Faile must have been inside, because that gaggle of 
idiots were cooling their heels not far off. No carrying and hauling for them. Useful as rats in the barn. 
Perrin thought about taking a look at Stayer and Stepper, but when he glanced through the trees at the horselines, he 
was seen. No fewer than three of the farriers stepped out anxiously, watching him. They were blocky men in leather 
aprons, alike as eggs in a basket, though Falton had only a fringe of white around his head, Aemin was graying, and 
Jerasid had not yet come into his middle years. Perrin growled at the sight of them. They would hover if he laid a hand 
on either horse, and goggle if he lifted a hoof. The one time he had tried to change a worn shoe, on Stayer, all six 
farriers had darted about grabbing up tools before he could touch them, nearly knocking the bay over in their rush to do 
the work themselves. 
"They're afraid you don't trust them," Aram said suddenly. Perrin looked at him in surprise, and Aram shifted his 
shoulders in his coat. "I've talked to them, some. They think if a lord tends his own horses, it must be because he 
doesn't trust them. You might send them off, with no way to get home." His tone said they were fools to think that, but 
he gave Perrin a sideways glance and shrugged again, uncomfortably. "I think they're embarrassed, too. If you don't 
behave the way they think a lord should, it reflects on them, as they see it." 
"Light!" Perrin muttered. Faile had said the same— about them being embarrassed, anyway— but he had believed it 
just a lord's daughter talking. Faile had grown up surrounded by servants, yet how could a lady know the thoughts of a 
man who had to work for his bread? He frowned toward the horselines. Five of the farriers stood together watching 
him, now. Embarrassed that he wanted to look after his own horses, and upset that he did not want them pulling wool 
and scratching gravel all over the place. "Do you think I ought to act like a fool in silk smallclothes?" he asked. Aram 
blinked, and began studying his boots. "Light!" Perrin growled. 
Spotting Basel Gill hurrying from the direction of the carts, Perrin moved to meet him. He did not think he had done 
very well at making Gill feel at ease yesterday. The stout man was talking to himself and once more mopping his head 
with a kerchief, sweating away in a rumpled dark gray coat. The day's heat was beginning to take hold already. He did 
not see Perrin until Perrin was nearly on him, and then he gave a jump, stuffing the kerchief into a coat pocket and 
making a bow. He looked curried and brushed fit for a feastday. 
"Ah. My Lord Perrin. Your Lady told me to take a cart into Bethal. She says I'm to find you some Two Rivers tabac, if 
I can, but I don't know that's possible. Two Rivers leaf has always been dear, and trade isn't what it was." 
"She's sending you for tabac?" Perrin said, frowning. He supposed secrecy had gone down the well, but still. "I bought 
three casks, two villages back. Enough for everybody." 
Gill shook his head firmly. "Not Two Rivers leaf, and your Lady says you like that above any other. The Ghealdanin 
leaf will do for your men. I'm to be your shambayan, she called it, and keep you and her supplied with what you need. 
Not much different from what I did running the Blessing, really." The similarity seemed to amuse him; his belly shook 
with quiet chuckles. "I have quite a list, though I can't say how much of it I'll find. Good wine, herbs, fruit, candles and 
lamp oil, oilcloth and wax, paper and ink, needles, pins, oh, all sorts of things. Tallanvor and Lamgwin and I are going, 
with some of your Lady's other retainers." His Lady's other retainers. Tallanvor and Lamgwin were bringing out yet 
another chest for the women to sort through. They had to pass by the squatting clump of young fools, who never 
offered to lend a hand. In fact, the layabouts ignored them completely. 
"You keep an eye on that lot," Perrin cautioned. "If one of them starts any trouble— if he even looks as if he will— you 
have Lamgwin crack his head." And if it was one of the women? They were just as likely, maybe more so. Perrin 
grunted. Faile's "retainers" were going to tie his belly into permanent knots yet. Too bad she could not be satisfied with 
the likes of Master Gill and Maighdin. "You didn't mention Balwer. Has he decided to go on alone?" Just then, a shift 
in the breeze brought him Balwer's scent, an alert smell very much at odds with the fellow's almost desiccated exterior. 
Even for so reedy a man, Balwer made surprisingly little noise on the dried leaves underfoot. In a sparrow-brown coat, 
he offered a quick bow, and his tilted head added to the image of a bird. "I am staying, my Lord," he said cautiously. Or 
maybe that was just his manner. "As your gracious Lady's secretary. And yours, if it pleases you." He stepped closer, 
very nearly a hop. "I am well versed, my Lord. I possess a good memory and write a good hand, and my Lord can be 
assured that whatever he confides in me will never pass my lips to another. The ability to keep secrets is a primary skill 
of a secretary. Don't you have pressing duties for our new mistress, Master Gill?" 
Gill frowned at Balwer, opened his mouth, then closed it with a snap. Spinning on his heel, he trotted away toward the 
tent. 



For a moment Balwer watched him go, head to one side, lips pursed thoughtfully. "I can offer other services, as well, 
my Lord," he said finally. "Knowledge. I overheard some of my Lord's men speaking, and I understand that my Lord 
may have had some . . . difficulties . . . with the Children of the Light. A secretary learns many things. I know a 
surprising amount about the Children." 
"With any luck I can avoid Whitecloaks," Perrin told him. "Better if you knew where the Prophet is. Or the Seanchan." 
He did not expect any of that, of course, but Balwer surprised him. 
"I cannot be certain, of course, but I think the Seanchan have not spread far beyond Amador as yet. Fact is difficult to 
sift from rumor, my Lord, but I keep my ears open. Of course, they do seem to move with unexpected suddenness. A 
dangerous people, with large numbers of Taraboner soldiers. I believe from Master Gill that my Lord knows of them, 
but I observed them closely in Amador, and what I saw is at my Lord's disposal. As to the Prophet, there are as many 
rumors concerning him as the Seanchan, but I believe I can say reliably that he was recently at Abila, a largish town 
some forty leagues south of here." Balwer smiled thinly, a brief self-satisfied smile. 
"How can you be so sure?" Perrin said slowly. "As I said, my Lord, I keep my ears open. The Prophet reportedly closed 
a number of inns and taverns, and tore down those he considered too disreputable. Several were mentioned, and by 
chance, I happen to know there are inns of those names in Abila. I think there is little chance another town would have 
inns with the same names." He flashed another narrow smile. He certainly smelled pleased with himself. 
Perrin scratched his beard thoughtfully. The man just happened to remember where some inns that Masema supposedly 
had torn down were located. And if Masema turned out not to be there after all, well, these days rumors sprouted like 
mushrooms after rain. Balwer sounded a man trying to build up his own importance. "Thank you, Master Balwer. I'll 
keep that to mind. If you hear any more, be sure to tell me." As he turned to go, the man caught his sleeve. 
Balwer's skinny fingers leaped away immediately, as though burned, and he made one of those birdlike bows, 
dry-washing his hands. "Forgive me, my Lord. I hesitate to press, but do not take the Whitecloaks too lightly. Avoiding 
them is wise, but it may not be possible. They are much closer than the Seanchan. Eamon Valda, the new Lord Captain 
Commander, led most of their numbers toward northern Amadicia before Amador fell. He was hunting the Prophet, 
also, my Lord. Valda is a dangerous man, and Rhadam Asunawa, the Grand Inquisitor, makes Valda seem pleasant. 
And I fear neither has any love for your own Lord. Forgive me." He bowed again, hesitated, then went on smoothly. "If 
I may say so, my Lord's display of Manetheren's banner is inspired. My Lord will be more than a match for Valda and 
Asunawa, if he takes care." Watching him bow himself away, Perrin thought he knew part of Balwer's story now. 
Clearly, he also had run afoul of the Whitecloaks. That could take no more than being on the same street with them, a 
frown at the wrong time, but it seemed Balwer had a grudge. A sharp mind, too, seeing right away about the Red Eagle. 
And a sharp tongue with Master Gill. 
Gill was on his knees beside Maighdin, talking rapidly despite Lini's effort to hush him. Maighdin had turned to stare 
after Balwer as the fellow hurried through the trees toward the carts, but now and then her gaze swung to Perrin. The 
rest of them clustered close to her, peering now at Balwer, now at Perrin. If he had ever seen a group of people worried 
about what somebody else had said, it was they. But what were they worried he might have heard? Backbiting, 
probably. Tales of resentments and misdeeds, real or imagined. People cooped up together tended to start pecking at 
one another. If that was it, maybe he could put a stop before somebody drew blood. Tallanvor was fondling his sword 
hilt again! What did Faile intend to do with the fellow? 
"Aram, I want you to go talk to Tallanvor and that lot. Tell them what Balwer said to me. Just slide it into the talk, but 
tell everything." That should soothe fears of tale-bearing. Faile said servants needed to be made to feel at home. "Make 
friends with them if you can, Aram. But if you decide to moon over one of the women, be sure it's Lini. The other two 
are taken." 
The man had a smooth tongue for any pretty woman, but he managed to look surprised and offended, both. "As you 
wish, Lord Perrin," he muttered sulkily. "I'll catch you up quickly." 
"I will be over with the Aiel." 
Aram blinked. "Ah. Yes. Well, it might take a while, at that, if I'm to make friends with them. They don't look like they 
much want friends, to me." This from a fellow who stared suspiciously at anyone except Faile who came near Perrin 
and never smiled for anyone not wearing a skirt. 
Nevertheless, he went over and squatted on his heels where he could speak to Gill and the others. Even from a distance 
their standoffishness was plain. They continued with their work, only now and then saying a word to Aram, and they 
looked at each other as often as at him. Skittish as green quail in summer, when the foxes were teaching the cubs to 
hunt. But at least they were talking. 



Perrin wondered what mischief Aram had gotten up to with the Aiel— there did not seem to have been any time for 
it!— but he did not wonder long. Any serious trouble with Aiel usually meant someone dead, and not the Aiel. In truth, 
he was not so eager to meet the Wise Ones himself. He walked around the curve of the hill, but instead of climbing the 
slope, his feet carried him all the way to the Mayeners. He had stayed away from their camp as much as possible, too, 
and not simply because of Berelain. There were disadvantages to having too keen a nose. 
Fortunately, a freshening breeze was carrying most of the stink away, though it did little for the heat. Sweat rolled 
down the faces of the mounted sentries in their red armor. At the sight of him, they sat up even more rigidly in their 
saddles, which was saying something. Where the Two Rivers men rode like fellows heading out to the fields, the 
Mayeners usually were statues on horseback. They could fight, though. The Light send there was no need. 
Havien Nurelle came running, buttoning up his coat, before Perrin was well past the sentries. The dozen or so other 
officers followed at Nurelle's heels, all coated and some fastening the straps of their red breastplates. Two or three 
carried helmets with thin red plumes tucked under their arms. Most were years older than Nurelle, some twice his age, 
graying men with hard, scarred faces, but Nurelle's reward for helping to rescue Rand had been to be named Gallenne's 
second, his First Lieutenant, they called it. 
"The First hasn't returned, yet, Lord Perrin," Nurelle said, making a bow mirrored by the others. A tall slender man, he 
did not look as young as he had before Dumai's Wells. There was an edge to his eyes, which had seen more blood than 
most veterans of twenty battles. But if his face was harder, there was still an eagerness to please in his scent. To Havien 
Nurelle, Perrin Aybara was a man who could fly or walk on water as he chose. "The morning patrols saw nothing, 
those that are back. I would have reported, otherwise." 
"Of course," Perrin told him. "I ... just wanted to look about a bit." He simply meant to walk around until he could work 
up his nerve to face the Wise Ones, but the young Mayener followed him with the rest of the officers, anxiously 
watching for Lord Perrin to find some flaw in the Winged Guards, wincing whenever they came on bare-chested men 
tossing dice on a blanket or some fellow snoring away with the sun on the climb. He need not have bothered; to Perrin, 
the camp looked laid out with a plumb line and level. Each man had his blankets, and his saddle for a pillow, not more 
than two paces from where his horse was tied to one of the long ropes drooping between chest-high poles set upright in 
the ground. A cook fire stood every twenty paces, with lances stacked in steel-tipped cones between. The whole made a 
sort of box around five peaked tents, one striped gold-and-blue and larger than the other four combined. All very 
different from the Two Rivers men's every-which-way arrangement. 
Perrin walked along briskly, trying not to look too much a fool. He was not sure how much success he was having. He 
itched to stop and look over a horse or two—just to be able to pick up a hoof without somebody practically 
fainting—but mindful of what Aram had said, he kept his hands to himself. Everyone seemed as startled as Nurelle at 
his pace. Tough-eyed bannermen chivvied men to their feet only to have Perrin stride by with a nod before they were 
all upright. A puzzled murmur trailed in the air behind him, and his ears caught a few comments about officers, lords in 
particular, that he was just as glad Nurelle and the others missed. Finally, he found himself on the verge of the camp, 
staring up the brushy slope toward the Wise Ones' tents. Only a few of the Maidens were visible among the scattered 
trees up there, and some of the gai'shain. 
"Lord Perrin," Nurelle said hesitantly. "The Aes Sedai. . . ." He stepped closer and lowered his voice to a hoarse 
whisper. "I know they swore to the Lord Dragon, and. . . . I've seen things, Lord Perrin. They do camp chores! Aes 
Sedai! This morning, Masuri and Seonid came down to fetch water! And yesterday, after you returned. . . . Yesterday, I 
thought I heard someone up there . . . crying out. It couldn't have been one of the sisters, of course," he added hurriedly, 
and laughed to show how ridiculous the idea was, a very shaky laugh. "You. . . . You will see that everything is ... all 
right . . . with them?" He had ridden into forty thousand Shaido leading two hundred lancers, but talking about this had 
him hunching his shoulders and shifting his feet. Of course, he had ridden into forty thousand Shaido because an Aes 
Sedai wanted him to. 
"I'll do what I can," Perrin muttered. Maybe matters were worse than he had thought. Now he had to stop them getting 
worse still. If he could. He would rather have faced the Shaido again. 
Nurelle nodded as though Perrin had promised all he asked and more. "That is well, then," he said, sounding relieved. 
Casting sideways glances at Perrin, he worked himself up to say something else, but apparently this was not so touchy 
as the Aes Sedai. "I heard that you let the Red Eagle stay." 
Perrin very nearly jumped. Even for just around the hill, news had traveled fast. "It seemed the thing to do," he said 
slowly. Berelain would have to know the truth, yet if too many knew, that truth would spread from the next village they 
passed, the next farm. "This used to be part of Manetheren," he added, as if Nurelle did not know that perfectly well. 



Truth! He had gotten so he could bend truth like an Aes Sedai, and to men on his side. "Not the first time that flag's 
been raised around here, I'll warrant, but none of those fellows had the Dragon Reborn behind him." And if that did not 
set the necessary seeds, he did not know how to plow a furrow. 
Abruptly he realized that what seemed every last one of the Winged Guards was watching him with their officers. No 
doubt wondering what he was saying, after all but running through that way. Even the lean balding old soldier Gallenne 
called his dogrobber had come out to stare, and Berelain's maids, a pair of plump plain-faced women garbed to match 
their mistress's tent. Perrin had hardly seen a thing, but he knew he had to give some sort of praise. 
Raising his voice enough to carry, he said, "The Winged Guards will do Mayene proud if we ever face another Dumai's 
Wells." Those were the first words that came to mind, but he winced at saying them. 
To his shock, shouting rose straight away among the soldiers, cheering, "Perrin Goldeneyes!" and "Mayene for 
Goldeneyes!" and "Goldeneyes and Manetheren!" Men danced and capered, and some snatched lances from the stacks 
to shake them so the red streamers waved in the breeze. Grizzled bannermen watched them with arms folded, nodding 
approval. Nurelle beamed, and not only him. Officers with gray in their hair and scars on their faces grinned like boys 
praised at their lessons. Light, he was the only sane man left! Vie prayed never to see another battle! 
Wondering whether this was going to cause trouble with Berelain, he made his goodbyes with Nurelle and the others 
and tramped up the slope through dead or dying brush, none of it waist-high. Brown weeds crackled beneath his boots. 
Shouting still filled the Mayener camp. Even after she learned the truth, the First might not be pleased to have her 
soldiers cheering him this way. Of course, that could have good points. Maybe she would be angry enough to stop 
pestering him. 
Short of the crest, he paused, listening to the cheers finally fade away. No one was going to cheer him here. All of the 
side flaps were down on the Wise Ones' low gray-brown tents, closing them in. Only a few of the Maidens were in 
sight, now. Squatting easily on their heels beneath a leatherleaf that still showed some green, they eyed him curiously. 
Their hands moved quickly in that way they had of talking among themselves with signs. After a moment Sulin rose, 
shifting her heavy belt knife, and strode in his direction, a tall, wiry woman with a pink scar across her sun-dark cheek. 
She glanced back down the way he had come and seemed relieved that he was alone, though it was often hard to tell 
with Aiel. 
"This is good, Perrin Aybara," she said quietly. "The Wise Ones have not been pleased that you make them come to 
you. Only a fool displeases Wise Ones, and I have not taken you for a fool." 
Perrin scrubbed at his beard. He had been keeping clear of the Wise Ones—and the Aes Sedai—as much as possible, 
but he had had no intention of forcing them to come to him. He just found their company uncomfortable. To put it 
mildly. "Well, I need to see Edarra now," he told her. "About the Aes Sedai." 
"Perhaps I was mistaken after all," Sulin said dryly. "But I will tell her." Turning, she paused. "Tell me something. 
Teryl Wynter and Furen Alharra are close to Seonid Traighan— like first-brothers with a first-sister; she does not like 
men as men— yet they offered to take her punishment for her. How could they shame her so?" 
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. A pair of gai'shain appeared from the reverse slope, each leading two of 
the Aiel's pack mules; the white-robed men passed within a few paces, heading down toward the stream. He could not 
be sure, but he thought both were Shaido. The pair kept their eyes meekly down, barely looking up enough to see 
where they were going. They had had every opportunity to run away, doing chores like that without anyone to watch. A 
peculiar people. 
"I see you are shocked, too," Sulin said. "I had hoped you could explain. I will tell Edarra." As she started for the tents, 
she added over her shoulder, "You wetlanders are very strange, Perrin Aybara." 
Perrin frowned after her, and when she vanished into one of the tents, he turned to frown at the two gai'shain leading 
the horses to water. Wetlanders were strange? Light! So Nurelle had been right in what he heard. It was beyond time to 
stick his nose into what was going on between the Wise Ones and the Aes Sedai. He should have before this. He 
wished he did not think it would be the same as sticking his nose into a hornets' nest. 
It seemed to take a long time for Sulin to reappear, and she did little to help his mood when she did. Holding the 
tentflap for him, she flicked his belt knife contemptuously with a finger as he ducked through. "You should be better 
armed for this dance, Perrin Aybara," she said. 
Inside, he was surprised to find all six Wise Ones sitting cross-legged on colorful tasseled cushions, their shawls tied 
around their waists and their skirts making carefully arranged fans across the layered rugs. He had hoped for just 
Edarra. None looked to be more than four or five years older than he, some no older at all, yet somehow they always 
made him feel as if he were facing the oldest members of the Women's Circle, the ones who had spent years learning to 



sniff out whatever you wanted to hide. Separating one woman's scent from another's was all but impossible, but he 
hardly needed to. Six sets of eyes latched on to him, from Janina's pale sky blue to Marline's purple twilight, not to 
mention Nevarin's sharp green. Every eye could have been a skewer. 
Edarra brusquely motioned him to take a cushion himself, which he did with gratitude, though it put him facing them 
all in a semicircle. Maybe Wise Ones had designed these tents, to make men bend their necks if they wanted to stand 
upright. Strangely, it was cooler in the dim interior, but he still felt like sweating. Maybe he could not pick one from 
another, yet these women smelled like wolves studying a tethered goat. A square-faced gai'shain who was half again as 
big as he was knelt to offer a golden cup of dark wine-punch on an elaborate silver tray. The Wise Ones already held 
mismatched silver cups and goblets. Unsure what it meant that he was being offered gold— maybe nothing, yet who 
could say, with Aiel?— Perrin took it cautiously. It gave off the scent of plums. The fellow bowed meekly enough 
when Edarra clapped her hands, and bent himself out of the tent backward, but the half-healed slash down his hard face 
had to date from Dumai's Wells. 
"Now that you are here," Edarra said as soon as the tentflap dropped behind the gai'shain, "we will explain again why 
you must kill the man called Masema Dagar." 
"We should not have to explain again," Delora put in. Her hair and eyes were nearly the same shade as Maighdin's, but 
no one would call her pinched face pretty. Her manner was pure ice. "This Masema Dagar is a danger to the Car'a'carn. 
He must die." "The dreamwalkers have told us, Perrin Aybara." Carelle certainly was pretty, and though her fiery hair 
and piercing eyes made her look as though she had a temper, she was always mild. For a Wise One. And certainly not 
soft. "They have read the dream. The man must die." 
Perrin took a swallow of plum punch to gain a moment. Somehow, the punch was cool. It was always the same with 
them. Rand had not mentioned any warning from the dreamwalkers. The first time, Perrin had mentioned that. Only the 
once; they had thought he was casting doubt on their word, and even Carelle had gone hot-eyed. Not that Perrin 
thought they would lie. Not exactly. He had not caught them in one, anyway. But what they wanted for the future and 
what Rand wanted— what he himself wanted, for that matter— might be very different things. Maybe it was Rand who 
was keeping secrets. "If you could just give me some idea what this danger is," he said, finally. "The Light knows, 
Masema's a madman, but he supports Rand. A fine thing, if I go around killing people on our side. That will certainly 
convince people to join Rand." 
Sarcasm was lost on them. They looked at him, unblinking. "The man must die," Edarra said at last. "It is enough that 
three dreamwalkers have said so, and six Wise Ones tell you." The same as always. Maybe they did not know any more 
than that. And maybe he should get on with why he had come. 
"I want to talk about Seonid and Masuri," he said, and six faces turned to frost. Light, these women could stare down a 
stone! Setting the wine cup beside him, he leaned toward them stubbornly. "I'm supposed to show people Aes Sedai 
sworn to Rand." He was supposed to show Masema, actually, but this did seem a good time to mention that. "They 
aren't going to be very cooperative if you lot beat them! Light! They're Aes Sedai! Instead of making them haul water, 
why don't you learn from them? They must know all sorts of things you don't." Too late, he bit his tongue. The Aiel 
women did not take offense, though; not that it showed, anyway. 
"They know some things we do not," Delora told him firmly, "and we know some they do not." As firmly as a 
spearpoint in the ribs. 
"We learn what there is to learn, Perrin Aybara," Marline said calmly, combing nearly black hair with her fingers. She 
was one of the few Aiel he had seen with such dark hair, and she often toyed with it. "And we teach what there is to 
teach." 
"In any event," Janina said, "it is none of your affair. Men do not interfere between Wise Ones and apprentices." She 
shook her head over his foolishness. 
"You may stop listening outside and come in, Seonid Traighan," Edarra said suddenly. Perrin blinked in surprise, but 
none of the women batted an eye. 
There was a moment of silence, then the tentflap twitched aside, and Seonid ducked inside, kneeling quickly on the 
rugs. That vaunted Aes Sedai serenity was shattered in her. Her mouth was a thin line, her eyes tight, her face red. She 
smelled of anger, frustration, and a dozen more emotions all whirling about so quickly that Perrin could barely separate 
any out. "May I speak to him?" she asked in a stiff voice. 
"If you take care what you say," Edarra told her. Sipping her wine, the Wise One watched over the rim of her cup. A 
teacher watching a pupil? A hawk watching a mouse? Perrin could not be sure. Except that Edarra was very sure of her 
place, whatever the pairing. So was Seonid. But that did not carry over to him. 



She twisted around to face him on her knees, back going straight, eyes heated. Anger raged in the smell of her. 
"Whatever you know," she said angrily, "whatever you think you know, you will forget!" No, there was not a shred of 
serenity left in her. "Whatever is between the Wise Ones and us is for us alone! You will stand aside, avert your eyes, 
and keep your mouth closed!" 
Amazed, Perrin raked his fingers through his hair. "Light, you're upset because I know you got a switching?" he said 
incredulously. Well, he would have been, too, but not alongside the rest. "Don't you know these women would as soon 
cut your throat as look at you? Slit your throat and leave you by the side of the road! Well, I promised myself I 
wouldn't let that happen! I don't like you, but I promised to protect you from the Wise Ones, or the Asha'man, or Rand 
himself, so come down off that high horse!" Realizing that he was shouting, he drew a deep, embarrassed breath and 
settled back on his cushion, snatched up his wine cup and took a long drink. 
Seonid went stiffer by the word with indignation, and her lip curled well before he finished. "You promised?" she 
sneered. "You think Aes Sedai need your protection? You—?" 
"Enough," Edarra said quietly, and Seonid's jaw snapped shut, though her hands made white-knuckled fists clutching 
her skirts. 
"What makes you think we would kill her, Perrin Aybara?" Janina asked curiously. Aiel seldom showed much on their 
faces, but the others frowned at him or looked with open incredulity. 
"I know how you feel," he replied slowly. "I've known since I saw you with the sisters after Dumai's Wells." He was 
not about to explain that he had smelled their hatred, their contempt, every time a Wise One looked at an Aes Sedai 
back then. He did not smell it now, but no one could maintain that level of fury for long without bursting. That did not 
mean it was gone, only that it had sunk deep, maybe into the bone. 
Delora snorted, a sound like linen ripping. "First you say they must be coddled because you need them, and now 
because they are Aes Sedai and you have promised to protect them. Which is truth, Perrin Aybara?" 
"Both." Perrin met Delora's hard gaze for a long moment, then eyed each of the others in turn. "Both are true, and I 
mean both." 
The Wise Ones exchanged glances, the sort where every flicker of an eyelid held a hundred words and no man could 
make out a one. Finally, in a shifting of necklaces and readjusting of tied shawls, they appeared to reach agreement. 
"We do not kill apprentices, Perrin Aybara," Nevarin said. She sounded shocked at the idea. "When Rand al'Thor asked 
us to apprentice them, perhaps he thought it was just to make them obey us, but we do not speak empty words. They 
are apprentices, now." 
"They will remain so until five Wise Ones agree they are ready to be more," Marline added, sweeping her long hair 
over her shoulder. "And they are treated no differently than any others." 
Edarra nodded over her wine cup. "Tell him the advice you would give him concerning Masema Dagar, Seonid 
Traighan," she said. 
The kneeling woman had practically writhed during Nevarin and Marline's short speeches, gripping her skirt until 
Perrin thought the silk might rip, but she wasted no time complying with Edarra's instructions. "The Wise Ones are 
right, whatever their reasons. I do not say this because they wish it." She drew herself up again, smoothing her features 
with a visible effort. A touch of heat still flared in her voice, though. "I saw the work of so-called Dragonsworn before 
I ever met Rand al'Thor. Death and destruction, to no purpose. Even a faithful dog must be put down if it begins to 
foam at the mouth." 
"Blood and ashes!" Perrin grumbled. "How can I even let you in sight of the man after that? You swore fealty to Rand; 
you know that isn't what he wants! What about that 'thousands will die if you fail'?" Light, if Masuri felt the same, then 
he had to put up with Aes Sedai and Wise Ones for nothing! No, worse. He would have to guard Masema from them! 
"Masuri knows Masema for rabid as well as I," Seonid replied when he put the question to her. All of her serenity had 
returned. She regarded him with a cool, unreadable face. Her scent was sharply alert. Intent. As if he needed his nose, 
with her eyes fixed on his, big and dark and bottomless. "I swore to serve the Dragon Reborn, and the best service I can 
give him now is to keep this animal from him. Bad enough that rulers know Masema supports him; worse if they see 
him embrace the man. And thousands will die if you fail—to get close enough to Masema to kill him." 
Perrin thought his head would spin. Again an Aes Sedai whirled words about like a top, made it seem she had said 
black when she meant white. Then the Wise Ones added their bit. 
"Masuri Sokawa," Nevarin said calmly, "believes the rabid dog can be leashed and bound so he may be used safely." 
For an instant, Seonid looked as surprised as Perrin felt, but she recovered quickly. Outside, she did; her scent was 
suddenly wary, as if she sensed a trap where she had not expected one. 



"She also wishes to fit you for a halter, Perrin Aybara," Carelle added, even more casually. "She thinks you must be
bound also, to make you safe." Nothing on her freckled face told whether she agreed.
Edarra raised a hand toward Seonid. "You may go, now. You will not listen further, but you may ask Gharadin again to
let you Heal the wound on his face. Remember, if he still refuses, you must accept it. He is gai'shain, not one of your
wetlander servants." She invested that last word with depths of scorn.
Seonid stared icy augers at Perrin. She looked at the Wise Ones, her lips trembling on the brink of speech. In the end,
though, all she could do was go with as good a grace as she could muster. Outwardly, that was considerable, an Aes
Sedai being Aes Sedai fit to shame a queen. But the scent she trailed behind her was frustration sharp enough to cut.
As soon as she was gone, the six Wise Ones focused on Perrin again.
"Now," Edarra said, "you can explain to us why you would put a rabid animal next to the Car’a’carn."
"Only a fool obeys another's command to push him over a cliff," Nevarin said.
"You will not listen to us," Janina said, "so we will listen to you. Speak, Perrin Aybara."
Perrin considered making a break for the doorflaps. But if he did, he would leave behind one Aes Sedai who might
possibly be of some doubtful help, and another, along with six Wise Ones, who were all set to ruin everything he had
come to do. He put his wine cup down again, and settled his hands on his knees. He needed a clear head if he was to
show these women he was no tethered goat.


Chapter 10 Changes


When Perrin left the Wise Ones' tent, he considered removing his coat to see whether his hide was still attached and
whole. Not a tethered goat, maybe, but a stag with six she-wolves on his heels, and he was unsure what fast feet had
gained him. For certain, none of the Wise Ones had changed her mind, and their promises not to take any action on
their own had been vague at best. About the Aes Sedai, there had been no promises, even foggy ones.
He looked for either of the sisters, and found Masuri. A narrow rope had been tied between two trees and a fringed
red-and-green rug draped over it. The slender Brown was flailing away with a bent-wood beater, raising thin clouds of
dust, motes that floated glittering in the midmorning sun. Her Warder, a compact man with dark receding hair, sat on a
fallen tree trunk nearby, watching her glumly. Rovair Kirklin normally had a ready grin, but it was buried deep today.
Masuri caught sight of Perrin, and with barely a pause in her rug-beating shot him a look of such frozen malevolence
that he sighed. And she was the one who thought as he did. As close to it as he was likely to find, anyway. A red-tailed
hawk passed overhead, riding rising currents of hot air from hill to hill without flapping its outstretched wings. It would
be very nice to soar away from all this. The iron in front of him, not dreams of silver.
Nodding to Sulin and the Maidens, who might have taken root under that leatherleaf, Perrin turned to go, and stopped.
Two men were climbing the hill, one an Aiel in the grays and browns and greens of the cadin'sor, his cased bow on his
back, a bristling quiver at his belt, and his spears and round hide buckler in hand. Gaul was a friend, and the only man
among the Aiel who did not wear white. His companion, a head shorter in a broad-brimmed hat and coat and breeches
of a plain dull green, was no Aiel. He had a full quiver at his belt, too, and a knife even longer and heavier than the
Aielman's, but he carried his bow, much shorter than a Two Rivers longbow though longer than the horn bows of the
Aiel. Despite his clothes, he did not have the look of a farmer, or a city man either. Perhaps it was the graying hair tied
at the nape of his neck and hanging to his waist, the beard fanning across his chest, or perhaps just the way he moved,
much like the man at his side, slipping around the brush on the hill so that you were sure no twig snapped in his
passing, no weeds broke under his foot. Perrin had not seen him in what seemed a very long time.
Reaching the hilltop, Elyas Machera regarded Perrin, golden eyes shining faintly in the shadow of his hat brim. His
eyes had been that way years before Perrin's; Elyas had introduced Perrin to the wolves. He had been dressed in hides,
then. "Good to see you again, boy," he said quietly. Sweat glistened on his face, but little more than on Gaul's. "You
give away that axe, finally? I didn't think you'd ever stop hating it."
"I still do," Perrin said just as quietly. A long time ago the onetime Warder had told him to keep the axe until he
stopped hating to use it. Light, but he still hated it! And he had added new reasons, now. "What are you doing in this
part of the world, Elyas? Where did Gaul find you?"
"He found me," Gaul said. "I did not know he was behind me until he coughed." He spoke loudly enough to be heard
by the Maidens, and the sudden stillness among them was solid as a touch.
Perrin expected at least a few cutting comments— Aiel humor could near draw blood, and the Maidens seized any
chance to dig at the green-eyed man— but instead, some of the women took up spears and bucklers to rattle them




together in approbation. Gaul nodded approval. 
Elyas grunted ambiguously and tugged his hat down, yet he smelled pleased. The Aiel did not approve of much this 
side of the Dragonwall. "I like to keep moving," he told Perrin, "and I just happened to be in Ghealdan when some 
mutual friends told me you were traveling with this parade." He did not name the mutual friends; it was unwise to 
speak openly about talking to wolves. "Told me a lot of things. Told me they smell a change coming. They don't know 
what. Maybe you do. I hear you've been running with the Dragon Reborn." 
"I don't know," Perrin said slowly. A change? He had not thought to ask the wolves anything more than where large 
groups of men were, so he could go around them. Even here in Ghealdan, sometimes he felt blame among them for the 
wolves dead at Du-mai's Wells. What kind of change? "Rand is surely changing things, but I couldn't say what they 
mean. Light, the whole world is turning somersaults, and never mind him." 
"All things change," Gaul said dismissively. "Until we wake, the dream drifts on the wind." For a moment he studied 
Perrin and Elyas, comparing their eyes, Perrin was sure. He said nothing about them, though; the Aiel seemed to take 
golden eyes as just one more peculiarity among wetlanders. "I will leave you two to talk alone. Friends long separated 
need to talk by themselves. Sulin, are Chiad and Bain about? I saw them hunting yesterday, and thought I might show 
them how to draw a bow before one of them shoots herself." 
"I was surprised to see you come back today," the white-haired woman replied. "They went out to set snares for 
rabbits." Laughter rippled through the Maidens, and fingers flickered rapidly in handtalk. 
Sighing, Gaul rolled his eyes ostentatiously. "In that case, I think I must go cut them loose." Almost as many Maidens 
laughed at that, including Sulin. "May you find shade this day," he told Perrin, a casual farewell between friends, but 
he clasped forearms formally with Elyas and said, "My honor is yours, Elyas Machera." 
"Odd fellow," Elyas murmured, watching Gaul lope back down the hill. "When I coughed, he turned around ready to 
kill me, I think, then he just started laughing instead. You have any objections to going somewhere else? I don't know 
the sister who's trying to murder that rug, but I don't like taking chances with Aes Sedai." His eyes narrowed. "Gaul 
says there are three with you. You don't expect to be meeting up with any more, do you?" "I hope not," Perrin replied. 
Masuri was glancing their way between slashes with the beater; she would learn about Elyas' eyes soon enough and 
start trying to ferret out what else linked him to Perrin. "Come on; it's time I was back in my own camp anyway. Are 
you worried about meeting an Aes Sedai who knows you?" Elyas' days as a Warder had ended when it was learned he 
could talk to wolves. Some sisters thought it a mark of the Dark One, and he had had to kill other Warders to get away. 
The older man waited until they were a dozen paces from the tents before he replied, and even then, he spoke quietly, 
as though he suspected someone behind them might have ears as good as theirs. "One who knows my name will be bad 
enough. Warders don't run off often, boy. Most Aes Sedai will free a man who really wants to go— most will— and 
anyway, she can track you down however far you run if she decides to hunt. But any sister who finds a renegade will 
spend her idle moments making him wish he'd never been born." He shivered slightly. His smell was not fear, but 
anticipation of pain. "Then she'll turn him over to his own Aes Sedai to drive the lesson home. A man's never quite the 
same after that." At the edge of the slope, he looked back. Masuri did seem to be trying to kill the carpet, focusing all 
her rage on attempting to beat a hole through it. Elyas shivered again, though. "Worse thing would be to run into Rina. 
I'd rather be caught in a forest fire with both legs broken." 
"Rina's your Aes Sedai? But how could you run into her? The bond lets you know where she is." That nudged 
something in Perrin's memory, but whatever it was melted away at Elyas' reply. "A fair number can fuzz the bond, in a 
manner of speaking. Maybe they all can. You don't know much more than she's still alive, and I know that anyway, 
because I haven't gone crazy." Elyas saw the question on his face and barked a laugh. "Light, man, a sister's 
flesh-and-blood, too. Most are. Think about it. Would you want somebody inside your head while you cuddled up with 
a likely wench? Sorry; I forgot you were married, now. No offense meant. I was surprised to hear you'd married a 
Saldaean, though." 
"Surprised?" Perrin had never considered that about the Warder bond. Light! For that matter, he had never really 
thought about Aes Sedai that way. It seemed about as possible as ... as a man talking to wolves. "Why surprised?" They 
started down through the trees on this side of the hill, not hurrying and making little noise. Perrin had always been a 
good hunter, accustomed to the forests, and Elyas hardly disturbed the leaves underfoot, gliding smoothly through the 
undergrowth without shifting a branch. He might have slung his bow on his back now, but he still carried it ready. 
Elyas was a wary man, especially around people. 
"Why, because you're a quiet sort, and I thought you'd marry somebody quiet, too. Well, you know by now Saldaeans 
aren't quiet. Except with strangers and outsiders. Set the sun on fire one minute, and the next, it's all blown away and 



forgotten. Make Arafellin look stolid and Domani downright dull." Elyas grinned suddenly. "I lived a year with a 
Saldaean, once, and Merya shouted my ears off five days in the week, and maybe heaved the dishes at my head, too. 
Every time I thought about leaving, though, she'd want to make up, and I never seemed to get to the door. In the end, 
she left me. Said I was too restrained for her taste." His rasping laugh was reminiscent, but he rubbed at a faint, 
age-faded scar along his jaw reminiscently, too. It looked to have been made by a knife. 
"Faile's not like that." It sounded like being married to Nynaeve! Nynaeve with sore teeth! "I don't mean she doesn't get 
angry now and then," he admitted reluctantly, "but she doesn't shout and throw things." Well, she did not shout very 
often, and instead of flaring hot and vanishing, her anger started hot and dragged on till it turned cold. 
Elyas glanced at him sideways. "If I ever smelled a man trying to dodge hail. . . . You've been giving her soft words all 
the time, haven't you? Mild as milk-water and never lay your ears back? Never raise your voice to her?" 
"Of course not!" Perrin protested. "I love her! Why would I shout at her?" 
Elyas began muttering under his breath, though Perrin could hear every word, of course. "Burn me, a man wants to sit 
on a red adder, it's his affair. Not my business if a man wants to warm his hands when the roof's on fire. It's his life. 
Will he thank me? No, he bloody well won't!" 
"What are you going on about?" Perrin demanded. Catching Elyas' arm, he pulled him to a stop beneath a winterberry 
tree, its prickly leaves still mostly green. Little else nearby was, except for some struggling creepers. They had come 
less than halfway down the hill. "Faile isn't a red adder or a roof on fire! Wait until you meet her before you start 
talking like you know her." 
Irritably, Elyas raked fingers through his long beard. "I know Saldaeans, boy. That year wasn't the only time I've been 
there. I've only ever met about five Saldaean women I'd call meek, or even mild-mannered. No, she isn't an adder; what 
she is is a leopard, I'll wager. Don't growl, burn you! I'll bet my boots she'd smile to hear me say it!" 
Perrin opened his mouth angrily, then closed it again. He had not realized he was growling deep in his throat. Faile 
would smile at being called a leopard. "You can't be saying she wants me to shout at her, Elyas." 
"Yes, I am. Most likely, anyway. Maybe she's the sixth. Maybe. Just hear me out. Most women, you raise your voice, 
and they go bulge-eyed or ice, and next thing you know, you're arguing about you being angry, never mind what put 
the ember down your back in the first place. Swallow your tongue with a Saldaean, though, and to her, you're saying 
she isn't strong enough to stand up to you. Insult her like that, and you're lucky she doesn't feed you your own gizzard 
for breakfast. She's no Far Madding wench, to expect a man to sit where she points and jump when she snaps her 
fingers. She's a leopard, and she expects her husband to be a leopard, too. Light! I don't know what I'm doing. Giving a 
man advice about his wife is a good way to get your innards spilled." 
It was Elyas' turn to growl. He jerked his hat straight unnecessarily and looked around the slope frowning, as though 
considering whether to vanish back into the forests, then poked a finger at Perrin. "Look here. I always knew you were 
more than a stray, and putting what the wolves told me together with you just happening to be heading toward this 
Prophet fellow, I thought maybe you could use a friend to watch your back. Of course, the wolves didn't mention you 
were leading those pretty Mayener lancers. Neither did Gaul, till we saw them. If you'd like me to stay, I will. If not, 
there's plenty of the world I haven't seen yet." 
"I can always use another friend, Elyas." Could Faile really want him to shout? He had always known he might hurt 
somebody if he was not careful, and he always tried to keep a tight rein on his temper. Words could hurt as hard as 
fists, the wrong words, words you never meant, let loose in a temper. It had to be impossible. It just stood to reason. No 
woman would stand for that, from her husband or any man. 
A bluefinch's call brought Perrin's head up, ears pricking. It was just at the edge of hearing even for him, but a moment 
later the trill was repeated closer, then again, nearer still. Elyas cocked an eyebrow at him; he would know the call of a 
Borderland bird. Perrin had learned it from some Shienarans, Masema among them, and taught the Two Rivers men. 
"We have visitors coming," he told Elyas. 
They came quickly, four riders at a fast canter, arriving before he and Elyas reached the bottom of the hill. Berelain led 
the way, splashing across the stream with Annoura and Gallenne close behind and a woman in a pale, hooded 
dust-cloak at her side. They swept right by the Mayener camp without a glance, not drawing rein until they were in 
front of the red-and-white striped tent. Some of the Cairhienin servants rushed to take bridles and hold stirrups, and 
Berelain and her companions were inside before the dust of their arrival settled. 
All in all, the arrival created quite a stir. A buzz rose among the Two Rivers men that Perrin could only call 
anticipatory. The inevitable gathering of Faile's young fools scratched their heads and stared at the tent, chattering 
excitedly among themselves. Grady and Neald watched the tent through the trees, too, now and then leaning together to 



talk though nobody was close enough to hear anything they said. 
"Looks like your visitors are more than casual," Elyas said quietly. "Watch Gallenne; he could be trouble." 
"You know him, Elyas? I'd like you to stay, but if you think he might tell one of the sisters who you are. . . ." Perrin 
shrugged in resignation. "I might be able to stop Seonid and Masuri" —he thought he could— "but I think Annoura 
will do whatever she wants." And what did she really think about Masema? 
"Oh, Bertain Gallenne doesn't know the likes of Elyas Machera," Elyas replied with a wry grin. " 'More fools know Jak 
Fool than Jak Fool knows.' I know him, though. He won't go against you or behind your back, but Berelain has the 
brains between them. She's kept Tear out of Mayene by playing the Tairens against the Illianers since she was sixteen. 
Berelain knows how to maneuver; all Gallenne knows is attack. He's good at it, but he never sees anything else, and 
sometimes he doesn't stop to think." 
"I'd figured that out about both of them," Perrin muttered. At least Berelain had brought a messenger from Alliandre. 
She would not have come rushing in that way with a new maid. The only question was why Alliandre's reply needed a 
messenger. "I had best find out whether the news is good, Elyas. Later, we'll talk about what lies south. And you can 
meet Faile," he added before turning away. 
"The Pit of Doom lies south," the other man called after him, "or as close to it as I expected to see below the Blight." 
Perrin imagined he heard that faint thunder in the west again. Now, that would be a pleasant change. 
In the tent, Breane was carrying a silver tray about with a bowl of rose-scented water and cloths for washing faces and 
hands, curtsying stiffly as she presented it. With even stiffer curtsies, Maighdin was offering a tray holding cups of 
wine-punch— made with the last of the dried blueberries, by the smell— while Lini folded the newcomer's dust-cloak. 
There seemed something odd in the way Faile and Berelain stood to either side of the new woman, and Annoura 
hovered behind them, all focused on her. Somewhere in her middle years, with a cap of green net gathering dark hair 
that fell almost to her waist, she might have been pretty if her nose had not been so long. And if she had not carried it 
so high. Shorter than Faile or Berelain either one, she still managed to look down that nose at Perrin, coolly examining 
him from hair to boots. She did not blink at sight of his eyes, although nearly everyone did. 
"Majesty," Berelain pronounced in a formal voice as soon as Perrin entered, "may I present Lord Perrin Aybara of the 
Two Rivers, in Andor, the personal friend and emissary of the Dragon Reborn." The long-nosed woman nodded 
carefully, coolly, and Berelain went on with scarcely a pause. "Lord Aybara, give greetings and welcome to Alliandre 
Maritha Kigarin, Queen of Ghealdan, Blessed of the Light, Defender of Garen's Wall, who is pleased to receive you in 
person." Gallenne, standing near the tent wall, adjusted his eyepatch and raised his wine cup to Perrin with a smile of 
triumph. 
For some reason Faile shot Berelain a hard look. Perrin's mouth nearly dropped open. Alliandre herself? He wondered 
whether he should kneel, then settled for a bow after too long a pause. Light! He had no notion how to deal with a 
queen. Especially one who turned up out of the blue with no escort, without a jewel in sight. Her dark green riding 
dress was plain wool, lacking a single stitch of embroidery. 
"After the recent news," Alliandre said, "I thought I should come to you, Lord Aybara." Her voice was calm, her face 
smooth, her eyes aloof. And observant, or he was a Taren Ferry man. Best to step warily till he knew how the path lay. 
"You may not have heard," she continued, "but four days ago Illian fell to the Dragon Reborn, blessed be his name in 
the Light. He has taken the Laurel Crown, though I understand it is now called the Crown of Swords." 
Faile, taking a cup from Maighdin's tray, whispered under her breath, "And seven days gone, the Seanchan took Ebou 
Dar." Even Maighdin did not notice. 
If Perrin had not already taken hold of himself, he truly would have gaped. Why did Faile tell him this way instead of 
waiting for it to come from the woman who must have told her? In a voice that everyone could hear, he repeated her 
words. A hard voice, but that was the only way to keep it from shaking. Ebou Dar, too? Light! And seven days ago? 
The day Grady and the others had seen the One Power in the sky. Coincidence, maybe. But would he rather it had been 
the Forsaken? 
Annoura frowned over her cup, pursing her lips, before he finished speaking, and Berelain gave him a startled look that 
vanished quickly. They knew he had not known about Ebou Dar when they rode into Bethal. 
Alliandre merely nodded, every bit as self-possessed as the Gray. "You seem remarkably well informed," she said, 
coming closer to him. "I doubt the first rumors are reaching Jehannah with the river trade, yet. I myself learned of it 
only a few days ago. Several of the merchants keep me abreast of events. I believe," she added dryly, "that they hope I 
can intercede for them with the Prophet of the Lord Dragon, if such becomes necessary." 
At last he could pick out her scent, and his opinion of her changed, though not for the worse. Outwardly, the Queen 



was all cool reserve, but uncertainty shot through with fear filled the smell of her. He did not believe he could have 
held his face so calm had he felt that. 
"Always best to know as much as you can," he told her, half distracted. Burn me, he thought, I have to let Rand know 
about this! 
"In Saldaea we find merchants useful for information, too," Faile said. Implying that was how Perrin knew about Ebou 
Dar. "They seem to learn what happened a thousand miles off weeks before the rumors begin." 
She did not look at Perrin, but he knew she spoke to him as much as Alliandre. Rand knew, she was saying. And 
anyway, there was no way to get word to him in secret. Could Faile really want him to . . . ? No, it was unthinkable. 
Blinking, he realized he had missed something Alliandre had said. "Your pardon, Alliandre," he said politely. "I was 
thinking about Rand—the Dragon Reborn." Of course it was unthinkable! 
Everyone stared at him, even Lini and Maighdin and Breane. Annoura's eyes had gone wide, and Gallenne's mouth 
hung open. Then it hit him. He had just called the Queen by name. He took a cup from Maighdin's tray, and she rose 
from her curtsy so quickly that she nearly knocked it from his hand. Waving her away absently, he wiped his damp 
hand on his coat. He had to concentrate here, not let his mind wander in nine directions. No matter what Elyas thought 
he knew, Faile would never. . . . No! Concentrate! 
Alliandre recovered her equilibrium quickly. In truth, she had appeared the least surprised of anyone, and her scent 
never wavered. "I was saying that coming to you in secret seemed the wisest course, Lord Aybara," she said in that 
cool voice. "Lord Telabin believes I am keeping private in his gardens, which I left by a seldom-used gate. Passing out 
of the city, I was Annoura Sedai's maid." Brushing fingertips across one skirt of her riding dress, she gave a small 
laugh. Even that about her was cool, so at odds with what his nose told him. "A number of my own soldiers saw me, 
but with the hood of my cloak pulled up, none knew me. 
"Times being what they are, that probably was wisest," Perrin said carefully. "But you will have to come into the open 
sooner or later. One way or another." Polite and to the point, that was the thing. A queen would not want to waste time 
with a man who blathered. And he did not want to disappoint Faile by acting the hayfoot again. "Why come at all? All 
you had to do was send a letter, or just tell Berelain your answer. Will you declare for Rand or not? Either way, have 
no fear about getting back to Bethal safely." A good point, that. Whatever else frightened her, being here alone must. 
Faile was watching him, pretending not to, sipping her punch and directing her smiles at Alliandre, but he caught the 
quick nickers of her eyes in his direction. Berelain made no pretense, watching quite openly, eyes slightly narrowed 
and never leaving his face. Annoura was just as intent, just as thoughtful. Did they all believe he was going to trip over 
his own tongue again? 
Instead of answering the important question, Alliandre said, "The First told me a great deal about you, Lord Aybara, 
and about the Lord Dragon Reborn, blessed be his name in the Light." That last sounded by rote, an addition she no 
longer had to think about. "I cannot see him before I make my decision, so I wished to see you, to take a measure of 
you. It's possible to tell much about a man by those he chooses to speak for him." Tilting her face down toward the cup 
in her hands, she peered at him through her lashes. From Berelain, that would have been flirtatious, but Alliandre was 
cautiously watching a wolf sure as he was standing in front of her. "I also saw your banners," she said quietly. "The 
First did not mention them." 
Perrin scowled before he could stop himself. Berelain had told her a great deal about him? What had she said? "The 
banners are meant to be seen." Anger put a roughness in his voice that required some effort to force down. Now, 
Berelain was a woman who needed shouting at. "Believe me, there are no plans to set up Manetheren again." There; his 
tone was as cool as Alliandre's. 
"What is your decision? Rand can have ten thousand soldiers, a hundred thousand, here in the blink of an eye, or near 
enough." And he might have to. The Seanchan in Amador and Ebou Dar? Light, how many were they? 
Alliandre sipped delicately at her wine-punch before speaking, and again she dodged the question. "There are a 
thousand rumors, as you must know, and even the wildest is believable when the Dragon is Reborn, strangers appear 
claiming to be Artur Hawkwing's armies returned, and the Tower itself is broken by rebellion." 
"A matter for Aes Sedai," Annoura said sharply. "It concerns no one else." Berelain flashed an exasperated look at her, 
which she affected not to notice. 
Alliandre flinched and turned her shoulder to the sister. Queen or not, no one wanted to hear that tone from an Aes 
Sedai. "The world is turned upside down, Lord Aybara. Why, I've even had reports of Aiel sacking a village right here 
in Ghealdan." Abruptly Perrin realized there was more here than anxiety over offending Aes Sedai. Alliandre watched 
him, waiting. But for what? Reassurance? 



"The only Aiel in Ghealdan are with me," he told her. "The Seanchan may be descendants of Artur Hawkwing's army, 
but Hawkwing is a thousand years dead. Rand dealt with them once already, and he will again." He remembered Falme 
as clearly as Dumai's Wells, though he had tried forgetting. Surely there had not been enough of them there to take 
Amador and Ebou Dar, even with their damane. Balwer claimed they had Taraboner soldiers, too. "And it might cheer 
you to hear that those rebel Aes Sedai support Rand. They will, soon, at least." That was what Rand said, a handful of 
Aes Sedai with nowhere to go except to him. Perrin was not so sure. Rumor in Ghealdan put an army with those sisters. 
Of course, the same rumors counted more Aes Sedai in that handful than there were in the world, but still. . . . Light, he 
wished someone would reassure him! "Why don't we sit," he said. "I'll answer any questions you have, to help you 
make your decision, but we might as well be comfortable." Drawing one of the folding chairs to him, he remembered at 
the last instant not to just drop into it, but it creaked under him just the same. Lini and the other two servants rushed 
about, pulling chairs into a circle with his, but none of the other women moved toward them. Alliandre stood looking at 
him, and the rest looked at her. Except for Gallenne, who merely poured himself another cup of punch from the silver 
pitcher. 
It came to Perrin that Faile had not opened her mouth since speaking of the merchants. He was as grateful for Berelain's 
silence as he was that she had not decided to flutter her lashes at him in front of the Queen, but he could have used 
some help from Faile right then. A little advice. Light, she knew ten times what he did about what he should say and do 
here. 
Wondering whether he should stand with the others, he set his wine-punch on one of the small tables and asked her to 
speak to Alliandre. "If anyone can make her see the right way to go, you can," he said. Faile gave him a pleased smile, 
but held her tongue. 
Abruptly Alliandre put out her cup to one side without looking, as if expecting a tray to be there. One was, barely in 
time to catch the cup, and Maighdin, who held it, muttered something Perrin hoped Faile had not heard. Faile was death 
on servants using that sort of language. He started to rise as Alliandre approached him, but to his shock, she knelt 
gracefully in front of him, catching his hands with hers. Before he knew what she was doing, she twisted so her hands 
were back-to-back between his palms. She clung so hard her hands must have hurt; for sure, he was not certain he 
could loose himself without hurting her. 
"Under the Light," she said firmly, looking up at him, "I, Alliandre Maritha Kigarin, pledge my fealty and service to 
Lord Perrin Aybara of the Two Rivers, now and for all time, save that he chooses to release me of his own will. My 
lands and throne are his, and I yield them to his hand. So I do swear." 
For an instant there was a silence broken only by Gallenne's gasp and the muted thud of his wine cup hitting the rug. 
Then Perrin heard Faile, once more whispering so softly no one next to her could have made out her words. "Under the 
Light, I do accept your pledge and will defend and protect you and yours through battle's wrack and winter's blast and 
all that time may bring. The lands and throne of Ghealdan, I give to you as my faithful vassal. Under the Light, I do 
accept. . . ." That must have been the Saldaean manner of accepting. Thank the Light she was too busy concentrating on 
him to see Berelain nodding at him furiously, urging the same. The pair of them looked almost as if they had expected 
this! Annoura, though, with her mouth hanging open, appeared as stunned as he, like a fish who had just seen the water 
vanish. 
"Why?" he asked gently, ignoring Faile's frustrated hiss and Berelain's exasperated grunt alike. Burn me, he thought, 
I'm a bloody blacksmith! Nobody swore fealty to blacksmiths. Queens did not swear fealty to anyone! "I've been told 
I'm ta'veren; you might want to reconsider this in an hour." 
"I hope you are ta'veren, my Lord." Alliandre laughed, but not in amusement, and gripped his hands even more tightly, 
as though fearful he might pull away. "With all my heart, I hope it. I fear nothing less will save Ghealdan. I all but 
reached this decision as soon as the First told me why you are here, and meeting you only confirmed me in it. Ghealdan 
needs protection I cannot give, so duty demands I find it. You can give it, my Lord, you and the Lord Dragon Reborn, 
blessed be his name in the Light. In truth, I would swear directly to him if he were here, but you are his man. Swearing 
to you, I also swear to him." Drawing a deep breath, she forced out another word. "Please." She smelled desperate, 
now, and her eyes shone with fear. 
Still, he hesitated. This was everything Rand could want and more, but Perrin Aybara was just a blacksmith. He was! 
Could he still tell himself that if he did this thing? Alliandre stared up at him pleadingly. Did ta'veren work on 
themselves, he wondered. "Under the Light, I, Perrin Aybara, accept your pledge. . . ." His throat was dry by the time 
he finished the words Faile had whispered. Too late to stop and think now. 
With a gasp of relief, Alliandre kissed his hands. Perrin did not think he had ever been so embarrassed in his life. 



Standing hurriedly, he drew her to her feet. And realized he did not know what to do next. A proudly beaming Faile 
whispered no further hints. Berelain smiled, too, relief so strong on her face she might have just been pulled from a 
fire. 
He was sure Annoura would speak— Aes Sedai always had plenty to say, especially when it gave an opportunity to 
take charge— but the Gray sister was holding out a wine cup for Maighdin to refill. Annoura watched him with an 
unreadable expression, and for that matter, so did Maighdin, so much so that she continued tilting her pitcher until 
punch slopped over onto the Aes Sedai's wrist. At which Annoura gave a start, staring at the cup in her hand as though 
she had forgotten it was there. Faile frowned, and Lini frowned even harder, and Maighdin scurried for a cloth to dry 
the sister's hand, all the while muttering under her breath again. Faile was going to have fits if she ever heard those 
mutters. 
Perrin knew he was taking too long. Alliandre licked her lips anxiously; she expected more, but what? "Now that we're 
done here, I have to find the Prophet next," he said, and winced. Too abrupt. He had no feel for dealing with nobles, 
much less queens. "I suppose you'll want to get back to Bethal before anyone learns you're gone." 
"The last I heard," Alliandre told him, "the Prophet of the Lord Dragon was in Abila. That's a largish town in 
Amadicia, perhaps forty leagues south of here." 
In spite of himself, Perrin frowned, though he smoothed his brow quickly. So Balwer had been right. Right in one thing 
did not mean right in all, but it might be worthwhile hearing what the man had to say about the Whitecloaks. And the 
Seanchan. How many Taraboners? 
Faile glided to his side, laying a hand on his arm and directing a warm smile at Alliandre. "You cannot mean to send 
her away now, my heart. Not when she has just arrived. Leave us to talk here out of the sun before she must face the 
ride back. I know you have important matters to see to." 
He managed not to stare, with a little effort. What could be more important than the Queen of Ghealdan? Certain sure, 
nothing anyone would let him lay hand to. Clearly she wanted to talk with Alliandre without him. With luck, she would 
tell him why later. With luck, she would tell him all of it. Elyas might think he knew Saldaeans, but Perrin had learned 
on his own that only a fool tried to root out all of his wife's secrets. Or let her know about those he had unearthed 
already. 
Leaving Alliandre should no doubt involve as much ceremony as meeting her, but he managed a credible leg and made 
his bow, asking her pardon for going off, and she curtsied deeply, murmuring that he honored her too much, and that 
was that. Except for jerking his head at Gallenne to follow him. He doubted that Faile would send him off and want 
that one to stay. What did she want to talk about alone? 
Outside, the one-eyed man gave Perrin a clap on the shoulder that would have staggered a smaller man. "Burn me, I've 
never heard of the like! Now I can say I've seen a ta'veren at work for true. What did you want with me?" And what 
was he to say to that? 
Just then, he heard shouting from the Mayener camp, the sound of arguing, loud enough that Two Rivers men stood to 
peer through the trees, though the side of the hill hid everything. 
"First let's see what all that is about," Perrin replied. That would give him time to think. About what to say to Gallenne, 
and other things. 
Faile waited a few moments after Perrin left before telling the servants that she and the others would see to themselves. 
Maighdin was so busy staring at Alliandre that Lini had to pluck at her sleeve before she moved. That would have to be 
handled later. Setting her cup down, Faile followed the three women to the door of the tent as if hurrying them, but she 
paused there. 
Perrin and Gallenne were striding off through the trees toward the Mayener camp. Good. Most of Cha Faile was 
squatting not far off. Catching Parelean's eye, she gestured low in front of her waist, where no one behind her could 
see. A quick circular motion followed by a clenched fist. Immediately the Tairens and Cairhien broke apart in groups 
of two or three and spread out. Far less elaborate than Maiden handtalk, Cha Faile's signals sufficed. In moments a 
scattered ring of her people had surrounded the tent, apparently at random, talking idly or playing at cat's cradle. But no 
one would come nearer than twenty paces without her receiving warning before they reached the threshold. 
It was Perrin who worried her most. She had expected something momentous as soon as Alliandre appeared in the 
flesh, if not what came, but he had been stunned by her vow. If he took it into his head to return, to take another stab at 
making Alliandre feel comfortable in her decision. . . . Oh, he did think with his heart when he should use his head. 
And with his head when he should use his heart! Guilt pricked her at the thought. 
"Peculiar servants you found by the side of the road," Berelain said in tones of mock sympathy at her side, and Faile 



gave a start. She had not heard the woman come up behind her. Lini and the others were walking toward the carts, Lini 
shaking a finger at Maighdin, and Berelain shifted her gaze from Faile to them. She kept her voice low, but the 
mocking tone remained. "The oldest at least seems to know her duties instead of simply having heard about them, but 
Annoura tells me the youngest is a wilder. Very weak, Annoura says, negligible, but wilders always cause problems. 
The others will carry tales about her, if they know, and sooner or later, she will run away. Wilders always do, I hear. 
That's what comes of picking up your maids like stray dogs." 
"They suit me well enough," Faile replied coolly. Still, a long conversation with Lini was definitely needed. A wilder? 
Even if weak, that might prove useful. "I always thought you were fit for hiring servants." Berelain blinked, uncertain 
what that meant, and Faile carefully did not let her satisfaction show. Turning away, she said, "Annoura, will you make 
us private with a ward against listeners?" 
There seemed little chance that Seonid or Masuri would find any opportunity to eavesdrop using the Power—she was 
waiting for the explosion when Perrin found out just how tightly the Wise Ones had that pair haltered—yet the Wise 
Ones themselves might have learned. Faile was sure Edarra and the others were wringing Seonid and Masuri dry. 
The Gray sister's beaded braids clicked softly as she nodded. "It is done, Lady Faile," she said, and Berelain's lips 
compressed briefly. Quite satisfying. The temerity of making the presentations here in Faile's own tent! She deserved 
more than having someone step between her and her advisor, but it was satisfying. 
Childishly satisfying, Faile admitted, when she should be focused on the matter at hand. She almost bit her lip in 
aggravation. She did not doubt her husband's love, but she could not treat Berelain as the woman deserved, and that 
forced her, against her will, to play a game with Perrin too often as the gaming board. And the prize, so Berelain 
believed. If only Perrin did not sometimes behave as if he might be. Firmly she put all that out of her head. There was a 
wife's work to be done here. The practical side. 
Alliandre glanced thoughtfully at Annoura when a ward was mentioned— she had to realize it meant serious talk— but 
what she said was "Your husband is a formidable man, Lady Faile. I mean no offense when I say his bluff exterior 
belies a shrewd mind. With Amadicia on our doorstep, we in Ghealdan play Daes Dae'mar of necessity, but I do not 
think I have ever been danced so swiftly or so deftly to a decision as your Lord did. The hint of a threat here, a frown 
there. A very formidable man." 
This time hiding her smile took some effort on Faile's part. These southlanders set a great store by the Game of Houses, 
and she did not think Alliandre would appreciate learning that Perrin simply said what he believed— too freely by half, 
at times— and people with devious minds saw calculation in his honesty. "He spent some time in Cairhien," she said. 
Let Alliandre make of that what she would. "We can speak freely here, safe behind Annoura Sedai's warding. It is plain 
you do not want to return to Bethal yet. Is your oath to Perrin, and his to you, not enough to tie him to you?" Some here 
in the south had peculiar ideas of what fealty entailed. 
Berelain silently took a position to Faile's right, and a moment later Annoura did the same on her left, so that Alliandre 
found herself confronted by all three. It surprised Faile that the Aes Sedai fell in with her plan without knowing what it 
was—without doubt Annoura had her own reasons, and Faile would have given a pretty to know what they were—but 
she felt no surprise that Berelain did so. One casual mocking sentence could spoil everything, especially about Perrin's 
skill in the Great Game, yet she was sure it would not come. In a way, that irritated her. Once she had despised 
Berelain; she still hated her, deep and hot, but grudging respect had replaced contempt. The woman knew when their 
"game" had to be put aside. If not for Perrin, Faile thought she might actually have liked her! Briefly, to extinguish that 
hateful thought, she pictured herself shaving Berelain bald. She was a jade and a trull! And not something Faile could 
allow to divert her now. 
Alliandre studied each of the women in front of her in turn, but she gave no evidence of nervousness. Taking up her 
wine cup again, she sipped casually and spoke with sighs and rueful smiles as if her words were not really as important 
as they sounded. "I mean to keep my oath, of course, but you must understand that I hoped for more. Once your 
husband goes, I am left as I was. Worse, perhaps, until some tangible aid comes from the Lord Dragon, blessed be his 
name in the Light. The Prophet could ruin Bethal or even Jehannah itself as he did Samara, and I cannot stop him. And 
if he somehow learns of my oath. ... He says he has come to show us how to serve the Lord Dragon in the Light, but he 
is the one who shows that way, and I cannot think he will be pleased with anyone who finds another." 
"It is good that you will keep your oath," Faile told her dryly. "If you want more of my husband, perhaps you should do 
more. Perhaps you should accompany him when he goes south to meet the Prophet. Of course, you will want your own 
soldiers with you, but I suggest no more than the First has with her. Shall we sit?" Taking the chair Perrin had vacated, 
she motioned Berelain and Annoura to those on either side, and only then gestured toward another for Alliandre. 



The Queen sat slowly, staring wide-eyed at Faile, not nervous but astounded. "Why in the Light would I do that?" she 
exclaimed. "Lady Faile, the Children of the Light will take any excuse to increase their depredations in Ghealdan, and 
King Ailron might decide to send an army north as well. It's impossible!" 
"The wife of your liege lord asks it of you, Alliandre," Faile said firmly. 
It did seem possible that Alliandre's eyes could widen further, yet they did. She looked to Annoura and found only 
imperturbable Aes Sedai calm looking back. "Of course," she said after a moment. Her voice was hollow. Swallowing, 
she added, "Of course, I will do as you . . . ask . . . my Lady." 
Faile hid her relief behind a gracious nod of acceptance. She had expected Alliandre to balk. That Alliandre could 
swear fealty without realizing what that meant—that she felt it necessary to say that she intended to keep her 
oath!—had only confirmed Faile's belief that the woman could not be left behind. By all accounts, Alliandre had dealt 
with Masema by yielding to him. Slowly, to be sure, with little other choice and only when she had to, yet submission 
could become a habit. Back in Bethal, with nothing visible changed, how soon before she would decide to hedge with a 
warning to Masema? She had felt the weight of her oath; now Faile could lighten her burden. 
"I am happy that you will be accompanying us," she said warmly. And truly, she was. "My husband does not forget 
those who render him service. One such service would be to write to your nobles, telling them that a man in the south 
has raised the banner of Manetheren." Berelain's head half jerked around in surprise, and Annoura went so far as to 
blink. 
"My Lady," Alliandre said urgently, "half of them will send word to the Prophet as soon as they receive my letter. They 
are terrified of him, and the Light alone knows what he might do." Just the response Faile had hoped for. 
"Which is why you will write him also, saying that you have gathered a few soldiers to deal with this man personally. 
After all, the Prophet of the Lord Dragon is too important to have to turn his attention to such a minor matter." 
"Very good," Annoura murmured. "No one will know who is who." 
Berelain laughed in delighted approval, burn her! 
"My Lady," Alliandre breathed, "I said that my Lord Perrin is formidable. May I add that his wife is every bit as 
formidable?" 
Faile tried not to bask too visibly. Now she had to send word to her people in Bethal. In a way, she regretted that. 
Explaining to Perrin would have been more than difficult, but even he could not have kept his temper if she had 
kidnapped the Queen of Ghealdan. 
Most of the Winged Guards appeared to be gathered on the edge of their camp, surrounding ten of their number on 
horseback. The absence of lances said the riders were scouts. The men afoot milled and pushed, trying to get closer. 
Perrin thought he heard thunder again, not so distant, but it only touched the edge of awareness. As he prepared to push 
his way through, Gallenne roared, "Make way, you mangy hounds!" Heads whipped around, and men wriggled 
sideways in the mass, opening a narrow path. Perrin wondered what would happen if he called the Two Rivers men 
mangy hounds. Probably earn him a punch in the nose. It might be worth a try. 
Nurelle and the other officers were with the scouts. So were seven men afoot with their hands tied behind them and 
lead ropes around their necks, all shuffling their feet and hunching their shoulders and scowling defiance or fear or 
both. Their clothes were stiff with old filth, though some had been fine once. Strangely, they smelled heavily of wood 
smoke. For that matter, some of the mounted soldiers had soot on their faces, and one or two seemed to be nursing 
burns. Aram stood studying the prisoners, frowning slightly. 
Gallenne took a stance with his feet apart and fists on his hips, his one eye doing as good a job of glaring as most men's 
two. "What happened?" he demanded. "My scouts are supposed to bring back information, not ragpickers!" 
"I will let Ortis report, my Lord," Nurelle said. "He was there. Squadman Ortis!" 
A soldier in his middle years scrambled down from his saddle to bow, gauntleted hand pressed to heart. His helmet was 
plain, without the thin plumes and wings that were worked in the sides of officers' helmets. Beneath the rim, a livid 
burn stood out plainly on his face. The other cheek had a scar that pulled up the corner of his mouth. "My Lord 
Gallenne, my Lord Aybara," he said in a gravelly voice. "We came on these turnip-eaters about two leagues to the 
west, my Lords. Burning a farm, with the farm folk inside. A woman tried to get out a window, and one of these scum 
bashed her head in. Knowing how Lord Aybara feels, we put a stop to it. We were too late to save anybody, but we 
caught these seven. The rest got away." 
"People are often tempted to slide back into the Shadow," one of the prisoners said suddenly. "They must be reminded 
of the cost." A tall, lean man with a stately air, his voice was smooth and educated, but his coat was as dirty as any of 
the others, and he had not shaved in two or three days. The Prophet did not seem to approve of wasting time on things 



like razors. Or washing. With his hands bound and a rope around his neck, he glared at his captors without the least bit 
of fear. He was all supercilious defiance. "Your soldiers do not impress me," he said. "The Prophet of the Lord Dragon, 
blessed be his name in the Light, 
has destroyed greater armies by far than your tag end. You may kill us, but we will be avenged when the Prophet spills 
your blood on the ground. None of you will survive us long. He will triumph in fire and in blood." He finished on a 
ringing tone, his back straight as an iron rod. Murmurs ran through the listening soldiers. They knew very well that 
Masema had destroyed larger armies than theirs. 
"Hang them," Perrin said. Again, he heard that thunder. Having given the order, he made himself watch. Despite the 
murmurs, there was no lack of ready hands. Some of the prisoners began to weep as their lead ropes were thrown over 
tree limbs. A once-fat man whose wattles hung in folds shouted that he repented, that he would serve any master they 
named. A bald-headed fellow who looked as tough as Lamgwin thrashed and screamed until the rope cut off his howls. 
Only the smooth-voiced man did not kick or fight, even when the noose drew tight on his neck. To the end he glared 
defiance. 
"At least one of them knew how to die," Gallenne growled as the last body went limp. He frowned at the men 
decorating the trees as if regretting they had not put up more fight. 
"If those people were serving the Shadow," Aram began, then hesitated. "Forgive me, Lord Perrin, but will the Lord 
Dragon approve of this?" 
Perrin gave a start and stared at him, aghast. "Light, Aram, you heard what they did! Rand would've put the ropes on 
their necks himself!" He thought Rand would have, hoped he would have. Rand was fixed on welding the nations 
together before the Last Battle, and he had done little counting of cost to do so. 
Men's heads jerked up as thunder pealed loud enough for all to hear, then closer, and again closer still. A wind gusted, 
fell, rose again, tugging Perrin's coat as it slashed this way and that. Lightning forked in a cloudless sky. In the 
Mayener camp, horses whinnied and reared at their ties. Thunder tolled repeatedly, and lightning writhed in silver-blue 
snakes, and beneath a burning sun, rain fell, fat scattered drops that splashed fountains of dust where they hit bare 
ground. Perrin wiped one from his cheek and peered at damp fingers in amazement. 
In moments the storm was gone, thunder and lightning rolling on eastward. Thirsty ground absorbed the raindrops that 
had fallen, the sun baked as fiercely as ever, and only flickering lights in the sky and fading booms said that anything 
had happened. Soldiers stared at each other uncertainly. Gallenne pried his fingers from the hilt of his sword with an 
obvious effort. 
"This . . . this can't be the Dark One's work," Aram said, and flinched. No one had ever seen a natural storm like that. 
"It means the weather is changing, doesn't it, Lord Perrin? The weather is going to be right again?" 
Perrin opened his mouth to tell the man not to call him that, but he closed it again with a sigh. "I don't know," he said. 
What was it Gaul had said? "Everything changes, Aram." He had just never thought that he would have to change, too. 

Chapter 11 Questions and an Oath 

The air in the huge stable smelled of old hay and horse dung. And blood, and burned flesh. With all the doors closed, 
the air felt thick. Two lanterns gave little light, and shadows filled most of the interior. In the long rows of stalls, horses 
whickered nervously. The man hanging by his wrists from a roof beam gave a low moan, then a ragged cough. His 
head fell down on his chest. He was a tall man, well-muscled, if rather the worse for wear. 
Abruptly Sevanna realized that his chest no longer moved. The gem-studded rings on her fingers glittered red and 
green as she gestured curtly to Rhiale. 
The flame-haired woman pushed the man's head up and thumbed back one eyelid, then pressed an ear to his chest, 
careless of the still-smoldering splinters that peppered him. With a sound of disgust, she straightened. "He is dead. We 
should have left this to the Maidens, Sevanna, or the Black Eyes. I do not doubt we killed him by ignorance." 
Sevanna's mouth tightened, and she shifted her shawl in a clatter of bracelets. They ran nearly to her elbows, a 
noticeable weight in gold and ivory and gems, yet she would have worn every one she owned if she could. None of the 
other women said anything. Putting prisoners to the question was not the work of Wise Ones, but Rhiale knew why 
they had to do this themselves. The lone survivor of ten mounted men who thought they could defeat twenty Maidens 
because they rode horses, the man had also been the first Seanchan captured in the ten days since their arrival in this 
land. 
"He would have lived if he had not fought the pain so hard, Rhiale," Someryn said finally, shaking her head. "A strong 



man for a wetlander, but he could not accept pain. Still, he told us 
much." 
Sevanna eyed her sideways, trying to see whether she hid sarcasm. As tall as most men, Someryn wore more bracelets 
and necklaces than any woman there except Sevanna herself, layers of firedrops and emeralds, rubies and sapphires, 
almost concealing a too-full bosom that otherwise would have been half bared with her blouse undone almost to her 
skirt. Her shawl, tied around her waist, hid nothing. At times it was difficult for Sevanna to tell whether Someryn was 
copying her or competing with her. 
"Much!" Meira exclaimed. In the light of the lantern she held, her long face was grimmer than usual, though that hardly 
seemed possible. Meira could find the dark side of the noonday sun. "That his people lie two days west in the city 
called Amador? We knew that. All he has told us are wild tales. Artur Hawkwing! Bah! The Maidens should have kept 
him and done what was needed." 
"Would you . . . risk letting everyone learn too much too soon?" Sevanna bit her lip in vexation. She had almost called 
them "you fools." Too many already knew too much, in her opinion, Wise Ones among them, but she could not risk 
offending these women. That knowledge grated on her! "The people are frightened." There was no need to hide her 
contempt for that, at least. What shocked her, outraged her, was not that they were afraid, but how few made any effort 
to hide the fact. "Black Eyes, or Stone Dogs, or even Maidens, would have talked of what he said. You know they 
would! His lies would only have spread more fear." They had to be lies. In Sevanna's mind a sea was like the lakes she 
had seen in the wetlands, but with its far side beyond sight. If hundreds of thousands more of his people were coming, 
even from the other side of so large a body of water, the other 
prisoners she had questioned would have known of them. And no prisoner was questioned without her present. 
Tion raised the second lantern and regarded her with unblinking gray eyes. Nearly a head shorter than Someryn, Tion 
was still taller than Sevanna. And twice as wide. Her round face often appeared placid, but thinking her so was a 
mistake. "They are right to fear," she said in a stony voice. "I am afraid, and take no shame in it. The Seanchan are 
many if they are no more than took Amador, and we are few. You have your sept around you, Sevanna, but where is 
my sept? Your wetlander friend Caddar and his tame Aes Sedai sent us through his holes in the air to die. Where are 
the rest of the Shaido?" 
Rhiale moved to stand defiantly beside Tion, and they were quickly joined by Alarys, even now toying with her black 
hair to draw attention to it. Or perhaps it was to avoid meeting Sevanna's eyes. After a moment, a scowling Meira 
added herself to the cluster, and then Modarra. Modarra might have been called slim if she were not even taller than 
Someryn; as it was, lean was the best that could be said of her. Sevanna had thought Modarra as firmly in her grasp as 
any of the rings on her fingers. As firmly in her grasp as. ... Someryn looked at her and sighed, looked at the others. 
Slowly she walked over to stand beside them. 
Sevanna was left standing on the very edge of the lantern's light. Of all the women tied to her by the killing of Desaine, 
she trusted these most. Not that she trusted anyone very far, of course. But Someryn and Modarra she had been sure 
were hers as tightly as if they had sworn water oath to follow where she led. And now they dared face her with 
accusing eyes. Even Alarys looked up from playing with her hair. 
Sevanna met their stares with a cool smile just short of a sneer. Now, she decided, was not the time to remind them of 
the crime that bound their fates together. Not the bludgeon, this time. "I suspected Caddar might try to betray us," she 
said instead. Rhiale's blue eyes widened at the admission, and Tion opened her mouth. Sevanna went on, not leaving 
them room to speak. "Would you rather have remained in Kinslayer's Dagger to be destroyed? To be hunted like 
animals by four clans whose Wise Ones know how to make those holes without the traveling boxes? Instead, we are in 
the heart of a rich, soft land. Richer even than the lands of the treekillers. Look at what we have taken in only ten days. 
How much more will we take in a wetlander city? You fear the Seanchan because they have numbers? Remember that I 
brought every Shaido Wise One who can channel with me." That she could not channel herself seldom occurred to her, 
now. Soon that lack would be remedied. "We are as strong as any force these wetlanders can send against us. Even if 
they do have flying lizards." She sniffed forcefully to show what she thought of those! None of them had seen one, nor 
any of the scouts, but nearly every prisoner had been full of the ridiculous tales. "After we find the other septs, we will 
take this land for our own. All of it! We will extract a tenfold repayment from the Aes Sedai. And we will find Caddar 
and make him die screaming for mercy." 
That should have rallied them, restored their hearts as she had had to do before. Not one woman's face changed. Not 
one. 
"And there is the Car'a'carn" Tion said calmly. "Unless you have given up your plan to marry him." 



"I have given up nothing," Sevanna replied irritably. The man— and more important, the power that came with him— 
would be hers someday. Somehow. Whatever it took. Smoothing her voice, she went on. "Rand al'Thor is hardly of 
consequence now." At least to these blind simpletons. With him in her hands, anything would be possible for her. "I do 
not intend to stand here all day discussing my bridal wreath. I have matters to see to that are important." 
As she stalked away from them through the gloom, toward the doors of the stable, an unpleasant thought suddenly 
occurred to her. She was alone with these women. How far could she trust them, now? Desaine's death remained all too 
vivid in her mind; the Wise One had been . . . butchered . . . using the One Power. By the women behind her, among 
others. The thought twisted her belly tight. She listened for the faint rustle of straw that would announce feet following 
her and heard nothing. Were they just standing there watching? She refused to look over her shoulder. Keeping the 
same slow pace required only a little effort— she would not display fear and shame herself!— yet when she pushed 
one of the tall doors open on its well-oiled hinges and stepped into bright midday light, she could not stop from 
drawing a relieved breath. Efalin was pacing outside, shoufa draped around her neck, bow cased on her back, spears 
and buckler in hand. The gray-haired woman turned abruptly, the worry on her face fading only a little at sight of 
Sevanna. The leader of all the Shaido Maidens, and she let her distress show! She was not Jumai, but she had come 
with Sevanna using the excuse that Sevanna spoke as the chief until a new chief of the Shaido could be chosen. 
Sevanna was sure that Efalin suspected that would never happen. Efalin knew where the power lay. And when to keep 
her mouth closed. 
"Bury him deeply and hide the grave," Sevanna told her. Efalin nodded, signaling the Maidens ringing the stable to 
their feet, and they vanished inside behind her. Sevanna studied the building, with its sharp-peaked red roof and blue 
walls, then turned to the field in front of it. A low stone fence with a single opening, right before the stable, enclosed a 
circle of hard-packed dirt perhaps a hundred paces across. The wetlanders had used it for training horses. Why it had 
been placed so far from everything else, surrounded by trees so tall that Sevanna still sometimes stared at them, she had 
not thought to ask the former owners, but the isolation served her purposes. The Maidens with Efalin were those who 
had captured the Seanchan. No one not here knew he existed. Or would know. Were the other Wise Ones talking in 
there? About her? In front of the Maidens? What were they saying? She would not wait on them or anyone! 
They came out of the stable just as she started off toward the forest, Someryn and the others, and followed her into the 
trees arguing among themselves about the Seanchan, and Caddar, and where the rest of the Shaido had been sent. Not 
about her, but then, they would not where she could listen. What she did hear made her grimace. There were over three 
hundred Wise Ones with the Jumai, and it was the same whenever three or four started talking. Where were the rest of 
the septs, and had Caddar been a spear hurled by Rand al'Thor, and how many Seanchan were there, and even did they 
really ride lizards? Lizards! These women had been with her from the first. She had guided their feet step by step, but 
they believed they had helped plan every move, believed they knew the destination. If she was losing them now. . . . 
The forest gave way to a huge clearing that could have swallowed the circle back at the stable fifty times over, and 
Sevanna felt ill temper slipping away as she stopped to look. Low hills rose to the north, and mountains a few leagues 
beyond them were capped with clouds, great masses of white streaked with dark gray. She had never seen so many 
clouds in her life. Closer at hand, thousands of Jumai went about the day's work. The ring of hammer on anvil rose 
from blacksmiths, and sheep and goats were being slaughtered for the evening meal, their bleating mixed with the 
laughter of the children as they ran at play. Given more time to prepare for their flight from Kinslayer's Dagger than the 
other septs, the Jumai had brought the flocks gathered in Cairhien, and added to them here. 
Many people had set up their tents, but there was no need. Colorful structures nearly filled the clearing like a large 
wetlander village, tall barns and stables, a large forge and the squat roofs that had sheltered servants, all painted red and 
blue, surrounding the great roof itself. The manor house that was called, three floors high beneath a dark green tile roof, 
all of it a paler green trimmed with yellow, atop a broad man-made stone hill ten paces tall. Jumai and gai'shain 
climbed the long ramp that led to the great building's door and walked the ornately carved balconies that ringed it. 
The stone walls and palaces she had seen in Cairhien had not impressed her half so much. This one was painted like a 
wagon of the Lost Ones, but even so, marvelous. She should have realized that with so many trees, these people could 
afford to build anything of wood. Could no one but she see how fat this land was? More white-clad gai'shain scurried 
about their tasks than any twenty septs had ever had before, nearly half as many as there were Jumai! No one 
complained about making wetlanders gai'shain anymore. They were so docile! A wide-eyed young man in rough-sewn 
white hurried past clutching a basket, gaping at the people around him and stumbling over the hem of his robe. Sevanna 
smiled. That one's father had called himself the lord of this place and blustered that she and her people would be hunted 
down— by children, of all things!— for this outrage, yet now he wore white and worked as hard as his son, as did his 



wife and his daughters and his other sons. The women had possessed many fine gems and beautiful silks, and Sevanna 
had only taken the first pick for herself. A fat land, so soft it oozed rich oils. 
The women behind her had stopped short to talk among themselves at the edge of the trees. She caught what they were 
saying, and it turned her mood again. 
"... how many Aes Sedai fight for these Seanchan," Tion was saying. "We must learn that." Someryn and Modarra 
murmured agreement. 
"I do not think it matters," Rhiale put in. At least her contrariness extended to the others, too. "I do not think they will 
fight unless we attack them. Remember, they did nothing until we moved against them, not even to defend themselves." 
"And when they did," Meira said sourly, "twenty-three of us died. And more than ten thousand algai'd'siswai did not 
return either. Here, we have little more than a third of that number even counting the Brotherless." She soaked the last 
word in scorn. 
"That was Rand al'Thor's work!" Sevanna told them sharply. "Instead of thinking what he did against us, think what we 
can do when he is ours!" When he is mine, she thought. The Aes Sedai had been able to take and hold him as long as 
they had, and she had something the Aes Sedai had not, else they would have used it. "Remember instead that we had 
the Aes Sedai beaten until he took their side. Aes Sedai are nothing!" 
Once again her effort to strengthen their hearts produced no visible effect. All they could remember was that the spears 
had been broken trying to capture Rand al'Thor, and they with them. Modarra might have been staring into the grave of 
all her sept, and even Tion frowned uneasily, doubtless recalling that she, too, had run like a frightened goat. 
"Wise Ones," a man's voice said behind Sevanna, "I have been sent to ask for your judgment." 
Instantly every woman's face regained its equanimity. What she could not do, he had done with his very presence. No 
Wise One would allow any but another Wise One to see her out of countenance. Alarys stopped stroking her hair, 
which she had pulled over her shoulder. Plainly none of them recognized him. Sevanna thought she did. 
He regarded them gravely, with green eyes much older than his smooth face. He had full lips, but there was a set to his 
mouth, as if he had forgotten how to smile. "I am Kinhuin, of the Mera'din Wise Ones. The Jumai say we may not take 
our full share from this place because we are not Jumai, but it is because they will have less since we are two for every 
Jumai algai'd'siswai. The Brotherless ask your judgment, Wise Ones." 
Now that they knew who he was, some could not hide their dislike of the men who had abandoned clan and sept to 
come to the Shaido rather than follow Rand al'Thor, a wetlander and no true Car'a'carn, as they thought. Tion's face 
merely went flat, but Rhiale's eyes flashed, and Meira teetered on the edge of a scowl. Only Modarra showed concern, 
but then, she would have tried to settle a dispute between treekillers. 
"These six Wise Ones will give judgment after hearing both sides," Sevanna told Kinhuin with a graveness to match 
his. 
The other women looked at her, barely concealing their surprise that she intended to stand aside. It had been she who 
arranged for ten times the number of Mera'din to accompany the Jumai as went with any other sept. She really had 
suspected Caddar, if not of what he had done, and she had wanted as many spears around her as possible. Besides, they 
could always die in place of Jumai. 
She affected surprise at the others' surprise. "It would not be fair for me to take part since my own sept is involved," 
she told them before turning back to the green-eyed man. "They will give fair judgment, Kinhuin. And I am certain 
they will speak in favor of the Mera'din." 
The other women gave her hard looks before Tion motioned abruptly for Kinhuin to lead the way. He had to tear his 
eyes away from Sevanna to comply. Wearing a faint smile— he had been staring at her, not Someryn— she watched 
them vanish into the mass of people moving about the manor grounds. For all their misliking the Brotherless— and her 
making predictions to the man about their decision— the chances were they would decide that way. Either way, 
Kinhuin would remember and tell the others of his so-called society. The Jumai were already in her belt pouch, but 
anything that tied the Mera'din to her was welcome. 
Turning, Sevanna strode back into the trees, though not toward the stable. Now that she was alone, she could see to 
something much more important than the Brotherless. She checked what she had tucked into her skirt at the small of 
her back, where her shawl hid it. She would have felt if it slipped a hair, but she wanted to touch its smooth length with 
her fingers. No Wise One would dare think her less than they, once she used that, perhaps today. And one day, it would 
give her Rand al'Thor. After all, if Caddar had lied in one thing, maybe he had lied in others. 
Through a blur of tears Galina Casban glared at the Wise One shielding her. As if there were any need for the slender 
woman's shield. Right then she could not have so much as embraced the Source. Sitting cross-legged on the ground 



between two squatting Maidens, Belinde adjusted her shawl and gave a thin smile, as if she knew Galina's thoughts. 
Her face was narrow and foxlike, and her hair and eyebrows had been bleached nearly white by the sun. Galina wished 
she had crushed her skull instead of merely slapping her. 
It had not been an attempt at escape, merely more frustration than she could bear. Her days began and ended with 
exhaustion, every day more than the last. She could not remember how long since they had stuffed her into that coarse 
black robe; the days ran together like an everlasting stream. A week? A month? Maybe not that long. Surely not more. 
She wished she had never touched Belinde. If the woman had not stuffed rags into her mouth to silence her sobbing, 
she would have begged to be allowed to carry rocks again, or move a pile of pebbles stone by stone, or any of the 
tortures they filled her hours with. Anything rather than this. 
Only Galina's head stuck out of the leather sack that hung suspended from the stout limb of an oak. Directly beneath 
the sack, coals glowed in a bronze brazier, a slow burn, heating the air inside the sack. She huddled in that sweltering 
heat with her thumbs tied to her toes, sweat slicking her nakedness. Her hair clung damply to her face, and she panted, 
nostrils flaring for air, when she was not sobbing. Even so, this would have been better than the endless, senseless, 
backbreaking labor they subjected her to except for one thing. Before snugging the neck of the sack beneath her chin, 
Belinde had emptied a pouch of some fine powder over her, and as she had begun to sweat, it had begun to burn like 
pepper flung in the eyes. It seemed to coat her from the shoulders down, and, oh, Light, it burned! 
That she called on the Light measured her desperation, but they had not broken her for all their trying. She would get 
free— she would!— and once she did, she would make these savages pay in blood! Rivers of blood! Oceans! She 
would have them all skinned alive! She would . . . ! Flinging back her head, she howled; the wadded rags in her mouth 
muffled the sound, but she howled, and she did not know whether it was a shriek of rage or a scream for mercy. 
When her howls died and her head fell forward, Belinde and the Maidens were on their feet, and Sevanna was with 
them. Galina attempted to stifle her sobbing in front of the golden-haired woman, but she could as soon have plucked 
the sun from the sky with her fingers. 
"Listen to her whine and snivel," Sevanna sneered, coming to look up at her. Galina tried to put an equal contempt in 
her own stare. Sevanna decked herself with enough jewelry for ten women! She wore her blouse unlaced to nearly bare 
her bosom, except for all those mismatched necklaces, and breathed deep when men looked at her! Galina tried, but 
contempt was hard to manage with tears rolling down her cheeks along with her sweat. She shook with weeping, 
making the sack sway. 
"This da'tsang is tough as an old ewe," Belinde cackled, "but I always found even the toughest old ewe was made 
tender if cooked slowly, with the right herbs. When I was a Maiden, I softened Stone Dogs with enough cooking." 
Galina closed her eyes. Oceans of blood, to pay for . . . ! 
The sack lurched, and Galina's eyes popped open as it began to settle. The Maidens had undone the rope running over 
the limb, and the pair of them were lowering her slowly. Frantically she thrashed about, trying to look down, and 
almost began sobbing anew, with relief, when she saw that the brazier had been moved aside. With Belinde's talk of 
cooking. . . . That would be Belinde's fate, Galina decided. Tied to a spit and turned over a fire until her juices dripped! 
That to begin! 
With a thud that made Galina grunt, the leather bag hit the ground and toppled over. As unconcerned as if they were 
handling a sack of potatoes, the Maidens tumbled her out onto the brown weeds, sliced the cords that held her thumbs 
and toes, plucked the gag from between her teeth. Dirt and dead leaves stuck to the sweat coating her. 
She very much wanted to stand, to meet them all eye-to-eye and glare-for-glare. Instead, she rose only as far as hands 
and knees, then dug her fingers into the mulch of the forest floor, dug her toes in. Any further, and she would not be 
able to stop her hands from flying to soothe her red, flaming skin. Her sweat felt like the juice of ice peppers. All she 
could do was crouch there and quiver, try to work some moisture back into her mouth and daydream of what she would 
do to these savages. 
"I believed you were stronger than this," Sevanna said above her in thoughtful tones, "but perhaps Belinde is right. 
Perhaps you are soft enough, now. If you swear to obey me, you can stop being da'tsang. Perhaps you will not even 
have to be gai'shain. Will you swear to obey me in all things?" 
"Yes!" The hoarse word flew from Galina's tongue without hesitation, though she had to swallow before speaking 
more. "I will obey you! I swear it!" And so she would obey. Until they gave the opening she needed. Was this all that 
had been necessary? An oath she would have made the first day? Sevanna would learn what it was like to hang over hot 
coals. Oh, yes, she. . . . 
"Then you will not object to swearing your oath on this," Sevanna said, tossing something down in front of her. 



Galina's scalp crawled as she stared at it. A white rod like polished ivory, a foot long and no thicker than her wrist. 
Then she saw the flowing marks carved into the end toward her, numerals used in the Age of Legends. One hundred 
eleven. She had thought it was the Oath Rod, somehow stolen from the White Tower. That also was marked, but with 
the numeral three, which some thought stood for the Three Oaths. Maybe this was not what it seemed. Maybe. Yet no 
hooded viper from the Drowned Lands coiled there could have frozen her so still. 
"A fine oath, Sevanna. When did you intend to tell the rest of us?" 
That voice jerked Galina's head up. It could have pulled her eyes away from a hooded viper, too. 
Therava appeared among the trees leading a dozen cold-faced Wise Ones. When they stopped behind her, confronting 
Sevanna, every woman present except for the Maidens had been there when Galina was sentenced to wear the black 
robe. A word from Therava, a short nod from Sevanna, and the Maidens departed swiftly. Sweat still oozed from 
Galina, but suddenly the air seemed cold. 
Sevanna glanced at Belinde, who avoided her eye. Sevanna's lip curled, half sneer, half snarl, and she planted fists on 
hips. Galina did not understand where she found the nerve, a woman who could not channel at all. Some of these 
women possessed not inconsiderable strength. No, she could not afford to think of them only as wilders if she was to 
escape and have her revenge. Therava and Someryn were stronger than any woman in the Tower, and any of them 
could have been Aes Sedai easily. 
But Sevanna faced them defiantly. "It seems you rendered justice quickly," she said in a voice dry as dust. 
"The matter was simple," Tion replied calmly. "The Mera'din received the justice they deserved." 
"And they were told they received it in spite of your attempt to sway us," Rhiale added with some heat. Sevanna nearly 
did snarl at that. 
Therava would not be diverted from her purpose, though. In one swift step she reached Galina, gripped a handful of her 
hair and jerked her up to her knees, bent her head back. Therava was not the tallest of these women by at least a head, 
yet she loomed taller than most men, staring down with a hawk's eyes, driving away every thought of revenge or 
defiance. The white streaks touching her dark red hair only made her face more commanding. Galina's hands clenched 
into fists on her thighs, nails digging into her palms. Even the burning of her skin paled under that stare. She had 
daydreamed about breaking every one of these women, making them plead for death, laughing as she denied their 
begging. About every one except Therava. At night, Therava filled her dreams and all Galina could do was try to flee; 
the only escape was to wake screaming. Galina had broken strong men and strong women, but she stared up at Therava 
wide-eyed and 
whined. 
"This one has no honor to shame." Therava almost spat the words. "If you want her broken, Sevanna, let me have her. 
When I am done, she will obey without the need for your friend Caddar's toy." 
Sevanna spoke up heatedly, denying friendship with this Caddar, whoever he was, and Rhiale barked that Sevanna had 
brought him to the others, and others began arguing about whether the "binder" would work any better than the 
"traveling box." 
A small part of Galina's mind seized on mention of the traveling box. She had heard it spoken of before, longed to lay 
hands on it if only for a moment. With a ter'angreal that enabled her to Travel, however imperfectly it seemed to work, 
she would be able to. ... Even hope of escape could not stand against thoughts of what Therava would do to her if the 
others decided to give in to the woman's request. When the hawk-eyed Wise One loosed her hair to join the argument, 
Galina hurled herself at the rod, landing flat on her belly. Anything, even having to obey Sevanna, was better than 
being handed over to Therava. If she had not been shielded, she would have channeled to operate the rod herself. 
No sooner did her fingers close on the smooth rod than Therava's foot came down on it hard, trapping her hands 
painfully against the ground. None of the Wise Ones so much as glanced at her where she lay writhing, trying futilely 
to pull free. She could not make herself pull too hard; dimly she could recall making rulers pale with fear, but she did 
not dare disturb this woman's foot. 
"If she is to swear," Therava said, staring hard at Sevanna, "it should be to obey all of us here." The others nodded, 
some voicing agreement, all but Belinde, and she pursed her lips thoughtfully. Sevanna stared back just as hard. "Very 
well," she acceded finally. "But me first among us. I am not only a Wise One; I speak as the clan chief." 
Therava smiled thinly. "So you do. Two among us first, Sevanna. You and I." Not a whisper of defiance faded from 
Sevanna's face, but she nodded. Grudgingly. Only then did Therava move her foot. The light of saidar surrounded her, 
and a flow of Spirit touched the numerals at the end of the rod in Galina's hands. Just as was done with the Oath Rod. 
For an instant, Galina hesitated, flexing mashed fingers. It felt the same as the Oath Rod, too; not quite like ivory, not 



quite like glass, distinctly cool on her palms. If it was a second Oath Rod, it could be used to remove any oath she 
swore now. If she were given the opportunity. She did not want to take the chance, did not want to swear to Therava in 
any case. Always before this in her life, she had commanded; life since her capture had been misery, but Therava 
would make her a lapdog! Yet if she did not, would they let Therava break her? She could not find the smallest particle 
of doubt that the woman would do just that. Utterly. 
"Under the Light and by my hope of salvation and rebirth"— she no longer believed in the Light or a hope of salvation, 
and there was no need to speak more than a simple promise, but they expected a strong oath—"I swear to obey every 
Wise One present here in all things, and first among them, Therava and Sevanna." The last hope that this "binder" was 
something else vanished as Galina felt the oath settle on her, as if she suddenly wore a garment that covered her far too 
tightly from her scalp to the soles of her feet. Throwing back her head, she screamed. In part that was because it 
suddenly seemed as if the burning of her skin was being pressed deep into her flesh, but mainly, it was pure despair. 
"Be quiet!" Therava said sharply. "I do not want to listen to you wailing!" Galina's teeth clicked shut, nearly biting her 
tongue, and she struggled to swallow her sobs. Nothing but obedience was possible, now. Therava frowned at her. "Let 
us see if this truly works," she muttered, bending closer. "Have you planned violence against any Wise One here? 
Answer truthfully, and ask to be punished if you have. The penalty for violence against a Wise One," she added like an 
afterthought, "can be to be killed like an animal." She drew a finger expressively across her throat then gripped her belt 
knife with the same hand. 
Gulping air in horrified panic, Galina shied back from the woman. She could not take her eyes away from Therava's, 
though, and she could not stop the words that chattered through her teeth. "I d-did, ag-g-gainst all of you! P-please 
p-punish me f-for it!" Would they kill her, now? After all of this, was she to die here? 
"It seems this binder does as your friend claimed after all, Sevanna." Plucking the rod from Galina's limp hands, 
Therava tucked it behind her belt as she straightened. "It also seems that you will wear white after all, Galina Casban." 
For some reason, she gave a pleased smile at that. But she issued other commands, too. "You will behave meekly, as a 
gai'shain should. If a child tells you to jump, you will jump unless one of us has said otherwise. And you will not touch 
saidar or channel unless one of us tells you. Release the shield on her, Belinde." 
The shield vanished, and Galina knelt there, staring hollowly. The Source shone just out of sight, tantalizing. And she 
could have sprouted wings as easily as she could stretch out for it. 
Bracelets clattered as Sevanna shifted her shawl in anger. "You take too much on yourself, Therava. That is mine; give 
it to me!" She held out her hand, but Therava merely folded her arms beneath her breasts. 
"There have been meetings among the Wise Ones," the stern-eyed woman told Sevanna. "We have reached certain 
decisions." The women who had come with her gathered behind her, all of them facing Sevanna, and Belinde hurried to 
join them. 
"Without me?" Sevanna snapped. "Do any of you dare reach a decision without me?" Her tone remained as strong as 
ever, but her eyes flickered to the rod in Therava's belt, and Galina thought there was a touch of uneasiness there. 
Another time, she would have been delighted to see it. 
"One decision had to be reached without you," Tion said in a flat voice. 
"As you so often point out, you speak as the clan chief," Emerys added, a mocking light in her big gray eyes. 
"Sometimes, Wise Ones must talk without a clan chief listening. Or someone who speaks as a chief." 
"We decided," Therava said, "that just as a clan chief must have a Wise One to advise him, so must you have a Wise 
One's advice. I will advise you." 
Gathering her shawl around her, Sevanna studied the women confronting her. Her expression was unreadable. How did 
she do it? They could crush her like an egg beneath a hammer. "And what advice do you offer me, Therava?" she said 
at last in an icy voice. 
"My strong advice is that we move without delay," Therava replied, as cool as Sevanna. "These Seanchan are too close 
and too many. We should move north into these Mountains of Mist and establish a hold. From there, we can send 
parties to find the other septs. It may take long to reunite the Shaido, Sevanna. Your wetlander friend may have 
scattered us to the nine corners of the world. Until we do that, we are vulnerable." 
"We will move tomorrow." If Galina had not been sure she knew Sevanna inside and out, she would have thought the 
woman sounded petulant as well as angry. Those green eyes flashed. "But east. That also is away from the Seanchan, 
and the lands to the east are in turmoil, ripe for plucking." 
There was a long silence, then Therava nodded. "East." She said the word softly, the softness of silk laid over steel. 
"But remember that clan chiefs have lived to regret rejecting a Wise One's advice too often. You may, as well." The 



threat on her face was plain as that in her voice, yet Sevanna laughed! 
"You remember, Therava! All of you remember! If I am left for the vultures, so will you be! I have made assurance of 
that." 
The other women exchanged worried glances, all but Therava, and Modarra and Norlea frowned. 
Slumped on her knees, whimpering and trying in vain to soothe her skin with her hands, Galina found herself 
wondering what these threats meant. It was a small thought, worming its way through bitterness and self-pity. Anything 
she could use against these women would be welcome. If she dared use it. A bitter thought. 
Abruptly she realized that the sky was turning dark. Billowing clouds were rolling down from the north, streaked gray 
and black, obscuring the sun. And beneath the clouds fell flurries of snow, swirling in the air. None reached the 
ground— few fell as far as the treetops— but Galina gaped. Snow! Had the Great Lord loosened his grip on the world 
for some reason? 
The Wise Ones stared at the sky, too, mouths hanging open as if they had never seen clouds, much less snow. 
"What is this, Galina Casban?" Therava demanded. "Speak if you know!" She did not look away from the sky until 
Galina told her it was snow, and when she did it was to laugh. "I always thought the men who ran down Laman 
Treekiller lied about snow. This could not hamper a mouse!" 
Galina clamped her jaws shut on explaining about snowfalls, aghast that her instinct had been to curry favor. Aghast as 
well at the small pang of pleasure that keeping the information back gave. I am the Highest of the Red Ajah! she 
reminded herself. I sit on the Supreme Council of the Black Ajah! They sounded like lies. This was not fair! 
"If we are done here," Sevanna said, "I will take the gai'shain back to the great roof and see her put in white. You can 
remain and stare at the snow if you wish." Her tone was so smooth, like butter in the tub, that no one would have 
thought her at daggers' points only moments earlier. She looped her shawl over her elbows and adjusted some of her 
necklaces; nothing in the world concerned her more. 
"We will take care of the gai'shain" Therava told her just as smoothly. "Since you speak as the chief, you have a long 
day and most of the night ahead of you if we are to move tomorrow." For an instant, Sevanna's eyes flashed again, but 
Therava merely snapped her fingers and gestured sharply at Galina before turning to go. "Come with me," she said. 
"And stop pouting." 
Head down, Galina scrambled to her feet and scurried after Therava and the other women who could channel. Pouting? 
She might have been scowling, but never pouting! Her thoughts scrabbled like rats in a cage, finding no hope of 
escape. There had to be one! There had to be! One thought that surfaced in the middle of that turmoil almost made her 
begin weeping again. Were gai'shain robes softer than the scratchy black wool she had been forced to wear so far? 
There had to be a way out! A hasty glance back through the trees showed Sevanna still standing there, glaring after 
them. Overhead, the clouds swirled, and the falling snow melted like Galina's hopes. 

Chapter 12 New Alliances 

Graendal wished there had been even a simple transcriber among the things she had removed from Illian after 
Sammael's death. This Age was frightful usually, primitive and uncomfortable. Still, some of it suited her. In a large 
bamboo cage at the far end of the room a hundred brightly plum-aged birds sang melodiously, almost as beautiful in 
their multicolored flitting as her two pets in transparent robes who waited on either side of the door, their gazes locked 
on her, eager to serve her pleasure. If oil lamps did not give the same light as glowbulbs, aided by large mirrors on the 
walls they produced a certain barbaric splendor with the gilded fish-scale ceiling. It would have been nice to need only 
speak the words, but actually putting them on paper with her own hand produced a pleasure akin to that she felt in 
sketching. The script of this Age was quite simple, and learning to duplicate another's style had been no more difficult. 
Signing with a flourish—not her own name, of course— she sanded the thick page, then folded it and sealed it with one 
of the signet rings of various sizes that made a decorative line across the writing table. The Hand and Sword of Arad 
Doman impressed on an irregular circle of blue-and-green wax. 
"Take this to Lord Ituralde with all speed," she said, "and say only what I told you." 
"As fast as horses can carry me, my Lady." Nazran bowed as he took the letter, one finger stroking thin black 
mustaches above a winning smile. Square and deeply brown in a well-fitting blue coat, he was handsome; just not 
sufficiently handsome. "I received this from the Lady Tuva, who died of her wounds after telling me that she was a 
courier from Alsalam and had been attacked by a Gray Man." 
"Make sure there is human blood on it," she admonished. She doubted anyone in this time could tell human blood from 



any other, but she had found too many surprises to take an unnecessary chance. "Enough for realism; not enough to 
spoil what I wrote." 
His black eyes lingered warmly on her as he bowed again, but as soon as he straightened he hurried to the door, boots 
thudding on the pale yellow marble floor. He did not notice the servants with their eyes fixed ardently on her, or 
affected not to notice, though he had once been a friend of the young man. Only a touch of Compulsion had been 
needed to make Nazran nearly as avid to obey as they, not to mention certain that he might yet taste her charms again. 
She laughed softly. Well, he believed he had tasted them; just a little prettier, and he might have. Of course, he would 
have been useless for anything else then. He would ride horses to death reaching Ituralde, and if that message, 
delivered by Alsalam's close cousin, supposedly coming from the King himself and with Gray Men trying to stop it, did 
not satisfy the Great Lord's command to increase chaos, nothing would, short of balefire. And it would serve her own 
ends very nicely as well. Her own ends. 
Graendal's hand went to the only ring on the table that was not a signet, a plain golden band too small for any but her 
little finger. It had been a pleasant surprise to find an angreal attuned to women among Sammael's possessions. A 
pleasant surprise to have time to find much of anything useful with al'Thor and those puppies who called themselves 
Asha'man constantly in and out of Sammael's chambers in the Great Hall of the Council. They had stripped it bare of 
what she had not taken. Dangerous puppies, all of them, especially al'Thor. And she had not wanted to risk anyone 
being able to draw a line from Sammael to her. Yes, she must increase the pace of her own plans, and distance herself 
from Sammael's disaster. 
Abruptly a vertical slash of silver appeared at the far end of the room, bright against the tapestries hanging between the 
heavy gilded mirrors, and a crystalline chime rang loud. Her eyebrows rose in surprise. Someone remembered the 
courtesies of a more civilized Age, it seemed. Standing, she forced the plain band of gold down against the ruby ring on 
her smallest finger and embraced saidar through it before channeling the web that would sound an answering chime for 
whoever wanted to open a gateway. The angreal did not offer much, yet anyone who thought they knew her strength 
would find a shock. 
The gateway opened, and two women in nearly identical red-and-black silk dresses stepped through warily. At least, 
Moghedien moved cautiously, dark eyes flickering in search of traps, hands smoothing her wide skirts; the gateway 
winked out after a moment, but she held on to saidar. A sensible precaution, though Moghedien had always been a 
great one for precautions. Graendal did not let go of the Source, either. Moghedien's companion, a short young woman 
with long silver hair and vivid blue eyes, stared about her coldly, hardly more than glancing in Graendal's direction. By 
her demeanor, she might have been a Prime Counselor forced to endure the company of common laborers and intent on 
ignoring their existence. A foolish girl, to imitate the Spider. Red and black did not suit her coloring, and she should 
have made better use of such an impressive bosom. 
"This is Cyndane, Graendal," Moghedien said. "We are ... working together." She did not smile when she named the 
haughty young woman, but Graendal did. A pretty name for a more than pretty girl, but what twist of fate had led some 
mother of this time to give her daughter a name that meant "Last Chance"? Cyndane's face remained cold and smooth, 
but her eyes flared. A beautiful doll carved from ice, with hidden fires. It seemed she knew the meaning and did not 
like it. 
"What brings you and your friend, Moghedien?" Graendal asked. The Spider was the very last she had expected to 
come out from the shadows. "Have no fear of speaking in front of my servants." She gestured, and the pair by the door 
sank to their knees, pressed their faces to the floor. They would not quite fall dead by her simple command, but close. 
"What interest can you find in them when you destroy anything that might make them interesting?" Cyndane 
demanded, striding arrogantly across the floor. She held herself very straight, striving for every hair of height. "Do you 
know that Sammael is dead?" 
Graendal kept her own face smooth, with a little effort. She had supposed this girl some Friend of the Dark whom 
Moghedien had picked up to run errands, perhaps a noble who thought her title counted, but now that she was close. . . 
. The girl was stronger in the One Power than she herself! Even in her own Age, that had been uncommon among men, 
and very rare indeed among women. On the instant, on instinct, she changed her intention to deny any contact with 
Sammael. 
"I suspected," she replied, directing a false smile over the young woman's head at Moghedien. How much did she 
know? Where had the Spider found a girl so much stronger than she, and why was she traveling with her? Moghedien 
had always been jealous of anyone with more strength. Or more of anything. "He used to visit me, importuning my help 
in one mad plan or another. I never rejected him outright; you know Sammael is—was a dangerous man to reject. He 



appeared every few days without fail, and when he stopped, I assumed something dire had happened to him. Who is 
this girl, Moghedien? A remarkable find." 
The young woman stepped closer, staring up at her with eyes like blue fire. "She told you my name. That is all you 
need know." The girl knew she spoke to one of the Chosen, and yet her tone remained frost. Even given her strength, 
this was no simple Friend of the Dark. Unless she was insane. "Have you paid attention to the weather, Graendal?" 
Abruptly, Graendal realized that Moghedien was letting the girl do all the talking. Hanging back until a weakness 
became apparent. And Graendal had been letting her! "I do not suppose you came to tell me of Sammael's death, 
Moghedien," she said sharply. "Or to talk about weather. You know I seldom go outside." Nature was unruly, lacking 
order. There were not even windows in this room, nor in most that she used. "What do you want?" The dark-haired 
woman was edging sideways along the wall; the glow of the One Power still surrounded her. Graendal stepped casually 
so that both remained in her sight. 
"You make a mistake, Graendal." A chilly smile barely curved Cyndane's full lips; she was enjoying this. "I lead 
between us. Moghedien is in a bad odor with Moridin for her recent mistakes." 
Wrapping her arms around herself, Moghedien shot the silver-haired little woman a scowl as good as any spoken 
confirmation. Suddenly Cyndane's big eyes opened even wider, and she gasped, shuddering. 
Moghedien's glare turned malicious. "You lead for the moment," she sneered. "Your place in his eyes is not far better 
than mine." And then she gave a start and shivered, biting her lip. 
Was she being toyed with, Graendal wondered. The pure hatred for each other on the two women's faces seemed 
unfeigned. Either way, she would see how they enjoyed being played. Unconsciously rubbing her hands together, 
rubbing the angreal on her finger, she moved to a chair without taking her eyes from the pair. The sweetness of saidar 
flowing into her was a comfort. Not that she needed comfort, but there was something odd here. The high straight back, 
thickly carved and gilded, made the chair seem a throne, though it was no different from any other in the room. Such 
things affected even the most sophisticated on levels they never knew consciously. 
She sat leaning back with her leg's crossed, one foot kicking idly, the picture of a woman at her ease, and made her 
voice bored. "Since you lead, child, tell me, when this man who calls himself Death is in his skin, who is he? What is 
he?" 
"Moridin is Nae'blis." The girl's voice was calm and cold and arrogant. "The Great Lord has decided it is time for you 
to serve the Nae'blis, too." 
Graendal jerked upright. "This is preposterous." She could not keep the anger from her voice. "A man I've never heard 
of has been named the Great Lord's Regent on Earth?" She did not mind when others tried to manipulate her— she 
always found a way to turn their schemes against them— but Moghedien must take her for a half-wit! She had no doubt 
that Moghedien was directing this obnoxious girl, whatever they claimed, whatever looks they stabbed at each other. "I 
serve the Great Lord and myself, no other! I think the two of you should go, now, and play your little game elsewhere. 
Demandred might be diverted by it. Or Semirhage? Be careful how you channel in leaving; I have set a few inverted 
webs, and you would not want to trigger one." 
That was a lie, but a very believable one, so it came as a shock when Moghedien suddenly channeled and every lamp in 
the room went out, plunging them into darkness. Instantly Graendal flung herself from the chair so as not to be where 
they had last seen her, and she also channeled even as she moved, weaving a web of light that hung to one side, a 
sphere of pure white that cast lurid shadows about the room. And revealed the pair clearly. Without hesitation, she 
channeled again, drawing the full strength of the little ring. She did not need it all, or even most, but she wanted every 
advantage she could find. Attack her, would they! A net of Compulsion tightened on each of them before they could 
twitch. She had spun the nets strong, for anger's sake, nearly strong enough to do harm, and the women stood staring at 
her adoringly, eyes wide and mouths hanging open in adulation, intoxicated with worship. They were hers to command, 
now. If she told them to cut their own throats, they would. Suddenly Graendal realized that Moghedien was no longer 
embracing the Source. This much Compulsion might have shocked her into letting go. The servants by the door had not 
moved, of course. 
"Now," she said a touch breathlessly, "you will answer my questions." She had a number, including who was this 
Moridin fellow, if there was such a man, and where had Cyndane come from, but one piqued her more than the rest. 
"What did you hope to gain by this, Moghedien? I may decide to knot those webs on you. You can pay for your game 
by serving me." 
"No, please," Moghedien groaned, wringing her hands. She actually began to weep! "You will kill us all! Please, you 
must serve the Nae'blis! That is what we came for. To bring you to Moridin's service!" The silver-haired little woman's 



face was a shadowed mask of terror in the pale light, her bosom heaving as she gulped breath. 
Suddenly uneasy, Graendal opened her mouth. This made less and less sense by the moment. She opened her mouth, 
and the True Source vanished. The One Power vanished from her, and blackness swallowed the room again. Abruptly 
the caged birds broke into a frenzy of chirruping; their wings fluttered frantically against the bamboo bars. 
Behind her, a voice rasped like rock being ground to dust. "The Great Lord thought you might not take their word, 
Graendal. The time when you could go your own way has passed." A ball of... something . . . appeared in the air, a 
dead black globe, but a silver light filled the room. The mirrors did not shine; they seemed to dull in that light. The 
birds went still, silent; somehow, Graendal knew they had frozen in terror. 
She gaped at the Myrddraal standing there, pale and eyeless and clothed in black deeper than the ball, but larger than 
any she had ever seen. It had to be the reason she could not sense the Source, but that was impossible! Except. . . . 
Where had that strange sphere of black light come from if not from it? She had never felt the same fear others did at a 
Myrddraal's gaze, not to the same degree, yet her hands rose on their own, and she had to snatch them down to keep 
from covering her face. Glancing toward Moghedien and Cyndane, she flinched. They had adopted the same pose as 
her servants, crouching on their knees, heads to the floor toward the Myrddraal. 
She had to work moisture into her mouth. "You are a messenger from the Great Lord?" Her voice was steady, but 
weak. She had never heard of such a thing, the Great Lord sending a message by Myrddraal, and yet. . . . Moghedien 
was a physical coward, but still one of the Chosen, and she groveled as assiduously as the girl. And there was the light. 
Graendal found herself wishing her dress were not cut so low. Ridiculous, of course; Myrddraal's appetites for women 
were well known, but she was one of the. . . . Her eyes drifted to Moghedien once more. 
The Myrddraal strode by her sinuously, seeming not to pay her any heed. Its long black cloak hung undisturbed by its 
movements. Aginor had thought the creatures were not quite in the world in the same way everything else was; 
"slightly out of phase with time and reality," he had called it, whatever that meant. 
"I am Shaidar Haran." Stopping by her servants, the Myrddraal bent to grip them by the backs of their necks, one hand 
to each. "When I speak, you may consider that you hear the voice of the Great Lord of the Dark." Those hands 
tightened to the surprisingly loud sound of cracking bone. The young man spasmed as he died, kicking out; the young 
woman merely went limp. They had been two of her prettiest. The Myrddraal straightened from the corpses. "I am his 
hand in this world, Graendal. When you stand before me, you stand before him." 
Graendal considered carefully, if quickly. She was afraid, an emotion she was far more used to inspiring in others, but 
she knew how to control her fear. While she had never commanded armies as some of the others had, she was neither a 
stranger to hazard nor a coward, yet this was more than a mere threat. Moghedien and Cyndane still knelt with their 
heads to the marble floor, Moghedien actually trembling visibly. Graendal believed this Myrddraal. Or whatever it 
truly was. The Great Lord was taking a more direct hand in events, as she had feared. And if he learned of her 
scheming with Sammael. ... If he chose to take action, that was; betting that he did not know was a foolish wager at this 
point. 
She knelt smoothly before the Myrddraal. "What would you have me do?" Her voice had regained its strength. A 
necessary flexibility was not cowardice; those who did not bend for the Great Lord were bent. Or snapped in two. 
"Should I call you Great Master, or would you prefer another title? I would not feel comfortable addressing even the 
Great Lord's hand as I would him." 
Shockingly, the Myrddraal laughed. It sounded like ice crumbling. Myrddraal never laughed. "You are braver than 
most. And wiser. Shaidar Haran will do for you. So long as you remember who I am. So long as you do not let bravery 
overcome your fear too far." 
As it issued its commands— a visit to this Moridin was first, it seemed; she would need to be on her guard against 
Moghedien, and perhaps Cyndane also, taking revenge for her brief use of Compulsion; she doubted the girl was any 
more forgiving than the Spider— she decided to keep to herself the letter she had sent to Rodel Ituralde. Nothing she 
was told indicated that her actions would be displeasing to the Great Lord, and she still had to consider her own 
position. Moridin, whoever he was, might be Nae'blis today, but there was always tomorrow. 
**** 
Bracing herself against the rocking of Arilyn's coach, Cadsuane moved one of the leather window curtains far enough 
to see out. A light rain fell on Cairhien from a gray sky full of blustering clouds and rough, swirling winds. Not only 
the sky was full of wind. Howling gusts rocked the coach more than did its forward motion. Tiny droplets stung her 
hand, cold as ice. If the air cooled a little more, there would be snow. She drew her woolen cloak closer; she had been 
pleased to find it, shoved to the bottom of her saddlebags. The air would cool. 



The city's steep slate roofs and stone-paved streets glistened wetly, and though the rain was not hard, few were willing 
to brave the strong winds. A woman guiding an ox-cart with taps of a long goad moved as patiently as her ox, but most 
people afoot clutched cloaks tightly, hoods pulled down, and stepped quickly as the bearers of a sedan chair rushed by, 
its stiff con fluttering. Others beside the woman and her ox saw no reason for haste, though. In the middle of the street 
a towering Aielman stood gaping at the sky in disbelief while the drizzle soaked him, so absorbed that a daring 
cutpurse sliced away his belt pouch and darted off unnoticed by his victim. A woman whose elaborately curled, 
high-piled hair marked her as noble walked along slowly, her cloak flapping wildly, and its long hood as well. This 
might have been the first time ever that she had actually walked in the streets, but she was laughing as the rain slicked 
her cheeks. From the doorway of a perfumer's shop, the shopkeeper stared out disconsolately; she would do little 
business today. Most of the hawkers had vanished for the same reason, but a handful still hopefully cried hot tea and 
meat pies from barrows beneath makeshift awnings. Though anyone who bought a meat pie in the street these days 
deserved the bellyache she would get. 
A pair of starving dogs ran out from an alley, stiff-legged and hackles up, barking and snarling at the coach. Cadsuane 
let the curtain fall. Dogs seemed to know women who could channel as easily as cats did, but dogs appeared to think 
the women were cats, if unnaturally large ones. The pair of women seated across from her were still in conversation. 
"Forgive me," Daigian was saying, "but the logic is inescapable." She ducked her head apologetically, making the 
moonstone dangling on a fine silver chain from her long black hair sway across her forehead. Her fingers plucked the 
white slashes in her dark skirts, and she spoke rapidly, as though afraid of being interrupted. "If you accept that the 
lingering heat was the Dark One's work, the change must be by some other agency. He would not have relented. You 
might say that he has decided to freeze or drown the world instead of baking it, but why? Had the heat continued 
through spring, the dead might well have outnumbered the living, no different than if snow falls into the summer. 
Therefore, logically, some other hand is at work." The plump woman's diffidence was trying at times, but as always, 
Cadsuane found her logic impeccable. She just wished she knew whose hand and to what end. 
"Peace!" Kumira muttered. "I would rather an ounce of hard proof than a hundredweight of your White Ajah logic." 
She was Brown, herself, though little given to their usual failings. A handsome woman with short-cut hair, she was 
hardheaded and practical, a keen observer, and never lost herself so deeply in thought that she lost sight of the world 
around her as well. No sooner had Kumira spoken than she patted Daigian's knee with a graceful hand, and gave a 
smile that changed her blue eyes from sharp to warm. Shienarans were a polite people, by and large, and Kumira took 
care not to offend. By accident, at least. "Put your mind to what we can do about the sisters held by the Aiel. I know 
you'll reason out something if anyone can." 
Cadsuane snorted. "They deserve whatever happens to them." She had not been allowed near the Aiel tents herself, nor 
had any of her companions, but some of the fools who had sworn fealty to the al'Thor boy had ventured out to the 
sprawling encampment and come back white-faced and torn between outrage and sicking up. Normally, she also would 
have been furious over the affront to Aes Sedai dignity, whatever the circumstances; not now. To achieve her goal, she 
would have run the entire White Tower through the streets naked. How could she concern herself with the discomfort 
of women who might have ruined everything? Kumira opened her mouth to protest despite knowing her feelings, but 
Cadsuane went on, calm yet relentless. "Perhaps they'll weep enough to atone for the dog's dinner they made of 
matters, but I doubt it. They are out of our hands, and if they were in mine, I might just give them to the Aiel. Forget 
them, Daigian, and put that fine mind of yours on the track I set you." 
The Cairhienin woman's pale cheeks flushed red at the compliment. Thank the Light she was not this way except with 
other sisters. Kumira sat silently, very smooth-faced, her hands in her lap. She might be subdued now, but little could 
subdue Kumira for long. They were exactly the pair Cadsuane wanted with her today. 
The coach tilted as the team started up the long ramp leading to the Sun Palace. "Remember what I told you," she told 
the other two firmly. "And have a care!" 
They murmured that they would, as well they might, and she nodded. If need demanded, she would use them both for 
mulch, and others too, but she did not intend to lose either because they grew careless. 
There was no bother or delay in letting the coach through the Palace gates. The guards recognized Arilyn's sigil on the 
doors, and they knew who would be riding inside. That coach had been to the Palace often enough in the past week. 
The moment the horses halted, an anxious-eyed footman in unadorned black opened the coach door, holding out a 
broad flat parasol of dark oiled cloth. Rain dripped from the edge onto his bare head, but then, it was not intended for 
his shelter. 
Quickly touching the ornaments dangling from the bun atop her head to be sure they were all there—she had never lost 



one, but that was because she was careful of them—Cadsuane gathered the handles of her square wicker sewing basket 
from beneath her seat and stepped down. Half a dozen footmen stood waiting behind the first, parasols at the ready. So 
many passengers would have crowded the coach beyond comfort, but the footmen were not about to be caught short, 
and the extra did not hurry away until it was plain there were only the three of them. 
Obviously the coach had been seen coming. Dark-garbed serving men and women made a neat array on the deep blue 
and gold tiles of the great entry hall with its square-vaulted ceiling 
r 
five spans high. They leaped forward, taking cloaks, offering small, warm linen towels in case anyone needed to dry 
face or hands, proffering Sea Folk porcelain goblets of mulled wine that gave off a heady scent of spices. A winter 
drink, yet the sudden drop in temperature made it suitable. And after all, it was winter. Finally. 
Three Aes Sedai stood waiting to one side among the massive square columns of dark marble, in front of tall, pale 
friezes depicting battles no doubt important to Cairhien, but Cadsuane ignored the women for the time being. One of 
the young serving men had a small red-and-gold figure embroidered on the left breast of his coat, what people were 
calling a Dragon. Corgaide, the grave-faced, gray-haired woman who ordered the servants in the Sun Palace, wore no 
ornament save for the large ring of heavy keys at her waist. Nor did anyone else have any decoration on their clothes, 
and despite the young man's apparent enthusiasm, it was Corgaide, the Holder of the Keys, who would set the mood 
among the servants. Still, she had allowed the young fellow his embroidery; a point to remember. Cadsuane spoke to 
her quietly, asking after a room where she might work her embroidery hoop undisturbed, and the woman did not blink 
at the request. But then, doubtless she had heard stranger, serving in this place. 
As the servants with the cloaks and trays bowed and curtsied themselves off, Cadsuane finally turned to the three 
sisters among the columns. They were all looking at her, ignoring Kumira and Daigian. Corgaide remained, but she 
stayed well back, giving the Aes Sedai privacy. "I hardly expected to find you strolling about at your ease," Cadsuane 
said. "I thought the Aiel worked their apprentices hard." 
Faeldrin barely reacted, merely a slight jerk of her head that softly rattled the colored beads in her thin braids, but 
Merana colored with embarrassment, and her hands clenched in her skirts. Events had shaken Merana so deeply that 
Cadsuane was unsure she would ever recover. Bera, of course, was very nearly unflappable. 
"Most of us were given a freeday because of the rain," Bera replied calmly. A sturdy woman in plain wool— fine and 
well-cut, but decidedly plain— you might have thought her more at home on a farm than in a palace. You might if you 
were a fool; Bera had a keen mind, a strong will, and Cadsuane did not believe she ever made the same mistake twice. 
Like most sisters, she had not entirely gotten over meeting Cadsuane Melaidhrin, alive and in the flesh, yet she did not 
let awe rule her. After only the slightest of deep breaths, she went on. "I cannot understand why you keep coming back, 
Cadsuane. Clearly, you want something from us, but unless you tell us what it is, we cannot help you. We know what 
you did for the Lord Dragon" —she stumbled a little over the title; they still were not quite sure what to call the boy— 
"but it's obvious you came to Cairhien because of him, and until you tell us why and what you intend, you must 
understand that you'll find no aid from us." Faeldrin, another Green, gave a start at Beta's bold tone, but she was 
nodding agreement before Bera finished. 
"You must understand this, too," Merana added, her serenity regained. "If we decide we must oppose you, we will." 
Beta's face did not change, but Faeldrin's mouth tightened briefly. Perhaps she disagreed, and perhaps she did not want 
to reveal too much. 
Cadsuane favored them with a thin smile. Tell them why and what? If they decided? So far they had managed to stuff 
themselves into young al'Thor's saddlebags tied hand and foot, even Bera. Small recommendation for letting them 
decide so much as what to wear in the morning! "I did not come to see you," she said. "Though I suppose Kumira and 
Daigian would enjoy a visit, since you have a freeday. You will excuse me." 
Motioning Corgaide to lead on, she followed the woman across the entry hall. She only glanced back once. Bera and 
the others had already gathered up Kumira and Daigian and were hustling them away, but hardly like welcome guests. 
More like herded geese. Cadsuane smiled. Most sisters considered Daigian little better than a wilder and treated her 
little better than a servant. In that company, Kumira hardly stood much higher. The most suspicious could not think 
they were there to try to convince anyone of anything. So Daigian would pour the tea and sit quietly except when 
addressed—and apply her excellent mind to everything she heard. Kumira would let everyone except Daigian speak 
before her—and sort and file away every word, every gesture and grimace. Bera and the rest would keep their oaths to 
the boy, of course—that went without saying—but how assiduously was 
another question. Even Merana might be unwilling to go too far beyond bare obedience. That was bad enough, yet it 



left considerable room for them to maneuver. Or be maneuvered. 
Dark-liveried servants hurrying at their tasks along the broad, tapestry-hung hallways darted aside for Cadsuane and 
Corgaide, and the two of them progressed to a flurry of deep bows and curtsies made over baskets and trays and 
armloads of towels. From the way eyes watched Corgaide, Cadsuane suspected the deference was as much for the 
Holder of the Keys as for an Aes Sedai. There were a few Aiel about, too, huge men like cold-eyed lions and women 
like colder-eyed leopards. Some of those gazes followed her icily enough to bring on the snow threatened by the rain 
outside, but other Aiel nodded to her gravely, and here and there one of the fierce-eyed women went so far as to smile. 
She had never claimed to be responsible for saving their Car'a'carn, but tales became twisted in retelling, and the belief 
granted her more respect than any other sister, and certainly more freedom of movement around the Palace. She 
wondered how they would feel if they knew that had she had the boy in front of her right then, she would have been 
hard-pressed to stop herself from blistering his hide for him! Barely more than a week since he nearly got himself 
killed, and not only had he managed to elude her completely, he had made her task even more difficult, if half what she 
heard was true. A pity he had not been raised in Far Madding. But then, that might have led to its own catastrophe. 
The room Corgaide took her to was comfortably warm, with fires blazing in marble fireplaces at either end of the 
chamber and lamps lit, mirrored flames in glass towers that chased the day's gloom. Plainly Corgaide had sent orders 
ahead to prepare while she was waiting in the entry hall. A serving woman appeared almost as soon as they, with both 
hot tea and spiced wine on a tray, and small cakes glazed with honey. 
"Will there be anything else, Aes Sedai?" Corgaide asked as Cadsuane set her sewing basket beside the tray on a table 
with edge and legs thickly gilded. Rigidly carved, too, as was the wide cornice, also covered with gilt. Cadsuane 
always felt she was in a golden fish weir when she visited Cairhien. Despite the light and warmth inside, rain dripping 
outside the tall narrow windows and the gray sky outside heightened the sensation. 
"The tea will do nicely," she said. "If you will, tell Alanna Mosvani that I want to see her. Tell her, without delay." 
Corgaide's keys jingled as she curtsied, murmuring respectfully that she would find "Alanna Aes Sedai" herself. Her 
grave expression never altered as she left. Very likely she was examining the request for subtleties. Cadsuane preferred 
to be direct, when possible. She had tripped up any number of clever people who had not believed she meant exactly 
what she said. 
Opening the lid of her sewing basket, she took out her embroidery hoop with a less than half-done piece of work 
wrapped around it. The basket had pockets woven inside to hold items that had nothing to do with sewing. Her ivory 
hand mirror and hairbrush and comb, a pen case and tightly stoppered ink bottle, a number of things that she had found 
useful to have at hand over the years, including some that would have surprised anyone with nerve enough to search 
the basket. Not that she often left it out of her sight. Setting the polished silver thread box carefully on the table, she 
selected the skeins she needed and sat with her back to the door. The major image on her piece of embroidery was 
finished, a man's hand clutching the ancient symbol of the Aes Sedai. Cracks ran across the black-and-white disc, and 
there was no telling whether the hand was trying to hold it together or crush it. She knew what she intended, but time 
would tell what was truth. 
Threading a needle, she set to work on one of the surrounding images, a bright red rose. Roses and starblaze and 
sunburst alternated with daisies and heartsblush and snowcap, all separated by bands of stark nettles and long-thorned 
briars. It would be a disturbing piece, when completed. 
Before she had finished half a petal on the rose, a flash of motion reflected on the flat lid of the thread box caught her 
eye. It had been carefully placed to reflect the doorway. She did not raise her head from the hoop. Alanna stood there 
glaring at her back. Cadsuane continued the slow work of her needle, but she watched that reflection from the corner of 
her eye. Twice Alanna half turned as if to go, then finally drew herself up, visibly steeling herself. 
"Come in, Alanna." Still not raising her head, Cadsuane pointed to a spot in front of her. "Stand there." She smiled 
wryly as Alanna jumped. There were advantages to being a legend; people seldom noticed the obvious when dealing 
with a legend. 
Alanna stalked into the room in a swish of silk skirts and took the place Cadsuane had indicated, but there was a sulky 
twist to her mouth. "Why do you persist in badgering me?" she demanded. "I cannot tell you any more than I have. And 
if I could, I don't know that I would! He belongs to—!" She cut off abruptly, biting her lower lip, but she might as well 
have finished. The al'Thor boy belonged to her; her Warder. She had the gall to think that! 
"I have kept your crime to myself," Cadsuane said quietly, "but only because I saw no reason to complicate matters." 
Lifting her eyes to the other woman, she kept her voice soft. "If you think that means I won't core you like a cabbage, 
think again." 



Alanna stiffened. The light of saidar suddenly shone around her. 
"If you wish to be truly foolish." Cadsuane smiled, a cold smile. She made no move to embrace the Source herself. One 
of her dangling hair ornaments, intertwined golden crescents, was cool on her temple. "You keep a whole hide at 
present, but my sufferance is not infinite. In fact, it dangles by a thread." 
Alanna struggled with herself, unconsciously smoothing blue silk. Abruptly the glow of the Power winked out, and she 
turned her head away from Cadsuane so swiftly that her long black hair swung. "I don't know any more to tell." The 
sullen words rushed out of her breathily. "He was injured, and then not, but I don't think a sister Healed him. The 
wounds no one could Heal are still there. He leaps about, Traveling, but he's still in the south. Somewhere in Illian, I 
think, but at this distance, he could be in Tear for all I know. He's full of rage, and pain, and suspicion. There isn't any 
more, Cadsuane. There isn't!" 
Careful of the silver pitcher's heat, Cadsuane poured a cup of tea, testing the thin green porcelain cup for warmth. As 
might have been expected in silver, the tea had cooled quickly. Channeling briefly, she heated it again. The dark tea 
tasted too much of mint; Cairhienin used mint entirely too freely in her opinion. She did not offer a cup to Alanna. 
Traveling. How could the boy have rediscovered what had been lost to the White Tower since the Breaking? "You will 
keep me fully informed, however, won't you, Alanna." That was not a question. "Look at me, woman! If you dream of 
him, I want every detail!" 
Unshed tears glistened in Alanna's eyes. "In my place, you would have done the same!" 
Cadsuane scowled over the cup at her. She might have. There was no difference between what Alanna had done and a 
man forcing himself on a woman, but, the Light help her, she might have, had she believed it would help her reach her 
goal. Now, she no longer considered even making Alanna pass the bond to her. Alanna had proved how useless that 
was in controlling him. 
"Do not keep me waiting, Alanna," she said in an icy tone. She had no sympathy for the other woman. Alanna was 
another in a line of sisters, from Moiraine to Elaida, who had bungled and worsened what they should have been 
mending. While she herself had been off chasing first Logain Ablar and then Mazrim Taim. Which did not soothe her 
mood. 
"I will keep you fully informed," Alanna sighed, pouting like a girl. Cadsuane itched to slap her. Alanna had worn the 
shawl almost forty years; she should have grown up more than this. Of course, she was Arafellin. In Far Madding, few 
girls of twenty sulked and pouted as much as an Arafellin could on her aged deathbed. 
Abruptly, Alanna's eyes widened in alarm, and Cadsuane saw another face reflected in the lid of her thread box. Setting 
the cup back on the tray and her embroidery hoop on the table, Cadsuane stood and turned to the door. She did not 
hurry, but she did not dally or play games as she had with Alanna, either. 
"Are you done with her, Aes Sedai?" Sorilea asked, stepping into the room. The leathery, white-haired Wise One spoke 
to Cadsuane, but her eyes remained on Alanna. Ivory and gold clicked softly at her wrists as she planted hands on her 
hips, and her dark shawl slid to her elbows. 
When Cadsuane said that she was indeed done, Sorilea gestured curtly to Alanna, who stalked from the room. Flounced 
might have been a better word, with sullen irritation on her face. Sorilea frowned after her. Cadsuane had encountered 
the woman before, and interesting encounters they had been, if brief. She had not met many people she considered 
formidable, but Sorilea was one. Perhaps even a match for herself, in some ways. She also suspected the woman was as 
old as she was, maybe older, and that, she had never expected to find. 
No sooner had Alanna vanished than Kiruna appeared in the doorway, kicking gray silk skirts in her hurry and peering 
down the hall in the direction Alanna had gone. And carrying an intricately worked golden tray that held an even more 
elaborate golden pitcher with a high neck, and, incongruously, two small, white-glazed pottery cups. "Why is Alanna 
running?" she said. "I would have been faster, Sorilea, but—" She saw Cadsuane then, and her cheeks went the deepest 
possible crimson. Embarrassment looked quite odd on the statuesque woman. 
"Put the tray on the table, girl," Sorilea said, "and go to Chaelin. She will be waiting to give you your lessons." 
Stiffly, Kiruna set her burden down, avoiding Cadsuane's eyes. As she turned to go, Sorilea caught her chin in sinewy 
fingers. "You have begun to make a true effort, girl," the Wise One told her firmly. "If you continue, you will do very 
well. Very well. Now, go. Chaelin is not as patient as I." 
Sorilea waved toward the corridor, but Kiruna stood staring at her for a long moment, a strange expression on her face. 
If Cadsuane had had to make a wager, she would have called Kiruna pleased at the praise and surprised at being 
pleased. The white-haired woman opened her mouth, and Kiruna gave herself a shake and hurried from the room. A 
remarkable show. 



"Do you really think she will learn your ways of weaving saidar?" Cadsuane asked, hiding her incredulity. Kiruna and 
the others had told her of these lessons, but many of the Wise Ones' weaves were very different from those taught in the 
White Tower. The first way you learned the weave for a particular thing imprinted itself on you; learning a second was 
all but impossible, and even when you could learn, the second-learned weave almost never worked nearly as well. That 
was one reason some sisters did not welcome wilders to the Tower at any age; too much might have been learned 
already, and could not be unlearned. 
Sorilea shrugged. "Perhaps. Learning a second way is hard enough without all the hand-waving you Aes Sedai do. The 
main thing Kiruna Nachiman must learn is that she owns her pride; it does not own her. She will be a very strong 
woman once she learns that." Pulling a chair around to face the one Cadsuane had 
been sitting in, she eyed it doubtfully, then sat down. She appeared almost as stiff and uncomfortable as Kiruna had, 
but she motioned authoritatively for Cadsuane to sit, a strong-willed woman used to command. 
Cadsuane swallowed a rueful chuckle as she took her chair. It was well to be reminded that, wilders or not, the Wise 
Ones were far from ignorant savages. Of course they would know the difficulties. As for hand-waving. . . . Few had 
channeled where she could see, but she had noticed that they created some weaves without the gestures that sisters 
used. The hand movements were not truly part of the weave, but in a way they were, because they had been part of 
learning the weave. Perhaps, once, there had been Aes Sedai who could, say, hurl a ball of fire without some sort of 
throwing motion, but if so, they were long dead, and their teachings with them. Today, some things just could not be 
done without the appropriate gestures. There were sisters who claimed they could tell who had taught another sister by 
which motions she used for which weaves. 
"Teaching any of our new apprentices anything has been difficult at best," Sorilea went on. "I do not speak to offend, 
but you Aes Sedai give oath, it seems, and immediately try to find a way around it. Alanna Mosvani is particularly 
difficult." Suddenly her clear green eyes were very sharp on Cadsuane's face. "How can we punish her willful failings 
if it means harming the Car’a’carn'?" 
Cadsuane folded her hands in her lap. Masking surprise was not easy. So much for the secret of Alanna's crime. But 
why had the woman let her know that she knew? Perhaps one revelation called for another. "The bond does not work in 
that fashion," she said. "If you kill her, he will die, then or soon after. Short of that, he will be aware of what happens to 
her, but he will not really feel it. As far away as he is now, he will only be vaguely aware, at that." 
Sorilea nodded slowly. Her fingers touched the golden tray on the table, then came away. Her expression was as hard 
to read as the face of a statue, but Cadsuane suspected that Alanna would find an unpleasant surprise the next time she 
let her temper flare, or threw one of her Arafellin sulks. That was unimportant, though. Only the boy was important. 
"Most men will take what is offered, if it seems attractive and pleasant," Sorilea said. "Once, we thought of Rand 
al'Thor so. Unfortunately, it is too late to change the path we walk. Now, he suspects whatever is offered freely. Now, 
if I wanted him to accept something, I would pretend I did not want him to have it. If I wanted to stay close to him, I 
would pretend indifference to whether I ever saw him again." Once more, those eyes focused on Cadsuane, green 
augers. Not trying to see what lay inside her head. The woman knew. Some, at least. Enough, or too much. 
Still, Cadsuane felt a rising thrill of possibility. If she had had any doubts that Sorilea wanted to feel her out, they were 
gone. And you did not feel out someone in this manner unless you hoped for some agreement. "Do you believe a man 
must be hard?" she asked. She was taking a chance. "Or strong?" By her tone, she left no doubt she saw a difference. 
Again Sorilea touched the tray; the smallest of smiles might have quirked her lips for an instant. Or not. "Most men see 
the two as one and the same, Cadsuane Melaidhrin. Strong endures; hard shatters." 
Cadsuane drew breath. A chance she would have scoured anyone else for taking. But she was not anyone else, and 
sometimes chances had to be taken. "The boy confuses them," she said. "He needs to be strong, and makes himself 
harder. Too hard, already, and he will not stop until he is stopped. He has forgotten how to laugh except in bitterness; 
there are no tears left in him. Unless he finds laughter and tears again, the world faces disaster. He must learn that even 
the Dragon Reborn is flesh. If he goes to Tarmon Gai'don as he is, even his victory may be as dark as his defeat." 
Sorilea listened intently, and kept silent even after Cadsuane finished. Those green eyes studied her. "Your Dragon 
Reborn and your Last Battle are not in our prophecies," Sorilea said at last. "We have tried to make Rand al'Thor know 
his blood, but I fear he sees us as only another spear. If one spear breaks in your hand, you do not pause to mourn 
before taking up another. Perhaps you and I aim at targets not too far apart." 
"Perhaps we do," Cadsuane said cautiously. Targets even a hand apart might be not at all alike. 
Abruptly, the glow of saidar surrounded the leather-faced woman. She was weak enough to make Daigian look at least 
moderately strong. But then, Sorilea's strength did not lie in the Power. "There is a thing you may find useful," she said. 



"I cannot make it work, but I can weave the flows to show you." She did just that, laying feeble skeins that fell into 
place and melted, too poor to do what they were intended for. "It is called Traveling," Sorilea said. 
This time, Cadsuane's jaw dropped. Alanna and Kiruna and the rest denied teaching the Wise Ones how to link, or a 
number of other skills they suddenly seemed to have, and Cadsuane had assumed the Aiel had managed to wring them 
out of the sisters held in the tents. But this was. . . . 
Impossible, she would have said, yet she did not believe Sorilea was lying. She could hardly wait to try the weave 
herself. Not that it was of much use immediately. Even if she knew exactly where the wretched boy was, she had to 
make him come to her. Sorilea was right about that. "A very great gift," she said slowly. "I have nothing I can give you 
to compare." 
This time, there was no doubt of the brief smile that flashed across Sorilea's lips. She knew very well that Cadsuane 
was in her debt. Taking up the heavy golden pitcher with both hands, she carefully filled the small white cups. With 
plain water. She did not spill a drop. 
"I offer you water oath," she said solemnly, picking up one of the cups. "By this, we are bound as one, to teach Rand 
al'Thor laughter and tears." She sipped, and Cadsuane imitated her. 
"We are bound as one." And if their targets turned out not to be the same at all? She did not underestimate Sorilea as 
ally or opponent, but Cadsuane knew which target had to be struck, at any cost. 

Chapter 13 Floating Like Snow 

The northern horizon was purple with the fierce rain that had hammered the east of Illian through the night. Overhead, 
a morning sky of dark boiling clouds threatened, and strong winds flung cloaks about, made banners snap and crack 
like whips on the crest of the ridge, the white Dragon Banner and the crimson Banner of Light, and the bright standards 
of nobility from Illian and Cairhien and Tear. The nobles kept to their own kind, three widely spaced knots awash in 
gilt and silver-plated steel, silks and velvets and laces, but in common they looked around uneasily. Even the 
best-trained of their horses tossed heads and stamped hooves on the muddy ground. The wind was cold, and colder 
seeming for the heat it had replaced so abruptly, just as the rain had been a shock after so long without. From whatever 
nation, they had prayed for the baking drought to break, but none knew what to make of unrelenting storms in answer 
to their prayers. Some glanced at Rand when they thought he would not notice. Perhaps wondering if he had answered 
them so. The thought made him laugh softly, bitterly. 
He patted his black gelding's neck with a leather-gauntleted hand, glad that Tai'daishar did not show nerves. The 
massive animal might have been a statue, awaiting the pressure of reins or knees to move. It was good that the Dragon 
Reborn's horse seemed as cold as he did, as though they floated in the Void together. Even with the One Power raging 
through him, fire and ice and death, he was barely aware of the wind, though it flailed his gold-embroidered cloak 
about and cut through his coat, green silk thickly worked with gold and not intended for wear in such weather. The 
wounds in his side ached and throbbed, the old and the new cutting across it, the wounds that would never heal, but that 
was distant, too, another man's flesh. The Crown of Swords might have been pricking someone else's temples with the 
sharp points of the tiny blades among its golden laurel leaves. Even the filth woven through saidin seemed less 
obtrusive than it once had; still vile, still loathsome, but no longer worth notice. The nobles' eyes on his back were 
palpable, though. 
Shifting his sword hilt, he leaned forward. He could see the tight cluster of low, wooded hills half a mile to the east as 
clearly as if he were using a looking glass. The land was flat, here, the only prominences those forested hills and this 
long ridge, thrusting up from the heath. The next thicket dense enough to truly deserve the name lay close to ten miles 
off. Only storm-battered half-leafless trees and tangles of undergrowth were visible on the hills, but he knew what they 
hid. Two, perhaps three thousand of the men Sammael had gathered to try to stop him from taking Illian. 
That army had disintegrated once they learned that the man who had summoned them was dead, that Mattin Stepaneos 
had vanished, perhaps into the grave as well, and that there was a new king in Illian. Many had scattered back to their 
homes, yet just as many clung together. Usually no more than twenty here, thirty there, but a great army if they came 
together again, and countless armed bands otherwise. Either way, they could not be allowed to roam the countryside. 
Time weighed down on his shoulders like lead. There was never enough time, but maybe this once. . . . Fire and ice and 
death. 
What would you do? he thought. Are you there? And then, doubtfully, hating the doubt, Were you ever there? Silence 
answered, deep and dead in the emptiness that surrounded him. Or was there mad laughter somewhere in the recesses 



of his mind? 
Did he imagine it, like the feel of someone looking over his shoulder, someone just on the brink of touching his back? 
Or the colors that swirled just out of sight, more than colors, and were gone? A thing of madmen. His gloved thumb 
slid along the carvings that serpentined the Dragon Scepter. The long green-and-white tassels below the polished 
spearpoint fluttered in the wind. Fire and ice, and death would come. 
"I will go talk to them myself," he announced. Which produced a furor. 
Lord Gregorin, the green sash of the Council of Nine slanted across his ornately gilded breastplate, hurried his 
fine-ankled white gelding forward from the Illianers, followed closely by Demetre Marcolin, First Captain of the 
Companions, on a solid bay. Marcolin was the only man among them without silk or a speck of lace, the only man in 
plain if brightly burnished armor, though the conical helmet resting on his saddle's high pommel did bear three thin 
golden plumes. Lord Marac lifted his reins, then let them fall uncertainly when he saw no others of the Nine move. A 
wide man with a stolid manner, and new to the Council, he often seemed more craftsman than lord despite the rich silks 
beneath his lavish armor and the falls of lace spilling over. High Lords Weiramon and Tolmeran spurred together from 
the Tairens, as crusted with gold and silver as any of the Nine, and Rosana, newly raised to High Lady and wearing a 
breastplate worked with the Hawk-and-Stars of her House. There, too, others half made as if to follow then hung back, 
looking worried. Blade-slender Aracome and blue-eyed Maraconn and bald-headed Gueyam were dead men; they did 
not know that, but however much they wanted to be at the center of power, they feared Rand would kill them. Only 
Lord Semaradrid came from the Cairhienin, on a gray that had seen better days, his armor battered, its gilding chipped. 
His face was gaunt and hard, the front of his head shaved and powdered like a common soldier, and his dark eyes shone 
with contempt for the taller Tairens. 
There was plenty of contempt to go around. Tairens and Cairhienin hated one another. Illianers and Tairens despised 
each other. Only Cairhienin and Illianers got along to any degree, and there was a certain amount of prickle even there. 
Their two nations might not have near the long history of bad blood shared by Tear and Illian, yet the Cairhienin still 
were foreigners, armed and armored on Illian's soil, welcomed halfheartedly at best and only that much because they 
followed Rand. But despite all the frowning and bristling and trying to talk at once as they milled about Rand in a 
flurry of windblown cloaks, they had a common goal now. After a fashion. 
"Majesty," Gregorin said hastily, bowing in his gold-tooled saddle, "I do beg you let me go in your stead, or First 
Captain Marcolin." The square-cut beard that left his upper lip bare framed a round face creased with worry. "These 
men must know you are King—the proclamations do be read in every village, at every crossroads, as we do speak—yet 
they may no show proper respect for your crown." Lantern-jawed Marcolin, clean-shaven, studied Rand with dark, 
deep-set eyes, giving no hint what lay behind his impassive face. The Companions' loyalty was to the crown of Illian, 
and Marcolin was old enough to remember when Tarn al'Thor had been Second Captain over him, but only he knew 
what he thought of Rand al'Thor as King. 
"My Lord Dragon," Weiramon intoned as he made his bow, not waiting for Gregorin to finish. The man always 
intoned, and even on horseback he seemed to strut. His worked velvets and striped silks and falls of lace almost 
overwhelmed his armor, and his pointed gray beard gave off a flowery scent of perfumed oils. "This rabble is too petty 
to concern the Lord Dragon personally. Set dogs to catch dogs, I say. Let the Illianers root them out. Burn my soul, 
they've done nothing so far to serve you but talk." Trust him to turn agreement with Gregorin into an insult. Tolmeran 
was lean enough to make Weiramon appear bulky and somber enough to dim the luster of his garb; he was no fool, and 
rival to Weiramon besides, yet he nodded slowly in agreement. No love lost there for Illianers, at all. 
Semaradrid curled a lip at the Tairens but addressed himself to Rand, cutting in hard on Weiramon's heels. "This 
gathering is ten times as large any other we have found so far, my Lord Dragon." He cared nothing for the King of 
Illian, and little enough for the Dragon Reborn, except that the throne of Cairhien was Rand's to give, and Semaradrid 
hoped it would be given to one he could follow instead of fight. "Their loyalties must be to Brend, or so many would 
not have held together. I fear talking 

to them is a waste of time, but if you must talk, let me ring their position openly with steel so they know the price of 
putting a foot out of line." 
Rosana glared right back at Semaradrid, a lean woman, not tall yet nearly as tall as he, with eyes like blue ice. She did 
not wait for him to finish, either, and she, too, spoke to Rand. "I've come too far and invested too much in you to see 
you die now, for nothing," she said bluntly. No more a fool than Tolmeran, Rosana had claimed a place in the councils 
of the High Lords, though Tairen High Ladies seldom did, and blunt was the word for her. Despite the armor most of 



the noblewomen wore, none actually led their armsmen into battle, yet Rosana carried a flanged mace on her saddle, 
and sometimes Rand thought she would like a chance to use it. "I doubt those Illianers lack for bows," she said, "and it 
takes only one arrow to kill even the Dragon Reborn." Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Marcolin nodded before catching 
himself, then exchanged startled looks with Rosana, each more surprised than the other to find themselves of like mind 
with an ancient enemy. 
"These peasants could never have found the mettle to stay under arms without encouragement," Weiramon continued 
smoothly, ignoring Rosana. He was skilled at ignoring who, and what, he did not want to see or hear. He was a fool. 
"May I suggest my Lord Dragon look to these so-called Nine for the source?" 
"I do protest this Tairen pig's insults, Majesty!" Gregorin growled right atop him, one hand darting to his sword. "I do 
protest most heartily!" 
"There are too many this time," Semaradrid said at the same instant. "Most will turn against you as soon as your back is 
to them in any case." By his pointed frown, he might have been speaking of the Tairens as well as the men on the 
wooded hills. Perhaps he was. "Better to kill them and be done!" 
"Did I ask for opinions?" Rand snapped harshly. Babble became silence, except for the crack of cloaks and banners 
flapping in the wind. Suddenly expressionless faces regarded him, more than one going gray. They did not know he 
held the Power, but they knew him. Not all of what they knew was truth, but it was just as well they believed. "You 
will come with me, Gregorin," he said in a more normal voice. Still hard, though. Steel was all they understood; go 
soft, and they would turn on him. "And you, Marcolin. The rest stay here. Dashiva! Hopwil!" 
Everyone not named reined their horses back hurriedly as the two Asha'man rode to join Rand, and the Illianers eyed 
the black-coated men as though they would have liked to remain behind, too. Aside from anything else, Corlan Dashiva 
was glowering and muttering under his breath as he so often did. Everyone was aware that saidin drove men mad 
sooner or later, and plain-faced Dashiva certainly looked the part, lank untrimmed hair flying in the wind, licking his 
lips and shaking his head. For that matter, Eben Hopwil, just sixteen and still with a few scattered blotches on his 
cheeks, wore a staring frown that gazed beyond anything in sight. At least Rand knew the why of that. 
As the Asha'man drew near, Rand could not help cocking his head to listen, though what he listened for was inside his 
head. Alanna was there, of course; neither the Void nor the Power altered that a whisker. Distance wore that awareness 
down to just that— awareness that she existed, somewhere far to the north— yet there was something more today, 
something he had felt several times recently, dim and barely on the edge of notice. A whisper of shock, perhaps, or 
outrage, a breath of something sharp he could not quite grasp. She must feel whatever it was very strongly for him to be 
even that conscious of it at this distance. Maybe she was missing him. A wry thought. He did not miss her. Ignoring 
Alanna was easier than it had been once. She was there, but not the voice that used to shout of death and killing 
whenever an Asha'man came into sight. Lews Therin was gone. Unless that feel of someone staring at the back of his 
head, brushing his shoulder blades with a finger, was him. Was there a madman's hoarse laughter deep in his thoughts? 
Or was it his own? The man had been there! He had! 
He became aware of Marcolin staring at him, and Gregorin trying very hard not to. "Not yet," he told them wryly, and 
almost laughed when they clearly understood right away. Relief was too plain on their faces for anything else. He was 
not insane. Yet. "Come," he told them, and started Tai'daishar down the slope at a trot. Despite the men following, he 
felt alone. Despite the Power, he felt empty. Between the ridge and the hills lay patches of thick scrub and long 
stretches of dead grass, a glistening mat of brown and yellow beaten flat by the rain. Only a few days ago the ground 
had been so parched that he had thought it could drink a river without changing. Then the torrents came, sent by the 
Creator finding mercy at last, or maybe by the Dark One in a fit of black humor; he did not know which. Now the 
horses' hooves splashed mud at every second step. He hoped this did not take long. He had some time, by what Hopwil 
had reported, but not forever. Perhaps weeks, if he was lucky. He needed months. Light, he needed years he would 
never have! 
His hearing heightened by the Power, he could make out some of what the men behind him were saying. Gregorin and 
Marcolin rode knee-to-knee, trying to hold their cloaks against the wind and speaking in low tones about the men 
ahead, about their fears the men might fight. Neither doubted they would be crushed if they resisted, but they feared the 
effect on Rand, and his on Illian, if Illianers fought him now that Brend was dead. They still could not bring themselves 
to give Brend his true name, Sammael. The very notion that one of the Forsaken had ruled in Illian frightened them 
even more than the fact that the Dragon Reborn ruled there now. 
Dashiva, slumped in his gray's saddle like a man who had never seen a horse before, muttered angrily under his breath. 
In the Old Tongue, which he spoke and read as fluently as a scholar. Rand knew a little, though not enough to 



understand what the fellow was mumbling. Probably complaints about the weather; despite being a farmer, Dashiva 
disliked being out-of-doors unless the skies were clear. 
Only Hopwil rode in silence, frowning at something beyond the horizon, his hair and cloak whipping about as wildly as 
Dashiva's. Now and then he clutched the hilt of his sword unconsciously. Rand had to speak three times, the last 
sharply, before Hopwil gave a surprised jerk and booted his lanky dun up beside Tai'daishar. 
Rand studied him. The young man— not a boy any longer, no matter his age— had filled out since Rand first saw him, 
though his nose and ears still seemed made for a bigger man. A Dragon, red-enameled gold, now balanced the silver 
Sword on his high collar, just like Dashiva's. Once, he had said he would laugh a year for joy when the Dragon was his, 
but he stared unblinking at Rand as though looking through him. 
"What you learned was good news," Rand told him. Only an effort kept him from trying to crush the Dragon Scepter in 
his fist. "You did well." He had expected the Seanchan to return, but not so soon. He had hoped not so soon. And not 
leaping out of nowhere, swallowing cities at a gulp. When he found out that merchants in Illian had known for days 
before any of them thought to inform the Nine—the Light forbid they should lose a chance at profit because too many 
knew too much!—he had been within a hair of scouring the city to its foundations. But the news was good, or as good 
as it could be in the circumstances. Hopwil had Traveled to Amador, to the countryside nearby, and the Seanchan 
appeared to be waiting. Perhaps digesting what they had consumed. The Light send they choked on it! He forced his 
grip to loosen on the length of Dragon-carved spearhead. "If Morr brings half as good, I have time to settle Illian before 
dealing with them." Ebou Dar, as well! The Light burn the Seanchan! They were a distraction, one he did not need and 
could not afford to ignore. 
Hopwil said nothing, only looked. 
"Are you upset because you had to kill women?" Desora, of the Musara Reyn, and Lamelle, of the Smoke Water 
Miagoma, and. . . . Rand forced down the instinctive litany even as it began floating across the Void. New names had 
appeared on that list, names he did not remember adding. Laigin Arnault, a Red sister who had died trying to take him 
a prisoner to Tar Valon. Surely she had no right to a place, but she had claimed one. Colavaere Saighan, who had 
hanged herself rather than accept justice. Others. Men had died in thousands, by his order or by his hand, but it was the 
faces of the women that haunted his dreams. Each night, he made himself confront their silently accusing eyes. Maybe 
it was their eyes he had felt of late. 
"I told you about damane and sul'dam" he said calmly, but inside of him, rage flared, fire spider webbing around the 
emptiness of the Void. The Light burn me, I've killed more women than all your nightmares could hold! My hands are 
black with the blood of women! "If you hadn't wiped out that Seanchan patrol, they'd have killed you for sure." He did 
not say that Hopwil should have avoided them, avoided the need to kill them. Too late for that. "I doubt that damane 
even knew how to shield a man. You had no choice." And better they were all dead than some escaping with word of a 
man who could channel, scouting them. 
Absently, Hopwil touched his left sleeve, where the black color disguised fire-scarred wool. The Seanchan had not died 
easily or fast, "I piled the bodies in a hollow," he said in a flat voice. "The horses, everything. I burned it all to ash. 
White ash that floated in the wind like snow. It didn't bother me at all." 
Rand heard the lie on the man's tongue, but Hopwil had to learn. After all, he had. They were what they were, and that 
was all there was to it. All there was. Liah, of the Cosaida Chareen, a name written in fire. Moiraine Damodred, 
another name that seared to the soul rather than merely burning. A nameless Darkfriend, represented only by a face, 
who had died by his sword near. . . . 
"Majesty," Gregorin said loudly, pointing ahead. A lone man came out of the trees at the foot of the nearest hill to stand 
waiting in an attitude of defiance. He carried a bow, and wore a pointed steel cap and a belted mail shirt that hung 
nearly to his knees. 
Rand spurred Tai'daishar to meet him seething with the Power. Saidin could protect him from men. 
Up close, the bowman did not make so brave a sight. Rust streaked his helmet and mail, and he looked sodden, mud to 
his thighs, damp hair trailing down a narrow face. Coughing hollowly, he scrubbed at a long nose with the back of his 
hand. His bowstring appeared taut, though; that, he had protected from the rain. And the fletchings on the arrows in his 
quiver looked dry, too. 
"Are you the leader here?" Rand demanded. 
"You might say I do speak for him," the narrow-faced man replied warily. "Why?" As the others galloped up behind 
Rand, he shifted his feet, dark eyes like a cornered badger's. Badgers were dangerous, cornered. 
"Watch your tongue, man!" Gregorin snapped. "You do speak to Rand al'Thor, the Dragon Reborn, Lord of the 



Morning and King of Illian! Kneel to your King! What do your name be?" 
"He do be the Dragon Reborn?" the fellow said doubtfully. Eyeing Rand from the crown on his head to his boots, 
lingering a moment on the gilded Dragon buckling his sword belt, the man shook his head as if he had expected 
someone older, or grander. "And Lord of the Morning, you do say? Our King did never style himself so." He made no 
move toward kneeling, or giving his name. Gregorin's face darkened at the man's tone, and maybe at the man's oblique 
denial of Rand as King. Marcolin gave a slight nod, as though he had expected no more. 
Damp rustlings stirred in the undergrowth among the trees. Rand heard easily, and abruptly he felt saidin fill Hopwil. 
No longer staring at nothing, Hopwil studied the woodline intently, a wild light in his eyes. Dashiva, silent, raking dark 
hair out of his face, looked bored. Leaning forward in his saddle, Gregorin opened his mouth angrily. Fire and ice, but 
not yet death. 
"Peace, Gregorin." Rand did not raise his voice, but he wove flows to carry his words, Air and Fire, so they boomed 
against the wall of trees. "My offer is generous." The long-nosed man staggered at the sound, and Gregorin's horse 
shied. Those hidden men would hear clearly. "Lay down your arms, and those who want to return home, can. Those 
who want to follow me instead, can do that. But no man leaves here under arms unless he does follow me. I know most 
of you are good men, who answered the call of your King and the Council of Nine to defend Illian, but I am your King, 
now, and I'll not have anyone tempted to turn bandit." Marcolin nodded grimly. 
"What about your Dragonsworn burning farms?" a man's frightened voice shouted from the trees. "They do be flaming 
bandits!" 
"What about your Aiel?" another called. "I do hear they carry off whole villages!" More voices from unseen men 
joined in, all shouting the same things, Dragonsworn and Aiel, murderous brigands and savages. Rand ground his teeth. 
When the shouting faded, narrow-face said, "You do see?" He paused to cough, then hawked and spat, maybe for his 
chest and maybe for emphasis. A pitiful sight, all wet and rust, but his backbone was as tight as his bowstring. He 
ignored Rand's glare as easily as he did Gregorin's. "You do ask us to go home unarmed, unable to defend ourselves or 
our families, while your people do burn and steal and kill. They do say the storm be coming," he added, and looked 
surprised that he had, surprised and confused for a moment. 
"The Aiel you've heard about are my enemies!" Not spider-webs of flame this time, but solid sheets of fury that 
wrapped tight around the Void. Rand's voice was ice, though; it roared like the crack of winter. The storm was coming? 
Light, he was the storm! "My Aiel are hunting them down. My Aiel hunt the Shaido, and they and Davram Bashere and 
most of the Companions hunt bandits, whatever they call themselves! I am the King of Illian, and I will allow no one to 
disrupt the peace of Illian!" 
"Even if what you say do be true," narrow-face began. 
"It is!" Rand snapped. "You have until midday to decide." The man frowned uncertainly; unless the roiling clouds 
cleared, he might have a difficult time knowing midday. Rand gave him no relief. "Decide wisely!" he said. Whirling 
Tai'daishar about, he spurred the gelding to a gallop back toward the ridge without waiting for the others. 
Reluctantly he let go of the Power, forced himself not to hang on like a man clutching salvation with his fingernails as 
life and filth drained from him together. For an instant, he saw double; the world seemed to tilt dizzily. That was a 
recent problem, and he worried it might be part of the sickness that killed men who channeled, but the dizziness never 
lasted more than moments. It was the rest of letting go that he regretted. The world seemed to dull. No, it did dull, and 
became somehow less. Colors were washed-out, the sky smaller, compared to what they had been before. He wanted 
desperately to seize the Source again and wring the One Power out of it. Always it was so when the Power left him. 
No sooner had saidin gone, though, than rage bubbled in its place, white-hot and searing, nearly as hot as the Power 
had been. The Seanchan were not enough, and brigands hiding behind his name? Deadly distractions he could not 
afford. Was Sammael reaching out from the grave? Had he sown the Shaido to sprout like thorns wherever Rand laid a 
hand? Why? The man could not have believed he would die. And if half the tales Rand heard were true, there were 
more in Murandy and Altara and the Light alone knew where! Many among the Shaido already taken prisoner had 
spoken of an Aes Sedai. Could the White Tower be involved somehow? Would the White Tower never give him 
peace? Never? Never. 
Battling fury, he was blind to Gregorin and the rest catching up. When they topped the ridge among the waiting nobles, 
he drew rein so abruptly that Tai'daishar reared, pawing the air and flinging mud from his hooves. The nobles edged 
their mounts back, from his gelding, from him. 
"I gave them to midday," he announced. "Watch them. I don't want this lot breaking into fifty smaller bands and 
slipping away. I'll be in my tent." Except for wind-tossed cloaks they might have been stone, rooted to one spot as if he 



meant the command to watch for them personally. At that moment, he did not care if they stayed there till they froze or
melted.
Without another word he trotted down the back slope of the ridge, followed by the two black-coated Asha'man and his
Illianer banner-bearers. Fire and ice, and death was coming. But he was steel. He was steel.


Chapter 14 Message from the M'Hael


A mile west of the ridge, the camps began, men and horses and cook fires, wind-flailed banners and a few scattered
tents clumped by nationality, by House, each camp a lake of churned mud separated from the others by stretches of
brushy heath. Men mounted and afoot watched Rand's streaming banners pass, and peered toward other camps to gauge
reactions. When the Aiel had been present, these men had made a single huge camp, driven together by one of the few
things they truly shared in common. They were not Aiel, and feared them however much they denied it. The world
would die unless he succeeded, but he had no illusions that they shared any loyalty to him, or even believed that the
fate of the world could not be made to accommodate their own concerns, their own desires for gold or glory or power.
A handful did, perhaps, a bare handful, but for the most part, they followed because they feared him far more than they
did the Aiel. Maybe more than they did the Dark One, in whom some did not really believe, not in the depths of their
hearts, not that he could and would touch the world harder than he had already. Rand stood before their faces, and they
believed in that. He accepted it, now. He had too many battles ahead of him to waste effort on one he could not win. So
long as they followed and obeyed, it had to be enough.
The largest of the camps was his own, and here Illianer Companions in green coats with yellow cuffs rubbed shoulders
with Tairen Defenders of the Stone in fat-sleeved coats striped black-and-gold and an equal number of Cairhienin
drawn from forty-odd Houses, in dark colors, some with con stiff above their heads. They cooked at different fires,
slept apart, picketed their horses apart, and eyed one another warily, but they mingled. The safety of the Dragon
Reborn was their responsibility, and they took the job seriously. Any of them might betray him, but not while the
others were there to watch. Old hatreds and new dislikes would bring betrayal of any plot before the betrayer stopped
to think.
A ring of steel stood guard around Rand's tent, a huge peaked thing of green silk embroidered all over with bees in
thread-of-gold. It had belonged to his predecessor, Mattin Stepaneos, and had come with the crown, in a manner of
speaking. Companions in burnished conical helmets stood side by side with Defenders in helmets ridged and rimmed,
and Cairhienin in bell-shaped helms, ignoring the wind, barred face guards hiding their features, halberds slanted
precisely. Not one moved a hair when Rand drew rein, but a bevy of servants came running to attend to him and the
Asha'man. A bony woman in the green-and-yellow vest of a groom from the Royal Palace in Illian took his bridle,
while his stirrup was held by a bulbous-nosed fellow in the black-and-gold livery of the Stone of Tear. They tugged
forelocks to him, and cast only one sharp look at one another. Boreane Carivin, a stout pale little woman in a dark
dress, self-importantly offered him a silver tray of damp cloths from which steam rose. Cairhienin, she watched the
other two, though more as if making sure they did their tasks properly than with the animosity for each other they
barely hid. But with care, still. What worked with the soldiers worked with the servants as well.
Drawing off his gauntlets, Rand waved away Boreane's tray. Damer Flinn had risen from an ornately carved bench in
front of the tent as Rand dismounted. Bald except for a ragged white fringe, Flinn looked more a grandfather than an
Asha'man. A leather-tough grandfather with a stiff leg, who had seen more of the world than a farm. The sword at his
hip looked as if it be longed, as well it should on a former soldier of the Queen's Guard. Rand trusted him more than
most. Flinn had saved his life, after all.
Flinn saluted, fist to chest, and when Rand acknowledged him with a nod, limped closer and waited until the grooms
left with the horses before speaking in a low voice. "Torval's here. Sent by the M'Hael, he says. He wanted to wait in
the council tent. I told Narishma to watch him." That had been Rand's command, though he was not sure why he had
given it; no one who came from the Black Tower was to be left alone. Hesitating, Flinn fingered the Dragon on his
black collar. "He wasn't happy to hear you'd raised all of us."
"Wasn't he, now," Rand said softly, tucking his gloves behind his sword belt. And because Flinn still looked uncertain,
he added, "You all earned it." He had been about to send one of the Asha'man to Taim— the Leader, the M'Hael, as the
Asha'man all called him— but now Torval could carry the message. In the council tent? "Have refreshments sent," he
told Flinn, then motioned Hopwil and Dashiva to follow.
Flinn saluted again, but Rand was already striding away, black mud squelching around his boots. No cheers rose for




him in the blustering wind. He could recall when there had been. If that was not one of Lews Therin's memories. If 
Lews Therin had ever been real. A flash of color just beyond the edge of sight, the feel of someone about to touch him 
from behind. With an effort, he focused himself. 
The council tent was a large red-striped pavilion that had once sat on the Plains of Maredo, now pitched in the middle 
of Rand's encampment, surrounded by thirty paces of bare ground. There were never guards here, not unless Rand was 
meeting with the nobles. Anyone trying to slip in would have been seen instantly by a thousand prying eyes. Three 
banners on tall poles formed a triangle around the tent, the Rising Sun of Cairhien, the Three Crescents of Tear, and the 
Golden Bees of Illian, and above the crimson roof, higher than the rest, stood the Dragon Banner, and the Banner of 
Light. The wind made them all stand out, rippling and snapping, and the tent walls shivered in the gusts. Inside, 
colorful, fringed carpets made a floor, and the only furniture was a huge table, thickly carved and gilded, inlaid with 
ivory and turquoise. A jumble of maps almost hid the tabletop. 
Torval lifted his head from the maps, plainly ready to give the rough side of his tongue to whoever had barged in on 
him. Close to his middle years and tall beside anyone save Rand or an Aiel, he stared coldly down a sharp nose that 
practically quivered with indignation. The Dragon and the Sword glistened on his coat collar in the light of the 
stand-lamps. A silk coat, shining black, cut fine enough for a lord. His sword had silver mountings washed with gold, 
and a glittering red gem capped the hilt. Another gleamed darkly on a finger ring. You could not train men to be 
weapons without expecting a certain amount of arrogance, yet Rand did not like Torval. But then, he had no need of 
Lews Therin's voice to be suspicious of any man in a black coat. How far did he truly trust even Flinn? Yet he had to 
lead them. The Asha'man were his making, his responsibility. 
When Torval saw Rand, he straightened casually and saluted, but his expression barely changed. He had had a sneering 
mouth the first time Rand ever saw him. "My Lord Dragon," he said in the accents of Tarabon, and he might have been 
greeting an equal. Or being gracious to an inferior. His swaggering bow took in Hopwil and Dashiva as well. "I give 
congratulations on the conquest of Illian. A great victory, yes? There would have been wine to greet you, but this 
young . . . Dedicated . . . does not seem to understand orders." 
In the corner, silver bells on the ends of Narishma's two long dark braids made a faint sound as he shifted. He had 
tanned darkly in the southern sun, but some things about him had not changed. Older than Rand, his face made him 
seem younger than Hopwil, but the red that rose in his cheeks was anger, not embarrassment. His pride in the new-won 
Sword on his collar was quiet, yet deep. Torval smiled at him, a slow smile both amused and dangerous. Dashiva 
laughed, a short bark, and was still. 
"What are you doing here, Torval?" Rand asked roughly. He tossed the Dragon Scepter and his gauntlets down atop the 
maps and followed them with his sword belt and scabbarded sword. The maps that Torval had no reason to be studying. 
No need of Lews Therin's voice. 
With a shrug, Torval produced a letter from his coat pocket and handed it to Rand. "The M'Hael, he sent this." The 
paper was snowy white and thick, the seal a dragon impressed in a large oval of blue wax that glittered with golden 
flecks. It might almost have been thought to come from the Dragon Reborn. Taim did think well of himself. "The 
M'Hael said to tell you the tales of Aes Sedai in Murandy with an army, they are true. Rumor says they are rebels 
against Tar Valon"—Torval's sneer thickened with disbelief—"but they are marching toward the Black Tower. Soon, 
they may become a danger, yes?" 
Rand cracked the magnificent seal to bits between his fingers. "They're going to Caemlyn, not the Black Tower, and 
they're no threat. My orders were clear. Leave Aes Sedai alone unless they come after you." 
"But how can you be sure they are not a threat?" Torval persisted. "Perhaps they are going to Caemlyn, as you say, but 
if you are wrong, we'll not know before they attack us." 
"Torval might be right," Dashiva put in thoughtfully. "I can't say I'd trust women who put me in a box, and these 
haven't sworn any oaths. Or have they?" 
"I said leave them alone!" Rand slapped the tabletop, hard, and Hopwil jumped in surprise. Dashiva frowned with 
irritation before hurriedly smoothing it over, but Rand was not interested in Dashiva's moods. By chance— he was sure 
it was chance— his hand had come down on the Dragon Scepter. His arm trembled with the desire to take it up and 
stab Torval through the heart. No need for Lews Therin at all. "The Asha'man are a weapon to be aimed where I say, 
not to flutter around like hens every time Taim gets frightened over a handful of Aes Sedai having dinner at the same 
inn. If I must, I can come back to make myself clearer." 
"I am sure there is no need of that," Torval said quickly. At last something had wiped the wry twist from his mouth. 
Eyes tight, he spread his hands, close to diffident, very nearly apologetic. And plainly frightened. "The M'Hael, he 



merely wanted you informed. Your orders are read aloud every day at Morning Directives, after the Creed." 
"That's good, then." Rand kept his voice cool, kept a scowl from his face by main effort. It was his precious M'Hael the 
man feared, not the Dragon Reborn. Afraid Taim would take it amiss if something he had said brought Rand's anger on 
Taim's head. "Because I'll kill any one of you who goes near those women in Murandy. You cut where I direct." 
Torval bowed rigidly, murmuring, "As you say, my Lord Dragon." His teeth were bared in an attempted smile, but his 
nose was pinched, and he struggled to avoid meeting anyone's eyes while seeming to avoid nothing. Dashiva yelped 
another laugh, and Hopwil wore a small grin. 
Narishma was not enjoying Torval's discomfort, though, or paying it attention. He looked at Rand without blinking, as 
though he sensed deep currents that the rest missed. Most women and no few men thought him just a pretty boy, but 
those too-big eyes sometimes seemed more knowing than any others. 
Rand pulled his hand from the Dragon Scepter and smoothed open the letter. His hands did not quite shake. Torval 
smiled weakly, sourly, noticing nothing. Against the tent wall, Narishma shifted, relaxing. 
The refreshments arrived, then, borne by a stately procession following Boreane, a line of Illianers and Cairhienin and 
Tairens in their various liveries. There was a servant bearing a silver tray and pitcher for each kind of wine, and two 
more with trays of silver mugs for hot punch and spiced wines and fine blown goblets for the others. A pink-faced 
fellow in green-and-yellow carried a tray on which to do the pouring, and a dark woman in black-and-gold was there to 
actually handle the pitchers. There were nuts and candied fruits, cheeses and olives, each sort requiring a serving man 
or woman. Under Boreane's direction, they flowed in a formal dance, bowing, curtsying, one giving way to another as 
they made their offerings. 
Accepting spiced wine, Rand hoisted himself onto the edge of the table and sat the steaming mug beside him untouched 
as he busied himself with the letter. There was no address, no preamble of any kind. Taim hated giving Rand any sort 
of title, though he tried to hide the fact. 
I have the honor to report that twenty-nine Asha'man, ninety-seven Dedicated and three hundred twenty-two Soldiers 
are now enrolled at the Black Tower. There have been a handful of deserters, unfortunately, whose names have been 
stricken, but losses in training remain acceptable. 
I now have as many as fifty recruiting parties in the field at any given time, with the result that three or four men are 
added to the rolls almost every day. In a few months, the Black Tower will equal the White, as I said it would. In a 
year, Tar Valon will tremble at our numbers. 
I harvested that blackberry bush myself. A small bush, and thorny, but a surprising number of berries for the size. 
Rand grimaced, putting the . . . the blackberry bush . . . out of his mind. What had to be done, had to be done. The 
whole world paid a price for his existence. He would die for it, but the whole world paid. 
There were other things to grimace over, anyway. Three or four new men a day? Taim was optimistic. In a few months, 
at that rate, there would be more men who could channel than Aes Sedai, true, but the newest sister had years of 
training behind her. And part of that specifically taught how to deal with a man who could channel. He did not want to 
contemplate any encounter between Asha'man and Aes Sedai who knew what they were facing; blood and regret could 
be the only outcome, whatever happened. The Asha'man were not aimed at the White Tower, though, no matter what 
Taim thought. It was a convenient belief, however, if it made Tar Valon step warily. An Asha'man only needed to 
know how to kill. If there were enough to do that at the right place and time, if they lived long enough to, that was all 
they had been created for. 
"How many deserters, Torval?" he said quietly. He picked up the wine mug and took a swallow, as if the answer were 
unimportant. The wine should have been warming, but the ginger and sweet serrel and mace tasted bitter on his tongue. 
"How many losses in training?" 
Torval was recovering himself over the refreshments, rubbing his hands and arching an eyebrow at the choice of wines, 
making a great show of knowing the best, making a show of lording it. Dashiva had accepted the first offered, and 
stood glowering into his twist-stemmed goblet as though it held swill. Pointing to one of the trays, Torval cocked his 
head thoughtfully, but he had the words ready on his tongue. "Nineteen deserters, so far. The M'Hael, he has ordered 
them killed whenever they are found, and their heads brought back for examples." Plucking a bit of glazed pear from 
the proffered tray, he popped it into his mouth and smiled brightly. "Three heads hang like fruit on the Traitor's Tree at 
this moment." 
"Good," Rand said levelly. Men who ran now could not be trusted not to run later, when lives depended on them 
standing. And these men could not be allowed to go their own way; those fellows back on the hills, if they escaped in a 
body, were less dangerous than one man trained in the Black Tower. The Traitor's Tree? Taim was a great one for 



naming things. But men needed the trappings, the symbols and the names, the black coats and the pins, to help hold 
them together. Until it was time to die. "The next time I visit the Black Tower, I want to see every deserter's head." 
A second piece of candied pear, halfway to Torval's mouth, dropped from his fingers and streaked the front of his fine 
coat. "It might interfere with recruiting, making that sort of effort," he said slowly. "The deserters, they do not 
announce themselves." 
Rand held the other man's gaze until it fell. "How many losses in training?" he demanded. The sharp-nosed Asha'man 
hesitated. "How many?" 
Narishma leaned forward, staring intently at Torval. So did Hopwil. The servants continued their smooth, silent dance, 
offering their trays to men who no longer saw them. Boreane took advantage of Narishma's preoccupation to make sure 
his silver mug held more hot water than spiced wine. 
Torval shrugged, too casually. "Fifty-one, all told. Thirteen burned out, and twenty-eight dead where they stood. The 
rest. . . . The M'Hael, he adds something to their wine, and they do not wake." Abruptly his tone turned malicious. "It 
can come suddenly, at any time. One man began screaming that spiders were crawling beneath his skin on his second 
day." He smiled viciously at Narishma and Hopwil, and nearly so at Rand, but it was to the other two he addressed 
himself, swinging his head between them. "You see? Not to worry if you slide into madness. You'll not hurt yourselves 
or a soul. You go to sleep . . . forever. Kinder than gentling, even if we knew how. Kinder than leaving you insane and 
cut off, yes?" Narishma stared back, taut as a harp-string, his mug forgotten in his hand. Hopwil was once more 
frowning at something only he could see. 
"Kinder," Rand said in a flat voice, setting the mug back beside him on the table. Something in the wine. My soul is 
black with blood, and damned. It was not a hard thought, not biting or edged; a simple statement of fact. "A mercy any 
man might wish for, Torval." 
Torval's cruel smile faded, and he stood breathing hard. The sums were easy; one man in ten destroyed, one man in 
fifty mad, and more surely to come. Early days yet, and no way till the day you died to know you had beaten the odds. 
Except that the odds would beat you, one way or another, in the end. Whatever else, Torval stood under that threat, too. 
Abruptly Rand became aware of Boreane. It took a moment before he recognized the expression on her face, and when 
he did, he bit back cold words. How dare she feel pity! Did she think Tarmon Gai'don could be won without blood? 
The Prophecies of the Dragon demanded blood like rain! 
"Leave us," he told her, and she quietly gathered the servants. But she still carried compassion in her eyes as she herded 
them out. 
Casting around for a way to change the mood, Rand found nothing. Pity weakened as surely as fear, and they had to be 
strong. To face what they had to face, they all must be steel. His making, his responsibility. 
Lost in his own thoughts, Narishma peered into the steam rising from his wine, and Hopwil still tried to stare through 
the side of the tent. Torval cast sideways glances at Rand and struggled to put the scornful twist back on his mouth. 
Dashiva alone appeared unaffected, with his arms folded, studying Torval as a man might study a horse offered for 
sale. 
Into the painfully stretching silence burst a husky, windblown young man in black, with the Sword and Dragon on his 
collar. Of an age with Hopwil, still not old enough to marry most places, Fedwin Morr wore intensity more closely than 
his shirt; he moved on his toes, and his eyes had the look of a hunting cat that knew itself hunted in turn. He had been 
different, once, and not so long ago. "The Seanchan will move from Ebou Dar soon," he said as he saluted. "They mean 
to come against Illian next." Hopwil gave a start and a gasp, jolted out of his dark study. Once again, Dashiva's 
response was to laugh, mirthlessly this time. 
Nodding, Rand took up the Dragon Scepter. After all, he carried it for remembrance. The Seanchan danced to their own 
tune, not the song he wished for. 
If Rand received the announcement in silence, Torval did not. Finding his sneer, he raised a contemptuous eyebrow. 
"Did they tell you all that, now?" he said mockingly. "Or have you learned to read minds? Let me tell you something, 
boy. I have fought, against Amadicians and Domani both, and no army takes a city then packs itself up to march a 
thousand miles! More than a thousand miles! Or do you think they can Travel?" 
Morr met Torval's derision calmly. Or if it unsettled him at all, the only sign he gave was running a thumb down his 
long sword hilt. "I did talk to some of them. Most were Taraboners, and more landing by ship every day, or near 
enough." Shouldering past Torval to the table, he favored the Taraboner with a level look. "All stepping right quick 
whenever anybody with a slurring way of speech opened a mouth." The older man opened his, angrily, but the younger 
pressed on hurriedly, to Rand. "They're putting soldiers all along the Venir Mountains. Five hundred, sometimes a 



thousand together. All the way to Arran Head already. And they're buying or taking every wagon and cart within 
twenty leagues of Ebou Dar, and the animals to draw them." 
"Carts!" Torval exclaimed. "Wagons! Is it that they mean to hold a market fair, do you think? And what fool would 
march an army through mountains when there are perfectly good roads?" He noticed Rand watching him, and cut off 
with a small frown, suddenly uncertain. 
"I told you to stay low, Morr." Rand let anger touch his voice. The young Asha'man had to step back as he jumped 
down from the table. "Not to go asking the Seanchan their plans. To look and stay low." 
"I was careful; I didn't wear my pins." Morr's eyes did not change for Rand, still hunter and hunted in one. He seemed 
to be boiling inside. Had Rand not known better, he would have thought Morr held the Power, struggling to survive 
saidin even as it gave him life ten times over. His face seemed to want to sweat. "If any of the men I talked to knew 
where they're going next, they didn't say, and I didn't ask, but they were willing to complain over a mug of ale about 
marching all the time and never standing still. In Ebou Dar, they were soaking up all the ale in the city as fast as they 
could, because they say they have to march again. And they're gathering wagons, just like I said." That all came out in 
a rush, and he clamped his teeth at the end as though to trap more words that wanted to fly from his tongue. 
Smiling suddenly, Rand clapped him on the shoulder. "You did well. The wagons would have been enough, but you 
did well. Wagons are important," he added, turning to Torval. "If an army feeds off the country, it eats what it finds. Or 
not, if it doesn't." Torval had not flickered an eyelid at hearing of Seanchan in Ebou Dar. If that tale had reached the 
Black Tower, why had Taim not mentioned it? Rand hoped his smile did not look a snarl. "It's harder to arrange supply 
trains, but when you have one you know there's fodder for the animals and beans for the men. The Seanchan organize 
everything." 
Sorting through the maps, he found the one he wanted and spread it out, weighted at one side with his sword and at the 
other with the Dragon Scepter. The coast between Illian and Ebou Dar stared up at him, rimmed for most of its length 
by hills and mountains, dotted with fishing villages and small towns. The Seanchan did organize. Ebou Dar had been 
theirs barely more than a week, but the merchants' eyes-and-ears wrote of repairs well under way on the damage done 
to the city in its taking, of clean sickhouses set up for the ill, of food and work arranged for the poor and those driven 
from their homes by troubles inland. The streets and the surrounding countryside were patrolled so that no one need 
fear footpads or bandits, day or night, and while merchants were welcome, smuggling had been cut to a trickle if not 
less. Those honest Illianer merchants had been surprisingly glum about the smuggling. What were the Seanchan 
organizing now? The others gathered around the table as Rand perused the map. There were roads hard along the coast, 
but poor straggling things, marked as little more than cart paths. The broad trade roads lay inland, avoiding the worst of 
the terrain and the worst of what the Sea of Storms had to offer. "Men raiding out of those mountains could make 
passage difficult for anyone trying to use the inland roads," he said finally. "By controlling the mountains, they make 
the roads safe as a city street. You're right, Morr. They are coming to Illian." 
Leaning on his fists, Torval glared at Morr, who had been right when he was wrong. A grievous sin, perhaps, in 
Torval's book. "Even so, it will be months before they can trouble you here," he said sullenly. "A hundred Asha'man, 
fifty, placed in Illian, could destroy any army in the world before one man crosses the causeways." 
"I doubt an army with damane is destroyed as easily as one kills Aiel committed to an attack and caught by surprise," 
Rand said quietly, and Torval stiffened. "Besides, I have to defend all of Illian, not just the city." 
Ignoring the man, Rand traced lines across the map with a finger. Between Arran Head and the city of Illian lay a 
hundred leagues of open water, across the mouth of Kabal Deep, where, ship captains in Illian said, their longest 
sounding lines could find no bottom just a mile or so from the shore. The waves there could overturn ships as they 
surged north to pound the coast with breakers fifteen paces high. In this weather, it would be worse. Marching around 
the Deep was a route of two hundred leagues to reach the city, even keeping to the shortest ways, but if the Seanchan 
pressed on from Arran Head, they could reach the border in two weeks despite the rainstorms. Maybe less. Better to 
fight where he chose, not where they did. His finger slid along the south coast of Altara, along the Venir range, until 
the mountains dwindled to hills short of Ebou Dar. Five hundred here, a thousand there. A tantalizing string of beads 
dropped along the mountains. A sharp rap might roll them back to Ebou Dar, might even pen them there while they 
tried to figure out what he was up to. Or. ... 
"There was something else," Morr said abruptly, rushing again. "There was talk about some sort of Aes Sedai weapon. 
I found where it was used, a few miles from the city. The ground was all burned over, seared clean in the middle, a 
good three hundred paces wide or more, and ruined orchards further. The sand was melted to sheets of glass. Saidin 
was worst, there." 



Torval waved a hand at him dismissively. "There could have Aes Sedai near when the city fell, yes? Or maybe the 
Seanchan themselves did it. One sister with an angreal could—" 
Rand cut in. "What do you mean, saidin was worst there?" Dashiva moved, eyeing Morr oddly, reaching as though to 
seize the young man. Rand fended him off roughly. "What do you mean, Morr?" 
Morr stared, mouth shut tight, running his thumb up and down the length of his sword hilt. The heat inside of him 
seemed ready to burst out. There really was sweat beading on his face now. "Saidin was . . . strange," he said hoarsely. 
His words came in rapid bursts. "Worst there—I could . . . feel it ... in the air all around me—but strange everywhere 
around Ebou Dar. And even a hundred miles away. I had to fight it; not like always; different. Like it was alive. 
Sometimes. . . . Sometimes, it didn't do what I wanted. Sometimes, it ... did something else. It did. I'm not mad! It did!" 
The wind gusted, howling for a moment, shivering and snapping the tent walls, and Morr fell silent. Narishma's bells 
chimed at a jerk of his head, then were still. 
"That isn't possible," Dashiva muttered into the silence, but nearly under his breath. "It is not possible." 
"Who knows what's possible?" Rand said. "I don't! Do you?" Dashiva's head came up in surprise, but Rand turned to 
Morr, moderating his tone. "Don't worry, man." Not a mild tone—he could not manage that—yet heartening, he hoped. 
His making, his responsibility. "You'll be with me to the Last Battle. I promise it." 
The young man nodded, and scrubbed at his face with his hand as though surprised to find it damp, but he glanced at 
Torval, who had gone as still as stone. Did Morr know about the wine? It was a mercy, given the alternatives. A small 
and bitter mercy. 
Rand picked up Taim's missive, folded the page, and thrust it into his coat pocket. One in fifty mad already, and more 
to come. Was Morr next? Dashiva was surely close. Hopwil's stares took on a new meaning, and even Narishma's 
habitual quiet. Madness did not always mean screaming about spiders. He had asked once, warily, where he knew the 
answers would be true, how to cleanse the taint from saidin. And got a riddle for answer. Herid Fel had claimed the 
riddle stated "sound principles, in both high philosophy and natural philosophy," but he had not seen any way to apply 
it to the problem at hand. Had Fel been killed because he might have puzzled out the riddle? Rand had a hint at the 
answer, or thought he might, a guess that could be disastrously wrong. Hints and riddles were not answers, yet he had 
to do something. If the taint was not cleansed somehow, Tarmon Gai'don might find a world already ruined by 
madmen. What had to be done, had to be done. 
"That would be wondrous," Torval said in a near whisper, "but how could anyone short of the Creator or ... ?" He 
trailed off uneasily. 
Rand had not realized he had spoken any of his thoughts aloud. Narishma's eyes, and Morr's, and Hopwil's, belonged in 
one face, shining with sudden hope. Dashiva looked poleaxed. Rand hoped he had not said too much. Some secrets had 
to be kept. Including what he would do next. 
In short order, Hopwil was running for his horse to ride to the ridge with orders for the nobles, Morr and Dashiva to 
find Flinn and the other Asha'man, and Torval was striding off to Travel back to the Black Tower with commands for 
Taim. Narishma was last, and thinking of Aes Sedai and Seanchan and weapons, Rand sent him away as well, with 
careful instructions that made the young man's mouth tighten. 
"Speak to no one," Rand finished softly, gripping Narishma's arm hard. "And don't fail me. Not by a hair." 
"I won't fail," Narishma said, unblinking. With a quick salute, he was gone, too. 
Dangerous, a voice whispered in Rand's head. Oh, yes, very dangerous, maybe too dangerous. But it might work; it 
might. In any event, you must kill Torval now. You must. 
Weiramon entered the council tent, shouldering aside Gregorin and Tolmeran, trying to shoulder aside Rosana and 
Semaradrid, the lot of them eager to tell Rand that the men in the trees had decided wisely after all. They found him 
laughing till tears rolled down his face. Lews Therin had come back. Or else he really was mad already. Either way, it 
was reason to laugh. 

Chapter 15 Stronger than Written Law 

In the dim, cold dark of deep night, Egwene woke groggily from restless sleep and troubling dreams, the more 
troubling because she could not remember them. Her dreams were always open to her, as clear as printed words on a 
page, yet these had been murky and fearful. She had had too many of those, lately. They left her wanting to run, to 
escape, never able to recall what from, but always queasy and uncertain, even trembling. At least her head was not 
hurting. At least she could recall the dreams she knew must be significant, though not how to interpret them. Rand, 



wearing different masks, until suddenly one of those false faces was no longer a mask, but him. Perrin and a Tinker, 
frenziedly hacking their way through brambles with axe and sword, unaware of the cliff that lay just ahead. And the 
brambles screamed with human voices they did not hear. Mat, weighing two Aes Sedai on a huge set of balance scales, 
and on his decision depended. . . . She could not say what; something vast; the world, perhaps. There had been other 
dreams, most tinged with suffering. Recently, all of her dreams about Mat were pale and full of pain, like shadows cast 
by nightmares, almost as though Mat himself were not quite real. That made her afraid for him, left behind in Ebou 
Dar, and gave her agonies of grief for sending him there, not to mention poor old Thorn Merrilin. But the 
unremembered dreams were worse, she was sure. 
The sound of low voices arguing had wakened her, and the full moon was still up outside, casting enough light for her 
to make out two women confronting one another at the tent's entrance. 
"The poor woman's head pains her all day, and she gets little rest at night," Halima whispered fiercely, fists on her hips. 
"Let this wait till morning." 
"I don't propose to argue with you." Siuan's voice was winter itself, and she tossed back her cloak with a mittened hand 
as though preparing to fight. She was dressed for the weather, in stout wool no doubt worn over as many shifts as she 
could fit underneath. "You stand aside, and right quick, or I'll have your guts for bait! And put on some decent 
clothes!" 
With a soft laugh, Halima drew up and if anything planted herself more squarely in Siuan's way. Her white nightgown 
clung, but was decent enough for its purpose. Though it did seem a wonder she evaded freezing in that thin silk. The 
coals in the tripod braziers had died down long since, and neither much-mended tent canvas nor layered carpets on the 
ground held in warmth any longer. Both women's breath was pale mist. 
Throwing off the blankets, Egwene sat up wearily on her narrow cot. Halima was a country woman with a skim of 
sophistication, and often she did not seem to realize the deference due to Aes Sedai, or indeed seem to think she need 
defer to anyone. She spoke to Sitters as she might to the goodwives in her own village, with a laugh and a level eye and 
a straightforward earthiness that sometimes shocked. Siuan spent her days giving way to women who had jumped at 
her word a year earlier, smiling and curtsying for nearly every sister in the camp. Many still laid much of the Tower's 
troubles at her feet and thought she had hardly suffered enough to atone. Sufficient to keep anyone's pride at a stiff 
prickle. Together, the pair were a lantern tossed into the back of an Illuminator's wagon, but Egwene hoped to avoid an 
explosion. Besides, Siuan would not have come in the middle of the night unless it was necessary. 
"Go back to bed, Halima," Smothering a yawn, Egwene bent to fumble her shoes and stockings from beneath the cot. 
She did not channel a lamp alight. Better if no one noticed that the Amyrlin was awake. "Go on; you need your rest." 
Halima protested, perhaps more strongly than she should have to the Amyrlin Seat, but soon enough she was back on 
the tiny cot that had been squeezed into the tent for her. Very little room remained to move in, with a washstand, a 
stand-mirror and a real armchair, plus four large chests stacked atop one another. Those held the constant flow of 
clothes from Sitters who had not yet realized that however young Egwene might be, she was not young enough to be 
dazzled or diverted by silks and laces. Halima lay curled up, watching in the darkness, while Egwene hastily dragged 
an ivory comb through her hair, donned stout mittens, and pulled a fox-lined cloak over her nightgown. A thick woolen 
nightgown, and she would not have minded thicker in this weather. Halima's eyes seemed to pick up the faint 
moonlight and shine darkly, unblinking. 
Egwene did not think the woman jealous of her place near the Amyrlin Seat, casual as it was, and the Light knew she 
did not carry gossip, but Halima had an innocent curiosity about everything, whether or not it was any of her business. 
Reason enough to hear Siuan out elsewhere. Everyone knew now that Siuan had thrown in her lot with Egwene, after a 
fashion, as they thought, sullenly and grudgingly. A figure of some amusement and occasional pity, Siuan Sanche, 
reduced to attaching herself to the woman who held the title once hers, and that woman no more than a puppet once the 
Hall finished fighting over who would pull her cords. Siuan was human enough to harbor sparks of resentment, but so 
far they had managed to keep secret that her advice was far from grudging. So she endured pity and snickers as best she 
could, and everyone believed her as changed by her experiences as her face. That belief had to be maintained, or 
Romanda and Lelaine and very likely the rest of the Hall, too, would find ways to separate her—and her advice—from 
Egwene. 
The cold outside slapped Egwene in the face and flooded under her cloak; her nightgown might as well have been 
Halima's for all the protection it offered. Despite stout leather and good wool, her feet felt as if they were bare. Tendrils 
of frosty air curled around her ears, mocking the thick fur lining her hood. Yearning 
* 



for her bed as she was, ignoring the iciness took all the concentration she could muster. Clouds scudded across the sky, 
and moon-shadows floated over the gleaming white that covered the ground, a smooth sheet broken by the dark 
mounds of tents and the taller shapes of canvas-topped wagons that now had long wooden runners in place of wheels. 
Many of the wagons were no longer parked apart from the tents, but left where they had been unloaded; no one had the 
heart to make the wagon drivers put out even that much extra effort at the end of the day. Nothing moved except those 
pale sliding shadows. The wide runnels that had been trampled through the camp for paths lay empty. The silence was 
crisp and so deep that she almost regretted breaking it. 
"What is it?" she asked softly, casting a wary glance at the small tent nearby shared by her maids, Chesa, Meri, and 
Selame. That was as still and dark as the others. Exhaustion made as thick a blanket over the camp as the snow. "Not 
another revelation like the Kin, I hope." She clicked her tongue in vexation. She was spent, too, by long freezing days 
in the saddle and not enough real sleep, or she would not have said that. "I'm sorry, Siuan." 
"No need to apologize, Mother." Siuan kept her voice down as well, and glanced about to see whether anyone might be 
watching from the shadows besides. Neither wanted to find herself discussing the Kin with the Hall. "I know I should 
have told you beforehand, but it seemed a small thing. I never expected those girls to even speak to one of them. 
There's so much to tell you. I have to try to pick and choose what's important." 
With an effort, Egwene managed not to sigh. That was almost word for word the apology Siuan had offered before. 
Several times. What she meant was that she was trying to force-feed Egwene over twenty years of experience as Aes 
Sedai, more than ten of that as Amyrlin, and do it in months. At times Egwene felt like a goose being fattened for 
market. "Well, what's important tonight?" 
"Gareth Bryne's waiting in your study." Siuan did not raise her voice, but it took on an edge, as always when she spoke 
of Lord Bryne. She tossed her head angrily inside the deep hood of her cloak, and made a sound like a cat spitting. 
"The man came in dripping snow, scooped me out of my bedding, and barely gave me time to dress before hauling me 
up behind his saddle. He told me nothing; just tossed me down at the edge of camp and sent me to fetch you like I was 
a serving girl!" 
Firmly, Egwene stifled a rising hope. There had been too many disappointments, and whatever had brought Bryne in 
the middle of the night was much more likely to be a potential disaster than what she wished for. How far yet to the 
border with Andor? "Let's see what he wants." 
Starting off toward the tent everyone named the Amyrlin's Study, she held her cloak close. She did not shiver, but 
refusing to let heat or cold touch you did not make them go away. You could ignore them right up to the moment 
sunstroke cooked your brain or frostbite rotted your hands and feet. She considered what Siuan had said. 
"You weren't sleeping in your own tent here?" she said carefully. The other woman's relation to Lord Bryne was that of 
a servant, in a very peculiar way, but Egwene hoped Siuan was not letting her stubborn pride lead her into letting him 
take advantage. She could not imagine it, of him or her, yet not so long ago she could not have imagined Siuan 
accepting any part of the situation. She still could not understand why. 
Snorting loudly, Siuan kicked her skirts, and nearly fell as her shoes skidded. Snow beaten down by countless feet had 
quickly become a rough sheet of ice. Egwene was picking her own way cautiously. Every day brought broken bones 
that travel-weary sisters had to Heal. Half abandoning her cloak, she offered an arm as much for the support she might 
receive as give. Siuan took it, muttering. 
"By the time I finished cleaning the man's spare boots and second saddle, it was too late to tramp back through this. 
Not that he offered more than blankets in a corner; not Gareth Bryne! Made me dig them out of the chest myself, while 
he went off the Light knows where! Men are a trial, and that one the worst!" Without a pause for breath, she changed 
the subject. "You shouldn't let that Halima sleep in your tent. She's another pair of ears you have to be careful of, and 
snoopy with it. Besides, you're lucky you don't walk in to find her entertaining some soldier." 
"I am very glad that Delana can spare Halima nights," Egwene said firmly. "I need her. Unless you think Nisao's 
Healing might do better with my headaches a second time around." Halima's fingers seemed to draw the pain out 
through her scalp; without that, she would not be able to sleep at all. Nisao's effort had had no effect whatsoever, and 
she was the only Yellow Egwene dared approach with the problem. As for the rest. . . . She made her voice sterner still. 
"I am surprised you're still listening to that gossip, daughter. The fact that men like looking at a woman doesn't mean 
she invites it, as you should know well. I've seen more than a few looking at you and grinning." Taking that tone came 
easier than it once had. 
Siuan gave her a startled sidelong glance and, after a moment, grumbled an apology. It might have been sincere. 
Egwene accepted it, either way. Lord Bryne was very bad for Siuan's temper, and tossing Halima into the bargain, 



Egwene thought it a good job she was not pushed into taking a stricter stance. Siuan herself had said that she should not 
put up with nonsense, and she surely could not afford to put up with it from Siuan, of all people. 
Trudging arm-in-arm, they went on in silence, the cold fogging their breath and seeping through their flesh. The snow 
was a curse and a lesson. She could still hear Siuan going on about what she called the Law of Unintended 
Consequences, stronger than any written law. Whether or not what you do has the effect you want, it will have three at 
least you never expected, and one of those usually unpleasant. 
The first, feeble rains had brought astonishment, for all Egwene had already informed the Hall that the Bowl of the 
Winds had been found and used. That was almost as much as she could risk letting them know of what Elayne had told 
her in Tel'aran'rhiod; too much of what had happened in Ebou Dar was just the thing to cut her feet out from under her 
here, and her position was precarious enough as it was. An explosion of joy erupted at those first sprinkles. They had 
halted the march at midday, and there had been bonfires and feasting in the drizzle, prayers of thanksgiving among the 
sisters and dancing among the servants and the soldiers. For that matter, some of the Aes Sedai had danced, too. 
A few days later, the soft rains became downpours, and then howling tempests. The temperature slid downward, 
plummeted, and tempests became blizzards. Now, the distance once covered in a day, with Egwene gritting her teeth 
over how slowly they 
moved, took five when the sky held only clouds, and when the snows fell, they did not move at all. Easy enough to 
think of three unintended consequences, or more, and the snow might well be the least unpleasant. 
As they approached the small, patched tent called the Amyrlin's Study, a shadow moved beside one of the tall wagons, 
and Egwene's breath caught. The shadow became a figure who slipped back her hood enough to reveal Leane's face, 
then pulled back into darkness. 
"She'll keep a watch and let us know if anybody comes," Siuan said softly. 
"That's good," Egwene muttered. The woman could have told her in advance. She had half been afraid it was Romanda 
or Lelaine! 
The Amyrlin's Study was dark, but Lord Bryne stood waiting patiently inside, wrapped in his cloak, a shadow among 
shadows. Embracing the Source, Egwene channeled, not to light the lantern hanging from the centerpole or one of the 
candles, but to make a small sphere of pale light that she suspended in the air over the folding table she used as a 
writing desk. Very small, and very pale; unlikely to be noticed from outside, and quick as thought to extinguish. She 
could not afford discovery. 
There had been Amyrlins who reigned in strength, Amyrlins who managed an even balance with the Hall, and 
Amyrlins who had had as little power as she, or less upon rare occasions, well-hidden in the secret histories of the 
White Tower. Several had frittered away power and influence, falling from strength to weakness, but in over three 
thousand years, precious few had managed to move in the other direction. Egwene very much wished she knew how 
Myriam Copan and the rest of that bare handful had managed. If anyone had ever thought to write that down, the pages 
were long lost. 
Bowing respectfully, Bryne showed no surprise at her caution. He knew what she put at hazard, meeting him secretly. 
To a very large degree, she trusted this sturdy, heavily graying man with the bluff, weathered face, and not only 
because she had to. His cloak was thick red wool, lined with marten and bordered with the Flame of Tar Valon, a gift 
from the Hall, yet he had made plain a dozen times in the past weeks that whatever the Hall thought— and he was not 
blind enough to have missed that!— she was the Amyrlin, and he followed the Amyrlin. Oh, he had never said so right 
out, but with carefully worded hints that left no doubts. Expecting more would have been expecting too much. There 
were nearly as many undercurrents in the camp as there were Aes Sedai, some strong enough to pull him down. Several 
strong enough to mire her deeper than she was, if the Hall learned of this meeting. She trusted him further than anyone 
except Siuan and Leane, or Elayne and Nynaeve, maybe further than any of the sisters who had sworn fealty to her in 
secret, and she wished she had the courage to trust him more. The ball of white light cast weak, fitful shadows. 
"You have news, Lord Bryne?" she asked, stifling hope. She could think of a dozen possible messages that might bring 
him in the night, each with its own set of pitfalls and snares. Had Rand decided to add more crowns to that of Illian, or 
the Seanchan somehow captured still another city, or the Band of the Red Hand suddenly moved on its own instead of 
shadowing the Aes Sedai, or.... 
"An army lies north of us, Mother," he replied calmly. His leather-gauntleted hands rested lightly atop his long sword 
hilt. An army to the north, a little more snow, all the same. "Andor-ans, mainly, but with a goodly number of 
Murandians. My deep scouts brought the news less than an hour ago. Pelivar leads, and Arathelle is with him, the High 
Seats of two of the strongest Houses in Andor, and they've brought twenty more at least. They're pushing south hard, it 



seems. If you keep on as you are, which I advise against, we should meet head-on in two days, three at the outside." 
Egwene kept her face smooth, suppressing her relief. What she had been hoping for, waiting for; what she had begun to 
fear might never come. Surprisingly, it was Siuan who gasped, and clapped a mittened hand over her mouth too late. 
Bryne cocked at eyebrow at her, but she recovered quickly, putting on Aes Sedai serenity so thick you almost forgot 
her youthful face. 
"Do you have qualms at fighting your fellow Andorans?" she demanded. "Speak up, man. I'm not your washwoman 
here." Well, there was a small crack in that serenity. 
"As you command, Siuan Sedai." Bryne's tone held no scrap of mockery, yet Siuan's mouth began to tighten, her 
outward coolness evaporating fast. He made her a small bow, workmanlike but acceptable. "I will fight whoever the 
Mother wishes me to fight, of course." Even here, he would not be more forthcoming. Men learned caution around Aes 
Sedai. So did women. Egwene thought caution had become a second skin for her. 
"And if we don't keep on?" she said. So much planning, just her and Siuan and sometimes Leane, and now she still had 
to feel out each step as carefully as on those icy paths outside. "If we stop here?" 
He did not hesitate. "If you have a way to bring them around without fighting, all well and good, but some time 
tomorrow they'll reach an excellent position to defend, one flank held by the River Armahn, the other by a large peat 
bog, and small streams in front to break up attacks. Pelivar will settle in there to wait; he knows the work. Arathelle 
will have her part if there's talking, but she'll leave the pikes and swords to him. We can't reach it ahead of him, and 
anyway, the terrain is no use to us there, with him to the north. If you mean to fight, I advise making for that ridge we 
crossed two days back. We can reach it in good order ahead of them if we start at dawn, and Pelivar would think twice 
about coming at us there if he had three times the numbers he does." 
Wriggling near-frozen toes inside her stockings, Egwene let out an annoyed sigh. There was a difference between not 
letting cold touch you and not feeling it. Picking her way carefully, not letting herself be distracted by the chill, she 
asked, "Will they talk, offered the chance?" 
"Probably, Mother. The Murandians hardly count; they're just there for whatever advantage they can wring out of the 
situation, same as their countrymen under me. It's Pelivar and Arathelle who matter. If I had to wager, I'd say they only 
mean to keep you out of Andor." He shook his head grimly. "But they'll fight if they have to, if they must, maybe even 
if it means facing Aes Sedai instead of just soldiers. I expect they've heard the same tales we have about that battle out 
east somewhere." 
"Fish guts!" Siuan growled. So much for calm. "Half-baked rumors and raw gossip are no proof there was any battle, 
you 
lummox, and if there was, sisters wouldn't have gotten themselves mixed up in it!" The man truly was an occasion of 
sin for her. 
Strangely, Bryne smiled. He often did when Siuan showed her temper. Anywhere else, on anyone else, Egwene would 
have called the smile fond. "Better for us if they believe," he told Siuan mildly. Her face darkened so, you might have 
thought he had sneered at her. 
Why did a normally sensible woman let Bryne get under her skin? Whatever the reason, Egwene had no time for it 
tonight. "Siuan, I see someone forgot to take away the mulled wine. It can't have soured in this weather. Warm it for us, 
please." She did not like setting the other woman down in front of Bryne, but she had to be reined in, and this seemed 
the gentlest way to do it. Really, they should not have left the silver pitcher on her table. 
Siuan did not quite flinch, but from her stricken expression, quickly smoothed over, you would never have believed she 
washed the man's smallclothes. Without comment she channeled slightly to reheat the wine in the silver pitcher, 
quickly filled two clean worked-silver cups, and handed the first to Egwene. She kept the second, staring at Lord Bryne 
as she sipped and leaving him to pour for himself. 
Warming her mittened fingers on her own cup, Egwene felt a flash of irritation. Maybe it was part of Siuan's 
long-delayed reaction to the death of her Warder. She still became weepy for no visible reason now and then, though 
she tried to hide it. Egwene put the matter out of her head. Tonight, that was an anthill beside mountains. 
"I want to avoid a battle if I can, Lord Bryne. The army is for Tar Valon, not fighting a war here. Send to arrange a 
meeting as soon as possible for the Amyrlin Seat with Lord Pelivar and Lady Arathelle and anyone else you think you 
should be present. Not here. Our ragged camp won't impress them very much. As soon as possible, mind. I wouldn't 
object to tomorrow, if it could be set." 
"That's sooner than I can manage, Mother," he said mildly. "If I send riders out as soon as I return to camp, I doubt they 
can be back with an answer much before tomorrow night." 



"Then I suggest you return quickly." Light, but her hands and feet felt cold. And the pit of her stomach, too. But her 
voice kept its calm. "And I want you to keep that meeting, and the existence of their army, from the Hall as long as 
possible." 
This time, she was asking him to take as great a risk as she did. Gareth Bryne was one of the best generals living, but 
the Hall chafed that he did not run the army to suit them. They had been grateful for his name in the beginning, for it 
helped draw soldiers to their cause. Now the army had more than thirty thousand armed men, with more coming even 
since the snows had started, and they thought that maybe they did not need Lord Gareth Bryne any longer. And of 
course, there were those who believed they never had needed him. They would not simply send him away for this. If 
the Hall chose to act, he might well go to the headsman for treason. 
He did not blink, and he did not ask questions. Perhaps he knew she would not give answers. Or maybe he thought he 
knew them. "There isn't much traffic between my camp and yours, but too many men know already to keep a secret 
long. I will do what I can, though." 
As simple as that. The first step down a road that would see her on the Amyrlin Seat in Tar Valon, or else deliver her 
firmly into the grasp of the Hall, with nothing left to decide except whether it was Romanda or Lelaine who told her 
what to do. Somehow, such a pivotal moment should have been accompanied by fanfares of trumpets, or at the least, 
thunder in the sky. It was always that way in stories. 
Egwene let the ball of light vanish, but as Bryne turned to leave, she caught his arm. It was like catching a thick tree 
branch through his coat. "A thing I have been meaning to ask you, Lord Bryne. You can't want to take men worn down 
by marching right into a siege of Tar Valon. How long would you want to rest them before you began?" 
For the first time, he paused, and she wished she still had the light to see his face. She thought he frowned. "Even 
leaving people in the pay of the Tower out of it," he said at last, slowly, "news of an army flies as fast as a falcon. 
Elaida will know to the day when we'll arrive, and she won't give us an hour. You know she's increasing the Tower 
Guard? To fifty thousand men, apparently. But a month, if I could, to rest and recover. Ten days would do, but a month 
would be better." 
She nodded, releasing him. That casual question about the Tower Guard hurt. He was aware that the Hall and the Ajahs 
told her what they wanted her to know and no more. "I suppose you're right," she said evenly. "There'll be no time for 
rest once we reach Tar Valon. Send your fastest riders. There won't be any difficulty, will there? Pelivar and Arathelle 
will hear them out?" She did not feign the touch of anxiety. More than her plans might be ruined if they had to fight 
now. 
Bryne's tone did not alter a whit that she could tell, but somehow, he sounded soothing. "So long as there is light 
enough for them to see the white feathers, they'll recognize a truce and listen. I'd better go, Mother. It's a long way and 
hard riding, even for men with extra horses." 
As soon as the tentflap fell behind him, Egwene let out a long breath. Her shoulders were tight, and she expected her 
head to start aching any moment. Bryne usually made her feel relaxed, absorbing his sureness. Tonight, she had had to 
manipulate him, and she thought he knew it. He was very observant for a man. But too much was at stake to trust him 
more, until he made an open declaration. Maybe an oath like the one Myrelle and the others had given. Bryne followed 
the Amyrlin, and the army followed Bryne. If he thought she was going to throw men away uselessly, a few words 
from him could hand her to the Hall trussed like a pig on a platter. She drank deeply, feeling the warmth of the spiced 
wine spread through her. 
"Better for us if they believed," she muttered. "I wish there was something for them to believe. If I do nothing else, 
Siuan, I hope at least I can free us from the Three Oaths." 
"No!" Siuan barked. She sounded scandalized. "Even trying could be disastrous, and if you succeeded. . . . The Light 
help us, if you succeeded, you would destroy the White Tower." 
"What are you talking about? I try to follow the Oaths, Siuan, since we're stuck with them—for now—but the Oaths 
won't help us against the Seanchan. If sisters have to be in danger of their lives before they can fight back, it's only a 
matter of time before we are all dead or collared." For a moment she could feel the a'dam around her throat again, 
turning her into a dog on a leash. A well-trained and obedient dog. She was glad of the darkness, now, hiding her 
trembles. Shadows obscured Siuan's face, save for a soundlessly working jaw. 
"Don't you look at me like that, Siuan." It was easier to be angry than afraid, easy to mask fear in anger. She would 
never be collared like that again! "You've taken every advantage since you were freed from the Oaths. If you hadn't lied 
in your teeth, we'd all be in Salidar, without an army, sitting on our hands and waiting for a miracle. Well, you would 
be. They'd never have summoned me to be Amyrlin without your lie about Logain and the Reds. Elaida would reign 



supreme, and in a year, nobody would remember how she usurped the Amyrlin Seat. She'd destroy the Tower, for sure. 
You know she'd mishandle everything about Rand. I would not be surprised if she had tried to kidnap him by now, 
except that she's concerned with us. Well, maybe not kidnap, but she'd have done something. Likely, Aes Sedai would 
be fighting Asha'man today, and never mind Tarmon Gai'don waiting over the horizon." 
"I have lied when it seemed necessary," Siuan breathed. "When it seemed expedient." Her shoulders hunched, and she 
sounded as though she were confessing crimes she did not want to admit to herself. "Sometimes I think it's become too 
easy for me to decide that it's necessary and expedient. I've lied to almost everyone. Except you. But don't think it 
hasn't occurred to me. To nudge you toward a decision, or away from one. It wasn't wanting to keep your trust that 
stopped me." Siuan's hand stretched out in the dark, pleading. "The Light knows what your trust and friendship mean to 
me, but it wasn't that. It wasn't knowing that you'd have the hide off me in strips, or send me away, if you found out. I 
realized that I had to hold on to the Oaths with somebody, or I'd lose myself completely. So I don't lie to you, or to 
Gareth Bryne, whatever it costs. And as soon I can, Mother, I will swear the Three Oaths on the Oath Rod again." 
"Why?" Egwene asked quietly. Siuan had considered lying to her? She would have had her hide for that. But her anger 
was gone. "I don't condone lying, Siuan. Not normally. It's just that sometimes, it really is necessary." Her time with 
the Aiel flashed through her mind. "So long as you're willing to pay for it, anyway. I've seen sisters take on penance for 
smaller things. You are one of the first of a new sort of Aes Sedai, Siuan, free and unbound. I believe you when you 
say you won't lie to me." Or to Lord Bryne? Odd, that. "Why give up your freedom?" 
"Give up?" Siuan laughed. "I'll be giving up nothing." Her back straightened, and her voice began to gain strength, and 
then passion. "The Oaths are what make us more than simply a group of women meddling in the affairs of the world. 
Or seven groups. Or fifty. The Oaths hold us together, a stated set of beliefs that bind us all, a single thread running 
through every sister, living or dead, back to the first to lay her hands on the Oath Rod. They are what make us Aes 
Sedai, not saidar. Any wilder can channel. Men may look at what we say from six sides, but when a sister says, 'This is 
so,' they know it's true, and they trust. Because of the Oaths. Because of the Oaths, no queen fears that sisters will lay 
waste to her cities. The worst villain knows he's safe in his life with a sister unless he tries to harm her. Oh, the 
Whitecloaks call them lies, and some people have strange ideas about what the Oaths entail, but there are very few 
places an Aes Sedai cannot go, and be listened to, because of the Oaths. The Three Oaths are what it is to be Aes Sedai, 
the heart of being Aes Sedai. Throw that on the rubbish heap, and we'll be sand washing away in the tide. Give up? I 
will be gaining." 
Egwene frowned. "And the Seanchan?" What it was to be Aes Sedai. Almost from the day she first arrived in Tar 
Valon, she had worked to be Aes Sedai, but she had never really thought about what it was that made a woman Aes 
Sedai. 
Once more Siuan laughed, though this time it was a touch wry, and weary. She shook her head, and darkness or no, 
looked tired. "I don't know, Mother. The Light help me, I don't. But we survived the Trolloc Wars, and Whitecloaks, 
and Artur Hawk-wing, and everything in between. We can find a way to deal with these Seanchan. Without destroying 
ourselves." 
Egwene was not so sure. Many of the sisters in camp thought the Seanchan were such a danger that besieging Elaida 
should wait. As if waiting would not cement Elaida on the Amyrlin Seat. Many others seemed to think that simply 
uniting the White Tower again, at whatever price, would make the Seanchan vanish. Survival lost some of its attraction 
if it was survival on a leash, and Elaida's would not be much less confining than the Sean-chan's. What it was to be Aes 
Sedai. 
"There's no need to keep Gareth Bryne at arm's length," Siuan said suddenly. "The man's a walking tribulation, it's true. 
If he doesn't count as penance for my lies, being flayed alive wouldn't do. One of these days, I'll box his ears every 
morning and twice at evenings, on general principle, but you can tell him everything. It would help, if he understood. 
He's taking you on trust, and it ties his stomach in knots, wondering whether you know what you're doing. He doesn't 
let on, but I see." 
Suddenly, pieces clicked in Egwene's mind like a blacksmith's puzzle coming undone. Shocking pieces. Siuan was in 
love with the man! Nothing else made sense. Everything she knew between them altered. Not necessarily for the better. 
A woman in love often put her brains on the shelf when she was around the man in question. As she herself was all too 
well aware. Where was Gawyn? Was he well? Was he warm? Enough of that. Too much, in light of what she had to 
say. She put on her best Amyrlin's voice, sure and in command. "You can box Lord Bryne's ears or bed him, Siuan, but 
you will watch yourself with him. You will not let slip things he mustn't know yet. Do you understand me?" 
Siuan jerked stiffly erect. "I'm not in the habit of letting my tongue flap like a torn sail, Mother," she said heatedly. 



"I'm very glad to hear it, Siuan." Despite their looking only a few years apart, Siuan was old enough to be her mother 
yet at that moment Egwene felt as though their ages had been reversed. This might be the first time that Siuan had ever 
had to manage with a man not as Aes Sedai, but as a woman. A few years of thinking I loved Rand, Egwene thought 
wryly, a few months of dangling by my toes for Gawyn, and I know all there is to know. 
"I think we're done here," she went on, slipping an arm through Siuan's. "Almost. Come." 
The walls of the tent had seemed little protection, yet stepping outside brought a renewed assault by winter's teeth. The 
moonlight was almost bright enough to read by, reflected off the snow, but that glow seemed cold. Bryne had vanished 
as if he had never been. Leane appeared long enough to say she had seen no one, her slimness swallowed in layers of 
wool, then hurried off into the night looking about her. No one knew of any connection between Leane and Egwene, 
and everyone thought Leane and Siuan were practically at daggers' points. Gathering her cloak as best she could 
one-handed, Egwene focused on ignoring the icy chill as she and Siuan walked in the opposite direction from Leane. 
Ignoring the chill, and keeping an eye out for anyone who happened to be out. Not that anyone who was outside now 
was likely to be there by happenstance. 
"Lord Bryne was right," she told Siuan, "about it being better if Pelivar and Arathelle believed those stories. Or at least 
if they were uncertain. Too uncertain to fight, or do anything except talk. Do you think they would welcome a visit 
from Aes Sedai? Siuan, are you listening to me?" 
Siuan gave a start, and stopped staring into the distance ahead of them. She had been walking ahead without missing a 
step, but now she slipped and nearly sat down in the frozen path, barely regaining her balance in time to keep from 
pulling Egwene down. "Yes, Mother. Of course I'm listening. They might not be exactly welcoming, but I doubt they'll 
turn sisters away." 
"Then I want you to wake Beonin, Anaiya, and Myrelle. They are to ride north inside the hour. If Lord Bryne expects a 
reply as soon as tomorrow evening, time is short." A pity she had not found out exactly where this other army was 
located, but asking Bryne might have roused suspicion. Finding it should not be too hard for Warders, and those three 
sisters had five between them. 
Siuan listened in silence to her instructions. Not only those three were to be rooted out of their sleep. Come dawn, 
Sheriam and Carlinya, Morvrin and Nisao would all know what to say over breakfast. Seeds had to be planted, seeds 
that could not have been placed earlier for fear of them sprouting too soon, but now they had all too little time to grow. 
"It will be a pleasure to haul them out of their blankets," Siuan said when she was done. "If I have to tramp around in 
this. . . ." Releasing Egwene's arm, she started to turn away, then stopped, her face serious, even grim. "I know you 
want to be a second Gerra Kishar—or maybe Sereille Bagand. You have it in you to match either. But be careful you 
don't turn out to be another Shein Chunk. Good night, Mother. Sleep well." 
Egwene stood watching her go, a cloak-shrouded figure sometimes skidding on the path and muttering angrily almost 
loud enough to make out. Gerra and Sereille were remembered as among the greatest Amyrlins. Both had raised the 
influence and prestige of the White Tower to levels seldom equaled since before Artur Hawkwing. Both controlled the 
Tower itself, too, Gerra by skillfully playing one faction in the Hall against another, Sereille by the sheer force of her 
will. Shein Chunk was another matter, one who had squandered the power of the Amyrlin Seat, alienating most of the 
sisters in the Tower. The world believed that Shein had died in office, close on four hundred years ago, but the deeply 
hidden truth was that she had been deposed and sent into exile for life. Even the secret histories treaded lightly in 
certain areas, yet it was fairly obvious that, after the fourth plot to restore her to the Amyrlin Seat was uncovered, the 
sisters guarding Shein had smothered her in her sleep with a pillow. Egwene shivered, and told herself it was the cold. 
Turning, she began making her slow way back to her tent alone. Sleep well? The fat moon hung low in the sky, and 
there were hours yet till sunrise, but she was not sure she was going to be able to sleep at all. 

Chapter 16 Unexpected Absences 

Before the sun made a rim on the horizon the next morning, Egwene convened the Hall of the Tower. In Tar Valon, 
that would have been accompanied by considerable ceremony, and even since leaving Salidar they had held to some 
despite the difficulties of travel. Now, Sheriam simply went from Sitter's tent to Sitter's tent while it was still dark to 
announce that the Amyrlin Seat had called the Hall to Sit. In fact, they did not sit at all. In the grayness just before true 
sunrise, eighteen women stood in a semicircle on the snow to hear Egwene, all bundled against the cold that misted 
their breath. 
Other sisters began appearing behind them to listen, only a few at the start, but when no one told them to leave, the 



group thickened and spread out to a soft buzz of talk. A very muted buzz. Few sisters would risk bothering a lone 
Sitter, much less the entire Hall. The Accepted in banded dresses and cloaks who had appeared behind the Aes Sedai 
were quieter, of course, and even quieter the gathering novices who had no chores, though there were a good many 
more of them. The camp now held half again as many novices as sisters, so many that few possessed a proper white 
cloak and most made do with a simple white skirt instead of a novice dress. Some sisters still believed they should go 
back to the old ways and let girls seek them out, but most regretted the lost years, when Aes Sedai numbers dwindled. 
Egwene herself almost shivered whenever she thought of what the Tower could have been. This was one change not 
even Siuan could object to. 
In the midst of all the gathering, Carlinya came around the corner of a tent and stopped short at the sight of Egwene and 
the Sitters. Normally composure to her toenails, the White sister gaped, and her pale face reddened before she hurried 
away, looking back over her shoulder. Egwene stifled a grimace. Everyone was too concerned with what she herself 
was about this morning to have noticed, but sooner or later, someone was going to, and wonder. 
Flinging back her delicately embroidered cloak to reveal the narrow blue stole of the Keeper, Sheriam made Egwene as 
much of a formal curtsy as her bulky garments allowed before taking a place at her side. Wrapped in layers of fine 
wool and silk, the flame-haired woman was the very picture of equanimity. At Egwene's nod, she took one step forward 
to intone the ancient formula in a clear, high voice. 
"She comes; she comes! The Watcher of the Seals, the Flame of Tar Valon, the Amyrlin Seat. Attend you all, for she 
comes!" It seemed a little out of place here, and besides, she was already there, not coming. The Sitters stood in 
silence, waiting. A few frowned impatiently, or fiddled restlessly with cloaks or skirts. 
Egwene pushed back her own cloak, uncovering the seven-striped stole draped around her neck. These women needed 
any reminder she could give that she was indeed the Amyrlin Seat. "Everyone is weary from travel in this weather," she 
announced, not quite so loudly as Sheriam, but loud enough that everyone could hear. She felt a tingle of anticipation, 
an almost lightheaded thrill. It was not much different from being queasy. "I have decided to stop here for two days, 
perhaps three." That brought heads up and sparked interest. She hoped Siuan was in the listening crowd. She did try to 
hold to the Oaths. "The horses need rest, too, and many of the wagons badly need repairs. The Keeper will see to the 
necessary arrangements." It truly was begun, now. 
She expected neither argument nor discussion, and there was none. What she had told Siuan was no exaggeration. Too 
many sisters hoped for a miracle, so they would not have to march on Tar Valon with the world watching. Even among 
those convinced in their souls that Elaida must be ousted for the good of the Tower, despite everything they had done, 
too many would grasp any chance of delay, any chance for that miracle to appear. 
One of those last, Romanda, did not wait for Sheriam to speak the closing lines. As soon as Egwene finished speaking, 
Romanda, looking quite youthful with her tight gray bun hidden by her hood, simply strode away. Cloaks flapping, 
Magla, Saroiya, and Varilin scurried after her. As well as anyone could scurry, when every other step sank ankle-deep. 
They did a good job of it anyway; Sitters or no, they hardly seemed to breathe without Roman-da's permission. When 
Lelaine saw Romanda leaving, she gathered up Faiselle, Takima, and Lyrelle from the semicircle with a gesture and 
went without a backward glance, like a swan with three anxious goslings. If they were not so firmly in Lelaine's grasp 
as the other three were in Romanda's, they did not fall far short. For that matter, the rest of the Sitters barely waited on 
the final "Depart now in the Light" to leave Sheriam's lips. Egwene turned to go with her Hall of the Tower already 
scattering in every direction. That tingle was stronger. And very like being queasy. 
"Three days," Sheriam murmured, offering Egwene a hand to help her down into one of the rutted paths. The corners of 
her tilted green eyes crinkled quizzically. "I'm surprised, Mother. Forgive me, but you dug in your heels nearly every 
time I wanted, to stop for more than one." 
"Speak to me again after you've talked to the wheelwrights and farriers," Egwene told her. "We'll not go far with horses 
dropping dead and wagons falling apart." 
"As you say, Mother," the other woman replied, not precisely meekly, but in perfect acceptance. 
The footing was no better now than it had been the night before, and their steps sometimes slid. Linking arms, they 
walked on slowly. Sheriam offered more support than Egwene required, but she did so almost surreptitiously. The 
Amyrlin Seat should not fall on her bottom in the full view of fifty sisters and a hundred servants, but neither should 
she seem propped up like an invalid. 
Most of the Sitters who had sworn to Egwene, Sheriam included, had done so out of simple fear, really, and 
self-preservation. If the Hall learned they had sent sisters to sway the Aes Sedai in Tar Valon, and worse, kept the fact 
from the Hall for fear of Darkfriends among the Sitters, they surely and certainly would spend the rest of their lives in 



penance and exile. So the women who had believed they could somehow twitch Egwene about like a puppet, after the 
greater part of their influence with the Hall melted, instead found themselves sworn to obey her. That was rare even in 
the secret histories; sisters were expected to obey the Amyrlin, but swearing fealty was something else again. Most still 
seemed unsettled by it, though they did obey. Few were as bad as Carlinya, but Egwene had actually heard Beonin's 
teeth chatter the first time she saw Egwene with Sitters after swearing. Morvrin looked astonished anew whenever her 
eyes fell on Egwene, as if she still did not quite believe, and Nisao hardly seemed to stop frowning. Anaiya clicked her 
tongue over the secrecy, and Myrelle often flinched, though for more reason than taking an oath. But Sheriam simply 
had settled into the role of Egwene's Keeper of the Chronicles in truth, not just name. 
"May I suggest using this opportunity to see what the surrounding country offers in way of food and fodder, Mother? 
Our stocks are low." Sheriam frowned anxiously. "Especially tea and salt, though I doubt we'll find those." 
"Do what you can," Egwene said in a soothing tone. Odd now, to think that once she had gone in awe of Sheriam, and 
in no little fear of her displeasure. Strange as it seemed, now that she was no longer Mistress of Novices, no longer 
trying to tug and push Egwene to do as she wished, Sheriam actually seemed happier. "I have every confidence in you, 
Sheriam." The woman positively beamed at the compliment. 
The sun still did not show above the tents and wagons to the east, but the camp was already bustling. In a manner of 
speaking. Breakfast done, the cooks were cleaning up, helped by a horde of novices. From the vigor they put into it, the 
young women seemed to find some warmth in scrubbing kettles with snow, but the cooks moved laboriously, 
knuckling their backs, stopping to 
sigh and sometimes to pull their cloaks close and stare bleakly at the snow. Shivering serving men, wearing most of the 
clothes they owned, had begun striking tents and loading wagons automatically as soon as they finished their hasty 
meal, and were now stumbling about to raise the tents and haul chests out of the wagons. Animals that had been being 
harnessed were now being led away by weary horse handlers who walked with heads down. Egwene heard a few 
grumbles from men who failed to notice there were sisters nearby, but the greater number seemed too tired to voice a 
complaint. 
Most of the Aes Sedai whose tents were up had vanished inside, but a good many still directed workers, and others 
hurried along the sunken paths on errands of their own. Unlike everyone else, they showed as little outward weariness 
as the Warders, who somehow managed to appear as if they had had all the sleep they needed for this fine spring day. 
Egwene suspected that was a real part of how a sister drew strength from her Warder, quite aside from what she could 
do with the bond. When your Warder would not admit to himself that he was cold or tired or hungry, you just had to 
bear up as well. 
On one of the crossing paths, Morvrin appeared, clutching Takima's arm. Perhaps it was for support, though Morvrin 
was wide enough to make the shorter woman seem more diminutive than she actually was. Perhaps it was to keep 
Takima from escaping; Morvrin was dogged once she set a goal. Egwene frowned. Morvrin might well be expected to 
seek out a Sitter for her Ajah, the Brown, yet Egwene would have thought Janya or Escaralde more likely. The two 
passed out of sight behind a canvas-topped wagon on runners, Morvrin bending to talk in her companion's ear. There 
was no way to tell whether Takima was paying any mind. 
"Is something the matter, Mother?" 
Egwene put on a smile that felt tight. "No more than usual, Sheriam. No more than usual." 
At the Amyrlin's Study, Sheriam departed to see to the tasks Egwene had given her, and Egwene went in to find 
everything in readiness. She would have been surprised at anything else. Selame was just setting a tea tray on the 
writing table. Brightly colored beadwork ran across the rail-thin woman's bodice and down her sleeves, and with her 
long nose carried high, she hardly seemed a servant at first glance, but she had seen to what needed doing. Two 
braziers full of glowing coals had taken some of the chill off the air, though most of the heat rushed out through the 
smoke hole. Dried herbs sprinkled on the coals gave a pleasant scent to the smoke that did not escape, the tray from the 
night before was gone, and the lantern and tallow candles had been trimmed and lit. No one was about to leave a tent 
open enough to let in light from outside. 
Siuan was already there, too, with a stack of papers in her hands, a harried expression on her face, and a smudge of ink 
on her nose. The post of secretary provided the two of them another reason to be seen talking, and Sheriam had not 
minded at all giving up the work. Siuan herself grumbled frequently, however. For a woman who had seldom left the 
Tower since entering as a novice, she had a remarkable dislike for staying inside. At the moment she was the picture of 
a woman being patient and wanting everyone to know it. 
For all her high nose, Selame simpered and bobbed so many curtsies that taking Egwene's cloak and mittens turned into 



an elaborate little ceremony. The woman nattered on about the Mother putting her feet up, and perhaps she should fetch 
the Mother a lap robe, and maybe she should stay in case the Mother wanted anything else, until Egwene practically 
chased her out. The tea tasted of mint. In this weather! Selame was a trial, and she could hardly be called loyal, but she 
did try. 
There was no time for lounging and sipping tea, though. Egwene straightened her stole and took her place behind the 
writing desk, absentmindedly giving a yank to the leg of her chair so it would not fold beneath her as it often did, Siuan 
perched atop a rickety stool on the other side of the table, and the tea cooled. They did not speak of plans, or Gareth 
Bryne, or hopes; what could be done there for now, had been. Reports and problems piled up when they were on the 
move and weariness overcame attempts to deal with them, and now that they were stopped, all had to be gone through. 
An army ahead did not change that. 
At times, Egwene wondered how so much paper could be found when everything else seemed so difficult. The reports 
Siuan handed her detailed shortages and little else. Not simply those Sheriam had mentioned, but coal and nails and 
iron for the farriers and wheelwrights, leather and oiled thread for the harness-makers, lamp oil and candles and a 
hundred other things, even soap. And whatever was not running out was wearing out, from shoes to tents, all listed in 
Siuan's bold hand, which grew more aggressive the more glaring the need she wrote about. Her account of the coin 
remaining looked to have been slashed onto the paper in a positive fury. And not a thing to be done about it. 
Among Siuan's papers were several addresses from Sitters suggesting ways to solve the problem of money. Or rather, 
informing Egwene what they intended to lay before the Hall. There were few advantages to any of the schemes, 
however, and many pitfalls. Moria Karentanis proposed stopping the soldiers' pay, a notion Egwene thought the Hall 
had already realized would cause the army to melt away like dew under a midsummer sun. Malind Nachenin presented 
an appeal to nearby nobles that sounded more a demand and might well turn the whole countryside against them, as 
would Salita Toranes' intention to levy a tax on the towns and villages they passed. 
Crumpling the three addresses together in her fist, Egwene shook them at Siuan. She wished it were three Sitters' 
throats she was gripping. "Do they all think everything has to go the way they wish, and never mind realities? Light, 
they're the ones behaving like children!" 
"The Tower has managed to makes its wishes become realities often enough," Siuan said complacently. "Remember, 
some would say you're ignoring reality, too." 
Egwene sniffed. Luckily, whatever the Hall voted, none of the proposals could be carried forward without a decree 
from her. Even in her straitened circumstances, she had a little power. Very little, but that was more than none. "Is the 
Hall always this bad, Siuan?" 
Siuan nodded, shifting slightly to try to find a better balance. No two of her stool's legs were the same length. "But it 
could be worse. Remind me to tell you about the Year of the Four Amyrlins; that was about a hundred and fifty years 
after the founding of Tar Valon. In those days, the normal workings of the Tower nearly rivaled what's happening 
today. Every hand tried to snatch the tiller, if they could. There were actually two rival Halls of the Tower in Tar Valon 
for part of that year. Almost like now. Just about everyone came to grief in the end, including a few who thought they 
were going to save the Tower. Some of them might have, if they hadn't stepped in quicksand. The Tower survived 
anyway, of course. It always does." 
A great deal of history grew up in over three thousand years, much suppressed, hidden from all but a few eyes, yet 
Siuan seemed to have every detail at her fingertips. She must have spent a good part of her years in the Tower burying 
herself in those secret histories. Of one thing, Egwene was certain. She would avoid Shein's fate if she could, but she 
would not remain as she was, little better off than Cemaile Sorenthaine. Long before the end of her reign, the most 
important decision left to Cemaile's discretion was what dress to wear. She was going to have to ask Siuan to tell her 
about the Year of the Four Amyrlins, and she did not look forward to it. 
The shifting beam of light from the smoke hole in the roof showed morning toward midday, but Siuan's stack of papers 
seemed hardly diminished. Any interruption at all would have been welcome, even premature discovery. Well, maybe 
not that. 
"What's next, Siuan?" she growled. 
A flicker of movement caught Aran'gar's eye, and she peered through the trees toward the army's camp, an obscuring 
ring around the tents of the Aes Sedai. A line of wagon-sledges was moving slowly east, escorted by men on 
horseback. The pale sun glinted from armor and the points of lances. She could not help sneering. Spears and horses! A 
primitive rabble that could move no faster than a man could walk, led by a man who did not know what was happening 
a hundred miles away. Aes Sedai? She could destroy the lot of them, and even dying they would never suspect who 



was killing them. Of course, she would not survive them long. That thought made her shiver. The Great Lord gave very 
few a second chance at life, and she was not about to throw away hers. 
Waiting until the riders moved out of sight into the forest, she started back toward the camp, thinking idly of tonight's 
dreams. Behind her, smooth snow would hide what she had buried until the spring thaw, more than long enough. 
Ahead, some of the men in the camp finally noticed her and straightened from their tasks to watch. In spite of herself, 
she smiled and smoothed her skirt over her hips. It was difficult now to really remember what life had been like as a 
man; had she been such an easily manipulated fool, then? Getting through that swarm with a corpse unseen had been 
difficult, even for her, but she enjoyed the walk back. 
The morning went on in a seemingly endless wading through paper, until what Egwene had known would happen, did. 
Certain daily events were sure. There would be bitter cold, there would be snow, there would be clouds, and gray skies, 
and wind. And there would be visits from Lelaine and Romanda. 
Weary of sitting, Egwene was stretching her legs when Lelaine swept into the tent with Faolain at her heels. Frigid air 
rolled in with them before the tentflap fell shut. Looking around with a faintly disapproving air, Lelaine plucked off 
blue leather gloves while allowing Faolain to remove the lynx-lined cloak from her shoulders. Slender and dignified in 
deep blue silk, with penetrating eyes, she might have been in her own tent. At a casual gesture, Faolain retreated 
deferentially to a corner with the garment, merely shrugging her own cloak back. Plainly, she was ready to go on the 
instant at another wave of the Sitter's hand. Her dark features wore a cast of resigned meekness, not very much like her. 
Lelaine's reserve cracked for a moment, in a surprisingly warm smile for Siuan. They had been friends, once, years ago, 
and she had even offered something like the patronage that Faolain had accepted, a Sitter's protection and sheltering 
arm against the sneers and accusations of other sisters. Touching Siuan's cheek, Lelaine softly murmured something 
that sounded sympathetic. Siuan blushed, a startling uncertainty flashing across her face. It was not pretense, Egwene 
was sure. Siuan found it difficult to deal with what really had changed in her, and more, with how easily she was 
adapting. 
Lelaine eyed the stool in front of the writing table and, as usual, visibly rejected such an unsteady seat. Only then did 
she acknowledge Egwene's presence, with the barest dip of her head. 
"We need to speak of the Sea Folk, Mother," she said in a tone a bit firm to be directed at the Amyrlin Seat. 
Not until Egwene's heart sank down from her throat did she realize she had been afraid that Lelaine already knew what 
Lord Bryne had told her. Or even the meeting he was arranging. The next instant, her heart leaped back again. The Sea 
Folk? Surely the Hall could not have learned of the insane bargain Nynaeve and Elayne had made. She could not 
imagine what had led them into such a disaster, or how she was to deal with it. 
Her stomach roiling, she took her place behind the table without revealing anything of what she felt. And that fool chair 
leg folded, nearly dropping her onto the carpets before she could jerk it straight again. She hoped her cheeks were not 
coloring. "The Sea Folk in Caemlyn, or in Cairhien?" Yes; that sounded suitably calm and collected. 
"Cairhien." Romanda's high voice rang like sudden chimes. "Definitely Cairhien." Her entry made Lelaine's seem 
almost diffident, the force of her personality abruptly filling the tent. There were no warm smiles in Romanda; 
handsome as her face was, it did not seem made for them. 
Theodrin followed her in, and Romanda swung her cloak off with a flourish and tossed it to the slim, apple-cheeked 
sister with a peremptory gesture that sent Theodrin hurrying to a corner opposite Faolain. Faolain was distinctly 
subdued, but Theodrin's tilted eyes were very wide, as though she was permanently startled, and her lips seemed ready 
to gasp. Like Faolain, her proper place in the hierarchy of Aes Sedai demanded better employment, but neither was 
likely to receive it soon. 
Romanda's compelling gaze rested a moment on Siuan, as if considering whether to send her to a corner as well, then 
brushed past Lelaine almost dismissively before settling on Egwene. "It seems that young man has been talking with 
the Sea Folk, Mother. The Yellow eyes-and-ears in Cairhien are most excited about it. Do you have any idea what 
might interest him in the Atha'an Miere?" 
Despite the title, Romanda hardly sounded as if she were addressing the Amyrlin Seat, but then, she never did. There 
was no doubt who "that young man" was. Every sister in the camp accepted that Rand was the Dragon Reborn, but 
anyone who heard them talk would have believed they were speaking of an unruly young lout who might come to 
dinner drunk and throw up on the table. 
"She can hardly know what's in the boy's head," Lelaine said before Egwene could open her mouth. Her smile was not 
at all warm this time. "If an answer is to be found, Romanda, it will be in Caemlyn. The Atha'an Miere there are not 
sequestered on a ship, and I seriously doubt that high ranking Sea Folk came so far from the sea on different errands. 



I've never heard of them doing so for any reason. It may be they have an interest in him. They must know who he is by 
now." 
Romanda smiled back, and frost should have appeared on the tent walls. "There's hardly need to state the obvious, 
Lelaine. The first question is how to find out." 
"I was about to resolve that when you barged in, Romanda. The next time the Mother encounters Elayne or Nynaeve in 
Tel'aran'rhiod, she can pass on instructions. Merilille can discover what the Atha'an Miere want, or maybe what the boy 
does, when she reaches Caemlyn. A pity the girls didn't think to set a regular schedule, but we must work around that. 
Merilille can meet with a Sitter in Tel'aran'rhiod when she knows." Lelaine made a small gesture; plainly, she herself 
was the intended Sitter. "I thought Salidar might be a suitable place." 
Romanda snorted with amusement. Even in that, there was no warmth. "Easier to instruct Merilille than to see she 
obeys, Lelaine. I expect she knows she faces sharp questions. This Bowl of the Winds should have been brought to us 
for study first. None of the sisters in Ebou Dar had much ability in Cloud Dancing, I believe, and you can see the result, 
all this hurly-burly and suddenness. I have a thought to call a question before the Hall concerning everyone involved." 
Abruptly the gray-haired woman's voice became smooth as butter. "As I recall, you supported the choice of Merilille." 
With a jerk, Lelaine drew herself up. Her eyes flashed. "I supported who the Gray put forward, Romanda, and no 
more," she said indignantly. "How could I have imagined she would decide to use the Bowl there? And to include Sea 
Folk wilders in the circle! How could she believe they know as much of working weather as Aes Sedai?" Abruptly her 
ire slipped. She was defending herself to her fiercest adversary in the Hall, her only real adversary. And, no doubt 
worse in her view, she was agreeing with her about the Sea Folk. There was no question that she did agree, but giving 
the fact voice was another matter. 
Romanda let her cold smile deepen as Lelaine's face paled with fury. She straightened her bronze-colored skirts with 
meticulous care as Lelaine searched for a way to turn matters about. "We will see how the Hall stands, Lelaine," she 
said finally. "Until the question is called, I think it best if Merilille does not meet with any of the Sitters involved in her 
selection. Even a suggestion of collusion would be looked at askance. I'm sure you will agree I should be the one to 
speak with her." 
Lelaine's face paled differently. She was not afraid, not visibly, yet Egwene could almost see her counting who might 
stand for her, or against. Collusion was almost as serious as a charge of treason, and required only the lesser consensus. 
Likely, she could avoid that, but the arguments would be deep and acrimonious, Romanda's faction might even 
increase. That would cause untold problems whether or not Egwene's own plans bore fruit. And there was nothing she 
could do to stop it, short of revealing what really had happened in Ebou Dar. As well ask them to let her accept the 
same offer Faolain and Theodrin had. 
Egwene drew breath. At least she might be able to prevent the use of Salidar as a meeting place in Tel'aran'rhiod. That 
was where she met Elayne and Nynaeve, now. When she did, anyway; she had not in days. With Sitters popping in and 
out of the World of Dreams, finding anywhere you could be sure they would not appear was difficult. "The next time I 
encounter Elayne or Nynaeve, I will pass on your instructions regarding Merilille. I can let you know when she's ready 
to meet you." Which would be never, once she was done with those instructions. 
The Sitters' heads whipped around, and two sets of eyes stared at her. They had forgotten she was there! Struggling to 
keep her face smooth, she realized her foot was tapping irritably, and stopped it. She had to go along with what they 
thought of her a while longer, yet. A little while longer. At least she no longer felt nauseated. Just angry. 
Into that moment of silence, Chesa came bustling with Egwene's midday meal on a cloth-covered tray. Dark-haired, 
plump and pretty in her middle years, Chesa managed to convey a proper respect without cringing. Her curtsy was as 
simple as her dark gray dress, with just a touch of plain lace at the throat. "Forgive me for intruding, Mother, Aes 
Sedai. I am sorry this is late, Mother, but Meri seems to have wandered off." She clicked her tongue in exasperation as 
she set the tray in front of Egwene. Wandering seemed very unlike the misnamed Meri. That dour woman was as 
disapproving of faults in herself as she was of those in others. 
Romanda frowned, but she said nothing. After all, she could hardly show too much interest in one of Egwene's maids. 
Especially when the woman was her spy. Just as Selame was Lelaine's. Egwene avoided looking at Theodrin or 
Faolain, both still standing dutifully in their corners like Accepted, rather than Aes Sedai themselves. 
Chesa half-opened her mouth, but closed it again, perhaps intimidated by the Sitters. Egwene was relieved when she 
dipped another curtsy and left with a murmured "By your leave, Mother." Chesa's advice was always indirect enough 
for any sister when anyone else was present, but right then, the last thing Egwene wanted was even a circumspect 
reminder to eat while her food was hot. 



Lelaine took up as if there had been no interruption. "The important thing," she said firmly, "is to learn what the 
Atha'an Miere want. Or what the boy does. Maybe he wants to be their king, too." Holding out her arms, she allowed 
Faolain to restore her cloak, which the dark young woman did with care. "You will remember to let me know if you 
have any thoughts on it, Mother?" That was just barely a request. 
"I will think hard," Egwene told her. Which was not to say she would share her thoughts. She wished she had a 
glimmer of the answer. That the Atha'an Miere believed Rand was their prophesied Coramoor, she knew, though the 
Hall did not, but what he wanted from them, or them from him, she could not begin to imagine. According to Elayne, 
the Sea Folk with them had no clue. Or said not. Egwene almost wished one of the handful of sisters who had come 
from the Atha'an Miere was in the camp. Almost. One way or another, those Windfinders were going to cause trouble. 
At a wave of Romanda's hand, Theodrin leaped forward with the Sitter's cloak as though goosed. By Romanda's 
expression, Lelaine's recovery did not best please her. "You will remember to tell Merilille I wish to speak with her, 
Mother," she said, and that was not a request at all. 
For a brief moment the two Sitters stood staring at one another, Egwene forgotten again in their mutual animosity. 
They departed without a word to her, very nearly jostling for precedence before Romanda slipped out first, drawing 
Theodrin in her wake. Baring her teeth, Lelaine practically pushed Faolain from the tent ahead of her. 
Siuan heaved a hearty sigh, and made no attempt to hide her relief. 
"By your leave, Mother," Egwene muttered mockingly. "If you please, Mother. You may go, daughters." Letting out a 
long breath, she settled back in her chair. Which promptly pitched her onto the carpets in a heap. She picked herself up 
slowly and jerked her skirts straight, put her stole to rights. At least it had not happened in front of those two. "Go get 
something to eat, Siuan. And bring it back. We've a long day, yet." 
"Some falls hurt less than others," Siuan said as if to herself before ducking outside. It was a good thing she went so 
quickly, or Egwene might have given her an earful. 
She returned soon, though, and they ate hard rolls and lentil stew laced with tough carrot and scraps of meat Egwene 
did not look at closely. There were only a few interruptions, intrusions where they fell silent and pretended to study 
reports. Chesa came to take away the tray, and later to replace the candles, a task she grumbled over, which was not 
like her. 
"Who'd expect Selame to go missing, too?" she muttered, half to herself. "Off canoodling with the soldiers, I expect. 
That Halima's a bad influence." 
A skinny young fellow with a dripping nose renewed the already dead coals in the braziers—the Amyrlin got more 
warmth than most, but that was not a great deal—and he stumbled over his own boots and gaped at Egwene in a 
manner quite gratifying after the two Sitters. Sheriam appeared to ask whether Egwene had any further instructions, of 
all things, and then seemed to want to stay. Perhaps the few secrets she knew made her nervous; her eyes certainly 
darted uneasily. 
That was the lot, and Egwene was not sure whether it was because no one bothered the Amyrlin without cause, or 
because everyone knew the real decisions were made in the Hall. 
"I don't know about this report of soldiers moving south out of Kandor," Siuan said as soon as the tentflap fell behind 
Sheriam. "There's just the one, and Borderlanders seldom go far from the Blight, but every fool knows that, so it's 
hardly the kind of tale anyone would make up." She was not reading from a page, now. 
Siuan had managed to keep very tenuous control of the Amyrlin's network of eyes-and-ears so far, and reports, rumors, 
and gossip flowed to her in steady streams, to be studied before she and Egwene decided what to pass on to the Hall. 
Leane had her own network, to add to the flow. Most of it was passed on— some things the Hall had to know, and 
there was no guarantee that the Ajahs would pass on what their own agents learned— but it all had to be sieved for 
what might be dangerous, or serve to divert attention from the real goal. 
Few of those streams carried anything good, of late. Cairhien had produced any number of rumors of Aes Sedai allied 
with Rand, or, worse, serving him, yet at least those could be dismissed out of hand. The Wise Ones would not say 
much at all about Rand or anyone connected to him, but according to them, Merana was awaiting his return, and 
certainly sisters in the Sun Palace, where the Dragon Reborn kept his first throne, were more than seed enough to grow 
those tales. Others were not easily ignored, even when it was hard to know what to make of them. A printer in Illian 
asserted that he had proof Rand had killed Mattin Stepaneos with his own hands and destroyed the body with the One 
Power, while a laborer on the docks there claimed she had seen the former King carried, bound and gagged and rolled 
in a rug, aboard a ship that had sailed in the night with the blessings of the captain of the Port Watch. The first was far 
more likely, but Egwene hoped none of the Ajahs' agents had picked up the same tale. There were already too many 



black marks against Rand's name in the sisters' books. 
It went on like that. The Seanchan seemed to be taking a firm hold in Ebou Dar, against very little resistance. That 
might have been expected in a land where the Queen's true rule ended a few days' ride from her capital, yet it was 
hardly heartening. The Shaido seemed to be everywhere, though word of them always came from someone who had 
heard from someone who had heard. Most sisters seemed to believe the scattered Shaido were Rand's work despite the 
Wise Ones' denials, carried by Sheriam. No one wanted to probe the Wise Ones' supposed lies too closely, of course. 
There were a hundred excuses, but no one was willing to meet them in Tel'aran'rhiod except the sisters sworn to 
Egwene, and they had to be ordered. Anaiya dryly called the encounters "quite compact lessons in humility," and she 
did not seem at all amused. 
"There can't be that many Shaido," Egwene muttered. No herbs had been added to the second batch of charcoal, which 
was dying down in faint embers, and her eyes ached from the smoke that hung thin in the air. Channeling to get rid of it 
would disperse the last warmth, too. "Some of this must be bandits' work." After all, who could tell a village emptied 
by people fleeing brigands from one emptied by Shaido? Especially at third hand, or fifth. "There are certainly enough 
bandits around to account for some of it." Most calling themselves Dragonsworn, which was no help at all. She worked 
her shoulders to loosen a few of the knots in her muscles. 
Abruptly she realized that Siuan was staring at nothing so intently that she appeared ready to slip off of her stool. 
"Siuan, are you falling asleep? We may have worked most of the day, but it's still light out." There was light at the 
smoke hole, though it did appear to be fading. 
Siuan blinked. "I'm sorry. I've been thinking about something lately, and trying to decide whether to share it with you. 
About the Hall." 
"The Hall! Siuan, if you know something about the Hall—!" 
"I don't know anything," Siuan cut in. "It's what I suspect." She clicked her tongue in annoyance. "Not even suspect, 
really. At least, I don't know what to suspect. But I see a pattern." 
"Then you had best tell me about it," Egwene said. Siuan had shown herself very skilled at detecting patterns where 
others saw only a jumble. 
Shifting on her stool, Siuan leaned forward intently. "It's this. Aside from Romanda and Moria, the Sitters chosen in 
Salidar are . . . they're too young." Much had changed in Siuan, but speaking of other sisters' ages clearly made her 
uncomfortable. "Escaralde is the oldest, and I'm sure she isn't much past seventy. I can't be certain without going into 
the novice books in Tar Valon, or her telling us, but I'm as sure as I can be. It isn't often the Hall has held more than 
one Sitter under a hundred, and here we have nine!" 
"But Romanda and Moria are new," Egwene said gently, resting her elbows on the table. It had been a long day. "And 
neither is young. Maybe we should be grateful the others are, or they might not have been willing to raise me." She 
could have pointed out that Siuan herself had been chosen Amyrlin at less than half Escaralde's age, but the reminder 
would have been cruel. 
"Maybe," Siuan said stubbornly. "Romanda was certain for the Hall as soon as she showed up. I doubt there's a Yellow 
would dare speak against her for a chair. And Moria. . . . She doesn't cling to Lelaine, but Lelaine and Lyrelle probably 
thought she would. I don't know. Mark me, though. When a woman is raised too young, there's a reason." She took a 
deep breath. "Including when I was." The pain of loss flashed across her face, the loss of the Amyrlin Seat certainly, 
maybe of all the losses she had suffered. It was gone almost as soon as it came. Egwene did not think she had ever 
known a woman as strong as Siuan Sanche. "This time, there were more than enough sisters of proper age to choose 
from, and I can't see five Ajahs deadlocking on all of them. There is a pattern, and I mean to pick it out." 
Egwene did not agree. Change hung in the air whether Siuan wanted to see it or not. Elaida had broken custom, come 
very close to breaking law, in usurping Siuan's place. Sisters had fled the Tower and let the world know of it, and that 
last certainly had never happened before. Change. Older sisters were more likely to be tied to the old ways, but even 
some of them had to see that everything was shifting. Surely that was why younger women, more open to the new, had 
been chosen. Should she order Siuan to stop wasting her time with this? Siuan had enough else to do. Or would it be a 
kindness to let her continue? She wanted so deeply to prove that the change she saw was not really occurring at all. 
Before Egwene could make a decision, Romanda ducked into the tent and stood holding the tentflap open. Long 
shadows stretched across the snow outside. Evening was coming fast. Romanda's face was as dark as those shadows. 
She fixed Siuan with a stern gaze and snapped one word. "Out!" 
Egwene gave an infinitesimal nod, but Siuan was already on her feet. She missed a step, then all but ran from the tent. 
A sister who stood where Siuan did was expected to obey any sister of Romanda's strength in the Power, not just a 



Sitter. 
Throwing down the tentflap, Romanda embraced the Source. The glow of saidar surrounded her, and she wove a ward 
against eavesdropping around the inside of the tent without so much as a pretense of asking Egwene's permission. "You 
are a fool!" she grated. "How long did you think you could keep this a secret? Soldiers talk, child. Men always talk! 
Bryne will be lucky if the Hall doesn't put his head on a pike." 
Egwene stood slowly, smoothing her skirt. She had been waiting for this, but she still needed to be careful. The game 
was far from played out, and everything could still turn against her in a flash. She had to pretend innocence, until she 
could afford to stop pretending. "Must I remind you that rudeness to the Amyrlin Seat is a crime, daughter," she said 
instead. She had been pretending so long, and she was so close. 
"The Amyrlin Seat." Romanda strode across the carpets to within arm's reach of Egwene, and by her glare, the thought 
of reaching more crossed her mind. "You're an infant! Your bottom still remembers the last switching it had as a 
novice! After this, you'll be lucky if the Hall doesn't put you in a corner with a few play pretties. If you want to avoid 
that, you will listen to me, and do as I tell you. Now, sit down!" 
Egwene seethed inside, but she sat. It was too soon. 
With a sharp, satisfied nod, Romanda planted her fists on her hips. She stared down at Egwene like a stern aunt 
lecturing a misbehaving niece. A very stern aunt. Or a headsman with a toothache. "This meeting with Pelivar and 
Arathelle has to go forward, now it's been arranged. They expect the Amyrlin Seat, and they will see her. You will 
attend with all the pomp and dignity your title deserves. And you will tell them I am to speak for you, after which, you 
will hold your tongue! Getting them 
out of our way will require a firm hand, and someone who knows what she's about. No doubt Lelaine will be here any 
minute, trying to put herself forward, but you just remember the trouble she's in. I've spent the day speaking with other 
Sitters, and it appears very likely that Merilille and Merana's failures will be quite firmly attached to Lelaine when the 
Hall sits next. So, if you have any hope of gaining the experience you'll need to grow into that stole, it lies with me! Do 
you understand me?" 
"I understand perfectly," Egwene said, in what she hoped was a meek voice. If she let Romanda speak in her place, 
there would no longer be any doubts. The Hall and the whole world would know who held Egwene al'Vere by the 
scruff of her neck. 
Romanda's eyes seemed to bore into her head before the woman gave a curt nod. "I hope that you do. I intend to 
remove Elaida from the Amyrlin Seat, and I won't see that ruined because a child thinks she knows enough to find her 
way across the street without her hand held." With a snort, she flung her cloak around her and flung herself out of the 
tent. The ward vanished as she did. 
Egwene sat and frowned at the tent's entrance. A child? Burn the woman, she was the Amyrlin Seat! Whether they 
liked it or not, they had raised her, and they were going to have to live with it! Eventually. Snatching up the stone 
inkwell, she hurled it at the tentflap. 
Lelaine dodged back, barely avoiding the splash. "Temper, temper," she chided, coming on in. 
No more asking permission than Romanda had, she embraced the Source and wove a ward to stop anyone overhearing 
what she had to say. Where Romanda had been in a fury, Lelaine appeared pleased with herself, rubbing her gloved 
hands and smiling. 
"I don't suppose I need tell you your little secret is out. Very bad of Lord Bryne, but I think he's too valuable to kill. A 
good thing for him I do. Let me see. I suppose Romanda told you that there will be a meeting with Pelivar and 
Arathelle, but you are to let her do all the talking. Am I right?" Egwene stirred, but Lelaine waved a hand at her. "No 
need to answer. I know Romanda. Unfortunately for her, I learned about this before she did, and instead of running to 
you straight away, I've been polling the other Sitters. Do you want to know what they think?" Egwene balled her fists 
in her lap, where she hoped they would not be noticed. "I expect you're going to tell me." 
"You are in no position to take that tone with me," Lelaine said sharply, but the next instant, her smile returned. "The 
Hall is displeased with you. Very displeased. Whatever Romanda has threatened you with—and it's easy enough to 
imagine—I can deliver. Romanda, on the other hand, has upset a number of Sitters with her bullying. So, unless you 
want to find yourself with less authority than the little you have now, Romanda is going to be surprised tomorrow when 
you name me to speak for you. It's hard to believe Arathelle and Pelivar were foolish enough to put a thing like this in 
motion, but they'll slink away with their tails between their legs once I'm done with them." 
"How do I know you won't carry out those threats anyway?" Egwene hoped her angry mutter sounded like sullenness. 
Light, but she was tired of this! 



"Because I say I won't," Lelaine snapped. "Don't you know by now that you aren't really in charge of anything? The 
Hall is, and that is between Romanda and me. In another hundred years, you may grow into the stole, but for now, sit 
quietly, fold your hands, and let someone who knows what she is about see to pulling Elaida down." 
After Lelaine left, Egwene once more sat staring. This time, she was not letting anger boil. You may grow into the 
stole. Almost the same thing Romanda had said. Someone who knows what she is about. Was she deceiving herself? A 
child, ruining what a woman with experience could handle easily? 
Siuan slipped into the tent and stood looking worried. "Gareth Bryne just came to tell me the Hall knows," she said 
dryly. "Under cover of asking about his shirts. Him and his bloody shirts! The meeting is set for tomorrow, at a lake 
about five hours to the north. Pelivar and Arathelle are already on the way. Aemlyn, too. That's a third strong House." 
"That's more than Lelaine or Romanda saw fit to tell me," Egwene said, just as dryly. No. A hundred years of being led 
by the hand, pushed by the scruff of her neck, or fifty years, or five, and she would be fit for nothing more. If she had to 
grow, she had to grow now. 
"Oh, blood and bloody ashes," Siuan groaned. "I can't stand it! What did they say? How did it go?" 
"About as we expected." Egwene smiled with a wonder that touched her voice, too. "Siuan, they couldn't have handed 
me the Hall better if I had told them what to do." 
The last light was failing as Sheriam approached her tiny tent, smaller even than Egwene's. If she had not been Keeper, 
she would have had to share. Ducking inside, she had only time to realize she was not alone when she was shielded and 
flung face down on her cot. Stunned, she tried to cry out, but a corner of one of her blankets wadded itself into her 
mouth. Dress and shift burst away from her body like a pricked bubble. 
A hand stroked her head. "You were supposed to keep me informed, Sheriam. That girl is up to something, and I want 
to know what." 
It took a long time to convince her questioner that she had already told all she knew, that she would never hold back a 
word, not a whisper. When she was left alone at last, it was to lie curled up and whimpering from her welts, bitterly 
wishing that she had never in her life spoken to a single sister in the Hall. 

Chapter 17 Out on the Ice 

The next morning, a column rode north from the Aes Sedai camp well before dawn, near silent except for the creak of 
saddles and the crunch of hooves breaking through the snow's crisp crust. Occasionally a horse snorted, or metal 
jingled and was quickly muffled. The moon was already down, the sky glistening with stars, but the pale blanket lying 
over everything below lightened the darkness. When the first glimmers of day appeared in the east, they had been 
riding a good hour or more. Which was not to say they had traveled far. Over some open stretches, Egwene could let 
Daishar go at a slow canter that sprayed white like splashing water, but for the most part, the horses walked, and not 
quickly, through sparse forest where the snow made deep drifts below and clung to branches overhead. Oak and pine, 
sour gum and leatherleaf and trees she did not recognize all looked even more bedraggled than they had in the heat and 
drought. Today was the Feast of Abram, but there would be no prizes baked in honey cakes. The Light send some 
people found surprises in the day, though. 
The sun rose and climbed, a pale golden ball that gave no warmth. Every breath still bit the throat and produced a puff 
of mist. A sharp wind blew, not hard, but cutting, and to the west dark clouds rolled north on their way to Andor. She 
felt a touch of pity for whoever would know the burden of those clouds. And relief that they were heading away. 
Waiting another day would have been maddening. She had been unable to sleep at all, for fidgety restlessness, not 
headaches. Restlessness, and tendrils of fear that had crept in like cold air under the edges of the tent. She was not 
tired, though. She felt like a compressed spring, a tight-wound clock, full of energy that wanted desperately to find 
release. Light, everything could still go horribly wrong. 
It was an impressive column, behind the standard of the White Tower, the white Flame of Tar Valon centered on a 
spiral of seven colors, one for each Ajah. Sewn secretly in Salidar, it had lain in the bottom of a chest ever since, with 
the keys in the keeping of the Hall. She did not think they would have produced it except for this morning's need for 
pomp. A thousand heavy cavalry in plate-and-mail provided a close escort, a panoply of lances, swords, maces and 
axes seldom seen south of the Borderlands. Their commander was a one-eyed Shienaran with a vividly painted 
eyepatch, a man she had met once, what seemed an Age ago. Uno Nomesta glared at the trees through the steel bars of 
his helmet's faceguard as if he expected every last one to hide an ambush, and his men seemed nearly as watchful, erect 
in their saddles. 



Almost out of sight ahead through the trees rode a knot of men who wore helmets, breast- and backplates, but no other 
armor. Their cloaks whipped about freely; a gauntleted hand for the reins and a hand for the short bow they each 
carried left nothing to grasp at warmth. There were more farther on, and beyond sight to left and right and behind, 
another thousand altogether, to scout and screen. Gareth Bryne did not expect trickery from the Andorans, but he had 
been wrong before, so he said, and the Murandians were another matter. And then there was the possibility of assassins 
in Elaida's pay, or even Darkfriends. The Light alone knew when a Darkfriend might decide to kill, or why. For that 
matter, though the Shaido were supposedly far away, no one ever seemed to know they were there until the killing 
began. Even bandits might have tried their hand with too small a party. Lord Bryne was not a man to take chances 
unnecessarily, and Egwene was very glad. Today, she wanted as many witnesses as possible. 
She herself rode ahead of the banner, with Sheriam and Siuan and Bryne. The others appeared caught in their own 
thoughts. Lord Bryne sat his saddle easily, the mist of his even breath forming a light frost on his faceguard, yet 
Egwene could see him calmly marking terrain in his mind. In case he had to fight over it. Siuan rode so stiffly that she 
would be sore long before reaching their destination, but she stared north as though she could already see the lake, and 
sometimes she nodded to herself, or shook her head. She would not have done that unless she was uneasy. Sheriam 
knew no more of what was to come than the Sitters did, yet she appeared even more nervous than Siuan, shifting 
constantly in her saddle and grimacing. Anger shone in her green eyes, too, for some reason. 
Close behind the banner came the entire Hall of the Tower in double column, wearing embroidered silks and rich 
velvets and furs and cloaks with the Flame large on the back. Women who seldom wore more ornaments than the Great 
Serpent ring were decked today in the finest gems the camp's jewelry caskets could supply. Their Warders made a more 
splendid display simply by wearing their color-shifting cloaks; parts of the men seemed to vanish as the disquieting 
cloaks swirled in the stiff breeze. Servants followed, two or three for every sister, on the best horses that could be found 
for them. They might have passed for lesser nobility themselves if a number had not been leading pack animals; every 
chest in the camp had been ransacked to outfit them in bright colors. 
Perhaps because she was one of the Sitters without a Warder, Delana had brought Halima along, on a spirited white 
mare. The two rode almost knee-to-knee. Sometimes Delana would lean toward Halima to speak privately, though 
Halima appeared too excited to listen. Supposedly, Halima was Delana's secretary, but everyone believed it a case of 
charity, or possibly friendship, however unlikely, between the dignified, pale-haired sister and the hot-natured, 
raven-haired country woman. Egwene had seen Hal-ima's hand, and it had the unformed look of a child's just learning 
her letters. Today, she was in garments as fine as any sister's, with gems that easily equaled Delana's, who must have 
been their source. Whenever a gust opened her velvet cloak, she displayed a shocking amount of bosom, and she 
always laughed and took her time about gathering it around her again, refusing to admit that she felt the cold any more 
than the sisters did. 
For once, Egwene was glad of all the gifts of clothing she had been given, allowing her to surpass the Sitters. Her 
green-and-blue silk was slashed with white and worked with seed pearls. Pearls even decorated the backs of her gloves. 
At the last minute a cloak lined with ermine had been provided by Romanda, and a necklace and earrings of emeralds 
and white opals by Lelaine. The moonstones in her hair came from Janya. The Amyrlin had to be resplendent today. 
Even Siuan appeared ready for a ball, in blue velvets and cream lace, with a wide band of pearls at her throat and more 
laced through her hair. 
Romanda and Lelaine led the Sitters, riding so closely behind the soldier bearing the banner that he glanced over his 
shoulder nervously and sometimes edged his horse nearer the riders ahead of him. Egwene managed not to look back 
more than once or twice, yet she could feel their eyes pressing between her shoulder blades. Each thought her tied in a 
neat bundle, but each had to be wondering whose cords had done the binding. Oh, Light, this could not go wrong. Not 
now. 
Other than the column, little moved in all that snow-covered landscape. A broad-winged hawk wheeled overhead 
against the cold blue sky for a time before winging eastward. Twice Egwene saw black-tailed foxes trotting in the 
distance, still in their summer fur, and once, a large deer with tall forked antlers ghosted away and vanished amid the 
trees. A hare, starting up right under Bela's hooves and bounding off, made the shaggy mare toss her head, and Siuan 
yelped and grabbed at the reins as if she expected Bela to bolt. Of course, Bela only gave a reproachful snort and 
plodded onward. Egwene's tall roan gelding shied more, and the hare had not gone near him. 
Siuan began grumbling under her breath after the hare scampered away, and it took quite some time before she eased 
Bela's reins. Being on a horse always made her grumpy—she traveled in one of the wagons whenever possible—but 
she was seldom this bad. There was no need to look further than Lord Bryne, or her fierce glances at him, to know why. 



If he noticed Siuan's looks, he gave no sign. The only one not in fine array, he looked as he always did, plain and 
slightly battered. A rock that had weathered storms and would outlast more to come. For some reason, Egwene was 
glad he had resisted their efforts to dress him in finer garb. They truly did need to make an impression, yet she thought 
he made an excellent one as he was. 
"It's a fine morning to be in the saddle," Sheriam said after a time. "Nothing like a good ride in the snow to clear the 
head." Her voice was not low, and she cut her eyes at the still-muttering Siuan with a tiny smile. 
Siuan did not say anything—she hardly could do that in front of so many eyes—but she did give Sheriam a hard look 
that promised sharp words for later. The fire-haired woman twisted away abruptly with very close to a wince. Wing, 
her dappled gray mare, pranced a few steps, and Sheriam settled her down with almost too firm a hand. She had shown 
little gratitude to the woman who had named her Mistress of Novices, and like most in that position, she found reasons 
to blame Siuan. It was the only flaw Egwene had found in her since the swearing. Well, she had protested that, as 
Keeper, she should not have to take orders from Siuan the way the others who had sworn did, but Egwene had seen 
right away where that would lead. This was not the first time Sheriam had tried to plant a barb. Siuan insisted on 
handling Sheriam herself, and her pride was too fragile for Egwene to deny the request unless matters got out of hand. 
Egwene wished there were some way to make more speed. Siuan went back to her grumbling, and Sheriam was 
obviously thinking of something else to say that would not quite bring a rebuke. All that muttering and cutting of eyes 
began to find their way under Egwene's skin. After a while, even Bryne's levelheaded poise began to wear. She found 
herself thinking of things she might say that would shake his aplomb. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—she did 
not believe anything could. But if she had to wait much longer, she thought she might burst from sheer impatience. 
The sun climbed toward midday, the painfully slow miles passed behind, and at last one of the riders ahead turned and 
raised his hand. With a hasty apology to Egwene, Bryne galloped 
« 
forward. It was really more of a lumber through the snow for his sturdy bay gelding, Traveler, but he caught up to the 
outriders, exchanged a few words, then sent them on through the trees and waited for Egwene and the others to reach 
him. 
As he fell in beside her once more, Romanda and Lelaine joined them. The two Sitters barely acknowledged Egwene's 
presence, fixing Bryne with the cool serenity that had shaken so many men facing Aes Sedai. Except that now and then, 
each glanced sideways at the other in a considering way. They hardly seemed to realize what they were doing. Egwene 
hoped they were half as nervous as she; she would be satisfied with that. 
Coolly serene stares washed over Bryne like rain over that rock. He made slight bows to the Sitters, but he spoke to 
Egwene. "They've already arrived, Mother." That had been expected. "They brought almost as many men as we did, 
but they're all on the north side of the lake. I've put scouts out to make sure nobody tries circling around, but in truth, I 
don't expect it." 
"Let us hope you're right," Romanda told him sharply, and Lelaine added in a much colder tone, "Your judgment has 
not been all it should be, of late, Lord Bryne." A frigid, cutting tone. "As you say, Aes Sedai." He made another slight 
bow without really turning from Egwene. Like Siuan, he was tied to her openly now, at least so far as the Hall was 
concerned. If only they did not know how tightly. If only she could be sure how tightly. "One thing more, Mother," he 
went on. "Talmanes is there at the lake, too. There are about a hundred of the Band on the east side. Not enough to 
cause trouble even if he wanted to, and small chance he would, I think." 
Egwene merely nodded. Not enough to cause trouble? Talmanes alone might be enough! She tasted bile. It— could— 
not— go— wrong— now! 
"Talmanes!" Lelaine exclaimed, serenity shattering. She must have been as much on edge as Egwene. "How did he find 
out? If you've included Dragonsworn in your scheming, Lord Bryne, you truly will learn what going too far means!" 
Right on top of her, Romanda growled, "This is disgraceful! You say you've only learned of his presence now? If that's 
so, your reputation is puffed up like a boil!" Aes Sedai calm was a thin layer for some today, it seemed. They continued 
in that vein, but Bryne rode on, only murmuring the occasional "As you say, Aes Sedai," when he had to say 
something. He had received worse in Egwene's hearing this morning, and reacted no more. It was Siuan who finally 
snorted, and then blushed crimson when the Sitters looked at her in surprise. Egwene almost shook her head. Siuan was 
very definitely in love. And she very definitely needed talking to! For some reason, Bryne smiled, but that might just 
have been because he was no longer the object of the Sitters' attention. 
Trees gave way to another open space, larger than most, and there was no more time for frivolous thoughts. 
Aside from a wide rim of tall brown reeds and cattails poking through the snow, nothing named this a lake. It could 



have been a big meadow, flat and very roughly oval in shape. Some distance from the treeline, on the frozen lake, stood 
a large blue canopy on tall poles, with a small crowd of people milling about it and dozens of horses held by servants 
behind. The breeze ruffled a bright thicket of pennants and banners, and carried muffled shouts that could only have 
been orders. More servants darted about hastily. Apparently, they had not been there long enough to finish their 
preparations. 
Perhaps a mile away the trees began again, and the feeble sunlight glinted off metal there. Quite a lot of metal, 
stretching the length of the far shore. To the east, almost as close as the pavilion, the hundred men of the Band made no 
effort at concealment, standing beside their mounts just short of where the cattails began. A few of them pointed when 
the flag of Tar Valon appeared. The people at the pavilion stopped to look. 
Egwene did not pause before riding out onto the snow-covered ice. She did imagine herself a rosebud opening to the 
sun, though, that old novice exercise. She did not actually embrace saidar, but the calm that came was very welcome. 
Siuan and Sheriam followed, and the Sitters with their Warders, and the servants. Lord Bryne and the bannerman were 
the only two soldiers who went. Shouts rising behind her told of Uno putting his armored horsemen into position along 
the shoreline. The more lightly armored men were arrayed to either side, those not off guarding against treachery. One 
reason the lake had been chosen was that the ice was thick enough to hold a fair number of horses, but not hundreds, 
much less thousands. That cut down on the chance of chicanery. Of course, a pavilion beyond bowshot was not beyond 
the range of the One Power, not if it could be seen. Except that the worst man in the world knew himself safe from that 
unless he threatened a sister. Egwene exhaled sharply, and began acquiring calm all over again. 
A proper greeting for the Amyrlin Seat should have had servants rushing forward with warm drinks and cloths wrapped 
around hot bricks, and the lords and ladies themselves to take reins and offer a kiss in token of Abram. Any visitor of 
rank at all would have had the servants, but no one stirred from the pavilion. Bryne himself dismounted and came to 
hold Daishar's bridle, and the same lanky young man who had come with fresh charcoal the day before ran to hold 
Egwene's stirrup. His nose still dripped, but in a red velvet coat only a little too large for him and a bright blue cloak, 
he outshone any of the nobles who stood staring from under the canopy. They appeared to be in stout woolens for the 
most part, with not much embroidery and very little silk or lace. Likely they had had to scramble to find suitable 
clothes once the snows began, and them already on the march. Though the simple truth was that the young man might 
have outshone a Tinker. 
Carpets had been laid to floor the pavilion, and braziers lit, though the breeze carried away heat and smoke alike. 
Chairs stood in two facing lines for the delegations, eight in each. They had not expected so many sisters. Some of the 
waiting nobles exchanged looks of consternation, and a number of their servants actually wrung their hands, wondering 
what to do. They need not have. 
The chairs were a mismatched miscellany, but they were all alike in size, and none was noticeably more worn or 
battered than another. None had noticeably more or less gilded carving. The lanky young man and a number of others 
trotted in and under the frowns of the nobles, without so much as a by-your-leave, carried those meant for Aes Sedai 
out into the snow, then rushed to help with unloading the packhorses. Still, no one spoke a word. 
Quickly, seats were set up sufficient for the entire Hall, and Egwene. Only simple benches, though polished till they 
gleamed, but each stood on a wide box covered with cloth in the color of the Sitter's Ajah, in a long row as wide as the 
canopy. The box placed in front, for Egwene's bench, was striped like her stole. There had been a great flurry of 
activity in the night, beginning with finding beeswax for polish and good cloth of the right colors. 
When Egwene and the Sitters took their places, they sat a foot higher than anyone else. She had had her doubts about 
that, but the lack of any word of welcome had settled those. The meanest farmer would have offered a cup and a kiss to 
a vagabond on the Feast of Abram. They were not supplicants, and they were not equals. They were Aes Sedai. 
Warders stood behind their Aes Sedai, and Siuan and Sheriam flanked Egwene. The sisters ostentatiously flung back 
cloaks and tucked gloves away to emphasize that the cold did not touch them, a sharp contrast to the nobles clutching 
their own cloaks close. Outside, the Flame of Tar Valon lifted in the stiffening breeze. Only Halima, lounging beside 
Delana's chair on the edge of the gray-covered box, at all spoiled the grand image, and her big green eyes stared at the 
Andorans and Murandians so challengingly that she did not spoil it much. 
There were a few stares when Egwene took the seat in front, but only a few. No one really looked surprised. I suppose 
they've heard all about the girl Amyrlin, she thought dryly. Well, there had been queens younger, including queens of 
Andor and Murandy. Calmly, she nodded, and Sheriam gestured to the line of chairs. No matter who had arrived first 
or provided the pavilion, there was no doubt who had called this meeting. Who was in charge. 
Her action was not well received, of course. There was a moment of silent hesitation while the nobles cast their minds 



about for some way to regain an equal footing, and no few grimaces as they realized it could not be done. Grim-faced, 
eight of them sat down, four men and four women, with much angry gathering of cloaks and adjusting of skirts. Those 
of lesser rank stood behind the chairs, and clearly there was little love lost between Andoran and Murandian. For that 
matter, the Murandians, men and women alike, muttered and jostled one another for precedence as fiercely as they did 
their "allies" from the north. The Aes Sedai received a good many dark looks as well, and a few folk spared scowls for 
Bryne, who stood off to one side with his helmet under his arm. He was well known on both sides of the border, and 
respected even by most of those who would have liked to see him 

A 
dead. At least, that had been the case before he turned up leading the Aes Sedai's army. He ignored their acid glares as 
he had the Sitters' acid tongues. 
Another man did not join with either party. A pale man, less than a hand taller than Egwene, in a dark coat and 
breastplate, he wore the front of his head shaved, and there was a long red scarf tied around his left arm. His deep gray 
cloak had a large red hand worked on the breast. Talmanes stood opposite Bryne, leaning against one of the pavilion's 
poles with an arrogant casualness, and watched without revealing a hint of his thoughts. Egwene wished she knew what 
he was doing there. She wished she knew what he had said before she arrived. In any case, she had to speak with him. 
If it could be managed without a hundred ears listening. 
A lean, weathered man in a red cloak, sitting in the middle of the row of chairs, leaned forward and opened his mouth, 
but Sheriam forestalled him in a clear, carrying voice. 
"Mother, may I present to you, of Andor, Arathelle Renshar, High Seat of House Renshar. Pelivar Coelan, High Seat of 
House Coelan. Aemlyn Carand, High Seat of House Carand, and her husband, Culhan Carand." They acknowledged 
their names sourly, with bare nods and no more. Pelivar was the lean man; he was losing his dark hair from the front. 
Sheriam went on without pause; it was a good thing Bryne had been able to supply the names of those who had been 
chosen to speak. "May I present, of Murandy, Donel do Morny a'Lordeine. Cian do Mehon a'Macansa. Paitr do Fearna 
a'Conn. Segan do Avharin a'Roos." The Murandians seemed to feel the lack of titles even more than the Andorans. 
Donel, wearing more lace than most of the women, twisted his curled mustaches fiercely, and Paitr appeared to be 
trying to yank his loose. Segan pursed full lips and her dark eyes caught fire, while Cian, a stocky, graying woman, 
snorted quite loudly. Sheriam took no notice. "You are beneath the eyes of the Watcher of the Seals. You are before the 
Flame of Tar Valon. You may present your supplications to the Amyrlin Seat." 
Well. They did not like that, not in the least. Egwene had thought them sour before, but now they looked stuffed full of 
green persimmons. Perhaps they had believed they could pretend she was not the Amyrlin at all. They would learn. Of 
course, first she had to teach the Hall. 
"There are ancient ties between Andor and the White Tower," she said, loudly and firmly. "Sisters have always 
expected welcome in Andor or Murandy. Why then do you bring an army against Aes Sedai? You meddle where 
thrones and nations fear to step. Thrones have fallen, meddling in the affairs of Aes Sedai." 
That sounded suitably threatening, whether or not Myrelle and the others had managed to prepare her way. With luck, 
they were well on their way back to the camp, with no one the wiser. Unless one of these nobles spoke the wrong 
name. That would lose her an advantage against the Hall, but alongside everything else, it was a straw beside a hayloft. 
Pelivar exchanged looks with the woman seated beside him, and she stood. Creases in her face could not disguise the 
fact that Arathelle had been a beautiful, fine-boned woman when young; now, gray threaded thickly through her hair, 
and her gaze struck as hard as any Warder's. Her red-gloved hands gripped the edges of her cloak at her sides, but 
plainly not in worry. Mouth compressed to a thin line, she scanned the line of Sitters, and only then spoke. Past 
Egwene, to the sisters behind her. Gritting her teeth, Egwene put on an attentive expression. 
"We are here precisely because we do not want to become entangled in the White Tower's affairs." Arathelle's voice 
held tones of authority, unsurprising in the High Seat of a powerful House. There was no hint of the diffidence that 
might have been expected, even from a powerful High Seat, facing so many sisters, not to mention the Amyrlin Seat. 
"If all we've heard is true, then at best, allowing you to pass through Andor unhindered may seem like giving aid, or 
even alliance, in the eyes of the White Tower. Failure to oppose you might mean learning what the grape learns in the 
winepress." Several of the Murandians turned their scowls on her. No one in Murandy had tried to hinder the sisters' 
passage. Very likely, no one had considered the possibilities beyond the day they passed onto another's lands. 
Arathelle continued as if she had not noticed, but Egwene doubted that. "At worst. . . . We have heard . . . reports . . . of 
Aes Sedai making their way into Andor in secret, and Tower Guards. Rumors might be a better word, but they come 



from many places. None of us would like to see a battle between Aes Sedai in Andor." 
"The Light preserve and protect us!" Donel burst out, red-faced. Paitr nodded encouragement, sliding to the edge of his 
seat, and Cian looked ready to jump in herself. "No one wants to see it here, either!" Donel spat. "Not between Aes 
Sedai! For sure, we've heard what happened out east! And those sisters—!" 
Egwene breathed a little more easily when Arathelle stepped on him firmly. "If you please, Lord Donel. You will have 
your turn to speak." She turned back to Egwene— to the Sitters once more, really— without waiting on his reply, 
leaving him spluttering and the other three Murandians glowering. She herself looked quite undisturbed, simply a 
woman laying out the facts. Laying them out, and meaning that they should be seen as she saw them. "As I was saying. 
That is the worst we fear, if the tales are true. And also if they are not. Aes Sedai may be gathering secretly in Andor, 
with Tower Guards. Aes Sedai with an army are ready to enter Andor. Often enough the White Tower has seemed to 
aim at one target, only for the rest of us to learn later it was aiming at another all along. I can hardly imagine even the 
White Tower going this far, but if ever there was a target you might twist yourselves into a knot for, it's the Black 
Tower." Arathelle shivered slightly, and Egwene did not think it was the cold. "A battle between Aes Sedai might ruin 
the land for miles around. That battle might ruin half of Andor." 
Pelivar sprang to his feet. "The plain of it is, you must go another way." His voice was surprisingly high, but no less 
firm than Arathelle's. "If I must die to defend my lands and my people, then better here than where my lands and people 
die, too." 
He subsided at Arathelle's soothing gesture, sinking back into his chair. Hard-eyed, he did not look mollified. Aemlyn, 
a plump woman wrapped in dark wool, nodded agreement with him, as did her square-faced husband. 
Donel stared at Pelivar as though he had never had this thought either, and he was not the only one. Some of the 
standing Murandians began to argue out loud until others quieted them. Sometimes with a shaken fist. Whatever had 
possessed these people to join forces with the Andorans? 
Egwene drew breath. A rosebud, opening to the sun. They had not acknowledged her as the Amyrlin Seat—Arathelle 
had come as close to ignoring her as was possible without pushing her aside!—yet they had given her everything else 
she could have wished for. Calm. Now was when Lelaine and Romanda would be expecting her to name one of them to 
handle the negotiations. She hoped their stomachs were tied in knots with wondering which of them it would be. There 
would be no negotiations. There could be none. 
"Elaida," she said levelly, eyeing Arathelle and the seated nobles in turn, "is a usurper who has violated what lies at the 
very heart of the White Tower. I am the Amyrlin Seat." She was surprised at how stately she managed to sound, how 
cool. But not as surprised as she once would have been. The Light help her, she was the Amyrlin Seat. "We go to Tar 
Valon to remove Elaida and try her, but that is the White Tower's business, and none of yours except to know the truth. 
This so-called Black Tower also is our business; men who can channel have always been the White Tower's affair. We 
will deal with them as we choose, when the time is ripe, but I assure you, that time is not now. More important matters 
must take precedence." 
She heard movement among the Sitters behind her. An actual shifting on benches and the crisp swishing of divided 
skirts being adjusted. At least some must be severely agitated. Well, several had suggested that the Black Tower might 
be dealt with in passing. Not one believed there could be more than a dozen or so men there at most, no matter what 
they heard; after all, it simply was not possible that hundreds of men would want to channel. Then again, it might have 
been the realization that Egwene was not going to name either Romanda or Lelaine. 
Arathelle frowned, perhaps catching a hint of something in the air. Pelivar moved, on the point of rising again, and 
Donel drew himself up querulously. There was nothing for it but to press on. There never had been. 
"I understand your concerns," she continued in the same formal tone, "and I will address them." What was that strange 
call to arms the Band used? Yes. It was time to toss the dice. "I give you this assurance as the Amyrlin Seat. For one 
month we will stay here, resting, and then we will leave Murandy, but we will not cross the border into Andor. 
Murandy will be troubled by us no more after that, and Andor will not be troubled at all. I'm certain," she added, "the 
Murandian lords and ladies here will be happy to supply our wants in exchange for good silver. We will pay fair 
prices." There was no point mollifying the Andorans if it meant Murandians raiding the horses and supply trains. 
The Murandians, looking around uneasily, appeared decidedly torn in any case. There was coin to be made, and a great 
deal of it supplying an army so large, but on the other hand, who could haggle successfully with whatever an army so 
large offered? Donel actually seemed ready to sick up, while Cian seemed to be doing sums in her head. Mutters rose 
among the onlookers. More than mutters; nearly loud enough for Egwene. 
She wanted to look over her shoulder. The silence from the Sitters was deafening. Siuan was staring straight ahead and 



gripping her skirts as if to keep herself looking forward by main force. At least she had known what was coming. 
Sheriam, who had not, eyed the Andorans and Murandians regally, calmly, as though she had expected every word. 
Egwene needed to make them forget the girl they saw before them, and hear a woman with the reins of power firmly in 
hand. If they were not in her hands now, they would be! She firmed her voice. "Mark me well. I have made my 
decision; it is for you to accept it. Or face what surely will come from your failure." As she fell silent, the wind gusted 
to a brief howl, rattling the canopy, tugging at garments. Egwene straightened her hair calmly. Some of the watching 
nobles shivered and twitched their cloaks around them, and she hoped their shivers came from more than the weather. 
Arathelle exchanged looks with Pelivar and Aemlyn, and all three studied the Sitters before slowly nodding. They 
believed she was merely mouthing words the Sitters had put on her tongue! Even so, Egwene very nearly sighed with 
relief. 
"It will be as you say," the hard-eyed noblewoman said. Again, to the Sitters. "We do not doubt the word of Aes Sedai, 
of course, but you will understand if we also remain. Sometimes, what you hear isn't what you think you heard. Not 
that that's the case here, I'm sure. But we will stay while you do." Donel truly looked ready to empty himself. Very 
likely his lands lay nearby. Andoran armies in Murandy had seldom been known to pay for anything. 
Egwene stood, and she could hear the rustle of the Sitters rising behind her. "It is agreed, then. We must all depart 
soon, if we are to return to our own beds before dark, but we should spare a few moments. Getting to know one another 
a little better now might avoid misunderstandings later." And talk might give her a chance to reach Talmanes. "Oh. One 
other thing you should all be aware of. The novice book is now open to any woman, whatever her age, if she tests true." 
Arathelle blinked. Siuan did not, yet Egwene thought she heard a faint grunt. This was not part of what they had 
discussed, but there would never be a better time. "Come. I'm sure you would all like to speak with the Sitters. Let 
formality go." 
Without waiting for Sheriam to offer a hand, she stepped down. She almost felt like laughing. Last night she had been 
afraid she might never reach her goal, but she was halfway there, almost halfway, and it had not been nearly as difficult 
as she had feared. Of course, the other half remained. 

Chapter 18 A Peculiar Calling 

For a moment after Egwene descended, no one else moved. And then the Andorans and Murandians headed for the 
Sitters, almost as one. Apparently, a girl Amyrlin—a girl puppet and figurehead!—held no interest, not with ageless 
faces in front of them that at least said they actually were speaking to Aes Sedai. Two or three lords and ladies 
clustered around each Sitter, some thrusting their chins demandingly, others diffidently bending their necks, yet every 
one insistent on being heard. The sharp breeze whisked away the mist of their breath and fluttered cloaks forgotten in 
the importance of asking their questions. Sheriam was buttonholed too, by red-faced Lord Donel, who blustered and 
jerked bows by turns. 
Egwene pulled Sheriam away from the narrow-eyed man. "Find out discreetly all you can about these sisters and 
Tower Guards in Andor," she whispered hastily. As soon as she released the woman, Donel reclaimed her. Sheriam 
actually looked put-upon, but her frown disappeared quickly. Donel blinked uneasily as she began questioning him. 
Romanda and Lelaine gazed at Egwene through the crowd with faces carved from ice, but each had acquired a pair of 
nobles who wanted. . . . Something. Reassurance that there was no hidden trick in Egwene's words, perhaps. How they 
would hate doing that, but dodge and duck as they would— and they would!— there was no way to really avoid that 
reassurance without repudiating her on the spot. Even those two would not go that far. Not here, not publicly. 
Siuan slipped close to Egwene, features set in meekness. Except that her eyes darted, maybe looking for Romanda or 
Lelaine coming to seize them where they stood, and forget law, custom, propriety and who was watching. "Shein 
Chunla," she all but hissed in a whisper. 
Egwene nodded, but her eyes searched for Talmanes. Most of the men and some of the women were tall enough to hide 
him. With everyone shifting about .... She went up on her toes. Where had he gone to? 
Segan planted herself in front of her, fists on her hips, eyeing Siuan doubtfully. Egwene let her heels down hurriedly. 
The Amyrlin could not bob about like a girl at a dance looking for a boy. A rosebud unfolding. Calm. Serenity. Drat all 
men! 
A slender woman with long dark hair, Segan seemed to have been born petulant, her full mouth fixed in a pout. Her 
dress was good blue wool and made for warmth, but it had far too much vivid green embroidery across her bosom, and 
her gloves were bright enough for a Tinker. She looked Egwene up and down, pursing her lips, with as much 



incredulity on her face as she had given Siuan. "What you said about the novice book," she said abruptly. "Were you 
meaning any woman of any age at all? Any can become Aes Sedai, then?" 
A question close to Egwene's heart, and an answer she dearly wanted to give—along with a box on the ear for the 
doubt—but just then a small gap in the flow of people showed her Talmanes near the back of the pavilion. Talking with 
Pelivar! They stood stiffly, mastiffs not quite ready to show teeth, yet they were keeping a watch to make sure no one 
came close enough to overhear what they had to say. "Any woman of any age at all, daughter," she agreed absently. 
Pelivar? 
"Thank you," Segan said, and haltingly added, "Mother." She sketched a curtsy, the barest hint of one, before hurrying 
off. Egwene stared after her. Well, it was a beginning. 
Siuan snorted. "I don't mind sailing the Fingers of the Dragon in the dark if I must," she muttered half under her breath. 
"We discussed that; we weighed the dangers, and anyway, there doesn't seem to be a gull's last dinner for choice. But 
you have to set a fire on deck just to make things interesting. Netting lionfish isn't enough for you. You have to stuff a 
prickleback down your dress, too. You aren't content trying to wade a school of silver-pike—" 
Egwene broke in. "Siuan, I think I should tell Lord Bryne you're head over heels in love with him. It's only fair that he 
know, don't you agree?" Siuan's blue eyes bulged, and her mouth worked, but all that came out was a sort of gobbling. 
Egwene patted her shoulder. "You're Aes Sedai, Siuan. Try to maintain at least a little dignity. And try to find out about 
those sisters in Andor." The crowd parted again. She saw Talmanes in a different place, but still on the edge of the 
pavilion. And alone, now. 
Trying not to hurry, she walked in his direction, leaving Siuan still gobbling. A pretty, black-haired serving man, 
whose bulky woolen breeches could not quite hide neatly turned calves, offered Siuan a steaming silver cup from a 
tray. Other servants were moving about with other silver trays. Refreshment was being offered, if a bit late. It was 
much too late for the kiss of peace. She did not hear what Siuan said as she snatched a cup, but from the way the fellow 
jerked and started bobbing bows, he had received sharp shards of her temper at the least. Egwene sighed. 
Talmanes stood with arms folded, observing the goings-on with an amused smile that did not reach his eyes. He 
seemed poised to explode into motion, but his eyes were tired. At her approach, he made a respectful leg, but there was 
a wry touch to his voice when he said, "You changed a border today." He gathered his cloak against the icy breeze. "It 
has always been . . . fluid . . . between Andor and Murandy, no matter what maps say, but Andor has never come south 
in such numbers before. Except for the Aiel War, and the Whitecloak War, anyway, but they were only passing 
through, then. Once they have been here a month, new maps will show a new line. Look at the Murandians scramble, 
fawning over Pelivar and his companions as much as they do the sisters. They are hoping to make new friends for the 
new day." 
To Egwene, trying to conceal her careful watch on those who might be watching her, it seemed that all of the nobles, 
Murandian and Andoran, were intent on the Sitters, crowding around them. In any case, she had slightly more 
important matters in mind than borders. To her, if not to the nobles. Except for brief moments, none of the Sitters were 
visible beyond the tops of their heads. Only Halima and Siuan seemed to notice her, and a babble like that of a flock of 
excited geese filled the air. She lowered her voice, and chose her words carefully. 
"Friends are always important, Talmanes. You've been a good friend to Mat, and I think to me. I hope that hasn't 
changed. I hope you've not told anyone what you shouldn't." Light, she was anxious, or she would not have been so 
direct. Next, she would come right out and ask what he and Pelivar had been talking about! 
Luckily, he did not laugh at her for a blunt-tongued village woman. Though he might have been thinking it. He studied 
her seriously before speaking. In a soft voice. He also knew caution. "Not all men gossip. Tell me, when you sent Mat 
south, did you know what you would do here today?" 
"How could I know that two months ago? No, Aes Sedai aren't omniscient, Talmanes." She had hoped for something 
that would put her in the place she was, had planned for it, but she had not known, not back then. She also hoped he did 
not gossip. Some men did not. 
Romanda started toward her with a firm stride and a frozen face, but Arathelle intercepted her, catching the Yellow 
Sitter's arm and refusing to be put off despite Romanda's astonishment. 
"Will you at least tell me where Mat is?" Talmanes asked. "On his way to Caemlyn with the Daughter-Heir? Why are 
you surprised? A serving woman will speak to a soldier when fetching water from the same stream. Even when he is a 
horrible Dragon-sworn," he added dryly. 
Light! Men really were . . . inconvenient ... at times. The best of them found ways to say exactly the wrong thing at the 
wrong moment, to ask the wrong question. Not to mention inveigling serving women into prattle. So much easier if she 



could just lie, but he had given her plenty of room within the Oaths. Half the truth would suffice, and keep him from 
haring off to Ebou Dar. Maybe less than half. Over in the far corner of the pavilion, Siuan stood conversing with a tall 
young redhead with curled mustaches who was eyeing her as dubiously as Segan had. Nobles usually knew the look of 
Aes Sedai. But he held only a part of Siuan's attention. Her gaze constantly flickered toward Egwene. It seemed to 
shout, loud as conscience. Easier. Expedient. What it was to be Aes Sedai. She had not known about today, only hoped! 
Egwene expelled an irritated breath. Burn the woman! 
"He was in Ebou Dar, the last I heard," she muttered. "But he must be hurrying north as fast as he can by now. He still 
thinks he has to save me, Talmanes, and Matrim Cauthon wouldn't miss the chance to be on the spot so he can say I 
told you so." 
Talmanes did not look at all surprised. "I thought it might be so," he sighed. "I have . . . felt . . . something, for weeks 
now. Others in the Band have, too. Not urgent, but always there. As if he needed me. As if I should look south, 
anyway. It can be peculiar, following a ta'veren." 
"I suppose it can," she agreed, hoping none of her incredulity showed. It was strange enough to think of Mat the wastrel 
as leader of the Band of the Red Hand, much less as ta'veren, but surely a ta'veren had to be present, nearby at least, to 
have any effect. 
"Mat was wrong about you needing rescue. You never had any intention of coming to me for help, did you?" 
He still spoke softly, but she looked around hurriedly anyway. Siuan was still watching them. And so was Halima. Paitr 
stood much too close to her, puffing and preening and stroking his mustaches—from the way he stared down her dress, 
he had not mistaken her for a sister, that was certain!—but she was giving him only half her mind, darting sidelong 
glances in Egwene's direction while she smiled up at him warmly. Everyone else appeared occupied, and no one stood 
close enough to hear. 
"The Amyrlin Seat could hardly go running for sanctuary, now could she? But there have been times it's been a comfort 
knowing you were there," she admitted. Reluctantly. The Amyrlin Seat was hardly supposed to need a bolt-hole, but it 
could do no harm so long as none of the Sitters knew. "You have been a friend, Talmanes. I hope that continues. I truly 
do." 
"You have been more . . . open . . . with me than I expected," he said slowly, "so I will tell you something." His face 
did not change—to any watcher, he must have seemed as casual as before—but his voice dropped to a whisper. "I have 
had approaches from King Roedran about the Band. It seems he has hopes of being Murandy's first real king. He wants 
to hire us. I would not have considered it, normally, but there is never enough coin, and with this . . . this feel of Mat 
needing us. ... It might be better if we remain in Murandy. Clear as good glass, you are where you want to be and have 
everything in hand." 
He fell silent as a young serving woman curtsied to offer mulled wine. She wore finely embroidered green wool and a 
cloak plush with spotted rabbit. Other servants from the camp were helping out now, as well, no doubt for something to 
do besides stand and shiver. The young woman's round face was decidedly pinched from the cold. 
Talmanes waved her off and pulled his cloak back around him, but Egwene took a silver cup to gain a moment for 
thought. Truly there was little need for the Band any longer. Despite all the muttering, the sisters took their presence as 
a matter of course now, Dragonsworn or not; they no longer feared an attack, and there had been no real need to use the 
Band's presence to prod them into moving since leaving Salidar. The only true purpose Shen an Calhar served now was 
to draw recruits into Bryne's army, men who thought two armies meant a battle and wanted to be on the side with the 
greatest numbers. She had no need of them, but Talmanes had acted as a friend. And she was Amyrlin. Sometimes 
friendship and responsibility pushed in the same direction. 
As the serving woman moved off, Egwene laid a hand on Talmanes' arm. "You must not do that. Even the Band can't 
conquer all of Murandy by itself, and every hand will be against you. You know very well the one thing that makes 
Murandians stand together is foreigners on their soil. Follow us to Tar Valon, Talmanes. Mat will come there; I have 
no doubt of that." Mat would not really believe she was the Amyrlin until he saw her wearing the stole in the White 
Tower. 
"Roedran is no fool," he said placidly. "All he wants us to do is sit and wait, a foreign army— without Aes Sedai— and 
nobody knowing what it is up to. He should not have much trouble uniting the nobles against us. Then, so he says, we 
quietly slip across the border. He thinks he can hold on to them afterward." 
She could not stop a touch of heat entering her voice. "And what is to stop him betraying you? If the threat goes away 
without a fight, his dream of a united Murandy might, too." The fool man seemed amused! 
"I am not a fool either. Roedran cannot be ready before spring. This lot would never have stirred from their manors if 



the Andorans had not come south, and they were on the march before the snows began. Before then, Mat will find us. If 
he is coming north, he must hear of us. Roedran will have to be satisfied with whatever he has managed by then. So if 
Mat does intend to go to Tar Valon, I may see you there yet." 
Egwene made a vexed sound. It was a remarkable plan, the sort of thing Siuan might devise, and hardly a scheme she 
thought Roedran Almaric do Arreloa a'Naloy could carry off. The fellow was said to be so dissolute he made Mat look 
wholesome. But then, it was hardly a scheme she would have believed Roedran could think up. The only certainty was 
that Talmanes had made up his mind. 
"I want your word, Talmanes, that you won't let Roedran pull you into a war." Responsibility. The narrow stole around 
her neck seemed to weigh ten times more than her cloak. "If he moves sooner than you think, you will leave whether or 
not Mat has joined you." 
"I wish I could promise, but it is not possible," he protested. "I expect the first raid against my foragers three days at 
most after I start moving away from Lord Bryne's army. Every lordling and farmer will think he can pick up a few 
horses in the night, give me a pinprick, and run off to hide." 
"I'm not talking about defending yourself, and you know it," she said firmly. "Your word, Talmanes. Or I will not allow 
your agreement with Roedran." The only way to stop it was to betray it, but she would not leave a war in her wake, a 
war she had started by bringing Talmanes here. 
Staring at her as if for the first time, he finally bent his head. Strangely, that seemed more formal than his bow had. "It 
will be as you say, Mother. Tell me, are you sure you are not ta'veren, too?" 
"I am the Amyrlin Seat," she replied. "That is quite enough for anyone." She touched his arm again. "The Light shine 
on you, Talmanes." His smile nearly touched his eyes this time. 
Inevitably, despite their whispers, their talk had been noticed. Maybe because of their whispers. The girl who claimed 
to be Amyrlin, a rebel against the White Tower, in conversation with the leader of ten thousand Dragonsworn. Had she 
made Talmanes' scheme with Roedran harder, or easier? Was war in Murandy less likely, or more? Siuan and her 
bloody Law of Unintended Consequences! Fifty gazes followed her, then darted away, as she moved through the crowd 
warming her fingers on her cup. Well, most darted away. The Sitters' faces were all ageless Aes Sedai serenity, but 
Lelaine might have been a brown-eyed crow watching a fish struggle in the shallows, while Romanda's slightly darker 
eyes could have drilled holes through iron. 
Trying to keep a watch on the sun outside, she made a slow circuit through the pavilion. The nobles were still 
importuning Sitters, but they moved from one to another as if seeking better answers, and she began to notice small 
things. Donel paused on his way from Janya to Moria, bowing low to Aemlyn, who acknowledged him with a gracious 
nod. Cian, turning away from Takima, curtsied deeply to Pelivar and received a slight bow in return. There were others, 
always a Murandian deferring to an Andoran who responded just as formally. The Andorans tried to ignore Bryne 
except for the odd scowl, but any number of Murandians sought him out, one by one and well away from everyone 
else, and from the directions their eyes went, it was plain they were discussing Pelivar, or Arathelle, or Aemlyn. 
Perhaps Talmanes had been right. 
She received bows and curtsies, too, though none so deep as those given Arathelle and Pelivar and Aemlyn, much less 
the Sitters. Half a dozen women told her how thankful they were that matters had been resolved peacefully, though in 
truth, almost as many made noncommittal noises or shrugged uneasily when she expressed the same sentiment, as 
though they were uncertain it all would end peacefully. Her assurances that it would were met with a fervent "The 
Light send it so!" or a resigned "If the Light wills." Four called her Mother, one without hesitating first. Three others 
said that she was quite lovely, that she had beautiful eyes, and that she had a graceful carriage, in that order; suitable 
compliments perhaps for Egwene's age but not her station. 
At least she found one unalloyed pleasure. Segan was not alone in being intrigued by her announcement concerning the 
novice book. Plainly that was why most of the women spoke to her in the first place. After all, the other sisters might 
be in rebellion against the Tower, but she claimed to be the Amyrlin Seat. Their interest had to be strong to overcome 
that, though no one wanted to let it show. Arathelle made the inquiry with a frown that put more creases in her cheeks. 
Aemlyn shook her graying head at the answer. Blocky Cian asked, followed by a sharp-faced Andoran lady named 
Negara, then a pretty, big-eyed Murandian called Jennet, and others. None wanted to know for herself— several made 
that clear quickly, especially the younger women— but before long, every single noblewoman there had asked, and 
several servants as well, under cover of offering more spiced wine. One, a wiry woman named Nildra, had come from 
the Aes Sedai camp. 
Egwene felt quite pleased with the seed she had planted there. She was not so pleased with the men. A few spoke to 



her, but only when they came face-to-face and seemed to have no other choice. A murmured word about the weather, 
either praising the end of the drought or deploring the sudden snows, a muttered hope that the bandit problem would 
end soon, perhaps with a significant look toward Talmanes, and they slipped away like greased pigs. A bear of an 
Andoran by the name of Macharan tripped over his own boots to avoid her. In a way, it was hardly surprising. The 
women had the justification, if only to themselves, of the novice book, but the men had only the thought that being seen 
conversing with her might tar them with the same brush. 
It was really quite discouraging. She did not care what the men thought about novices, but she very much wanted to 
know if they were as fearful as the women that this would come to blows in the end. Fears like that could fulfill 
themselves very easily. At last, she decided there was only one way to find out. 
Pelivar turned from taking a fresh cup of wine from a tray and started back, with a muffled oath, to keep from bumping 
into her; had she stood any closer, she would have had to stand on his boots. Hot wine splashed over his gloved hand 
and ran down under his coatsleeve, producing a curse not so muted. Tall enough to loom over her, he made a good job 
of it. His scowl belonged on a man wanting to send an annoying young woman briskly out of his way. Or on a man 
who had nearly stepped on a red adder. She held herself erect and focused on an image of him as a small boy up to no 
good; that always helped; most men seemed to feel it. He muttered something— it might have been a polite greeting, or 
another oath— and dipped his head slightly, then tried to step around her. She side-stepped to stay in front of him. He 
moved back, and she followed. He began to look hunted. She decided to try putting him at ease before pressing the 
important question. She wanted answers, not more mumbling. 
"You must be pleased to hear that the Daughter-Heir is on her way to Caemlyn, Lord Pelivar." She had heard several of 
the Sitters mention that. 
His face went blank. "Elayne Trakand has a right to put in her claim to the Lion Throne," he replied in a flat voice. 
Egwene's eyes widened, and he stepped back again, uncertainly. Perhaps he thought her angry over the absence of her 
title, but she barely noticed that. Pelivar had supported Elayne's mother in her claim for the throne, and Elayne had 
been sure he would support her, too. She spoke of Pelivar fondly, like a favorite uncle. 
"Mother," Siuan murmured at her elbow, "we must leave if you want to be sure of reaching the camp before sunset." 
She managed to put considerable urgency into those quiet words. The sun had passed its peak. 
"This is no weather to be in the open at nightfall," Pelivar said hurriedly. "If you will excuse me, I must make ready to 
leave." Shoving his cup onto the tray of a passing servant, he hesitated before halfway making a leg, and stalked off 
with the air of a man who had wriggled free of a trap. 
Egwene wanted to grind her teeth with frustration. What did the men think of their agreement? If it could be called that, 
the way she had forced it on them. Arathelle and Aemlyn had more power and influence than most of the men, yet it 
was Pelivar and Culhan and the like who rode with the soldiers; they could still make this flare up in her face like a 
barrel of lamp oil. 
"Find Sheriam," she growled, "and tell her to get everyone mounted now, no matter what it takes!" She could not give 
the Sitters a night to think about what had happened today, to plan and plot. They had to be back in camp before the 
sun went down. 

Chapter 19 The Law 

Getting the Sitters to their mounts proved no bother; they were as eager to be away as Egwene, especially Romanda 
and Lelaine, both cold as the wind and with eyes like thunderclouds. The rest were the very image of cool-eyed Aes 
Sedai serenity, giving off composure like a heavy scent, yet they glided to their horses so quickly that the nobles were 
left gaping and the brightly clad servants scrambled in loading the packhorses to catch up as best they could. 
Egwene had Daishar set a hard pace in the snow, and with no more than a look and a nod from her Lord Bryne made 
sure the armored escorts moved as fast. Siuan on Bela and Sheriam on Wing rushed to join her. For long stretches they 
churned through fetlock-deep cover, the horses stepping high at near to a trot, the Flame of Tar Valon rippling in the 
icy breeze, and even when it was necessary to slow, when the horses were sinking knee-deep through the snow crust, 
they kept to a fast walk. 
The Sitters had no choice except to keep up, and their speed cut down their opportunity to talk on the way. At that 
tiring pace, a lack of attention to your horse could bring a broken leg for the animal and a broken neck for you. Even 
so, Romanda and Lelaine each managed to gather her coterie around her, and those two knots floundered through the 
snow surrounded by wards against eavesdropping. The pair seemed to be delivering tirades. Egwene could imagine the 



topic. For that matter, other Sitters managed to ride together for a time, exchanging a few words quietly and casting 
cool glances sometimes at her and sometimes at the sisters wrapped around by saidar. Only Delana never joined one of 
those brief conversations. She stayed close beside Halima, who at last admitted that she was cold. Face tight, the 
country woman held her cloak close around her, but she still tried to comfort Delana, whispering to her almost 
constantly. Delana seemed to need comforting; her brows were drawn down, putting a crease in her forehead that 
actually made her seem aged. 
She was not the only one worried. The others masked the feeling rigidly, radiating absolute poise, but the Warders rode 
like men expecting the worst to leap out of the snow at the next step, eyes shifting in an unceasing watch, disquieting 
cloaks streaming in the wind to leave hands free. When an Aes Sedai worried, her Warder worried, and the Sitters were 
too absorbed to think of calming the men. Egwene was just as glad to see it. If the Sitters were troubled, they had not 
yet made up their minds. 
When Bryne rode out to confer with Uno, she took the opportunity to ask what the two women had learned about Aes 
Sedai and Tower Guards in Andor. 
"Not much," Siuan replied in a tight voice. Shaggy Bela did not seem to be having any difficulty with the pace, but 
Siuan did, gripping her reins tightly in one hand and the pommel of her saddle with the other. "As near as I can make 
out, there are fifty rumors and no facts. It's a likely sort of tale to spring up, but it might still be true." Bela lurched, her 
front hooves sinking deep, and Siuan gasped. "The Light burn all horses!" 
Sheriam had learned no more. She shook her head, and sighed irritably. "It sounds all feathers and nonsense to me, 
Mother. There are always rumors of sisters sneaking about. Didn't you ever learn to ride, Siuan?' she added, her voice 
suddenly dripping derision. "By tonight, you'll be too sore to walk!" Sheriam's nerves must have been ragged for her to 
burst out so openly. From the way she kept shifting in her saddle, she had already achieved her prediction for Siuan. 
Siuan's eyes hardened, and she opened her mouth already half snarling, never mind who was watching from behind the 
banner. 
"Be still, both of you!" Egwene snapped. She took a deep, calming breath. She was a bit ragged herself. Whatever 
Arathelle believed, any force Elaida sent to interfere with them would be too large for sneaking. That left the Black 
Tower, a disaster in the making. You got further plucking the chicken in front of you than trying to start on one up a 
tree. Especially when the tree was in another country and there might not even be another chicken. 
Still, she bit off her words in giving Sheriam instructions for once they reached the camp. She was the Amyrlin Seat, 
and that meant all Aes Sedai were her responsibility, even those following Elaida. Her voice was rock steady, though. 
It was too late to be frightened once you grabbed the wolf by the ears. 
Sheriam's tilted eyes went wide at the orders. "Mother, if I may ask, why . . . ?" She trailed off under Egwene's level 
gaze, and swallowed. "It will be as you say, Mother," she said slowly. "Strange. I remember the day you and Nynaeve 
came to the Tower, two girls who couldn't decide whether to be excited or frightened. So much has changed since then. 
Everything." 
"Nothing stays the same forever," Egwene told her. She gave Siuan a significant look, but Siuan refused to see. She 
appeared to be sulking. Sheriam looked sick. 
Lord Bryne returned then, and he must have sensed the mood among them. Aside from saying that they were making 
good time, he kept his mouth shut. A wise man. 
Making good time or not, the sun was sitting almost on the treetops when they finally rode through the army's 
sprawling camp. Wagons and tents cast long shadows across the snow, and a number of men were hard at work 
building yet more low shelters out of brush. There were not nearly enough tents, even for all the soldiers, and the camp 
held almost as many harness makers and laundresses and fletchers and the like, all those who inevitably followed any 
army. The ringing of anvils spoke of farriers and armorers and blacksmiths still at their labors. Cook fires were burning 
everywhere, and the cavalry peeled away, eager for warmth and hot food as soon as their wearily plodding animals 
were cared for. Surprisingly, Bryne rode on at Egwene's side after she dismissed him. 
"If you will allow, Mother," he said, "I thought I might accompany you a while longer." Sheriam actually twisted in her 
saddle to stare in astonishment. Siuan stared, too, straight ahead, as if not daring to turn her suddenly wide eyes toward 
him. 
What did he think he could do? Act as her bodyguard? Against sisters? That fellow with the drippy nose would do as 
well. Reveal just how completely he was on her side? Tomorrow was time enough for that, if all went well tonight; that 
revelation now might easily stampede the Hall in directions she hardly dared contemplate. 
"Tonight is for Aes Sedai business," she told him firmly. But, silly as the suggestion was, he had offered to put himself 



at risk for her. There was no telling his reasons—who knew why a man did anything?—yet she owed him for that. 
Among other things. "Unless I send Siuan to you tonight, Lord Bryne, you should leave before morning. If blame for 
today attaches itself to me, it might reflect on you, too. Staying could prove dangerous. Even fatal. I don't think they 
would need much excuse." No need to name who "they" were. 
"I gave my word," he replied quietly, patting Traveler's neck. "To Tar Valon." Pausing, he glanced toward Siuan. It was 
less a hesitation than a consideration. "Whatever tonight's business is," he said finally, "remember that you have thirty 
thousand men and Gareth Bryne behind you. That should count for something, even among Aes Sedai. Until tomorrow, 
Mother." Reining his big-nosed bay around, he called over his shoulder, "I expect to see you tomorrow, too, Siuan. 
Nothing changes that." Siuan stared at his back as he rode away. There was anguish in her eyes. 
Egwene could not help staring, too. He had never been so open before, not nearly. Why now, of all times? 
Crossing the forty or fifty paces that separated the army's camp from the Aes Sedai's, she nodded to Sheriam, who drew 
rein at the first tents. She and Siuan rode on. Behind them, Sheriam's voice rose, surprisingly clear and steady. "The 
Amyrlin Seat calls the Hall to sit this day in formal session. Let preparations be made with all speed." Egwene did not 
look back. 
At her tent, a bony groom kicking her layered woolen skirts came running to take Daishar and Bela. Her face was 
pinched, and she barely ducked her head before hurrying away with the horses as quickly as she had come. The warmth 
of the glowing braziers inside was like a fist closing down. Egwene had not realized how cold it was outside until then. 
Or how cold she was. 
Chesa took her cloak, and exclaimed when she felt her hands. "Why, you're ice to the bone, Mother." Chattering away, 
she bustled around folding Egwene's cloak and Siuan's, smoothing the neatly turned-down blankets on Egwene's cot, 
touching a tray set on one of the chests that had been pulled down from the stack. "I'd jump right into bed, with hot 
bricks all around, if I was that chilled. As soon as I'd eaten, anyway. Warm outside does only so much good without 
warm inside. I'll fetch a few extra bricks to tuck under your feet while you sup. And for Siuan Sedai, of course. Oh, if I 
was as hungry as you must be, I know I'd be tempted to gulp my food, but that always gives me pains in the stomach." 
Pausing by the tray, she eyed Egwene, and nodded with satisfaction when she said that she would not eat too fast. 
Making a sober answer was not easy. Chesa was always refreshing, but after today, Egwene almost laughed with 
pleasure. There were no complications to Chesa. Two white bowls of lentil stew stood on the tray, along with a tall 
pitcher of spiced wine, two silver cups, and two large rolls. Somehow, the woman had known Siuan would be eating 
with her. Steam rose from the bowls and pitcher. How often had Chesa had to change that tray to make sure warm food 
greeted Egwene straight away? Simple and uncomplicated. And as caring as a mother. Or a friend. 
"I must forgo bed for now, Chesa. I've work yet tonight. Would you leave us?" 
Siuan shook her head as the tentflap fell behind the plump woman. "Are you sure she hasn't been in your service since 
you were a babe?" she muttered. 
Taking one of the bowls, a roll, and a spoon, Egwene settled into her chair with a sigh. She also embraced the Source 
and warded the tent against listeners. Unfortunately, saidar made her all that much more aware of half-frozen hands and 
feet. The bits in between were not much warmer. The bowl seemed almost too warm to handle, and the roll, as well. 
Oh, how she would have loved to have those hot bricks. 
"Is there anything more we can do?" she asked, and promptly 
gulped down a spoonful of stew. She was ravenous, and no wonder, with nothing since breakfast and that early. Lentils 
and woody carrots tasted like her mother's finest cooking. "I can't think of anything, but can you?" 
"What can be done, has been. There isn't anything else, short of the Creator putting a hand in." Siuan took the other 
bowl and dropped onto the low stool, but then she sat staring into her stew and stirring it with her spoon. "You wouldn't 
really tell him, would you?" she said finally. "I couldn't bear if he knew." 
"Why on earth not?" 
"He'd take advantage," Siuan said darkly. "Oh, not that. I don't think that" She was quite prudish in some areas. "But 
the man would make my life the Pit of Doom!" And washing his smallclothes and polishing his boots and his saddle 
every day was not? 
Egwene sighed. How could such a sensible, intelligent, capable woman turn into a scatterbrain over this one subject? 
Like a hissing viper, an image rose in her head. Herself, sitting on Gawyn's knee playing kissing games. In a tavern! 
She shoved it away, hard. "Siuan, I need your experience. I need your brain. I can't afford to have you half-witted 
because of Lord Bryne. If you can't pull yourself together, I'll pay him what you owe, and forbid you to see him. I 
will." 



"I said I'd work off the debt," Siuan said stubbornly. "I have as much honor as Lord Gareth bloody Bryne! As much and 
more! He keeps his word, and I keep mine! Besides, Min told me I have to stay close to him or we'll both die. Or 
something like that." A pinkness in her cheeks gave her away, though. Her honor and Min's viewing notwithstanding, 
she was simply willing to put up with anything to be near the man! 
"Very well. You're besotted, and if I tell you to stay away from him, you'll either disobey or mope and wrap the rest of 
your brains in a cloud. What are you going to do about him?" 
Scowling indignantly, Siuan went on for some little time, growling what she would like to do about Gareth bloody 
Bryne. He would have enjoyed none of it. Some, he might not have survived. 
"Siuan," Egwene said warningly. "You deny one more time what's plain as your nose, and I'll tell him and give him the 
money." 
Siuan pouted sullenly. She pouted! Sullenly! Siuan! "I don't have time to be in love. I barely have time to think, 
between working for you and him. And even if everything goes right tonight, I'll have twice as much to do. Besides. . . 
." Her face fell, and she shifted on the stool. "What if he doesn't . . . return my feelings?" she muttered. "He's never 
even tried to kiss me. All he cares about is whether his shirts are clean." 
Egwene scraped her spoon through her bowl, and was surprised when it came up empty. Nothing remained of the roll 
but a few crumbs on her dress. Light, her middle still felt hollow. She eyed Siuan's bowl hopefully; the woman seemed 
to have little interest in anything but drawing circles in the lentils. 
A sudden thought occurred to her. Why had Lord Bryne insisted that Siuan work off her debt even after learning who 
she was? Just because she had said she would? It was a preposterous arrangement. Except that it did keep her close to 
him when nothing else would have. For that matter, she herself had often wondered why Bryne had agreed to build the 
army. He had to have known there was a very good chance he was laying his head on the chopping block. And why he 
had offered that army to her, a girl Amyrlin with no real authority and not a friend among the sisters except Siuan, as 
far as he knew? Could the answer to all of those questions be as simple as ... he loved Siuan? No; most men were 
frivolous and flighty, but that was truly preposterous! Still, she offered the suggestion, if only to amuse Siuan. It might 
cheer her a little. 
Siuan snorted in disbelief. It sounded odd, coming from that pretty face, but no one could put quite so much expression 
into a snort as she did. "He's not a total idiot," she said dryly. "In fact, he has a good head on his shoulders. He thinks 
like a woman, most of the time." 
"I still haven't heard you say you'll straighten up, Siuan," Egwene persisted. "You have to, one way or another." 
"Well, of course I will. I don't know what's been the matter with me. It isn't as if I never kissed a man before." Her eyes 
narrowed suddenly, as if she expected Egwene to challenge her on that. "I haven't spent my whole life in the Tower. 
This is ridiculous! Chattering about men, tonight of all nights!" Peering into her bowl, she seemed to realize for the 
first time that it held food. She filled her spoon, gesturing with it at Egwene. "You have to be careful of your timing, 
more now than ever. If Romanda or Lelaine grabs the tiller, you'll never get your hands on it." 
Ridiculous or not, something certainly had restored Siuan's appetite. She went through her stew faster than Egwene had 
hers, and not a crumb of the roll escaped her. Egwene found that she had drawn her fingers through her own empty 
bowl. There was nothing for it then but to lick off the last few lentils, of course. 
Discussing what was to happen tonight served no real point. They had honed and refined what Egwene was to say, and 
when, so many times that she was surprised she had not dreamed of it. She certainly could have done her part in her 
sleep. Siuan insisted anyway, skirting very near the point where Egwene would have to call her down, going over it 
again and again, bringing up possibilities they had discussed before a hundred times. Strangely, Siuan had found 
herself a very good mood. She even essayed a little humor, unusual for her of late, though some was on the gallows 
side. 
"You know Romanda wanted to be Amyrlin herself once," she said at one point. "I've heard it was Tamra getting the 
stole and staff that made her stalk off into retirement like a gull with her tail feathers clipped. I'll lay a silver mark I 
don't have to a fish scale that her eyes bulge twice as much as Lelaine's." 
And later. "I wish I could be there to hear them howl. Somebody's going to before much longer, and I'd rather it was 
them than us. I never had the voice for singing." She actually sang a little snatch about staring across the river at a boy 
and having no boat. She was right; her voice was pleasant in its fashion, but she could not carry a tune in a bucket. 
And later still. "A good thing I have such a sweet face now. If this goes badly, they'll dress the pair of us for dolls and 
sit us on a shelf to admire. Of course, we might have 'accidents' instead. Dolls do get broken. Gareth Bryne will have to 
find someone else to bully." She really laughed at that. Egwene felt considerable relief when the tentflap bulged inward 



briefly, announcing someone who knew enough not to enter where there was a ward. She really did not want to hear 
where Siuan's humor went from there! 
As soon as she released the ward, Sheriam stepped inside, accompanied by a rush of air that seemed ten times as cold 
as earlier. "It's time, Mother. Everything is ready." Her tilted eyes were wide, and she licked her lips with the tip of her 
tongue. 
Siuan bounded to her feet and seized her cloak from Egwene's cot, but she paused in the act of draping it on her 
shoulders. "I have sailed the Fingers of the Dragon in the dark, you know," she said seriously. "And netted a lionfish 
once, with my father. It can be done." 
Sheriam frowned as Siuan darted out, letting in more cold. "Sometimes, I think," she began, but whatever she 
sometimes thought, she did not share. "Why are you doing this, Mother?" she asked instead. "All of it, today at the 
lake, calling the Hall tonight. Why did you have us spend all day yesterday talking about Logain to everybody we met? 
I'd think you might share it with me. I am your Keeper. I did swear fealty." 
"I tell you what you need to know," Egwene said, swinging her cloak around her shoulders. There was no need to say 
that she trusted a forced oath only so far, even a sister's. And Sheriam might find a reason to let a word slip into the 
wrong ear despite that oath. After all, Aes Sedai were noted for finding loopholes in what they had said. She did not 
really believe that would happen, but just as with Lord Bryne, she could not take even small chances unless she had to. 
"I have to tell you," Sheriam said bitterly, "I think tomorrow Romanda or Lelaine will be your Keeper of the 
Chronicles, and I'll be serving a penance for not warning the Hall. And I think you might envy me." 
Egwene nodded. All too possible. "Shall we go?" 
The sun made a red dome on the treetops to the west, and a lurid light shone off the snow. Servants marked Egwene's 
passage along the deep paths with silent bows and curtsies. Their faces were troubled or else blank; servants could pick 
up the moods of those they served almost as quickly as Warders. 
Not a sister was to be seen, at first, and then they all were, in a great gathering three deep around a pavilion set up in 
the only open space in the camp large enough, the area used by sisters Skimming to the dovecotes in Salidar and 
Traveling back with reports from the eyes-and-ears. A large much-mended piece of heavy canvas, not a patch on the 
splendor of the canopy at the lake, it had been a great deal of effort to set up. Most often in the past two months, the 
Hall had convened much as they had yesterday morning, or perhaps squeezed into one of the larger tents. The pavilion 
had been erected only twice since leaving Salidar. Both times for a trial. 
Noticing Egwene and Sheriam's approach, sisters in the back murmured to those ahead, and a gap opened to let them 
through. Expressionless eyes watched the pair of them, giving not a clue to whether the watching sisters knew or even 
suspected what was happening. Not a clue to what they thought. Butterflies stirred in Egwene's stomach. A rosebud. 
Calm. 
She stepped onto the layered carpets, woven in bright flowers and a dozen different patterns, and moved through the 
ring of braziers set up around the canopy's rim, and Sheriam began. "She comes; she comes. . . ." If she sounded a little 
less grand than usual, a touch nervous, it was small wonder. 
The polished benches and cloth-covered boxes from the lake were in use again. They made a much more formal sight 
than the mismatched gaggle of chairs that had been used previously, two slanting lines of nine, grouped by threes; 
Green, Gray and Yellow to one side, White, Brown and Blue to the other. At the wide end, farthest from Egwene, stood 
the striped box and bench for the Amyrlin Seat. Sitting there, she would be the focus of every eye, very much aware 
that she was one facing eighteen. As well she had not changed her clothes; every Sitter still wore her finery from the 
lake, only adding her shawl. A rosebud. Calm. 
One of the benches was empty, though only for a moment longer. Delana came running in just as Sheriam finished her 
litany. Looking breathless and flustered, the Gray Sitter scrambled up to her seat, between Varilin and Kwamesa, with 
little of her usual grace. She wore a sickly grin, and toyed nervously with the firedrops around her neck. Anyone might 
have thought she was the one on trial. Calm. No one was on trial. Yet. 
Egwene started slowly across the carpets, between the two rows, with Sheriam close behind, and Kwamesa stood. The 
light of saidar suddenly shone around the dark slender woman, youngest of the Sitters. Tonight there would be no 
skimping of the formalities. "What is brought before the Hall of the Tower is for the Hall alone to consider," Kwamesa 
announced. "Whosoever intrudes unbidden, woman or man, initiate or outsider, whether they come in peace or in 
anger, I will bind according to the law, to face the law. Know that what I speak is true; it will and shall be done." 
That formula was older than the oath against speaking untruth, from a time when almost as many Amyrlins died by 
assassination as by all other causes put together. Egwene continued her measured tread. It was an effort not to touch her 



stole, for a reminder. She tried to concentrate on the bench ahead. 
Kwamesa resumed her seat, still shining with the Power, and among the Whites, Aledrin rose, the glow surrounding her 
as well. With her dark golden hair and big pale brown eyes, she was quite lovely when she smiled, but tonight a stone 
had more expression than she. "There are those within earshot who are not of the Hall," she said in a cool voice strong 
with the accents of Tarabon. "What is spoken in the Hall of the Tower is for the Hall alone to hear, until and unless the 
Hall decides otherwise. I will make us private. I will seal our words to our ears only." Weaving a ward that walled the 
entire pavilion, she sat. There was a stir among the sisters outside, who now must watch the Hall move in utter silence. 
Strange, that so much among Sitters depended on age, when distinction by age was next to anathema among the rest of 
Aes Sedai. Could Siuan have seen a pattern in the Sitters' ages? No. Focus. Calm, and focus. 
Gripping the edges of her cloak, Egwene stepped up onto the brightly striped box and turned. Lelaine was already on 
her feet, blue-fringed shawl looped across her arms, and Romanda was rising, without even waiting for Egwene to sit. 
She dared not let either seize the tiller. "I call a question before the Hall," she said in a loud, firm voice. "Who will 
stand to declare war against the usurper Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan?" 
And then she sat, throwing off her cloak and letting it fall across the bench. Standing beside her on the carpets, Sheriam 
appeared quite cool and collected, but she made a small sound, almost a whimper. Egwene did not think anyone else 
had heard. She hoped not. 
There was a brief moment of shock, women frozen on their seats, staring at her in amazement. Perhaps as much 
because she had asked at all as what she had asked. No one put a question before the Hall before sounding out the 
Sitters; it just was not done, for practical reasons as much as tradition. 
At last Lelaine spoke. "We do not declare war on individuals," she said in a dry voice. "Not even on traitors like Elaida. 
In any case, I call to shelve your question while we deal with more immediate matters." She had had time to gather 
herself since the ride back; her face was merely hard now, not thunderous. Brushing blue-slashed skirts as if brushing 
away Elaida—or perhaps Egwene—she turned her attention to the other Sitters. "What brings us to sit tonight is. ... I 
was about to say simple, but it isn't. Open the novice book? We would have grandmothers clamoring to be tested. 
Remain here a month? I hardly need list the difficulties, beginning with spending half our gold without coming a foot 
nearer Tar Valon. And as for not crossing into Andor—" 
"My sister Lelaine, in her anxiety, has forgotten who has the right to speak first," Romanda cut in smoothly. Her smile 
managed to make Lelaine appear merry. Still, she took her time adjusting her shawl just as she wanted, a woman with 
all the time in the world. "I have two questions to call before the Hall, and in the second I will address Lelaine's 
concerns. Unfortunately for her, my first question concerns Lelaine's own fitness to continue in the Hall." Her smile 
widened without growing the slightest bit warmer. Lelaine sat slowly, her scowl quite open. 
"A question of war cannot be shelved," Egwene said in a carrying tone. "It must be answered before any question 
called after it. That is the law." 
Quick, questioning glances passed between Sitters. 
"Is that so?" Janya said finally. Squinting thoughtfully, she twisted on her bench to address the woman next to her. 
"Takima, you remember everything you read, and I'm sure I remember you saying you had read the Law of War. Is that 
what it says?" Egwene held her breath. The White Tower had sent soldiers to any number of wars over the last 
thousand years, but always in response to a plea for help from at least two thrones, and it always had been their war, 
not the Tower's. The last time the Tower itself actually declared war had been against Artur Hawkwing. Siuan said that 
now only a few librarians knew much more than that there was a Law of War. 
Short, with long dark hair to her waist and skin the color of aged ivory, Takima often reminded people of a bird, tilting 
her head in thought. Now she looked like a bird that wanted to take flight, shifting on her seat, adjusting her shawl, 
unnecessarily straightening her cap of pearls and sapphires. "It is," she said finally, and clamped her mouth shut. 
Egwene quietly started breathing again. 
"It seems," Romanda said in a clipped tone, "that Siuan Sanche has been teaching you well. Mother. How speak you in 
support of declaring war? On a woman." She sounded as if she were trying to push something disagreeable out of her 
way, and she dropped onto her seat waiting for it to depart. 
Egwene nodded graciously anyway, and rose. She met the Sitters' gazes one by one, levelly, firmly. Takima avoided 
her eyes. Light, the woman knew! But she had not said anything. Would she hold silent long enough? It was too late to 
change plans. 
"Today we find ourselves confronted by an army, led by people who doubt us. That army would not be there 
otherwise." Egwene wanted to put passion into her voice, to let it burst out, but Siuan had advised utter coolness, and 



finally she had agreed. They needed to see a woman in control of herself, not a girl being ridden by her heart. The 
words came from her heart, though. "You heard Arathelle say she did not want to become entangled in Aes Sedai 
affairs. Yet they were willing to bring an army into Murandy and stand in our way. Because they are not certain who 
we are, or what we are about. Did any of you feel that they truly believe you are Sitters?" Malind, round-faced and 
fierce-eyed, shifted on her bench among the Greens, and so did Salita, twitching her yellow-fringed shawl, though her 
dark face managed to hide any expression. Berana, another Sitter chosen in Salidar, frowned thoughtfully. Egwene did 
not mention the reaction to her as Amyrlin; if that thought was not already in their heads, she did not want to plant it. 
"We've listed Elaida's crimes to countless nobles," she went on. "We've told them we intend to remove her. But they 
doubt. They think that maybe— maybe— we are what we say. And maybe there's a trick in our words. Perhaps we are 
only Elaida's hand, weaving some elaborate scheme. Doubt leaves people floundering. Doubt gave Pelivar and 
Arathelle the nerve to stand before Aes Sedai and say, 'You cannot go further.' Who else will stand in our way, or 
interfere, because they aren't certain, and uncertainty leads them to act in a cloud of confusion? There's only one way 
for us to dispel their confusion. We have already done everything else. Once we declare ourselves at war with Elaida, 
there can be no doubts. I don't say that Arathelle and Pelivar and Aemlyn will march away as soon as we do so, but 
they and everyone else will know who we are. No one will dare again to show doubt so openly when you say you are 
the Hall of the Tower. No one will dare stand in our way, meddling in the affairs of the Tower through uncertainty and 
ignorance. We have walked to the door and put our hands on the latch. If you are afraid to walk through, then you all 
but ask the world to believe that you are nothing but Elaida's puppets." 
She sat, surprised at how calm she felt. Beyond the two rows of Sitters, sisters outside stirred, putting their heads 
together. She could imagine the excited murmurs that Aledrin's ward blocked off. Now if only Takima kept her mouth 
shut long enough. 
Romanda grunted impatiently, and stood only long enough to say, "Who stands for declaring war against Elaida?" Her 
gaze returned to Lelaine, and her cold, smug smile returned. It was clear what she considered important, once this 
nonsense was done with. 
Janya rose immediately, the long brown fringe on her shawl swaying. "We might as well," she said. She was not 
supposed to speak, but her set jaw and sharp gaze dared anyone to call her down. She was not normally so forceful, but 
as usual, her words nearly tripped over one another. "Mending what the world knows won't be any harder than it is for 
this. Well? Well? I don't see the point of waiting." On the other side of Takima, Escaralde nodded and stood. Moria all 
but bounded to her feet, frowning down at Lyrelle, who gathered her skirts as if to rise, then hesitated and looked at 
Lelaine questioningly. Lelaine was too busy frowning across the carpets at Romanda to notice. 
Among the Greens, Samalin and Malind stood together, and Faiselle looked up with a jerk. A stocky, copper-skinned 
Domani, Faiselle was not a woman startled by much, but she looked startled now, her square face swinging wide-eyed 
from Samalin to Malind and back. 
Salita rose, carefully adjusting the yellow fringe of her shawl and just as carefully avoiding Romanda's sudden frown. 
Kwamesa stood, and then Aledrin, drawing Berana up by her sleeve. Delana twisted completely around on her bench, 
peering at the sisters outside. Even in silence the spectators' excitement communicated itself in constant shifting, heads 
going together, eyes darting toward the Sitters. Delana rose slowly, both hands pressed to her middle, looking ready to 
sick up on the spot. Takima grimaced and stared at her hands on her knees. Saroiya studied the other two White Sitters, 
tugging at her ear the way she did when deep in thought. But no one else moved to stand. 
Egwene felt bile rising in her own throat. Ten. Just ten. She had been so sure. Siuan had been so sure. Logain alone 
should have been enough, given their ignorance of the law involved. Pelivar's army and Arathelle refusing to admit that 
they were Sitters should have primed them like a pump. 
"For the love of the Light!" Moria burst out. Rounding on Lyrelle and Lelaine, she planted her fists on her hips. If 
Janya's speaking had gone against custom, this tied it in a knot. Displays of anger were strictly forbidden in the Hall, 
but Moria's eyes blazed, and her Illianer accent was thick with it. "Why do you wait? Elaida did steal the stole and the 
staff! Elaida's Ajah did make Logain a false Dragon, and only the Light knows how many other men! No woman in the 
history of the Tower did ever deserve this declaration more! Stand, or hold silent from now about your resolve to 
remove her!" 
Lelaine did not quite stare, but by her expression you might have thought she had found herself attacked by a sparrow. 
"This is hardly worth a vote, Moria," she said in a tight voice. "We will speak later about decorum, you and I. Still, if 
you need a demonstration of resolve. . . ." With a sharp sniff, she rose, and gave a jerk of her head that pulled Lyrelle to 
her feet like strings. Lelaine seemed surprised that it did not pull up Faiselle and Takima, too. 



Far from standing, Takima grunted as if struck. Disbelief bright on her face, she ran her eyes along the women on their 
feet, obviously counting. And then did it again. Takima, who remembered everything the first time. 
Egwene breathed deep in relief. It was done. She could hardly believe. After a moment, she cleared her throat, and 
Sheriam actually jumped. 
Green eyes as big as teacups, the Keeper cleared her throat, too. "The lesser consensus standing, war is declared against 
Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan." Her voice was none too steady, but it sufficed. "In the interest of unity, I ask for the 
greater consensus to stand." 
Faiselle half-moved, then clenched her hands in her lap. Saroiya opened her mouth, then closed it without speaking, her 
face troubled. No one else stirred. 
"You won't get it," Romanda said flatly. The sneer she directed across the pavilion at Lelaine was as good as a 
statement of why she, at least, would not stand. "Now that little business is finished, we can go on with—" 
"I don't think we can," Egwene cut in. "Takima, what does the Law of War say about the Amyrlin Seat." Romanda was 
left with her mouth hanging open. 
Takima's lips writhed. The diminutive Brown looked more than ever a bird wishing to take flight. "The Law ..." she 
began, then took a deep breath and sat up straight. "The Law of War states, 'As one set of hands must guide a sword, so 
the Amyrlin Seat shall direct and prosecute the war by decree. She shall seek the advice of the Hall of the Tower, but 
the Hall shall carry out her decrees with all possible speed, and for the sake of unity, they shall. ..." She faltered, and 
had to visibly force herself to go on. "... they shall and must approve any decree of the Amyrlin Seat regarding 
prosecution of the war with the greater consensus." 
A long silence stretched. Every eye seemed to be goggling. Turning abruptly, Delana vomited onto the carpets behind 
her bench. Kwamesa and Salita both climbed down and started toward her, but she waved them off, plucking a scarf 
from her sleeve to wipe her mouth. Magla and Saroiya and several others still seated looked as though they might 
follow her example. No others who had been chosen in Salidar, though. Romanda appeared ready to bite through a nail. 
"Very clever," Lelaine said at last in clipped tones, and after a deliberate pause, added, "Mother. Will you tell us what 
the great wisdom of your vast experience tells you to do? About the war, I mean. I want to make myself clear." 
"Let me make myself clear, too," Egwene said coldly. Leaning forward, she fixed the Blue Sitter sternly. "A certain 
degree of respect is required toward the Amyrlin Seat, and from now on, I will have it, daughter. This is no time for me 
to have to unchair you and name a penance." Lelaine's eyes crept wider and wider with shock. Had the woman really 
believed everything would continue as before? Or after so long not daring to show more than the tiniest backbone, had 
Lelaine simply believed she had none? Egwene really did not want to unchair her; the Blues would almost certainly 
return the woman, and she still had to deal with the Hall on matters that could not be convincingly disguised as part of 
the war against Elaida. 
From the corner of her eye, she saw a smile pass across Romanda's lips at seeing Lelaine set down. Small profit if all 
she did was raise Romanda's stock with the others. "That holds for everyone, Romanda," she said. "If need be, Tiana 
can find two birches as easily as one." Romanda's smile vanished abruptly. 
"If I may speak, Mother," Takima said, rising slowly. She attempted a smile, but she still looked decidedly ill. "I myself 
think you have begun well. There may be benefits to stopping here a month. Or longer." Romanda's head jerked around 
to stare at her, but for once, Takima did not appear to notice. "Wintering here, we can avoid worse weather further 
north, and also plan carefully—" 
"There's an end to delays, daughter," Egwene cut in. "No more dragging our feet." Would she be another Gerra, or 
another Shein? Either was still possible. "In one month, we will Travel from here." No; she was Egwene al'Vere, and 
whatever the secret histories would say of her faults and virtues, the Light only knew, but they would be hers, not 
copies of some other woman's. "In one month, we will begin the siege of Tar Valon." 
This time, the silence was broken only by the sound of Takima weeping. 

Chapter 20 Into Andor 

Elayne hoped that the journey to Caemlyn would go smoothly, and in the beginning, it seemed to do so. She thought 
that even as she and Aviendha and Birgitte sat bone-weary and huddled in the rags that remained of their clothing, 
filthy with dirt and dust and the blood of the injuries they had received when the gateway exploded. In two weeks at 
most, she would be ready to present her claims to the Lion Throne. There on the hilltop, Nynaeve Healed their 
numerous hurts and spoke barely a word, certainly not berating them. Surely that was a pleasant sign, if unusual. Relief 



at finding them alive battled worry on her face. 
Lan's strength was necessary to remove the Seanchan crossbow bolt from Birgitte's thigh before she could be Healed of 
that wound, but although her face drained of blood and Elayne felt a stab of agony through the bond, agony that made 
her want to cry out, her Warder barely groaned through her gritted teeth. 
"Tai'shar Kandor," Lan murmured, tossing the pile-head quarrel, made to punch through armor, aside on the ground. 
True blood of Kandor. Birgitte blinked, and he paused. "Forgive me, if I erred. I assumed from your clothes you were 
Kandori." 
"Oh, yes," Birgitte breathed. "Kandori." Her sickly grin might have been from her injuries; Nynaeve was impatiently 
shooing Lan out of the way so she could lay hands on her. Elayne hoped the woman knew more of Kandor than the 
name; when Birgitte had last been born, there had been no Kandor. She should have taken it as an omen. 
For the five miles to the small slate-roofed manor house, Birgitte rode behind Nynaeve on the latter's stout brown 
mare— named Loversknot, of all things— and Elayne and Aviendha rode Lan's tall black stallion. At least, Elayne sat 
Mandarb's saddle with Aviendha's arms around her waist while Lan led the fiery-eyed animal. Trained warhorses were 
as much weapons as a sword, and dangerous mounts for strange riders. Be sure of yourself, girl, Lini had always told 
her, but not too sure, and she did try. She should have realized events were no more in her control than Mandarb's 
reins. 
At the three-story stone house, Master Hornwell, stout and gray-haired, and Mistress Hornwell, slightly less round and 
slightly less gray but otherwise resembling her husband remarkably, had every last person who worked the estates, and 
Merilille's maid, Pol, and the green-and-white liveried servants who had come from the Tarasin Palace as well, all 
bustling to find sleeping accommodations for over two hundred people, most women, who had appeared out of 
nowhere with dark near to falling. The work went with surprising swiftness, in spite of the estates' people stopping to 
gawk at an Aes Sedai's ageless face, or a Warder's shifting cloak making parts of him vanish, or one of the Sea Folk 
with all of her bright silks, her earrings and nose ring and medallioned chain. Kinswomen were deciding that now it 
was safe to be frightened and cry no matter what Reanne and the Knitting Circle said to them; Windfinders were 
snarling over how far from the salt they had come, against their will as Renaile din Calon loudly claimed; and nobles 
and crafts women who had been all too willing to flee whatever lay back in Ebou Dar, willing to carry their bundled 
possessions on their backs, were now balking at being shown a hayloft for a bed. 
All that was going on when Elayne and the others arrived with the sun red on the western horizon, a great upheaval and 
milling all about the house and thatch-roofed outbuildings, but Alise Tenjile, smiling pleasantly and implacable as an 
avalanche, seemed to have everything more in hand than even the capable Hornwells. Kinswomen who wept harder for 
all of Reanne's attempts at comfort dried their tears at a murmur from Alise and began moving with the purposeful air 
of women who had been caring for themselves in a hostile world for many years. Haughty nobles with marriage knives 
dangling into the oval cutouts in their lace-trimmed bodices and craftswomen who displayed almost as much arrogance 
and nearly as much bosom, if not in silk, flinched at the sight of Alise approaching, and went scurrying for the tall 
barns hugging their bundles and announcing loudly that they had always thought it might be amusing to sleep on straw. 
Even the Windfinders, many of them important and powerful women among the Atha'an Miere, muffled their 
complaints when Alise came near. For that matter, Sareitha, still lacking the Aes Sedai agelessness, eyed Alise askance 
and touched her brown-fringed shawl as if to remind herself it was there. Merilille— unflappable Merilille—watched 
the woman go about her work with a blend of approval and open amazement. 
Clambering down from her saddle at the front door of the house, Nynaeve glared toward Alise, gave her dark braid one 
deliberate, measured tug that the other woman was far too busy to notice, and stalked inside, stripping off her blue 
riding gloves and muttering to herself. Watching her go, Lan chuckled softly, then stifled his laughter immediately 
when Elayne dismounted. Light, but his eyes were cold! For Nynaeve's sake, she hoped the man could be saved from 
his fate, yet looking into those eyes, she did not believe it. 
"Where is Ispan?" she murmured, helping Aviendha scramble down. So many of the women knew an Aes Sedai—a 
Black sister—was being held prisoner that the news was bound to spread through the estates like fire in dry grass, but 
better if the manor's folk had a little preparation. 
"Adeleas and Vandene took her to a small woodcutter's hut about half a mile away," he replied just as quietly. "In all 
this, I don't think anyone noticed a woman with a sack over her head. The sisters said they would stay there with her 
tonight." 
Elayne shivered. The Darkfriend was to be questioned again once the sun went down, it seemed. They were in Andor, 
now, and that made her feel more deeply as if she had given the order for it. 



Soon she was in a copper bathtub, luxuriating in perfumed soap and clean skin again, laughing and splashing water at 
Birgitte, who lolled in another tub except when she was splashing back, both of them giggling over the wincing horror 
Aviendha could not quite conceal at sitting up to her breasts in water. She thought it was a very good joke on herself, 
though, and told a most improper story about a man getting segade spines in his bottom. Birgitte told one still more 
improper, about a woman getting her head caught between the slats of a fence, that made even Aviendha blush. They 
were funny, though. Elayne wished she knew one to tell. 
She and Aviendha combed and brushed one another's hair— a nightly ritual for near-sisters— and then they snuggled 
tiredly into the canopied bed in a small room. She and Aviendha, Birgitte and Nynaeve, and lucky there were no more. 
Larger rooms had cots and pallets covering the floors, including the sitting rooms, the kitchens, and most of the halls. 
Nynaeve muttered half the night about the indecency of making a woman sleep apart from her husband, and for the 
other half, her elbows seemed to wake Elayne every time she dropped off. Birgitte flatly refused to change places, and 
she could not ask Aviendha to endure the woman's sharp prodding, so she did not get a great deal of sleep. Elayne was 
still groggy when they prepared to depart the next morning, with the rising sun a molten ball of gold. The manor had 
few animals to spare unless she stripped the estates bare, so while she rode a black gelding named Fireheart, and 
Aviendha and Birgitte had new mounts, those who had been afoot when they fled the Kin's farm remained afoot. That 
included most of the Kinswomen themselves, the servants leading the pack animals, and the twenty-odd women who 
plainly were beyond regretting their visit to the Kin's farm in hopes of peace and contemplation. The Warders rode 
ahead to scout the way across rolling hills covered in drought-starved forest, and the rest of them stretched out in a 
most peculiar snake, with Nynaeve and herself and the other sisters at the head. And Aviendha, of course. It was hardly 
a group that could escape notice, so many women traveling with so few men for guards, not to mention twenty dark 
Windfinders, awkward on their horses and as bright as exotically plumaged birds, and nine Aes Sedai, six of them 
recognizably so to anyone who knew what to look for. Though one did ride with a leather sack over her head, of 
course. As if that would not attract eyes by itself. Elayne had hoped to reach Caemlyn unnoticed, but that no longer 
seemed possible. Still, there was no reason that anyone would suspect that the Daughter-Heir, Elayne Trakand herself, 
was one of this group. In the beginning, she thought that the greatest difficulty they might face would be someone who 
opposed her claims learning of her presence, sending armed men to try taking her into custody until the succession was 
settled. 
In truth, she expected the first trouble to come from the footsore craftswomen and nobles, proud women all, and none 
used to tramping dusty hills. Especially since Merilille's maid had her own plump mare to ride. The few farm wives 
among them did not seem to mind too much, but nearly half their number were women who possessed lands and 
manors and palaces, and most of the rest could have afforded to buy an estate if not two or three. They included two 
goldsmiths, three weavers who owned over four hundred looms between them, a woman whose manufactories 
produced a tenth of all the lacquerware Ebou Dar produced, and a banker. They walked, their possessions strapped to 
their backs, while their horses bore packsaddles laden with food. There was real need. Every last coin in everyone's 
purse had been pooled together and given into Nynaeve's tightfisted keeping, but all might not be sufficient to buy 
food, fodder and lodgings for so large a party all the way to Caemlyn. They did not seem to understand. They 
complained loudly and incessantly through the first day's march. Loudest of all was a slim lady with a thin scar on one 
cheek, a stern-faced woman named Malien, who was nearly bent double under the weight of a huge bundle containing a 
dozen or more dresses and all the changes that went with them. 
When they made camp that first night, with their cook fires glowing in the twilight and everyone full of beans and 
bread if not entirely satisfied with them, Malien gathered the noblewomen around her, their silks more than 
travel-stained. The craftswomen joined in, too, and the banker, and the farmers stood close. Before Malien could say a 
word, Reanne strode into the group. Her face full of smile lines, in plain brown woolens with her skirts sewn up on the 
left to expose bright layered petticoats, she might have been one of the farm women. 
"If you wish to go home," she announced in that surprisingly high voice, "you may do so at any time. I regret that we 
must keep your horses, though. You will be paid for them as soon as can be arranged. If you choose to remain, please 
remember that the rules of the farm still apply." A number of the women around her gaped. Malien was not alone in 
opening her mouth angrily. 
Alise just seemed to appear at Reanne's side, fists planted on her hips. She was not smiling now. "I said the last ten to 
be ready would do the washing up," she told them firmly. And she named them off; Jillien, a plump goldsmith; 
Naiselle, the cool-eyed banker; and all eight of the nobles. They stood staring at her until she clapped her hands and 
said, "Don't make me invoke the rule on failure to do your share of the chores." 



Malien, wide-eyed and muttering in disbelief, was the last to dart off and begin gathering dirty bowls, but the next 
morning she pared her bundle down, leaving lace-trimmed silk dresses and shifts to be trampled on the hillside as they 
departed. Elayne continued to expect an explosion, but Reanne kept a firm hand on them, Alise kept a firmer, and if 
Malien and the others glared and muttered over the grease stains that grew on their clothes day by day, Reanne had 
only to speak a few words to send them to their work. Alise only had to clap her hands. 
If the rest of the journey could have gone as smoothly, Elayne would have been willing to join those women in their 
greasy labors. Long before reaching Caemlyn, she knew that for a fact. 
Once they reached the first narrow dusty road, little more than cart track, farms began to appear, thatched stone houses 
and barns clinging to the hillsides or nestled in hollows. From then on, whether the land was hilly or flat, forested or 
cleared, they rarely spent many hours beyond sight of a farm or a village. At each of those, while the local folk goggled 
at the very strange strangers, Elayne tried to learn how much support House Trakand had, and what concerned the 
people most. Addressing those concerns would be important in making her claim to the throne strong enough to stand, 
as important as the backing of other Houses. She heard a great deal, if not always what she wished to hear. Andorans 
claimed the right to speak their minds to the Queen herself; they were hardly shy with a young noblewoman, no matter 
how peculiar her traveling companions. 
In a village called Damelien, where three mills sat beside a small river shrunken to leave their tall water wheels dry, the 
square-jawed innkeeper at The Golden Sheaves allowed as how he thought Morgase had been a good queen, the best 
that could be, the best that ever was. "Her daughter might've been a good ruler, too, I suppose," he muttered, thumbing 
his chin. "Pity the Dragon Reborn killed them. I suppose he had to—the Prophecies or some such—but he had no call 
to dry up the rivers, now did he? How much grain did you say your horses need, my lady? It's dreadful dear, mind." 
A hard-faced woman, in a worn brown dress that hung on her as if she had lost weight, surveyed a field surrounded by 
a low stone wall, where the hot wind sent sheets of dust marching into the woods. The other farms around Buryhill 
looked as bad or worse. "That Dragon Reborn's got no right to do this to us, now has he? I ask you!" She spat and 
frowned up at Elayne in her saddle. "The throne? Oh, Dyelin's as good as any, now Morgase and her girl are dead. 
Some around here still speak up for Naean or Elenia, but I'm for Dyelin. Any lookout, Caemlyn's a long way off. I've 
got crops to worry about. If I ever make another crop." 
"Oh, it's true, my lady, so it is; Elayne's alive," a gnarled old carpenter told her in Forel Market. He was bald as a 
leather egg, his fingers twisted with age, but the work standing among the shavings and sawdust that littered his shop 
looked as fine as any Elayne had seen. She was the only person in the shop besides him. From the look of the village, 
half the residents had left. "The Dragon Reborn is having her brought to Caemlyn so he can put the Rose Crown on her 
head himself," he allowed. "The news is all over. 'Tisn't right, if you ask me. He's one of them black-eyed Aielmen, I 
hear. We ought to march on Caemlyn and drive him and all them Aiel back where they come from. Then Elayne can 
claim the throne her own self. If Dyelin lets her keep it, anyway." 
Elayne heard a great deal about Rand, rumors ranging from him swearing fealty to Elaida to him being the King of 
Illian, of all things. In Andor, he was blamed for everything bad that happened for the last two or three years, including 
stillbirths and broken legs, infestations of grasshoppers, two-headed calves, and three-legged chickens. And even 
people who thought her mother had ruined the country and an end to the reign of House Trakand was good riddance 
still believed Rand al'Thor an invader. The Dragon Reborn was supposed to fight the Dark One at Shayol Ghul, and he 
should be driven out of Andor. Not what she had hoped to hear, not a bit of it. But she heard it all again and again. It 
was not a pleasant journey at all. It was one long lesson in one of Lini's favorite sayings. It isn't the stone you see that 
trips you on your nose. 
She thought a number of things beside the nobles might cause trouble, some sure to be explosions as great as the 
gateway. The Windfinders, smug in the bargain made with Nynaeve and herself, behaved in an irritatingly superior 
manner toward the Aes Sedai, especially after it came out that Merilille had let herself agree to be one of the first 
sisters to go the ships. Yet if the sizzling there continued like the burning of an Illuminator's fuse-cord, the explosion 
never quite came. The Windfinders and the Kinswomen, in particular the Knitting Circle, seemed as certain to blow up. 
They cut one another dead when not sneering openly, the Kin at "Sea Folk wilders getting above themselves," the 
Wind-finders at "cringing sandlappers kissing Aes Sedai feet." But it never went beyond lips curled or daggers 
caressed. 
Ispan certainly presented problems that Elayne was sure would grow, yet after a few days, Vandene and Adeleas let her 
ride unhooded if not unshielded, a silent figure with colored beads in her thin braids, ageless face turned down and 
hands still on her reins. Renaile told everyone who would listen that among the Atha'an Miere, a Darkfriend was 



stripped of his or her names as soon as proven guilty, then thrown over the side tied to ballast stones. Among the 
Kinswomen, even Reanne and Alise paled every time they saw the Taraboner woman. But Ispan grew meeker and 
meeker, eager to please and full of ingratiating smiles for the two white-haired sisters no matter what it was they did to 
her when they carried her away from the others at night. On the other hand, Adeleas and Vandene grew more and more 
frustrated. Adeleas told Nynaeve in Elayne's hearing that the woman spilled out volumes about old plots of the Black 
Ajah, those she had not been involved in much more enthusiastically than those she was, yet even when they pressed 
her hard— Elayne could not quite make herself ask how they pressed— and she let slip the names of Darkfriends, most 
were certainly dead and none was a sister. Vandene said they were beginning to fear she had taken an Oath— the 
capital was audible— against betraying her cohorts. They continued to isolate Ispan as much as possible and continued 
with their questions, but it was plain they were feeling their way blindly, now, and carefully. 
And there was Nynaeve, and Lan. Most definitely Nynaeve and Lan, with her near to bursting at the effort of holding 
her temper around him, mooning over him when they had to sleep apart—which was nearly always, the way 
accommodations divided up—and torn between eager and afraid when she could sneak him off to a hayloft. It was her 
own fault for choosing a Sea Folk wedding, in Elayne's estimation. The Sea Folk believed in hierarchy as they did in 
the sea, and they knew a woman and her husband might be promoted one past the other many times in their lives. Their 
marriage rites took that into account. Whoever had the right to command in public, must obey in private. Lan never 
took advantage, so Nynaeve said—"not really," whatever that was supposed to mean! She always blushed when she 
said it—but she kept waiting for him to do so, and he just seemed to grow more and more amused. This amusement, of 
course, screwed Nynaeve's temper to a fever pitch. Nynaeve did erupt, out of all the explosions Elayne had expected. 
She snapped at anyone and everyone who got in her way. Except at Lan; with him, she was all honey and cream. And 
not at Alise. She came close once or twice, but even Nynaeve could not seem to make herself snap at Alise. 
Elayne had hopes, not worries, about the things brought out of the Rahad along with the Bowl of the Winds. Aviendha 
helped her search, and so did Nynaeve once or twice, but she was entirely too slow and ginger about it and showed 
little skill at finding what they were searching for. They found no more angreal, yet the collection of ter'angreal grew; 
once all the rubbish had been thrown away, objects that used the One Power filled five entire panniers on the 
packhorses. 
Careful as Elayne was, though, her attempts to study them did not go so well. Spirit was the safest of the Five Powers 
to use 
in this—unless, of course, Spirit happened to be what triggered the thing!—yet at times she had to use other flows, as 
fine as she could weave. Sometimes her delicate probing did nothing, but her first touch at the thing that looked like a 
blacksmith's puzzle made of glass left her dizzy and unable to sleep for half the night, and a thread of Fire touching 
what looked like a helmet made of fluffy metal feathers gave everyone within twenty paces a blinding headache. 
Except for herself. And then there was the crimson rod that felt hot; hot, in a way. 
Sitting on the edge of her bed at an inn called The Wild Boar, she examined the smooth rod by the light of two polished 
brass lamps. Wrist-thick and a foot long, it looked like stone, but felt firm rather than hard. She was alone; since the 
helmet, she had tried to do her studying away from the others. The heat of the rod made her think of Fire. . . . 
Blinking, she opened her eyes and sat up in the bed. Sunlight streamed in at the window. She was in her shift, and 
Nynaeve, fully dressed, stood frowning down at her. Aviendha and Birgitte were watching from beside the door. 
"What happened?" Elayne demanded, and Nynaeve shook her head grimly. 
"You don't want to know." Her lips twitched. Aviendha's face gave away nothing. Birgitte's mouth might have been a 
little tight, but the strongest emotion Elayne felt from her was a combination of relief and— hilarity! The woman was 
doing her utmost not to roll on the floor laughing! 
The worst of it was, no one would tell what had happened. What she had said, or done; she was sure it was that, by the 
quickly hidden grins she saw, from Kinswomen and Windfinders as well as sisters. But no one would tell her! After 
that, she decided to leave studying the ter'angreal to somewhere more comfortable than a inn. Somewhere definitely 
more private! 
Nine days after their flight from Ebou Dar, scattered clouds appeared in the sky and a sprinkling of fat raindrops 
splashed dust in the road. An intermittent drizzle fell the next day, and the day after, a deluge kept them huddled in the 
houses and stables of Forel Market. That night, the rain turned to sleet, and by morning, thick flurries of snow drifted 
from a cloud-dark sky. More than halfway to Caemlyn, Elayne begun to wonder whether they could make it in two 
weeks from where they stood. 
With the snow, clothes became a worry. Elayne blamed herself for not thinking of the fact that everyone might need 



warm clothes before they reached their destination. Nynaeve blamed herself for not thinking of it. Merilille thought she 
was at fault, and Reanne thought she was. They actually stood in the main street of Forel Market that morning with 
snowflakes drifting down on their heads, arguing over who could claim the blame. Elayne was not sure which of them 
saw the absurdity first, who was the first to laugh, but all were laughing as they settled around a table in The White 
Swan to decide what to do. A solution turned out to be no laughing matter. Providing one warm coat or cloak for 
everyone would take a large bite out of their coin, if so many could be found. Jewelry could be sold or traded, of 
course, but no one in Forel Market seemed to be interested in necklaces or bracelets, however fine. 
Aviendha solved that difficulty by producing a small sack that bulged with clear, perfect gemstones, some quite large. 
Strangely, the same folk who had said with bare politeness that they had no use for be-gemmed necklaces went 
round-eyed at the unset stones rolling about in Aviendha's palm. Reanne said they saw one as frippery, the other as 
wealth, but whatever their reasons, in return for two rubies of moderate size, one large moonstone, and a small firedrop, 
the people of Forel Market were more than willing to provide as many thick woolens as their visitors desired, some of 
them hardly worn. 
"Very generous of them," Nynaeve muttered sourly as people began rooting clothes out of their chests and attics. A 
steady stream marched into the inn with their arms full. "Those stones could buy the whole village!" Aviendha 
shrugged slightly; she would have surrendered a handful of the gems if Reanne had not intervened. 
Merilille shook her head. "We have what they want, but they have what we need. I'm afraid that means they set the 
price." Which was entirely too much like the situation with the Sea Folk. Nynaeve looked positively ill. 
When they were alone, in a hallway of the inn, Elayne asked Aviendha where she had gotten such a fortune in jewels, 
and one she seemed eager to be rid of. She expected her near-sister to say they were her takings from the Stone of Tear, 
or perhaps Cairhien. 
"Rand al'Thor tricked me," Aviendha muttered sullenly. "I tried to buy my toh from him. I know that is the least 
honorable way," she protested, "but I could see no other. And he stood me on my head! Why is it, when you reason 
things out logically, a man always does something completely illogical and gains the upper hand?" 
"Their pretty heads are so fuzzy, a woman can't expect to follow how they skitter," Elayne told her. She did not inquire 
what toh Aviendha had tried to buy, or how the attempt had ended with her near-sister possessing a sack full of rich 
gems. Talking about Rand was hard enough without where that might lead. 
Snow brought more than a need for warm clothing. At midday, with the snow flurries falling thicker by the minute, 
Renaile strode down the stairs into the common room, proclaimed that her part of the bargain had been met, and 
demanded not only the Bowl of the Winds, but Merilille. The Gray sister stared in consternation, and so did a great 
many others. The benches were filled with Kinswomen taking their turn at the midday meal, and serving men and 
women ran to serve this third lot of meals. Renaile did not keep her voice down, and every head in the common room 
swiveled toward her. 
"You can begin your teaching, now," Renaile told the wide-eyed Aes Sedai. "Up the ladder with you to my quarters." 
Merilille started to protest, but face suddenly cold, the Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships planted fists on her hips. 
"When I give a command, Merilille Ceandevin," she said icily, "I expect every hand on deck to jump. Now jump!" 
Merilille did not precisely jump, but she did gather herself and go, with Renaile practically chivvying her up the stairs 
from behind. Given her promise, she had no other choice. Reanne's face was aghast. Alise and stout Sumeko, still 
wearing her red belt, watched thoughtfully. 
In the days that followed, whether laboring along a snow-covered road on their horses, walking the streets of a village, 
or trying to find room for everyone at a farm, Renaile kept Merilille at her heels except when she told her off to follow 
another Windfinder. The glow of saidar surrounded the Gray sister and her escort almost constantly, and Merilille 
demonstrated weaves unceasingly. The pale Cairhienin was markedly shorter than any of the dark Sea Folk women, but 
at first Merilille managed to stand taller by the sheer force of Aes Sedai dignity. Soon, though, she began to wear a 
permanently startled expression. Elayne learned that when they all had beds to sleep in, which they did not always, 
Merilille was sharing with Pol, her maid, and the two apprentice Windfinders, Talaan and Metarra. What that said of 
Merilille's status, Elayne was not sure. Clearly, the Windfinders did not put her on a level with the apprentices. They 
just expected her to do as she was told, when she was told, with no delays or equivocations. 
Reanne remained appalled at the turn of events, but Alise and Sumeko were not the only ones among the Kin to watch 
closely, not the only ones to nod thoughtfully. And suddenly, another problem came to Elayne's notice. The 
Kinswomen saw Ispan made more and more malleable in her captivity, but she was the prisoner of other Aes Sedai. 
The Sea Folk were not Aes Sedai, and Merilille not a prisoner, yet she was starting to jump when Renaile issued a 



command, or, for that matter, when Dorile, or Caire, or Caire's blood-sister Tebreille did. Each of those was 
Windfinder to a clan Wavemistress, and none of the others made her hop with such alacrity, but that was enough. More 
and more of the Kin slid from horrified gaping to thoughtful observation. Perhaps Aes Sedai were not a different flesh 
after all. If Aes Sedai were just women like themselves, why should they subject themselves once more to the rigors of 
the Tower, to Aes Sedai authority and Aes Sedai discipline? Had they not survived very well on their own, some for 
more years than any of the older sisters were quite ready to believe? Elayne could practically see the idea forming in 
their heads. 
When she mentioned it to Nynaeve, though, Nynaeve just muttered, "About time some of the sisters learned what it's 
like trying to teach a woman who thinks she knows more than her teacher. Those who have a chance at a shawl will 
still want it, and for the rest, I don't see why they shouldn't grow some backbone." Elayne refrained from mentioning 
Nynaeve's complaints about Sumeko, who had certainly grown backbone; Sumeko had criticized several of Nynaeve's 
Healing weaves as "clumsy," and Elayne had thought Nynaeve was going to have apoplexy on the spot. "In any case, 
there's no need to tell Egwene about this. If she's there. Any of it. She has enough on her plate." Without doubt, "any of 
it" referred to Merilille and the Windfinders. 
They were in their shifts, seated on their bed on the second floor of The New Plow, with the twisted-ring dream 
ter'angreal hanging about their necks, Elayne's on a simple leather cord, Nynaeve's alongside Lan's heavy signet ring on 
a narrow golden chain. Aviendha and Birgitte, still fully dressed, sat on two of their clothing chests. Standing guard, 
they called it, until she and Nynaeve returned from the World of Dreams. Both wore their cloaks until they could climb 
under the blankets. The New Plow was definitely not new; cracks spidered across the plastered walls, and unfortunate 
drafts crept in everywhere. 
The room itself was small, and the chests and stacked bundles left room for little beyond the bed and washstand. 
Elayne knew she had to present herself properly in Caemlyn, but sometimes she felt guilty, with her belongings on 
pack animals when most others had to make do with what they could carry on their backs. Nynaeve certainly never 
showed any regrets over her chests. They had been sixteen days on the road, the full moon outside the narrow window 
shone on a white blanket of snow that would make traveling tomorrow slow even if the sky remained clear, and Elayne 
thought another week to Caemlyn was an optimistic estimate. 
"I have enough sense not to remind her," she told Nynaeve. "I don't want my nose snapped off again." 
That was a mild way of putting it. They had not been in Tel’aran’rhiod since informing Egwene, the night after leaving 
the estate, that the Bowl had been used. Reluctantly, they also had told her of the bargain they had been forced into 
with the Sea Folk, and found themselves facing the Amyrlin Seat with the striped stole on her shoulders. Elayne knew 
it was necessary and right— a Queen's closest friend among her subjects knew she was the Queen as well as a friend, 
had to know— but she had not enjoyed her friend telling them in a heated voice that they had behaved like witless 
loobies who might have brought ruin down on all their heads. Especially when she herself agreed. She had not liked 
hearing that the only reason Egwene did not set them both a penance that would curl their hair was that she could not 
afford to have them waste the time. Necessary and right, though; when she sat on the Lion Throne, she would still be 
Aes Sedai, and subject to the laws and rules and customs of Aes Sedai. Not for Andor— she would not give her land to 
the White Tower— but for herself. So, unpleasant as it had been, she accepted her castigation calmly. Nynaeve had 
writhed and stammered with embarrassment, protested and all but pouted, then apologized so profusely that Elayne 
hardly believed it was the same woman she knew. Quite rightly, Egwene had remained the Amyrlin, cool in her 
displeasure even while giving pardon for their mistakes. At best, tonight could not be pleasant or comfortable if she 
was there. 
But when they dreamed themselves into the Salidar of Tel'aran'rhiod, into the room in the Little Tower that had been 
called the Amyrlin's Study, she was not there, and the only sign she had visited since their meeting was some barely 
visible words roughly scratched on a beetle-riddled wall panel, as if by an idle hand that did not want to spend the 
effort to carve deeply. 
STAY IN CAEMLYN And a few feet away: 
KEEP SILENT AND BE CAREFUL 
Those had been Egwene's final instructions to them. Go to Caemlyn, and stay there until she could puzzle out how to 
keep the Hall from salting all of them down and nailing them into a barrel. A reminder they had no way to erase. 
Embracing saidar, Elayne channeled to leave her own message, the number fifteen seemingly scratched on the heavy 
table that had been Egwene's writing desk. Inverting the weave and tying it off meant that only someone who ran her 
fingers across the numerals would realize they were not really there. Perhaps it would not take fifteen days to reach 



Caemlyn, but more than a week, she was certain. 
Nynaeve strode to the window and peered out both ways, careful not to put her head out through the open casement. It 
was night out there as in the waking world, a full moon gleaming on bright snow, though the air did not feel cold. No 
one else should be there except them, and if anyone was, it was someone to avoid. "I hope she isn't having trouble with 
her plans," she muttered. 
"She told us not to mention those even to each other, Nynaeve. 'A secret spoken finds wings.' " That had been another 
of Lini's many favorites. 
Nynaeve grimaced over her shoulder, then returned to peering down the narrow alley. "It's different for you. I tended 
her as a child, changed her swaddling, smacked her bottom a time or two. And now I have to leap when she snaps her 
fingers. It's hard." 
Elayne could not help herself. She snapped her fingers. 
Nynaeve spun so fast that she blurred, her face pop-eyed with horror. Her dress blurred, too, from blue riding silks to 
an Accepted's banded white to what she referred to as good, stout Two Rivers wool, dark and thick. When she realized 
Egwene was not there, had not been listening, she almost fainted with relief. 
When they stepped back to their bodies and woke long enough to tell the others they could come to bed, Aviendha 
certainly thought it a good joke, and Birgitte laughed as well. Nynaeve had her revenge, though. The next morning, she 
woke Elayne with an icicle. Elayne's shrieks woke everybody else in the whole village. 
Three days later, the first explosion came. 

Chapter 21 Answering the Summons 

The great winter tempests called the cemaros continued to roll up out of the Sea of Storms, harsher than any in 
memory. Some said this year the cemaros was trying to make up for the months of delay. Lightning crackled across the 
skies, enough to make the darkness patchy at night. Wind lashed the land and rain flailed it, turning all but the hardest 
roads to rivers of mud. Sometimes the mud froze after nightfall, but sunrise always brought a thaw, even under a gray 
sky, and the ground became bogs once more. Rand was surprised at how much all that hampered his plans. 
The Asha'man he had sent for came quickly, at midmorning the next day, riding out of a gateway into a driving 
downpour that obscured the sun so, it might as well have been twilight. Through the hole in the air, snow fell back in 
Andor, fat white flakes swirling about thickly and hiding what lay behind them. Most of the men in the short column 
were bundled in heavy black cloaks, but the rain seemed to slip around them and their horses. It was not obvious, yet 
anyone who noticed would look twice, if not three times. Keeping dry required only a simple weave, so long as you did 
not mind flaunting what you were. But then, the black-and-white disc worked on a crimson circle on the breast of their 
cloaks did that. Even half-hidden by the rain, there was a pride about them, an arrogance in the way they sat their 
saddles. A defiance. They gloried in what they were. 
Their commander, Charl Gedwyn, was a few years older than Rand, of middling height and wearing the Sword and 
Dragon, like Torval, on a very well cut, high-collared coat of the best black silk. His sword was mounted lushly with 
silver, his silver-worked sword belt fastened with a silver buckle shaped in a clenched fist. Gedwyn termed himself 
Tsorovan'm'hael; in the Old Tongue, Storm Leader, whatever that was supposed to mean. It seemed appropriate to the 
weather, at least. 
Even so, he stood just inside the entrance to Rand's ornate green tent and scowled out at the cascading rain. A guard of 
mounted Companions encircled the tent, no more than thirty paces away, yet they were barely visible. They might have 
been statues, ignoring the torrent. 
"How do you expect me to find anyone in this?" Gedwyn muttered, glancing back over his shoulder at Rand. A tick 
late, he added, "My Lord Dragon." His eyes were hard and challenging, but they always were, whether looking at a 
man or a fence-post. "Rochaid and I brought eight Dedicated and forty Soldiers, enough to destroy an army or cow ten 
kings. We might even make an Aes Sedai blink," he said wryly. "Burn me, the pair of us could do a fair job alone. Or 
you could. Why do you need anyone else?" 
"I expect you to obey, Gedwyn," Rand said coldly. Storm Leader? And Manel Rochaid, Gedwyn's second, called 
himself Baijan'm'hael, Attack Leader. What was Taim up to, creating new ranks? The important thing was that the man 
made weapons. The important thing was that the weapons stayed sane long enough to be used. "And I don't expect you 
to waste time questioning my orders." 
"As you command, my Lord Dragon," Gedwyn muttered. "I'll send men out immediately." With a curt salute, fist to 



chest, he strode out into the storm. The deluge bent away from him, sheeting down the small shield he wove around 
himself. Rand wondered whether the man suspected how close he had come to dying when he seized saidin without 
warning. You must kill him before he kills you, Lews Therin giggled. They will, you know. Dead men can't betray 
anyone. The voice in Rand's head turned wondering. But sometimes they don't die. Am I dead? Are you? 
Rand pushed the words down to a fly's buzzing, just on the edge of notice. Since his reappearance inside Rand's head, 
Lews Therin seldom went silent unless forced. The man seemed madder than ever most of the time, and usually angrier 
as well. Stronger sometimes, too. That voice invaded Rand's dreams, and when he saw himself in a dream, it was not 
always himself at all that he saw. It was not always Lews Therin, either, the face he had come to recognize as Lews 
Therin's. Sometimes it was blurred, yet vaguely familiar, and Lews Therin seemed startled by it, too. That was an 
indication how far the man's madness went. Or maybe his own. 
Not yet, Rand thought. I can't afford to go mad yet. 
When, then? Lews Therin whispered before Rand could mute him again. 
With the arrival of Gedwyn and the Asha'man, his plan to sweep the Seanchan westward got under way. Got under 
way, and crept forward as slowly as a man laboring along one of those mired roads. He shifted his own camp at once, 
making no effort to hide his movements. There was little point to straining for secrecy. Word traveled slowly by 
pigeon, and far slower by courier, once the cemaros came, yet he had no doubts he was watched, by the White Tower, 
by the Forsaken, by anyone who saw gain or loss in where the Dragon Reborn went and could afford to slip coin to a 
soldier. Maybe even by the Seanchan. If he could scout them, why not they him? But not even the Asha'man knew why 
he was moving. 
While Rand was idly watching men fold his tent onto a high-wheeled cart, Weiramon appeared on one of his many 
horses, a prancing white gelding of the finest Tairen bloodstock. The rain had cleared, though gray clouds still veiled 
the noonday sun and the air felt as if you could squeeze water out of it with your hands. The Dragon Banner and the 
Banner of Light hung limp and sodden on their tall staffs. 
Tairen Defenders had replaced the Companions, and as Weiramon rode through their mounted ring, he frowned at 
Rodrivar Tihera, a lean fellow, dark even for a Tairen, with a short beard trimmed to a very sharp point. A very minor 
noble who had had to rise through his abilities, Tihera was punctilious in the extreme. The fat white plumes bobbing on 
his rimmed helmet added embellishment to the elaborate bow he gave Weiramon. The High Lord's frown deepened. 
There was no need for the Captain of the Stone to be personally in charge of Rand's bodyguard, but he frequently was, 
just as Marcolin often commanded the Companions himself. An often bitter rivalry had grown up between Defenders 
and Companions, centering on who should guard Rand. The Tairens claimed the right because he had ruled longer in 
Tear, the Illianers because he was, after all, King of Illian. Perhaps Weiramon had heard some of the mutters among the 
Defenders that it was time Tear had a king of its own, and who better than the man who had taken the Stone? 
Weiramon more than agreed with the need, but not with the choice of who should wear the crown. He was not the only 
one. 
The man smoothed his features as soon as he saw Rand looking, and swung down from his gold-tooled saddle to offer a 
bow that made Tihera's seem simple. Iron-spined as he was, he could puff up and strut in his sleep. Though he did 
grimace slightly at putting his polished boot into the mud. He wore a rain cape, to keep the mist off his fine clothes, but 
even that was encrusted with gold embroidery and had a collar of sapphires. For all of Rand's coat of deep green silk, 
with golden bees climbing the sleeves and lapels, anyone might have been forgiven for thinking the Crown of Swords 
belonged on the other's head, not his. 
"My Lord Dragon," Weiramon intoned. "I cannot express how happy I am to see you guarded by Tairens, my Lord 
Dragon. Surely the world would weep if anything untoward happened." He was too intelligent to come out and call the 
Companions untrustworthy. By a hair, he was. 
"Sooner or later it would," Rand said dryly. After a good part of it finished celebrating. "I know how hard you'd cry, 
Weiramon." 
The fellow actually preened, stroking the point of his gray-streaked beard. He heard what he wanted to hear. "Yes, my 
Lord Dragon, you can be assured of my constancy. Which is why I'm concerned by the orders your man brought me 
this morning." That was Adley; many of the nobles thought pretending the Asha'man were merely Rand's servants 
would somehow make them less dangerous. "Wise of you to send away most of the Cairhienin. And the Illianers, of 
course; that goes without saying. I can even understand why you limit Gueyam and the others." Weiramon's boots 
squelched in the mud as he stepped nearer, and his voice took on a confiding tone. "I do believe some of them—I 
wouldn't say plotted against you, but I think perhaps their loyalty has not always been without question. As mine is. 



Without question." His voice shifted again, to strong and confident, a man concerned only with the needs of the one he 
served. The one who surely would make him the first King of Tear. "Allow me to bring all of my armsmen, my Lord 
Dragon. With them, and the Defenders, I can assure the honor of the Lord of the Morning, and his safety." In all of the 
individual camps across the heath, wagons and carts were being loaded, horses saddled. Most tents were already down. 
The High Lady Rosana was riding north, her banner heading a column large enough to raise havoc among the bandits 
and at least give the Shaido pause. But not enough to plant notions in her head, especially not when half were 
Gueyam's and Maraconn's retainers mixed with Defenders of the Stone. Much the same applied to Spiron Narettin, 
riding eastward over the tall ridge with as many Companions and men sworn to others of the Council of Nine as his 
own liegemen, not to mention a hundred more tailing behind on foot, some of the fellows who had surrendered in the 
woods beyond that ridge the day before. A surprising number had chosen to follow the Dragon Reborn, but Rand did 
not trust them enough to leave them together. Tolmeran was just starting south with the same kind of blend, and others 
would be marching off as soon as they had their carts and wagons loaded. Each in a different direction, and none able 
to trust the men at their backs far enough for them to do more than follow the orders Rand had given. Bringing peace to 
Illian was an important task, yet every last lord and lady regretted being sent away from the Dragon Reborn, plainly 
wondering whether it meant they had slipped in his trust. Though a few might have considered why he chose to keep 
those he did under his eye. Rosana had certainly looked thoughtful. 
"Your concern touches me," Rand told Weiramon, "but how many bodyguards does one man need? I'm not off to start 
a war." A fine point, perhaps, yet this war was well under way. It had begun at Falme, if not before. "Get your people 
ready." 
How many have died for my pride? Lews Therin moaned. How many have died for my mistakes? 
"May I at least ask where we are going?" Weiramon's question, not quite exasperated, came right atop the voice in 
Rand's head. 
"The City," Rand snapped. He did not know how many had died for his mistakes, but none for his pride. He was sure of 
that. 
Weiramon opened his mouth, plainly confused as to whether he meant Tear or Illian, or maybe even Cairhien, but Rand 
gestured him away with the Dragon Scepter, a sharp stabbing motion that made the green-and-white tassel swing. He 
half wished he could stab Lews Therin with it. "I don't intend to sit here all day, Weiramon! Go to your men!" 
Less than an hour later he took hold of the True Source and prepared to make a gateway for Traveling. He had to fight 
the dizziness that gripped him lately whenever he seized or loosed the Power; he did not quite sway in Tai'daishar's 
saddle. What with the molten filth floating on saidin, the frozen slime, touching the Source came close to emptying his 
stomach. Seeing double, even for only a few moments, made weaving flows difficult if not impossible, and he could 
have told Dashiva or Flinn or one of the others to do it, but Gedwyn and Rochaid were holding their horses' reins in 
front of a dozen or so black-coated Soldiers, all who had not been out to search. Just standing there patiently. And 
watching Rand. Rochaid, no more than a hand shorter than Rand and maybe two years younger, was also full 
Asha'man, and his coat, too, was silk. A small smile played on his face, as if he knew things others did not and was 
amused. What did he know? About the Seanchan, surely, if not Rand's plans for them. What else? Maybe nothing, but 
Rand was not about to show any weakness in front of that pair. The dizziness faded quickly, the twinned sight a little 
more slowly, as it always did, these last few weeks, and he completed the weave, then, without waiting, dug in his 
heels and rode through the opening that unfolded before him. The City he had meant was Illian, though the gateway 
opened to the north of that city. Despite Weiramon's supposed concerns, he hardly went unprotected and alone. Nearly 
three thousand men rode through that tall square hole in the air, into rolling meadowland not far from the broad muddy 
road that led down to the Causeway of the Northern Star. Even when every lord had only been allowed a handful of 
armsmen— to men accustomed to leading a thousand if not thousands, a hundred or so were a handful— they added 
up. Tairens and Cairhienin and Illianers, Defenders of the Stone under Tihera and Companions under Marcolin, 
Asha'man heeling Gedwyn. The Asha'man who had come with him, anyway. Dashiva and Flinn and the rest kept their 
horses close behind Rand. All but Narishma. Narishma had not come back yet. The man knew where to find him, but 
Rand did not like it. 
Each kind kept to themselves as much as possible. Gueyam and Maraconn and Aracome rode with Weiramon, all 
eyeing Rand more than where they were going, and Gregorin Panar with three others of the Council of Nine, leaning in 
their saddles to speak softly and uneasily among themselves. Semaradrid, with a knot of tight-faced Cairhienin lords 
behind him, watched Rand almost as closely as the Tairens did. Rand had chosen those who came with him as carefully 
as those he sent away, not always for the reasons others might have used. 



Had there been any onlookers, it would have been a brave display, with all their bright banners and pennants, and small 
con rising from some of the Cairhienin's backs. Bright and brave and very dangerous. Some had plotted against him, 
and he had learned that Semaradrid's House Maravin had old alliances with House Riatin, which stood in open 
rebellion against him in Cairhien. Semaradrid did not deny the connection, but he had not mentioned it before Rand 
heard, either. The Council of Nine were just too new to him to risk leaving them all behind. And Weiramon was a fool. 
Left to his own devices, he might well try to gain the Lord Dragon's favor by marching an army against the Seanchan, 
or Murandy, or the Light alone knew who or where. Too stupid to leave behind, too powerful to shove aside, so he rode 
with Rand and thought himself honored. It was almost a pity he was not stupid enough to do something that would get 
him executed. Behind came the servants and carts— no one understood why Rand had sent all of the wagons with the 
others, and he was not about to explain; who owned the next pair of ears that would hear?— and then the long strings 
of spare mounts led by horse handlers, and straggling files of men in battered breastplates that did not quite fit or 
leather jerkins sewn with rusty steel discs, carrying bows or crossbows or spears, and even a few pikes; more of the 
fellows who had obeyed "Lord Brend" 's summons and decided against going home unarmed. Their leader was the 
runny-nosed man Rand had spoken to on the edge of the woods, Eagan Padros by name and much brighter than he 
looked. It was difficult for a commoner to rise very far, most places, but Rand had marked Padros out. The fellow 
gathered his men off to one side, but the whole lot of them milled about, elbowing one another aside for a better view 
southward. 
The Causeway of the Northern Star stretched arrow-straight through the miles of brown marsh that surrounded Illian, a 
wide road of hard-packed dirt broken by flat stone bridges. A wind from the south carried sea salt and a hint of 
tanneries. Illian was a sprawling city, easily as large as Caemlyn or Cairhien. Brightly colored roof tiles and hundreds 
of thrusting towers, gleaming in the sun, were just visible across that sea of grass where long-legged cranes waded and 
flocks of white birds flew low uttering shrill cries. Illian had never needed walls. Not that walls would have done the 
City any good against him. 
There was considerable disappointment that he did not mean to enter Illian, though no one spoke a complaint, at least 
not where he could hear. Still, there were plenty of glum faces and sour mutters as hasty camps began going up. Like 
most of the great cities, Illian had a name for exotic mystery, free-handed tapsters, and willing women. At least among 
men who had never been there, even when it was their own capital. Ignorance always inflated a city's reputation for 
such things. As it was, only Morr galloped off across the causeway. Men straightened from hammering tent pegs or 
setting picket lines for the horses, and followed him with jealous eyes. Nobles watched curiously, while trying to 
pretend they were not. 
The Asha'man with Gedwyn paid Morr no mind as they made their own camp, which consisted of a pitch-black tent for 
Gedwyn 
and Rochaid and a space where damp brown grass and mud were squeezed flat and dry, for the rest to sleep wrapped in 
their cloaks. That was done with the Power, of course; they did everything with the Power, not even bothering to build 
cook fires. A few in the other camps stared at them, wide-eyed, as the tent seemed to spring up of its own accord and 
hampers floated away from packsaddles, but most looked anywhere else at all once they realized what was going on. 
Two or three of the black-coated Soldiers appeared to be talking to themselves. 
Flinn and the others did not join Gedwyn's lot—they had a pair of tents that went up not far from Rand's—but Dashiva 
wandered over to where the "Storm Leader" and the "Attack Leader" were standing at their ease, and occasionally 
issuing a sharp order. A few words, and he wandered back shaking his head and muttering angrily under his breath. 
Gedwyn and Rochaid were not a friendly pair. As well they were not. 
Rand took to his tent as soon as it was pitched, and sprawled fully clothed on his cot, staring at the sloped ceiling. 
There were bees embroidered on the inside as well, on a false roof made of silk. Hopwil brought a steaming pewter 
mug of mulled wine— Rand had left his servants behind— but the wine grew cold on his writing table. His mind 
worked feverishly. Two or three more days, and the Seanchan would have been dealt a blow that knocked them on their 
heels. Then it was back to Cairhien to see how negotiations with the Sea Folk had gone, to learn what Cadsuane was 
after—he owed her a debt, but she was after something!—maybe to put a final end to what remained of the rebellion 
there. Had Caraline Damodred and Darlin Sisnera slipped away in the confusion? The High Lord Darlin in his hands 
might finish the rebellion in Tear, as well. Andor. If Mat and Elayne were in Murandy, the way it appeared, it would be 
weeks more at best before Elayne could claim the Lion Throne. Once that happened, he would have to stay clear of 
Caemlyn. But he had to talk to Nynaeve. Could he cleanse saidin? It might work. It might destroy the world, too. Lews 
Therin gibbered at him in stark terror. Light, where was Narishma? 



A cemaros storm swept in, all the fiercer this near the sea. Rain beat his tent like a drum. Lightning flashes filled the 
entrance with blue-white light, and thunder rumbled, the sound like mountains tumbling across the land. 
Out of that, Narishma stepped into the tent, dripping wet, dark hair plastered to his head. His orders had been to avoid 
notice at all cost. No flaunting for him. His sodden coat was plain brown, and his dark hair was tied back, not braided. 
Even without bells, near waist-length hair on a man attracted eyes. He wore a scowl, too, and under his arm he carried a 
cylindrical bundle tied with cord, fatter than a man's leg, like a small carpet. 
Springing from the cot, Rand snatched the bundle before Narishma could proffer it. "Did anyone see you?" he 
demanded. "What took you so long? I expected you last night!" 
"It took a while to figure out what I had to do," Narishma replied in a flat voice. "You didn't tell me everything. You 
nearly killed me." 
That was ridiculous. Rand had told him everything he needed to know. He was sure of it. There was no point to trusting 
the man as far as he had, only to have him die and ruin everything. Carefully he tucked the bundle beneath his cot. His 
hands trembled with the urge to strip the wrappings away, to make sure they held what Narishma had been sent for. 
The man would not have dared return if they did not. "Get yourself into a proper coat before you join the others," he 
said. "And Narishma. . . ." Rand straightened, fixing the other man with a steady gaze. "You tell anyone about this, and 
I will kill you." 
Kill the whole world, Lews Therin laughed, a moan of derision. Of despair. I killed the world, and you can, too, if you 
try hard. 
Narishma struck himself hard on the chest with his fist. "As you command, my Lord Dragon," he said sourly. 
Bright and early the next morning, a thousand men of the Legion of the Dragon marched out of Illian, across the 
Causeway of the Northern Star, stepping to the steady beat of drums. Well, it was early, anyway. Thick gray clouds 
roiled across the sky, and a stiff sea breeze sharp with salt whipped cloaks and banners, muttering of another storm on 
the way. The Legion attracted a good bit of attention from the armsmen already in the camp, with their blue-painted 
Andoran helmets and their long blue coats worked on the chest with a red-and-gold Dragon. A blue pennant bearing the 
Dragon and a number marked each of the five companies. The Legionmen were different in many ways. For instance, 
they wore breastplates, but beneath their coats, so as not to hide the Dragons— the same reason the coats buttoned up 
one side— and every man carried a short-sword at his hip and a steel-armed crossbow, every one shouldered exactly 
the same as every other. The officers walked, each with a tall red plume on his helmet, just ahead of drum and pennant. 
The only horses were Morr's mouse-colored gelding, at their head, and pack animals at the rear. 
"Foot," Weiramon muttered, slapping his reins on a gauntleted hand. "Burn my soul, they're no good, foot. They'll 
scatter at the first charge. Before." The first of the column strode off the causeway. They had helped take Illian, and 
they had not scattered. 
Semaradrid shook his head. "No pikes," he muttered. "I have seen well-led foot hold, with pikes, but without. . . ." He 
made a sound of disgust in his throat. 
Gregorin Panar, the third man sitting his saddle near Rand to watch the new arrivals, said nothing. Perhaps he had no 
prejudice against infantry— though if he did not, he would be one of only a handful of noblemen Rand had met without 
it— but he tried hard not to frown and almost succeeded. Everyone knew by now that the men with the Dragon on their 
chests bore arms because they had chosen to follow Rand, chosen to follow the Dragon Reborn, for no other reason 
than that they wanted to. The Illianer had to be wondering where they were going that Rand wanted the Legion and the 
Council of Nine was not trusted to know. For that matter, Semaradrid eyed Rand sideways. Only Weiramon was too 
stupid to think. 
Rand turned Tai'daishar away. Narishma's package had been rewrapped, into a thinner bundle, and tied beneath his left 
stirrup leather. "Strike the camp; we're moving," he told the three nobles. 
This time, he let Dashiva weave the gateway to take them all away. The plain-faced fellow frowned at him and 
mumbled to himself— Dashiva actually seemed affronted, for some reason!— and Gedwyn and Rochaid, their horses 
shoulder-by-shoulder, watched with sardonic smiles as the silvery slash of light rotated into a hole in nothing. Watched 
Rand more than Dashiva. Well, let them watch. How often could he seize saidin and risk falling dizzily on his face 
before he really did fall? It could not be where they could see. 
This time, the gateway took them to a wide road carved through the low, brushy foothills of mountains to the west. The 
Nemarellin Mountains. Not the equals of the Mountain of Mist, and not a patch on the Spine of the World, but they 
rose dark and severe against the sky, sharp peaks that walled the west coast of Illian. Beyond them lay Kabal Deep, and 
beyond that. . . . 



Men began to recognize the peaks soon enough. Gregorin Panar took one look around and nodded in sudden 
satisfaction. The other three Councilors and Marcolin reined close to him to talk while horsemen were still pouring 
through the gateway. Semaradrid required only a bit longer to puzzle it out, and Tihera, and they also looked as if they 
understood now. 
The Silver Road ran from the City to Lugard, and carried all of the inland trade for the west. There was a Gold Road, 
too, that led to Far Madding. Roads and names alike dated from before there had been an Illian. Centuries of wagon 
wheels, hooves and boots had beaten them hard, and the cemaros could only skim them with mud. They were among 
the few reliable highways in Illian for moving large groups of men in winter. Everyone knew about the Seanchan in 
Ebou Dar by this time, though a good many of the tales Rand had heard among the armsmen made the invaders seem 
Trollocs' meaner cousins. If the Seanchan intended to strike into Illian, the Silver Road was a good place to gather for 
defense. 
Semaradrid and the others thought they knew what he planned: he must have learned that the Seanchan were coming, 
and the Asha'man were there to destroy them when they did. Given the stories about the Seanchan, no one seemed too 
upset that that left little for them to do. Of course, Weiramon had to have it explained to him finally, by Tihera, and he 
was upset, though he tried to mask it behind a grand speech about the wisdom of the Lord Dragon and the military 
genius of the Lord of the Morning, along with how he, personally, would lead the first charge against these Seanchan. 
A pure bull-goose fool. With luck, anyone else who learned of a gathering on the Silver Road would at least not be too 
much brighter than Semaradrid or Gregorin. With luck, no one who mattered would learn before it was too late. 
Settling in to wait, Rand thought it would only be another day or so, but as the days stretched out, he began to wonder 
whether he might be nearly as big a fool as Weiramon. 
Most of the Asha'man were out searching across Illian and Tear and the Plains of Maredo for the rest of those Rand 
wanted. Searching through the cemaros. Gateways and Traveling were all very well, but even Asha'man took time to 
find who they sought when downpours hid anything fifty paces away and quagmires dragged rumor to a near halt. 
Searching Asha'man passed within a mile of their quarry in ignorance, and turned only to learn the men had moved on 
again. Some had farther to go, seeking people not necessarily eager to be found. Days passed before the first brought 
news. 
The High Lord Sunamon joined Weiramon, a fat man with an unctuous manner— toward Rand, at least. Smooth in his 
fine silk coat, always smiling, he was voluble in his declarations of loyalty, but he had plotted against Rand so long that 
he probably did so in his sleep. The High Lord Torean came, with his lumpy farmer's face and his vast wealth, 
stammering about the honor of riding once more at the Lord Dragon's side. Gold concerned Torean more than anything 
else, except possibly the privileges Rand had taken away from the nobles in Tear. He seemed particularly dismayed to 
learn there were no serving girls in the camp, and not so much as a village nearby where compliant farmgirls might be 
found. Torean had schemed against Rand every bit as often as Sunamon. Maybe even more than Gueyam, or 
Maraconn, or Aracome. 
There were others. There was Bertome Saighan, a short, ruggedly handsome man with the front of his head shaved. He 
supposedly did not mourn the death of his cousin Colavaere too greatly, both because that made him the new High Seat 
of House Saighan and because rumor said Rand had executed her. Or murdered her. Bertome bowed and smiled, and 
his smile never reached his dark eyes. Some said he had been very fond of his cousin. Ailil Riatin came, a slim 
dignified woman with big dark eyes, not young but quite pretty, protesting that she had a Lance-captain to lead her 
armsmen and no desire to take the field in person. Protesting her loyalty for the Lord Dragon, too. But her brother 
Toram claimed the throne Rand meant for Elayne, and it was whispered that she would do anything for Toram, 
anything at all. Even join with his enemies; to hamper or to spy or both, of course. Dalthanes Annallin came, and 
Amondrid Osiellin, and Doressin Chuliandred, lords who had supported Colavaere's seizure of the Sun Throne when 
they thought Rand would never return to Cairhien. 
Cairhienin and Tairen, they were brought in one by one, with fifty retainers, or at most a hundred. Men and women he 
trusted even less than he did Gregorin or Semaradrid. Most were men, not because he thought the women any less 
dangerous—he was not that big a fool; a woman would kill you twice as fast as a man, and usually for half the 
reason!—but because he could not bring himself to take any woman except the most dangerous, where he was going. 
Ailil could smile warmly while she calculated where to plant the knife in your ribs. Anaiyella, a willowy simpering 
High Lady who gave a fair imitation of a beautiful goose brain, had returned to Tear from Cairhien and openly begun 
talking of herself for the as-yet-nonexistent throne of Tear. Perhaps she was a fool, but she had managed to gain a great 
deal of support, both among nobles and in the streets. 



So he gathered them in, all the folk who had been too long out from under his eye. He could not watch all of them all 
the time, but he could not afford to let them forget that he did watch sometimes. He gathered them, and he waited. For 
two days. Gnashing his teeth, he waited. Five days. Eight. 
Rain was beating a diminishing drum on his tent when the last man he was waiting for finally arrived. 
Shaking a small torrent from his oiled-cloth cape, Davram Bashere blew out his thick, gray-streaked mustaches in 
disgust and tossed the cape over a barrel chair. A short man with a great hooked beak of a nose, he seemed larger than 
he was. Not because he strutted, but because he assumed that he was as tall as any man present, and other men took 
him so. Wise men did. The wolf-headed ivory baton of the Marshal-General of Saldaea, tucked carelessly behind his 
sword belt, had been earned on scores of battlefields and at as many council tables. He was one of the very few men 
Rand would trust with his life. 
"I know you don't like explaining," Bashere muttered, "but I could use a little illumination." Adjusting his serpentine 
sword, he sprawled in another chair and flung a leg over the arm of it. He always seemed at his ease, but he could 
uncoil faster than a whip. "That Asha'man fellow wouldn't say more than you needed me yesterday, yet he said not to 
bring more than a thousand men. I only had half that with me, but I brought them. It can't be a battle. Half the sigils I 
saw out there belong to men who'd bite their tongues if they saw a fellow behind you with a knife, and most of the rest 
to men who'd try to hold your attention. If they hadn't paid the knife man in the first place." 
Seated behind his writing table in his shirtsleeves, Rand wearily pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. With 
Boreane Carivin left behind, the lamp wicks needed proper trimming, and a faint haze of smoke hung in the air. 
Besides, he had been awake most of the night poring over the maps scattered across the table. Maps of southern Altara. 
No two agreed on very much. 
"If you're going to fight a battle," he told Bashere, "who better to pay the butcher's bill than men who want you dead? 
Anyway, it isn't soldiers who'll win this battle. All they have to do is keep anybody from sneaking up on the Asha'man. 
What do you think of that?" 
Bashere snorted so hard that his heavy mustaches stirred. "I think it's a deadly stew, is what I think. Somebody's going 
to choke to death on it. The Light send it isn't us." And then he laughed as if that were a fine joke. 
Lews Therin laughed, too. 

Chapter 22 Gathering Clouds 

Under a steady drizzle Rand's small army formed columns across the low folded hills facing the Nemarellin peaks, dark 
and sharp against the western sky. There was no real need to face the direction you intended to Travel, but it always 
felt askew to Rand otherwise. Despite the rain, rapidly thinning gray clouds let through startlingly bright sunshine. Or 
maybe the day only seemed bright, after all the recent gloom. 
Four of the columns were headed by Bashere's Saldaeans, bandy-legged unarmored men in short coats standing 
patiently beside their mounts beneath a small forest of shining lance heads, the other five by blue-coated men with the 
Dragon on their chests, commanded by a short stocky fellow named Jak Masond. When Masond moved, it was always 
with surprising quickness, but he was utterly still now, feet planted astride and hands folded behind his back. His men 
were in place, and so were the Defenders and Companions, grumpy about being behind infantry. It was the nobles and 
their folk, mainly, who milled about as if unsure where to go. Thick mud sucked at hooves and boots, and mired cart 
wheels; shouted curses rose. It took time to line up nearly six thousand soaked men, getting wetter by the minute. And 
that was not counting the supply carts, and the remounts. 
Rand had donned his finest, so he would stand out at a glance. A lick with the Power had polished the Dragon Scepter's 
spearhead to mirror brightness, and another had burnished the Crown of Swords so the gold gleamed. The gilded 
Dragon buckle of his sword belt caught the light, and so did the thread-of-gold embroidery that covered his blue silk 
coat. For a moment, he regretted giving away the gems that once had decked his sword's hilt and scabbard. The dark 
boarhide was serviceable, but any armsman could have worn that. Let men know who he was. Let the Seanchan know 
who had come to destroy them. 
Sitting Tai'daishar on a broad flat, he impatiently watched the nobles roil about on the hills. A little way off on the flat, 
Gedwyn and Rochaid sat their saddles in front of their men, all formed into a precise box, Dedicated in the front rank, 
Soldiers lined up behind. They looked ready to parade. As many had gray hair or nearly none as were young—several 
were as young as Hopwil or Morr—but every one was strong enough to make a gateway. That had been a requirement. 
Flinn and Dashiva waited behind Rand in a casual cluster with Adley and Morr, Hopwil and Narishma. And a rigid pair 



of mounted bannermen, one Tairen and one Cairhienin, their breastplates and helmets and even their steel-backed 
gauntlets buffed and polished till they shone. The crimson Banner of Light and the long white Dragon Banner hung 
limp and dripping. Rand had assumed the Power in his tent, where his momentary stagger would not be seen, and the 
sparse rain failed by an inch to touch him or his horse. 
The taint on saidin felt especially heavy today, a thick foul oil that oozed into his pores and stained his bones deep. 
Stained his soul. He had thought himself accustomed to the vileness, after a fashion, yet today it was nauseating, 
stronger than the frozen fire and molten cold of saidin itself. He held on to the Source as often as possible now, 
accepting the vileness to avoid the new sickness of seizing it. It could be deadly, if he let sickness distract him from 
that struggle. Maybe it was connected to the dizzy spells, somehow. Light, he could not go mad yet, and he could not 
die. Not yet. There was too much still to be done. 
He pressed his left leg against Tai'daishar's flank just to feel 

the long bundle strapped between stirrup leather and scarlet saddle cloth. Every time he did that, something wriggled 
across the outside of the Void. Anticipation, and maybe a touch of fear. Well trained, the gelding started to turn left, 
and Rand had to rein him back. When would the nobles sort themselves out? He ground his teeth in impatience. 
He could remember as a boy hearing men laugh that when rain fell in sunshine the Dark One was beating Semirhage. 
Some of that laughter had been uneasy, though, and scrawny old Cenn Buie would always snarl that Semirhage would 
be smarting and angry after that, and come for small boys who did not keep out of their elders' way. That had been 
enough to send Rand running, when he was little. He wished Semirhage would come for him now, right that instant. He 
would make her weep. 
Nothing makes Semirhage weep, Lews Therin muttered. She gives tears to others, but she has none herself. 
Rand laughed softly. If she came today, he would make her weep. Her and the rest of the Forsaken together, if they 
came today. Most assuredly he would make the Seanchan weep. 
Not everyone was pleased with the orders he had given. Sunamon's oily smile vanished when he thought Rand did not 
see. Torean had a flask in his saddlebags, no doubt brandy, or maybe several flasks, because he drank steadily and 
never appeared to run dry. Semaradrid and Marcolin and Tihera each appeared in front of Rand to protest the numbers 
with somber faces. A few years before, close on six thousand men would have been army enough for any war, but they 
had seen armies in the tens of thousands, now, hundreds of thousands, as in Artur Hawkwing's day, and to go against 
the Seanchan, they wanted far more. He sent them away disgruntled. They did not understand that fifty-odd Asha'man 
were as big a hammer as anyone could wish for. Rand wondered what they would have said had he told them he was 
hammer enough by himself. He had considered doing this by himself. It might come to that yet. 
Weiramon came; he did not like having to take orders from Bashere, or the fact that they were going into mountains— 
very hard to mount a decent charge in mountains— or several other things— Rand was certain there were at least 
several more— that Rand did not let him utter. 
"The Saldaean seems to believe I should ride on the right flank," Weiramon muttered disparagingly. He twisted his 
shoulders as though the right flank were a great insult, for some reason. "And the foot, my Lord Dragon. Really, I 
think—" 
"I think you should get your men ready," Rand said coldly. Part of the chill was the effect of floating in emotionless 
emptiness. "Or you won't be on any flank." He meant that he would leave the man behind if he was not ready in time. 
Surely such a fool could not make much trouble left in this remote spot with only a few armsmen. Rand would be back 
before he could ride to anything larger than a village. 
Blood drained from Weiramon's face, though. "As my Lord Dragon commands," he said, briskly for him, and was 
whirling his horse away before the words were well out of his mouth. His mount was a tall deep-chested bay, today. 
The pale Lady Ailil reined to a stop in front of Rand, accompanied by the High Lady Anaiyella, a strange pair to be in 
company, and not just because their nations hated one another. Ailil was tall for a Cairhienin woman, if only for a 
Cairhienin, and everything about her was dignity and precision, from the arch of her eyebrow to the turn of her 
red-gloved wrist to the way her pearl-collared rain cape lay spread across the rump of her smoke-gray mare. Unlike 
Semaradrid or Marcolin, Weiramon or Tihera, she did not so much as blink at the sight of raindrops sliding down 
nothing around him. Anaiyella did blink. And gasp. And titter behind her hand. Anaiyella was willowy and darkly 
beautiful, her rain cape collared with rubies and embroidered with gold besides, but there any resemblance to Ailil 
ended. Anaiyella was all mincing elegance and simpers. When she bowed, her white gelding did, too, bending its 
forelegs. The prancing animal was showy, but Rand suspected it had no bottom. Like its mistress. 



"My Lord Dragon," Ailil said, "I must make one more protest against my inclusion in this . . . expedition." Her voice 
was coolly neutral, if not exactly unfriendly. "I will send my retainers where you command and when, but I have no 
desire at all to be in the thick of a battle." 
"Oh, no," Anaiyella added, with a delicate shudder. Even her tone simpered! "Nasty things, battles. So my Master of 
the Horse says. Surely you won't really make us go, my Lord Dragon? We've heard you have a particular care for 
women. Haven't we, Ailil?" 
Rand was so astonished that the Void collapsed, and saidin vanished. Raindrops began to trickle through his hair and 
seep through his coat, but for a moment, clutching his saddle's high pommel to hold himself upright, seeing four 
women instead of two, he was too stunned to notice. How much did they know? They had heard? How many people 
knew? How did anyone know? Light, rumor had him killing Morgase, Elayne, Colavaere, a hundred women probably, 
and each in a worse way than the last! He swallowed against the urge to sick up. That was only partly saidin’s fault. 
Burn me, how many spies are there watching me? The thought was a growl. 
The dead watch, Lews Therin whispered. The dead never close their eyes. Rand shivered. 
"I do try to be careful of women," he told them when he could speak. Faster than a man, and for half the reason. "That's 
why I want keep you close the next few days. But if you really dislike the idea so much, I could tell off one of the 
Asha'man. You'd be safe at the Black Tower." Anaiyella squeaked prettily, but her face went gray. 
"Thank you, no," Ailil said after a moment, absolutely calm. "I suppose I had best confer with my lance-captain about 
what to expect." But she paused in turning her mare away, and regarded Rand with a sidelong look. "My brother Toram 
is ... impetuous, my Lord Dragon. Even rash. I am not." 
Anaiyella smiled much too sweetly at Rand, and actually wriggled slightly before following, but once she faced away 
from him, she dug in her heels and worked her jewel-handled quirt, quickly passing the other woman. That white 
gelding showed a surprising turn of speed. 
At last all was ready, the columns formed, snaking back over the low hills. 
"Begin," Rand told Gedwyn, who wheeled his horse and began barking orders to his men. The eight Dedicated rode 
forward and dismounted on the ground they had memorized, facing the mountains. One of them looked familiar, a 
grizzled fellow whose pointed Tairen beard appeared odd on his wrinkled countryman's face. Eight vertical lines of 
sharp blue light turned and became openings that showed slightly different views of a long, sparsely wooded mountain 
valley rising to a steep pass. In Altara. In the Venir Mountains. 
Kill them, Lews Therin wept pleadingly. They're too dangerous to live! Without thought, Rand suppressed the voice. 
Another man channeling often brought that reaction from Lews Therin, or even a man who could. He no longer 
wondered why. 
Rand muttered a command, and Flinn blinked in surprise before hurrying to join the line and weave a ninth gateway. 
None was as large as Rand could make, but any would pass a cart, if closely. He had intended to do that himself, but he 
did not want to chance seizing saidin again in front of everyone. He noticed Gedwyn and Rochaid watching him, 
wearing identical knowing smiles. And Dashiva as well, frowning, lips moving as he talked to himself. Was it his 
imagination, or was Narishma eyeing him askance too? And Adley? Morr? 
Rand shivered before he could stop himself. Mistrust of Gedwyn and Rochaid was simple sense, but was he coming 
down with what Nynaeve had called the dreads? A kind of madness, a crippling dark suspicion of everyone and 
everything? There had been a Coplin, Benly, who thought everybody was scheming against him. He had starved to 
death when Rand was a boy, refusing to eat for fear of poison. 
Ducking low on Tai'daishar's neck, Rand heeled the gelding through the largest gateway. Flinn's, as it happened, but he 
would have ridden through one made by Gedwyn right then. He was the first onto Altaran soil. 
The others followed quickly, the Asha'man first of all. Dashiva stared in Rand's direction, frowning, and Narishma, too, 
but Gedwyn immediately began directing his Soldiers. One by one, they rushed forward, opened a gateway and darted 
through, dragging their mounts behind them. Ahead up the valley, bright flashes of light told of gateways opening and 
closing. The Asha'man could Travel short distances without first memorizing the ground they left from, and cover 
ground far faster than riding. In short order, only Gedwyn and Rochaid remained, aside from the Dedicated holding the 
gateways. The others would be fanning out westward, searching for Seanchan. The Saldaeans were through from Illian, 
and mounting. Legionmen spread into the trees at a trot, crossbows held ready. In this country, they could move as fast 
afoot as men on horseback. 
As the rest of the army began emerging, Rand rode up the valley in the direction the Asha'man had gone. Mountains 
rose high behind him, a wall fronting the Deep, but west the peaks ran almost to Ebou Dar. He quickened the gelding's 



pace to a canter. 
Bashere caught him before he reached the pass. The man's bay was small— most of the Saldaeans rode small horses— 
but quick. "No Seanchan here, it seems," he said almost idly, stroking his mustaches with a knuckle. "But there could 
have been. Tenobia's likely to have my head on a pike soon enough for following a live Dragon Reborn, much more a 
dead one." 
Rand scowled. Maybe he could take Flinn, to watch his back, and Narishma, and. . . . Flinn had saved his life; the man 
had to be true. Men could change, though. And Narishma? Even after . . . ? He felt cold at the risk he had taken. Not 
the dreads. Narishma had proved true, but it still had been a mad risk. As mad as running from stares he was not even 
sure were real, running to where he had no notion what was waiting. Bashere was right, but Rand did not want to talk 
about it further. 
The slopes leading up into the pass were bare stone and boulders of all sizes, but among the natural stone lay weathered 
pieces of what must have once been a huge statue. Some were just recognizable as worked stone, others more so. A 
beringed hand nearly big as his chest, gripping a sword hilt with a broken stub of blade wider than his hand. A great 
head, a woman with cracks across her face and a crown that seemed to be made of upthrusting daggers, some still 
whole. 
"Who do you think she was?" he asked. A queen, of course. Even if merchants or scholars had worn crowns in some 
distant time, only rulers and generals earned statues. 
Bashere twisted in his saddle to study the head before speaking. "A Queen of Shiota, I'll wager," he said finally. "Not 
older. I saw a statue made in Eharon once, and it was so worn you couldn't say whether it was man or woman. A 
conqueror, or they wouldn't have shown her with a sword. And I seem to recall Shiota gave a crown like that to rulers 
who expanded the borders. Maybe they called it the Crown of Swords, eh? A Brown sister might be able to tell you 
more." 
"It isn't important," Rand told him irritably. They did look like swords. 
Bashere went on anyway, graying eyebrows lowered, gravely serious. "I expect thousands cheered her, called her the 
hope of Shiota, maybe even believed she was. In her time, she might have been as feared and respected as Artur 
Hawkwing was later, but now even the Brown sisters may not know her name. When you die, people begin to forget, 
who you were and what you did, or tried to do. Everybody dies eventually, and everybody is forgotten, eventually, but 
there's no bloody point dying before your time comes." 
"I don't intend to," Rand said sharply. He knew where he was meant to die, if not when. He thought he did. 
The corner of his eye caught motion, back down where bare stone gave way to brush and a few small trees. Fifty paces 
away, a man stepped into the open and raised a bow, smoothly drawing fletchings to cheek. Everything seemed to 
happen at once. 
Snarling, Rand hauled Tai'daishar around, watching the archer adjust to follow. He seized saidin and sweet life and 
filth poured into him together. His head spun. There were two archers. Bile rose in his throat as he fought wild, 
uncontrolled surges of the Power that tried to sear him to the bone and freeze his flesh solid. He could not control them; 
it was all he could do to stay alive. Desperately, he fought to clear his sight, to be able to see well enough to weave the 
flows he could barely form, with nausea flooding him as strongly as the Power. He thought he heard Bashere shout. 
Two archers loosed. 
Rand should have died. At that range, a boy could have hit his target. Maybe being ta'veren saved him. As the archer 
let fly, a covey of gray-winged quail burst up almost at his feet uttering piercing whistles. Not enough to throw off an 
experienced man, and indeed, the fellow only flinched a hair. Rand felt the wind of the arrow's passage against his 
cheek. 
Fireballs the size of fists suddenly struck the archer. He screamed as his arm spun away, hand still gripping the bow. 
Another took his left leg at the knee, and he fell shrieking. 
Leaning out of his saddle, Rand vomited onto the ground. His 
stomach tried to heave up every meal he had ever eaten. The Void and saidin left with a sickening wrench. It was 
nearly more than he could manage not to fall. 
When he could sit upright again, he took the white linen handkerchief Bashere silently offered, and wiped his mouth. 
The Saldaean frowned with concern, as well he might. Rand's stomach wanted to find more to spew out. He thought his 
face must be pale. He drew a deep breath. Losing saidin that way could kill you. But he could still sense the Source; at 
least saidin had not burned him out. At least he could see properly; there was only one Davram Bashere. But the illness 
seemed a little worse each time he seized saidin. 



"Let's see if there's enough left of this fellow to talk," he told Bashere. There was not. 
Rochaid was on his knees, calmly searching through the corpse's torn, bloodstained coat. Besides his missing arm and 
leg, the dead man had a blackened hole as big as his head all the way through his chest. It was Eagan Padros; his 
sightless eyes stared at the sky in surprise. Gedwyn ignored the body at his feet, studying Rand instead, as cold as 
Rochaid. Both men held saidin. Surprisingly, Lews Therin only moaned. 
In a clatter of hooves on stone, Flinn and Narishma came galloping up the rise, followed by nearly a hundred 
Saldaeans. As they came close, Rand could feel the Power in the grizzled old man and the younger, maybe as much as 
they could hold. They had both leaped up in strength since Dumai's Wells. That was the way of it with men; women 
seemed to gain smoothly, but men suddenly jumped. Flinn was stronger than Gedwyn or Rochaid either one, and 
Narishma not far behind. For the time being; there was no way to know how it would end. None came close to 
matching Rand, though. Not yet, anyway. There was no way to tell what time would bring. Not the dreads. 
"It seems it's well we decided to follow you, my Lord Dragon." Gedwyn's voice assumed concern, just shy of mocking. 
"Are you suffering from a tender stomach this morning?" 
Rand just shook his head. He could not take his eyes from Padros' face. Why? Because he had conquered Illian? 
Because the man had been loyal to "Lord Brend"? 
With a loud exclamation, Rochaid ripped a washleather pouch from Padros' coat pocket and upended it. Bright golden 
coins spilled onto the stony ground, bouncing and clinking. "Thirty crowns," he growled. "Tar Valon crowns. No doubt 
who paid him." He snatched a coin and tossed it up for Rand, but Rand made no effort to catch it, and it glanced off his 
arm. 
"There's plenty of Tar Valon coin to be found," Bashere said calmly. "Half the men in this valley have a few in their 
pockets. I do, myself." Gedwyn and Rochaid swiveled to look at him. Bashere smiled behind his thick mustaches, or at 
least showed teeth, but some of the Saldaeans shifted uneasily in their saddles and fingered belt pouches. 
Up where the pass leveled off for a bit between steep mountain slopes, a slash of light rotated into a gateway, and a 
top-knotted Shienaran in a plain black coat trotted through, pulling his horse behind him. It appeared the first Seanchan 
had been found, and not too far away if the man was back so quickly. 
"Time to move," Rand told Bashere. The man nodded, but he did not stir. Instead, he studied the two Asha'man 
standing near Padros. They ignored him. 
"What do we do with him?" Gedwyn demanded, gesturing to the corpse. "We ought to send him back to the witches, at 
least." 
"Leave him," Rand replied. 
Are you ready to kill now? Lews Therin asked. He did not sound insane at all. 
Not yet, Rand thought. Soon. 
Digging his heels into Tai'daishar's flanks, he galloped back down toward his army. Dashiva and Flinn followed 
closely, and Bashere and the hundred Saldaeans. They were all looking around as if they expected another attempt on 
his life. To the east, black clouds were building among the peaks, another cemaros storm. Soon. 
**** 
The hilltop camp was well laid out, with a meandering stream close by for water and good lines of sight to the likeliest 
ways into the long mountain meadow. Assid Bakuun did not feel pride in the camp. During thirty years in the Ever 
Victorious Army, he had made hundreds of camps; he would as soon have felt pride in walking across a room without 
falling down. Nor did he feel pride in where he was. Thirty years serving the Empress, might she live forever, and 
while there had been the occasional rebellion by some mad upstart with eyes on the Crystal Throne, the bulk of those 
years had been spent preparing for this. For two generations, while the great ships were built to carry the Return, the 
Ever Victorious Army had trained and prepared. Bakuun certainly had been proud when he learned he was to be one of 
the Forerunners. Surely he could be forgiven dreams of retaking the lands stolen from Artur Hawkwing's rightful heirs, 
even wild dreams to completing this new Consolidation before the Corenne came. Not such a wild dream after all, as it 
turned out, but not at all the way he had imagined. 
A returning patrol of fifty Taraboner lancers rode up the hillside, red and green stripes painted across their solid 
breastplates, veils of mail hiding their thick mustaches. They rode well, and even fought well, when they had decent 
leaders. More than ten times as many were already among the cook fires, or down at the picket lines tending their 
mounts, and three patrols were still out. Bakuun had never expected to find himself with well over half his command 
descendants of thieves. And unashamed of it; they would look you straight in the eyes. The patrol's commander bowed 
low to him as their muddy-legged horses passed, but many of the others went on talking in their peculiar accents, 



speaking too fast for Bakuun to understand without listening hard. They had peculiar notions of discipline, too. 
Shaking his head, Bakuun strode across to the sul'dam's large tent. Larger than his, of necessity. Four of them were 
sitting on stools outside in their dark blue dresses with the forked lightning on the skirts, enjoying the sun during this 
break in the storms. Those were rare enough, now. The gray-clad damane sat at their feet, with Nerith braiding her pale 
hair. Talking to her, as well, all of them joining in and laughing softly. The bracelet on the end of the silvery a'dam's 
leash lay on the ground. Bakuun grunted sourly. He had a favorite wolfhound, back home, and even talked to him 
sometimes, but he never expected Nip to carry on a conversation! 
"Is she well?" he asked Nerith, not for the first time. Or the tenth. "Is everything well with her?" The damane dropped 
her eyes and went silent. 
"She is quite well, Captain Bakuun." A square-faced woman, Nerith put the proper degree of respect into her voice and 
not a whisker beyond. But she stroked the damanes head soothingly while she talked. "Whatever the indisposition, it is 
gone, now. A small thing, in any case. Nothing to worry about." The damane was trembling. 
Bakuun grunted again. Not far from the answer he had received before. Something had been wrong, though, back in 
Ebou Dar, and not just with this damane. The sul'dam had all been as tight-lipped as clams—and the Blood would not 
say anything, of course, not to the likes of him!—but he had heard too many whispers. They said the damane were all 
sick, or insane. Light, he had not seen a single one used around Ebou Dar once the city was secured, not even for a 
victory display of Sky Lights, and who had ever heard the like of that! 
"Well, I hope she . . ." he began, and cut off as a raken appeared, sweeping through the eastern pass. Its great leathery 
wings beat powerfully for height, and right above the hill it suddenly tilted and cut a tight circle, one wingtip pointed 
almost straight down. A thin red streamer fell away under the weight of a lead ball. 
Bakuun swallowed a curse. Fliers were always showing off, but if this pair injured one of his men delivering their 
scouting report, he would have their hides no matter who he had to face to get them. He would not have wanted to fight 
without fliers to scout, but they were coddled like some Blood's favorite pet. 
Arrow-straight the streamer plummeted. The lead weight struck the ground and bounced on the crest, almost beside the 
tall thin message pole, which was too long to lower unless there was a message to send. Besides, when it was left down 
somebody was always stepping a horse on the thing and breaking the joins. 
Bakuun strode straight to his tent, but his First Lieutenant was already waiting with the mud-stained streamer and the 
message tube. Tiras was a bony man a head taller than him, with an unfortunate scrap of beard clinging to the point of 
his chin. 
The report rolled up in the thin metal tube, on a slip of paper Bakuun could almost see through, was written simply. He 
had never been forced to ride on raken or to'raken— the Light be thanked, and the Empress, might she live forever, be 
praised!— but he doubted it was easy to handle a pen in a saddle strapped to the back of a flying lizard. What it said 
made him flip open the lid of his small camp desk and write hurriedly. 
"There's a force not ten miles east of here," he told Tiras. "Five or six times our number." Fliers exaggerated 
sometimes, but not often by much. How had that many penetrated these mountains so far without being spotted before? 
He had seen the coast to the east, and he wanted his burial prayers paid for before he tried a landing there. Burn his 
eyes, the fliers boasted they would see a flea move anywhere in the range. "No reason to think they know we're here, 
but I'd not mind a few reinforcements." 
Tiras laughed. "We'll give them a brush of the damane, and that will be that if they outnumber us by twenty times." His 
only real fault was a touch of overconfidence. A good soldier, though. "And if they have a few . . . Aes Sedai?" Bakuun 
said quietly, hardly stumbling over the name, as he stuffed the flier's report back into the tube with his own brief 
message. He had not really believed anyone could let those . . . women run free. 
Tiras' face showed that he remembered the tales about an Aes Sedai weapon. The red streamer floated behind him as he 
ran with the message tube. 
Soon enough tube and streamer were attached to the tip of the message pole, a tiny breeze stirring the long red strip 
fifteen paces above the hill crest. The raken soared toward it along the valley, outstretched wings still as death. 
Abruptly one of the fliers swung down from the saddle and hung—upside down!—below the raken's trailing claws. It 
made Bakuun's stomach hurt to watch. But her hand closed on the streamer, the pole flexed, then vibrated back upright 
as the message tube pulled free of the clip, and she scrambled back up as the creature climbed in slow circles. Bakuun 
thankfully put raken and fliers out of his mind as he surveyed the valley. Broad and long, nearly flat except for this hill, 
and surrounded by steep wooded slopes; only a goat could enter, except by the passes in his sight. With the damane, he 
could cut anybody to pieces before they managed to try attacking across that muddy meadow. He had passed word 



along, though; if the enemy came straight on, they would arrive before any possible reinforcements by three days at 
best. How had they come this far unseen? 
He had missed the last battles of the Consolidation by two hundred years, but some of those rebellions had not been 
small. Two years fighting on Marendalar, thirty thousand dead, and fifty times that shipped back to the mainland as 
property. Taking notice of the strange kept a soldier alive. Ordering the camp struck and all signs of it cleared, he 
began moving his command to the forested slopes. Dark clouds were massing in the east, another of those cursed 
storms coming. 

Chapter 23 Fog of War, Storm of Battle 

No rain fell, for the moment. Rand guided Tai'daishar around an uprooted tree lying across the slope and frowned down 
at a dead man sprawled on his back behind the tree trunk. The fellow was short and blocky, his face creased, and his 
armor all overlapping plates lacquered blue and green, but staring sightlessly at the black clouds overhead, he looked a 
deal like Eagan Padros, even to the missing leg. An officer, plainly; the sword beside his outflung hand had an ivory 
hilt carved in the likeness of a woman, and his lacquered helmet, shaped like some huge insect's head, bore two long 
thin blue plumes. 
Uprooted trees and shattered ones, a fair number burning from end to end, littered the slope of the mountain for a good 
five hundred paces. Bodies, too, men broken or ripped apart when saidin harrowed the mountainside. Most wore steel 
veils across their faces, and breastplates painted in horizontal stripes. No women, thank the Light. The injured horses 
had been put down, another thing to be thankful for. It was incredible how loudly a horse could scream. 
Do you think the dead are silent? Lews Therin's laugh was rasping. Do you? His voice turned to pained rage. The dead 
howl at me! 
At me, too, Rand thought sadly. I can't afford to listen, but how do you shut them up? Lews Therin began weeping for 
his lost Ilyena. 
"A great victory," Weiramon intoned behind Rand, then muttered, "But small honor in it. The old ways are best." Mud 
liberally decorated Rand's coat, yet surprisingly, Weiramon appeared as pristine as he had back on the Silver Road. His 
helmet and armor shone. How had he managed? The Taraboners charged, at the end, lances and courage against the 
One Power, and Weiramon had led his own charge to break them. Without orders, and followed by every Tairen save 
the Defenders, even a half-drunk Torean, surprisingly. By Semaradrid and Gregorin Panar, too, with most of the 
Cairhienin and Illianers. Standing still had been hard by that time, and every man wanted to come to grips with 
something he actually could come to grips with. The Asha'man could have done it faster. If somewhat more messily. 
Rand had taken no part in the righting, except to sit his saddle where men could see him. He had been afraid to seize 
the Power. He did not dare display weakness for them to catch. Not a scrap. Lews Therin gibbered with horror at the 
very idea. 
Equally surprising as Weiramon's unsullied coat, Anaiyella rode with him, and for once not simpering. Her face was 
pinched and disapproving. Strangely, it did not spoil her looks nearly so much as her unctuous smiles did. She had not 
joined the charge herself, of course, any more than Ailil, but Anaiyella's Master of the Horse had, and the man was 
most definitely dead, with a Taraboner lance through his chest. She did not like that one bit. But why did she 
accompany Weiramon? Just Tairens flocking together? Maybe. She had been with Sunamon, the last Rand had seen. 
Bashere walked his bay up the slope, picking his way around the dead while seeming to pay them no more mind than 
he did a splintered tree trunk or a burning stump. His helmet hung from his saddle, and his gauntlets were stuffed 
behind his sword belt. He was mud all down his right side, and his horse as well. 
"Aracome's gone," he said. "Flinn tried Healing him, but I don't think Aracome wanted to live like that. There's near 
fifty dead so far, and some of the rest might not survive." Anaiyella paled. Rand had seen her near Aracome, emptying 
herself. Dead commoners did not affect her so much. 
Rand felt a moment of pity. Not for her, and not very much for Aracome. For Min, though she was safely back in 
Cairhien. Min had foretold Aracome's death from one of her viewings, and Gueyam and Maraconn's, too. Whatever she 
had seen, Rand hoped it had not been anywhere near the reality. 
Most of the Soldiers were off scouting again, but down in the broad meadow, gateways woven by Gedwyn's Dedicated 
were spilling out the supply carts and the remounts. The men coming with them gaped as soon as they were clear 
enough to see. The muddy ground was not so well plowed as the mountainside, yet blackened furrows, two paces wide 
and fifty long, carved through the brown grass, and gaping holes a horse might not be able to leap. They had not found 



the damane so far. Rand thought there had to be only one; more would have done considerably greater damage under 
the circumstances. 
Men moved around a number of small fires where water boiled for tea, among other things. For once, Tairens, 
Cairhienin and Illianers mingled. Not just the commoners. Semaradrid was sharing his saddle-flask with Gueyam, who 
wearily rubbed a hand over his bald head. Maraconn and Kiril Drapaneos, a stork of a man whose square-cut beard 
looked odd on his narrow face, were squatting on their heels near one of the fires. Playing cards, by the look of it! 
Torean had a whole circle of laughing Cairhienin lordlings around him, though they might have been less amused by 
his jokes than by the way he swayed and rubbed at his potato nose. The Legionmen kept apart, but they had taken in 
the "volunteers" who had followed Padros to the Banner of Light. That lot seemed more eager than anyone since 
learning how Padros died. Blue-coated Legionmen were showing them how to change direction without falling apart 
like a gaggle of geese. 
Flinn was among the wounded with Adley and Morr and Hopwil. Narishma could Heal little more than minor cuts, no 
better than Rand, and Dashiva not even that. Gedwyn and Rochaid stood talking well apart from anyone else, holding 
their horses by the reins atop the hill in the middle of the valley. The hill where they had expected to catch the 
Seanchan by surprise when they rushed out of gateways surrounding it. Near fifty dead, and more to come, but it would 
have been above two hundred without Flinn and the rest who could manage Healing to one degree or another. Gedwyn 
and Rochaid had not wanted to dirty their hands and grimaced when Rand drove them to it. One of the dead was a 
Soldier, and another Soldier, a round-faced Cairhienin, sat slumped beside a fire with a dazed look that Rand hoped 
came from being tossed through the air by the ground erupting almost under his feet. 
Down there on the furrowed flats, Ailil was conferring with her Lance-captain, a pale little man called Denharad. Their 
horses stood nearly touching, and occasionally they looked up the mountain toward Rand. What were they scheming? 
"We'll do better next time," Bashere murmured. He ran his gaze around the valley, then shook his head. "The worst 
mistake is to make the same one twice, and we won't." 
Weiramon heard him and repeated the same thing, but using twenty times the words, and flowery enough for a garden 
in spring. Without admitting that there had been any mistakes, certainly not on his part. He avoided Rand's mistakes 
with equal 
adroitness. 
Rand nodded, his mouth tight. Next time they would do better. They had to, unless he wanted to leave half his men 
buried in these mountains. Right then, he was wondering what to do with the prisoners. 
Most of those who escaped death on the mountainside had managed to withdraw through the trees that remained 
standing. With amazingly good order considering, Bashere claimed, yet they were unlikely to be much threat now. Not 
unless they had the damane with them. But a hundred or so men sat huddled on the ground, stripped of weapons and 
armor, under the watchful eyes of two dozen mounted Companions and Defenders. Taraboners, for the most part, they 
had not fought like men driven to it by conquerors. A fair number held their heads up, and jeered at their guards. 
Gedwyn had wanted to kill them, after putting them to the question. Weiramon did not care whether they had their 
throats slit, but he considered torture a waste of time. None would know anything useful, he maintained; there was not 
a one nobly born. Rand glanced at Bashere. Weiramon was still going on sonorously. ". . . sweep these mountains clean 
for you, my Lord Dragon. We'll trample them beneath our hooves, and. . . ." Anaiyella was nodding grim approval. 
"Six up, and half a dozen down," Bashere said softly. He scraped mud from one of his thick mustaches with a 
fingernail. "Or as some of my tenants say, what you gain on the swings, you lose on the roundabouts." What in the 
Light was a roundabout? A great help that was! 
And then one of Bashere's patrols made matters worse. The six men came prodding a prisoner along the slope ahead of 
their horses with the butts of their lances. She was a black-haired woman in a torn and dirty dark blue dress, with red 
panels ion the breast and skirts bearing forked lightning. Her face was dirty, too, and tear-streaked. She stumbled and 
half-fell, but the prodding was more gesture than actual touching. She glared scornfully at her captors, even spitting 
once. She sneered at Rand, too. 
"Did you hurt her?" he demanded. A strange question, perhaps, about an enemy after what had happened in this valley. 
About a sul'dam. But it popped out. 
"Not us, my Lord Dragon," the gruff-faced patrol leader said. "We found her like this." Scratching his chin through a 
black flowing beard, he eyed Bashere as if for support. "She claims we killed her Gille. A pet dog, or cat, or some such, 
the way she carries on. Her name's Nerith. We got that much out of her." The woman turned and snarled at him again. 
Rand sighed. Not a pet dog. No! That name did not belong on the list! But he could hear the litany of names reciting 



itself in his head, and "Gille the damane" was there. Lews Therin moaned for his Ilyena. Her name also was on the list. 
Rand thought it had a right. 
"This is a Seanchan Aes Sedai?" Anaiyella asked suddenly, leaning over the pommel of her saddle to peer hard at 
Nerith. Nerith spat at her, as well, eyes widening in outrage. Rand explained the little he knew of sul'dam, that they 
controlled women who could channel with the aide of a leash-and-collar ter'angreal but could not themselves channel, 
and to his surprise, the dainty simpering High Lady said coldly, "If my Lord Dragon feels constrained, I'll hang her for 
him." Nerith spat at her again! Contemptuously, this time. No shortfall of courage there. 
"No!" Rand growled. Light, the things people would do to get on his good side! Or maybe Anaiyella had been closer to 
her Master of the Horse that was considered proper. The man had been stout and balding—and a commoner; that 
counted heavily with Tairens—but women did have strange tastes in men. He knew that for a pure fact. 
"As soon as we're ready to move again," he told Bashere, "turn the men down there loose." Taking prisoners along 
when he launched his next attack was out of the question, and leaving a hundred men—a hundred now; more later, for 
sure—leaving them to follow with the supply carts risked fifty kinds of mischief. They could cause no trouble left 
behind. Even the fellows who had gotten away on horseback could not carry a warning faster than he could Travel. 
Bashere shrugged faintly; he thought it might be so, but then again there was always the odd chance. Strange things 
happened even without a ta'veren around. 
Weiramon and Anaiyella opened their mouths almost together, faces set in protest, but Rand pressed on. "I've spoken, 
and it's done! We'll keep the woman, though. And any more women we capture." 
"Burn my soul," Weiramon exclaimed. "Why?" The man appeared dumbfounded, and for that matter, Bashere gave a 
startled jerk of his head. Anaiyella's mouth twisted in contempt before she managed to turn it to a simpering smile for 
the Lord Dragon. Plainly, she thought him too soft to send a woman off with the others. They would have hard walking 
in this terrain, not to mention short rations. And the weather was not weather to turn a woman out in. 
"I have enough Aes Sedai against me without sending sul'dam back to their trade," he told them. The Light knew that 
was true! They nodded, if Weiramon was slow about it; Bashere looked relieved, Anaiyella disappointed. But what to 
do with the woman, and any more he captured? He did not intend to turn the Black Tower into a prison. The Aiel could 
hold them. Except that the Wise Ones might slit their throats the moment his back was turned. What about the sisters 
that Mat was taking to Caemlyn with Elayne, though? "When this is done, I'll hand her over to some Aes Sedai I 
choose." They might see it as a gesture of good-will, a little honey to sweeten their having to accept his protection. 
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Nerith's face went dead white and she screamed at the top of her lungs. 
Howling without cease, she flung herself down the slope, scrabbling over downed trees, falling and scrambling back 
up. 
"Bloody—! Catch her!" Rand snapped, and the Saldaean patrol leaped after the woman, jumping their mounts across 
the tree-littered slope careless of broken legs and necks. Still wailing, she dodged and darted among the horses with 
even less care. 
In the mouth of the easternmost pass, a gateway opened in a flash of silver light. A black-coated Soldier pulled his 
horse through, jumped to the saddle as the gateway winked out and put his mount to a gallop, toward the hilltop where 
Gedwyn and Rochaid waited. Rand watched impassively. In his head, Lews Therin snarled of killing, killing all the 
Asha'man before it was too late. 
By the time the three of them started up the slope toward Rand, four of the Saldaeans had Nerith down on the ground, 
binding her hand and foot. It took four, the way she thrashed and bit at them, and an amused Bashere was offering odds 
on whether she might not overcome them instead. Anaiyella muttered something about cracking the woman's head. Did 
she mean cracking it open? Rand frowned at her. 
The Soldier between Gedwyn and Rochaid glanced at Nerith uneasily as they rode past. Rand vaguely remembered 
seeing him at the Black Tower, the day he first handed out the silver Swords, and gave Taim the very first Dragon pin. 
He was a young man, Varil Nensen by name, still wearing a transparent veil to cover his thick mustaches. He had not 
hesitated when he found himself facing his countrymen, though. Allegiance was to the Black Tower and the Dragon 
Reborn, now, so Taim always said. The second part of that always sounded an afterthought. 
"You may have the honor of making your report to the Dragon Reborn, Soldier Nensen," Gedwyn said. Wryly. 
Nensen sat up straight in his saddle. "My Lord Dragon!" he barked, slapping fist to chest. "There's more of them about 
thirty miles west, my Lord Dragon." Thirty miles was as far as Rand had told the scouts to go before returning. What 
good if one Soldier found Seanchan while the rest kept moving ever farther west? "Maybe half what were here," 
Nensen went on. "And. . . ." His dark eyes flickered toward Nerith again. She was tied, now, the Saldaeans struggling 



to get her over a horse. "And I saw no sign of women, my Lord Dragon." 
Bashere squinted at the sky. Dark clouds lay in a blanket from mountain peak to mountain peak, but the sun should still 
be high. "Time to feed the men before the rest return," he said, nodding in satisfaction. Nerith had managed to sink her 
teeth into a Saldaean's wrist and was hanging on like a badger. 
"Feed them quick," Rand said irritably. Would every sul'dam he captured be as difficult? Very likely. Light, what if 
they took a damane'? "I don't want to spend all winter in these mountains." Gille the damane. He could not erase a 
name once it went onto that list. 
The dead are never silent, Lews Therin whispered. The dead never sleep. 
Rand rode down toward the fires. He did not feel like eating. 
**** 
From the point of a thrusting shoulder of stone, Furyk Karede carefully studied the forested mountains rising all around 
him, sharp peaks like dark fangs. His horse, a tall dappled gelding, stiffened his ears as though catching a sound he had 
missed, but otherwise the animal was still. Every so often, Karede had to stop and wipe the lens of his looking glass. A 
light rain fell from a gray morning sky. His helmet's two black plumes were bent over instead of standing straight, and 
water ran down his back. A light rain compared to yesterday, anyway, and probably compared to tomorrow. Or this 
afternoon, perhaps. Thunder rumbled ominously in the south. Karede's concern had nothing to do with weather, though. 
Below him, the last of twenty-three hundred men snaked through the winding passes, men gathered from four outposts. 
Well-mounted, reasonably well-led, yet a bare two hundred were Seanchan, and just two besides himself wore the 
red-and-green of the Guard. Most of the remainder were Taraboners— he knew their mettle— but a good third were 
Amadicians and Altarans, too new to their oaths for any to be sure how they would stand up. Some Altarans and 
Amadicians had switched allegiance two or three times already. Tried to, anyway. People this side of the Aryth Ocean 
had no shame. A dozen sul'dam rode near the front of the column, and he wished all twelve had leashed damanes 
walking by their horses instead of only two. 
Fifty paces farther on, the ten men of the spearhead were watching the slopes above them, though not as carefully as 
they should have. Too many men who rode spearhead relied on the forward scouts to find any dangers. Karede made a 
note to speak to them personally. They would do their duties properly after that, or he would send them to the labor 
levies. 
A raken appeared in the east ahead, skimming low over the treetops, twisting and turning to follow the curves of the 
land like a man running his hand down a woman's back. Peculiar. Morat'raken, fliers, always liked to soar high unless 
the sky was actually full of lightning. Karede lowered the looking glass to watch. 
"Maybe we'll finally get another scouting report," Jadranka said. To the other officers waiting behind Karede, not to 
him. Three of the ten matched Karede's rank, yet few except the Blood disturbed a man in the blood-red and nearly 
black green of the Deathwatch Guard. Not that many among the Blood did. 
According to the tales he had heard as a child, one of his ancestors, a noble, had followed Luthair Paendrag to 
Seanchan at Artur Hawkwing's command, but two hundred years later, with only the north secure, another ancestor 
tried to carve out a kingdom of his own and ended sold from the block instead. Perhaps it was so; many da'covale 
claimed noble ancestors. Among themselves, at least; few of the Blood found such chatter amusing. In any case, 
Karede had felt lucky when the Choosers picked him out, a sturdy boy not yet old enough to be assigned duties, and he 
still felt pride in the ravens tattooed on his shoulders. Many Deathwatch Guards went without coat or shirt whenever 
possible, to display those. The humans, anyway. Ogier Gardeners were not marked or owned, but that was between 
them and the Empress. 
Karede was da'covale and proud of it, like every man of the Guard, the property of the Crystal Throne, body and soul. 
He fought where the Empress pointed, and would die the day she said die. To the Empress alone did the Guard answer, 
and where they appeared, they appeared as her hand, a visible reminder of her. No wonder that some among the Blood 
could become uneasy watching a detachment of Guardsmen pass. A far better life than mucking out a Lord's stables or 
serving kaf to a Lady. But he cursed the luck that had sent him into these mountains to inspect the outposts. 
The raken darted on westward, the two fliers crouched low in their saddle. There was no scouting report, no message 
for him. Furyk knew it was his imagination, but the creature's long, outstretched neck somehow looked . . . anxious. 
Had he been anyone else, he might have been anxious, too. There had been few messages for him since his orders three 
days ago to assume command and move east. Each message had thickened the fog more than cleared it. 
The locals, these Altarans, had moved into the mountains in force, it seemed, but how? The roads along the northern 
border of this range were patrolled and watched nearly to the border of Illian, by fliers and morat'torm as well as 



horse-mounted parties. What could have made the Altarans decide to show so many teeth? To stand together? A man 
might find himself in a duel for a look—though they had begun to learn challenging a Guardsman was just a slower 
way of cutting your own throat—but he had seen nobles of this so-called nation trying to sell each other and their 
Queen for the mere suggestion that their own lands might be protected and perhaps those of their neighbor added to 
them. 
Nadoc, a big man with a deceptively mild face, twisted in his saddle to watch the raken. "I don't like marching blind," 
he muttered. "Not when the Altarans have managed to put forty thousand men up here. Forty, at least." 
Jadranka snorted so hard that his tall white gelding shifted. Jadranka was the senior of the three captains behind 
Karede, having served as long as Karede himself. A short thin man with a prominent nose and such airs you might have 
thought him of the Blood. That horse would stand out at a mile. "Forty thousand or a hundred, Nadoc, they're scattered 
from here to the end of the range, too far apart to support one another. Stab my eyes, likely half are dead already. They 
must be tangling with outposts everywhere. That's why we aren't getting reports. We're just expected to sweep up the 
remnants." 
Karede swallowed a sigh. He had hoped Jadranka was not a fool atop his airs. Praise of victors spread quickly, whether 
they were an army or half a Banner. It was the rare defeats that were swallowed in silence and forgotten. So much 
silence was . . . ominous. 
"That last report didn't sound like remnants to me," Nadoc persisted. He was no fool. "There are five thousand men not 
fifty miles ahead of us, and I doubt we'll take them with brooms." 
Jadranka snorted again. "We'll crush them, with swords or brooms. The Light burn my eyes, I can hardly wait for a 
decent engagement. I told the scouts to press on until they found them. I won't have them slipping away from us." "You 
did what?" Karede said softly. 
Soft or not, his words jerked every eye toward him. Though Nadoc and a few of the others had to struggle to stop 
gaping at Jadranka. Scouts told to press ahead, scouts told what to look for. What had gone unseen for those orders? 
Before anyone could open his mouth shouts rose from the men in the pass, screams and the shrieks of horses. 
Karede pressed the leather tube of the looking glass to his eye. Along the pass ahead of him, men and horses were 
dying under a hail of what he thought must be crossbow bolts, the way they hammered through steel breastplates, 
exploded through chests protected by mail. Hundreds were down already, hundreds more sagging wounded in their 
saddles or afoot and running from horses thrashing on the ground. Too many were running. Even as he looked, men 
still mounted whirled their horses to try fleeing back up the pass. Where in the Light were the sul’dam! He could not 
find them. He had faced rebels who had sul'dam and damane, and they always had to be killed as fast as possible. 
Maybe the locals had learned that. 
Suddenly, shockingly, the ground began to erupt in roaring fountains all along the writhing snake of his command, 
fountains that flung men and horses into the air as easily as dirt and stones. Lightning flashed out of the sky, blue-white 
bolts shattering earth and men alike. Other men simply exploded, ripped to shreds by nothing he could see. Did the 
locals have damane of their own? No, it would be those Aes Sedai. 
"What are we going to do?" Nadoc said. He sounded shaken. As well he might. 
"Do you think to abandon your men?" Jadranka snarled. "We rally them and attack, you—!" He cut off, gurgling, as 
Karede's swordpoint went neatly into his throat. There were times fools could be tolerated, and times not. As the man 
toppled from his saddle, Karede deftly wiped his blade on the gelding's white mane before the animal bolted. There 
were times for a little show, too. 
"We rally what can be rallied, Nadoc," he said as if Jadranka had never spoken. As if he had never been. "We save 
what can be saved, and fall back." 
Turning to ride down into the pass where lightnings flashed and thunders roared, he ordered Anghar, a steady-eyed 
young man with a fast horse, to ride east and report what had transpired here. Perhaps a flier would see and perhaps 
not, though Karede suspected he knew why they flew low, now. He suspected the High Lady Suroth and the generals in 
Ebou Dar already knew what was occurring up here, too. Was today the day he died for the Empress? He dug his heels 
into his horse's flanks. 
From the flat, thinly treed ridge, Rand peered westward over the forest before him. With the Power in him— life, so 
sweet; vile-ness, oh, so vile— he could see individual leaves, but it was not enough. Tai'daishar stamped a hoof. The 
jagged peaks behind, to either side, and all around overtopped the ridge by a mile or more, but the ridge stood well 
above the treetops below, a rolling wooded valley over a league in length and nearly as wide. All was still down there. 
As quiet as the Void he floated in. Quiet for the moment, anyway. Here and there plumes of smoke rose from where 



two or three trees in a clump burned like torches. Only the general wet stopped them turning the valley into a 
conflagration. Flinn and Dashiva were the only Asha'man still with him. All the rest were down in the valley. The pair 
stood a little way from him at the edge of the trees, holding their horses by the reins and staring at the forest below. 
Well, Flinn stared, as intently as Rand himself. Dashiva glanced occasionally, twisting his mouth, sometimes muttering 
to himself in a way that made Flinn shift his feet and eye him sideways. The Power filled both men, nearly to 
overflowing, but for a change, Lews Therin said nothing. The man seemed increasingly to have gone back into hiding 
over the last few days. 
In the sky there was actually sunlight, and the scattered clouds were gray. It was five days since Rand had brought his 
small army to Altara, five days since he had seen his first Seanchan dead. He had seen quite a few since. Thought slid 
across the surface of the Void. He could feel the heron branded into his palm pressing against the Dragon Scepter 
through his glove. Silent. There were none of the flying creatures to be seen. Three of those had died, slashed from the 
sky by lightning, before their riders learned to stay clear. Bashere was fascinated by the creatures. Quiet. 
"Perhaps it is finished, my Lord Dragon." Ailil's voice was calm and cool, but she patted her mare's neck, though the 
animal did not need soothing. She eyed Flinn and Dashiva sideways and straightened, unwilling to reveal a shred of 
unease in front of them. 
Rand found himself humming and stopped abruptly. That was Lews Therin's habit, looking at a pretty woman, not his. 
Not his! Light, if he started taking on the fellow's mannerisms, and when he was not there, at that . . . ! 
Abruptly, hollow thunder boomed up the valley. Fire fountained out of the trees a good two miles away or more, then 
again, and again, again. Lightning streaked down into the forest not far from where the tall flames had bloomed, single 
slashes like jagged blue-white lances. A flurry of lightning bolts and fire, and all was still again. No trees had caught 
fire, this time. 
Some of that had been saidin. Some of it. 
Shouts rose, dim and distant, from another part of the valley, he thought. Too far for even his saidin-enhanced ears to 
hear the crash of steel. Despite everything, not all of the fighting was being done by Asha'man and Dedicated and 
Soldiers. 
Anaiyella let out a long breath she must have been holding since the exchange with the Power began. Men fighting 
with steel did not disturb her. Then she patted her mount's neck. The gelding had only flickered an ear. Rand had 
noticed that about 
women. Quite often, when a woman was agitated, she tried to soothe others whether they required soothing or not. A 
horse would do. Where was Lews Therin? 
Irritably he leaned forward to study the forest canopy again. A good many of those trees were evergreens—oak and 
pine and leatherleaf—and despite the late drought, they made an effective screen, even to his intensified vision. As if 
idly, he touched the narrow bundle under his stirrup leather. He could take a hand. And strike blindly. He could ride 
down into the woods. And be able to see ten paces at most. Down there, he would be little more effective than one of 
the Soldiers. 
A gateway opened among the trees a little way along the ridge, silvery slash widening into a hole that showed different 
trees and thick winter brown underbrush. A copper-skinned Soldier with a thin mustache on his upper lip and a small 
pearl in his ear exited afoot and let the gateway vanish. He was shoving a sul'dam ahead of him with her wrists tied 
behind her, a handsome woman except for the purple knot on the side of her head. That seemed to go along with her 
scowl, though, as well as it did with her rumpled, leaf-stained dress. She sneered over her shoulder at the Soldier while 
he pushed her along the ridge top to Rand, and then she sneered up at Rand. 
The Soldier stiffened, saluting smartly. "Soldier Arlen Nalaam, my Lord Dragon," he barked, staring straight at Rand's 
saddle. "My Lord Dragon's orders were to bring any women captured to him." 
Rand nodded. It was only to give him the appearance of doing something, inspecting prisoners to be sure they were 
what any idiot could see they were. "Take her back to the carts, Soldier Nalaam, then return to the fighting." He almost 
ground his teeth saying that. Return to the fighting. While Rand al'Thor, Dragon Reborn and King of Illian, sat his 
horse and watched treetops! 
Nalaam saluted again before pushing away the woman ahead of him, but he was not slow about it. She kept peering 
over her shoulder again, yet not at the Soldier this time. At Rand. With wide-eyed, openmouthed astonishment. For 
some reason, Nalaam did not pull her to a halt until he reached the spot where he had come out. All that was necessary 
was to go far enough to avoid injuring the horses. 
"What are you doing?" Rand demanded as saidin filled the man. 



Nalaam half turned back to him, hesitating briefly. "It seems easier, here, if I use a place I've already made a gateway, 
my Lord Dragon. Saidin. . . Saidin feels . . . strange ... to me here." His prisoner turned to frown at him. 
After a moment, Rand gestured him to go ahead. Flinn pretended to be interested in his horse's saddle girth, but the 
balding old man smiled faintly. Smugly. Dashiva . . . giggled. Flinn had been the first to mention an odd feel to saidin 
in this valley. Of course, Narishma and Hopwil had heard him, and Morr added his tales of the "strangeness" around 
Ebou Dar. Small wonder everyone was claiming to feel something now, though not a one could say what. Saidin just 
felt . . . peculiar. Light, with the taint thick on the male half of the Source, what else would it feel? Rand hoped they 
were not all coming down with his new sickness. 
Nalaam's gateway opened, and vanished behind him and his prisoner. Rand let himself really feel saidin. Life and 
corruption commingled; ice to make winter's heart seem warm, and fire to make a forge's flames cold; death, waiting 
for him to slip. Wanting him to slip. It did not feel any different. Did it? He scowled at where Nalaam had disappeared. 
Nalaam and the woman. 
She was the fourth sul'dam taken this afternoon. That made twenty-three sul'dam prisoners with the carts. And two 
damane, each still in her silvery leash and collar, carried on separate carts; in those collars, they could not walk three 
steps before becoming more violently sick than Rand did seizing the Source. He was not sure the sisters with Mat 
would be pleased to receive them after all. The first damane, three days before, he had not thought of as a prisoner. A 
slender woman with pale yellow hair and big blue eyes, she was a Seanchan captive to be freed. He thought. But when 
he forced a sul'dam to remove the woman's collar, her a'dam, she screamed for the sul'dam to help her and immediately 
began lashing out with the Power. She had even offered her neck for the sul'dam to replace the thing! Nine Defenders 
and a Soldier died before she could be shielded. Gedwyn would have killed her on the spot had Rand not stopped it. 
The Defenders, nearly as uncomfortable around women who could channel as others were around men who could— 
the Defenders still wanted her dead. They had taken casualties in the fighting these past days, but having men killed by 
a prisoner seemed to offend them. 
There had been more casualties than Rand had expected. Thirty-one Defenders dead, and forty-six Companions. More 
than two hundred among the Legionmen and the noble's armsmen. Seven Soldiers and a Dedicated, men Rand had 
never met before they answered his summons to Illian. Too many, considering that all except the gravest injury could 
be Healed, if a man could only hang on until there was time. But he was driving the Seanchan west. Driving them hard. 
More shouting rose somewhere far off down in the valley. Fire blossomed a good three miles to the west, and lightning 
struck, toppling trees. Trees and stone erupted from a mountainside farther on, strange fountains marching along the 
slope. The roaring booms swallowed shouts. The Seanchan were retreating. 
"Get down there," Rand told Flinn and Dashiva. "Both of you. Find Gedwyn and tell him I said push! Push!" 
Dashiva grimaced at the forest below, then began awkwardly tugging his horse along the ridge. The man was ungainly 
with horses, riding or leading. He nearly tripped over his sword! 
Flinn looked up at Rand worriedly. "You mean to stay here alone, my Lord Dragon?" 
"I'm hardly alone," Rand said dryly, glancing at Ailil and Anaiyella. They had ridden back to their armsmen, almost 
two hundred lancers waiting just short of where the ridge began to slope down to the east. At their head, Denharad 
frowned through the face-bars of his helmet. He had command of both lots, now, and if his concern was for Ailil and 
Anaiyella, his fellows still made a show fit to keep away most attackers. Besides, Weiramon had the northern end of 
this ridge secured so a fly could not pass, he claimed, and Bashere held the south. Without boasting; Bashere just 
erected a wall of lances without talking about it. And the Seanchan were retreating. "And I'm hardly helpless, anyway, 
Flinn." 
Flinn actually looked doubtful and scratched his fringe of white hair before saluting and leading his horse toward where 
Dashiva's gateway was already winking out. Limping along, Flinn shook his head, muttering to himself fit for Dashiva. 
Rand wanted to snarl. He could not go mad, and neither could they. Flinn's gateway vanished, and Rand returned to his 
study of the treetops. It was quiet again. Time stretched in stillness. This notion of taking the outposts in the mountains 
had been a bad one; he was willing to admit that, now. In this terrain, you could be half a mile from an army without 
knowing. In those tangled woods down there, you could be ten feet from them without knowing! He needed to face the 
Seanchan on better ground. He needed.. . . 
Abruptly he was fighting saidin, fighting wild surges that tried to ream out his skull. The Void was vanishing, melting 
beneath the onslaught. Frantic, dazed, he released the Source before it could kill him. Nausea twisted his middle. 
Double vision showed him two Crowns of Swords. Lying on the thick mulch of dead leaves in front of his face! He was 
on the ground! He could not seem to breathe properly, and struggled to suck in air. There was a chip broken off one of 



the crown's golden laurel leaves, and blood stained several of the tiny golden swordpoints. A knot of hot pain in his 
side told him those never-healing wounds had broken open. He tried to push himself up, and cried out. In stunned 
amazement he stared at the dark fletchings of an arrow stuck through his right arm. With a groan he collapsed. 
Something ran down his face. Something dripped in front of his eye. Blood. 
Vaguely he became aware of ululating cries. Horsemen appeared among the trees to the north, galloping along the 
ridge, some with lowered lances, some working short bows as fast as they could nock and draw. Horsemen in 
blue-and-yellow armor of overlapping plates, and helmets like huge insects' heads. Seanchan, several hundred of them 
it seemed. From the north. So much for Weiramon's fly. 
Rand struggled to reach the Source. Too late to worry about sicking up, or falling on his face. Another time, he might 
have laughed at that. He struggled. ... It was like fumbling for a pin in the dark with numbed fingers. 
Time to die, Lews Therin whispered. Rand had always known Lews Therin would be there at the end. 
Not fifty paces from Rand, screaming Tairens and Cairhien plowed into the Seanchan. 
"Fight, you dogs!" Anaiyella shrieked, swinging down from her saddle beside him. "Fight!" The willow lady in her 
silks and laces hurled a string of curses that would have made a wagon driver's tongue go dry. 
Anaiyella stood holding her mount's reins, glaring from the mill of men and steel to Rand. It was Ailil who turned him 
onto his back. Kneeling there, she looked down at him with an unreadable expression in her big dark eyes. He could 
not seem to move. He felt drained. He was not sure he could blink. Screams and the clash of steel rang in his ears. 
"If he dies on our hands, Bashere will hang both of us!" Anaiyella certainly was not simpering now. "If those 
black-coated monsters get hold of us . . . !" She shuddered, and bent closer to Ailil, gesturing with a belt knife he had 
not noticed in her hand before. A ruby sparkled blood-red on the hilt. "Your Lance-captain could break off enough men 
to get us away. We could be miles away before he's found, and back to our estates by the time—" 
"I think he can hear us," Ailil broke in calmly. Her red-gloved hands moved at her waist. Sheathing a belt knife? Or 
drawing one? "If he dies here—" She cut off as sharply as the other woman had, and her head jerked around. 
Hooves thundered past Rand on either side in thick streams. Galloping north, toward the Seanchan. Sword in hand, 
Bashere barely reined in before leaping from his saddle. Gregorin Panar dismounted more slowly, but he waved his 
sword at the men flooding by. "Strike home for King and Illian!" he shouted. "Strike home! The Lord of the Morning! 
The Lord of the Morning!" The crash of steel rose higher. And the screaming. 
"It would be like this at the last of it," Bashere growled, favoring the two women with suspicious glares. He wasted 
only an instant, though, before raising his voice above the din of battle. "Morr! Burn your Asha'man hide! Here, now!" 
He did not shout that the Lord Dragon was down, thank the Light. 
With an effort, Rand turned his head perhaps a hand. Enough to see Illianers and Saldaeans driving on north. The 
Seanchan must have given way. 
"Morr!" The name roared through Bashere's mustaches, and Morr himself dropped from a galloping horse nearly on top 
of Anaiyella. She looked disgruntled at the lack of an apology as the man knelt beside Rand, scrubbing dark hair out of 
his face. She moved back quickly enough when she realized he intended to channel, though, practically bounding 
away. Ailil was much smoother about rising, but not noticeably slower in stepping clear. And she slipped a 
silver-handled belt knife back into its sheath at her waist. 
Healing was a simple matter, if not exactly comfortable. The fletchings were broken off and the arrow drawn the rest of 
the way through with a sharp jerk that brought a gasp to Rand's lips, but that was just to clear the way. Dirt and lightly 
embedded fragments would fall way as flesh knit itself up, but only Flinn and a few others could use the Power to 
remove what was driven deep. Resting two fingers on Rand's chest, Morr caught his tongue between his teeth with a 
fixed expression and wove Healing. That was how he always did it; it did not work for him, otherwise. It was not the 
complex weaves that Flinn used. Few could manage that, and none as well as Flinn, so far. This was simpler. Rougher. 
Waves of heat rushed through Rand, strong enough to make him grunt and send sweat gushing from every pore. He 
quivered violently from head to foot. A roast in the oven must have felt that way. 
The sudden flood of heat ebbed slowly, and Rand lay panting. In his head, Lews Therin panted, too. Kill him! Kill him! 
Over and over. 
Muting the voice to a faint buzz, Rand thanked Morr— the young man blinked as if surprised!— then grabbed the 
Dragon Scepter from the ground and forced himself to his feet. Erect, he swayed slightly. Bashere started to offer an 
arm, then backed away at a gesture. Rand could stand unaided. Barely. He could as soon have flown by waving his 
arms as channeled, though. When he touched his side, his shirt slipped on blood, yet the old round scar and the newer 
slash across it merely felt tender. Half-healed only, but they had never been better than that since he got them. For a 



moment, he studied the two women. Anaiyella murmured something vaguely congratulatory and offered him a smile 
that made him wonder whether she intended to lick his wrist. Ailil stood very straight, very cool, as if nothing had 
happened. Had they meant to leave him to die? Or to kill him? But if so, why send their armsmen charging in and rush 
to check on him? On the other hand, Ailil had drawn her knife once the talk of him dying began. 
Most of the Saldaeans and Illianers were galloping north or riding down the slope of the ridge, pursuing the last of the 
Sean-chan. And then Weiramon appeared from the north, riding a tall, glossy black at a slow canter that picked up 
when he saw Rand. His armsmen rode in double file at his back. 
"My Lord Dragon," the High Lord intoned as he dismounted. He still seemed as clean as he had in Illian. Bashere 
simply looked rumpled and a bit grimy here and there, but Gregorin's finery was decidedly dirt-stained, and slashed 
down one sleeve besides. Weiramon flourished a bow to shame a king's court. "Forgive me, my Lord Dragon. I thought 
I saw Seanchan advancing in front of the ridge and went to meet them. I never suspected this other company. You can't 
know how it would pain me if you were injured." 
"I think I know," Rand said dryly, and Weiramon blinked. Seanchan advancing? Perhaps. Weiramon would always 
snatch at a chance for glory in the charge. "What did you mean, 'at the last,' Bashere?" 
"They're pulling back," Bashere replied. In the valley, fire and lightning erupted for a moment as if to give him the lie, 
but nearly to the far end. 
"Your . . . scouts do say they all do be retreating," Gregorin said, rubbing his beard, and gave Morr a sidelong, 
uncomfortable glance. Morr grinned at him toothily. Rand had seen the Illianer in the thick of fighting heading his men, 
shouting encouragement and laying his sword about with wild abandon, but he flinched at Morr's grin. 
Gedwyn strode up then, leading his horse carelessly, insolently. He almost sneered at Bashere and Gregorin, frowned at 
Weiramon as if already knowing the man's blunder, and eyed Ailil and Anaiyella as though he might pinch them. The 
two women drew back from him hastily, but then, so did the men except for Bashere. Even Morr. Gedwyn's salute to 
Rand was a casual tap of fist to chest. "I sent scouts out as soon as I saw this lot was done. There are three more 
columns inside ten miles." 
"All headed west," Bashere put in quietly, but he looked at Gedwyn sharp enough to slice stone. "You've done it," he 
told Rand. "They're all falling back. I doubt they'll stop short of Ebou Dar. Campaigns don't always end with a grand 
march into the city, and this one is finished." 
Surprisingly— or perhaps not— Weiramon began arguing for an advance, to "take Ebou Dar for the glory of the Lord 
of the Morning," as he put it, but it was certainly a shock to hear Gedwyn say he would not mind taking a few more 
swipes at these Seanchan and he certainly would not mind seeing Ebou Dar. Even Ailil and Anaiyella added their 
voices in favor of "putting an end to the Seanchan once and for all," though Ailil did add that she would as soon like to 
avoid having to return to finish. She was quite sure the Lord Dragon would insist on her company for it. That in a tone 
as cool and dry as night in the Aiel Waste. 
Only Bashere and Gregorin spoke for turning back, and raise their voices they did increasingly as Rand stood silent. 
Silent and staring west. Toward Ebou Dar. 
"We did do what we came for," Gregorin insisted. "Light's mercy, do you think to take Ebou Dar itself?" 
Take Ebou Dar, Rand thought. Why not? No one would expect that. A total surprise, for the Seanchan and everybody 
else. 
"Times are, you seize the advantage and ride on," Bashere growled. "Other times, you take your winnings and go 
home. I say it's time to go home." 
I would not mind you in my bead, Lews Therin said, sounding almost sane, if you were not so dearly mad. 
Ebou Dar. Rand tightened his hand on the Dragon Scepter, and Lews Therin cackled. 

Chapter 24 A Time for Iron 

A dozen leagues east of Ebou Dar, raken glided in out of the cloud-streaked sunrise to land in a long pasture marked as 
the fliers' field by colored streamers on tall poles. The brown grasses had been trampled and scored days since. All of 
the creatures' grace in the air was lost as soon as their claws touched the ground in a lumbering run, leathery pinions 
thirty paces or more wide held high as if the animal wanted to sweep itself back upward. There was little beauty, either, 
in the raken that ran awkwardly down the field beating ribbed wings, fliers crouching in the saddle as if to pull the 
beast up by main force, ran on until at last they stumbled into the air, wingtips barely clearing the tops of the olive trees 
at the end of the field. Only as they gained height and turned toward the sun, soared toward the clouds, did the raken 



regain dignified grandeur. Fliers who landed did not bother to dismount. While a groundling held a basket up for the 
raken to gulp whole shriveled fruits by the double-handful at a time, one of the fliers would hand down their scouting 
report to a still more senior groundling, and the other bent on the other side to receive new orders from a flier too 
senior to handle reins personally very often. Almost that quickly after coming to a halt, the creature was reined around 
to waddle over to where four or five others waited their turn to make that long, ungainly run to the sky. 
At a dead run, dodging between moving formations of cavalry and infantry, messengers carried the scouting reports to 
the huge red-bannered command tent. There were haughty Taraboner lancers and stolid Amadician pikemen in 
well-ordered squares, breastplates striped horizontally in the colors of the regiments they were attached to. Altar an 
light horse in disordered bunches made their mounts prance, vain of the red slashes crisscrossing their chests, so 
different from the markings anyone else wore. The Altarans did not know those indicated irregulars of doubtful 
reliability. Among the Seanchan soldiers, named regiments with proud honors were represented, from every corner of 
the Empire, pale-eyed men from Alqam, honey-brown men from N'Kon, men black as coal from Khoweal and 
Dalenshar. There were morat'torm on their sinuous bronze-scaled mounts that made horses whicker and dance in fright, 
and even a few morat'grolm with their squat, beak-mouthed charges, but one thing that always accompanied a 
Seanchan army was conspicuous by it absence. The sul'dam and damane were still in their tents. Captain-General 
Kennar Miraj thought of sul'dam and damane a great deal. 
From his seat on the dais he could see the map table clearly, where helmetless under-lieutenants checked the reports 
and placed markers to represent the forces in the field. A small paper banner stood above each marker, inked symbols 
giving the size and composition of the force. Finding decent maps in these lands was next to impossible, but the map 
copied atop the large table was sufficient. And worrying, in what it told him. Black discs for outposts overrun or 
dispersed. Far too many of those, dotting the whole eastern half of the Venir range. Red wedges, for commands on the 
move, marked the western end as thickly, all pointed back toward Ebou Dar. And scattered among the black discs, 
seventeen stark white. As he watched, a young officer in the brown-and-black of a morat'torm carefully placed an 
eighteenth. Enemy forces. A few might be the same group seen twice, but for the most part they were much too far 
apart, the timing of the sightings wrong. 
Along the walls of the tent, clerks in plain brown coats, marked only with insignia of rank among clerks on the wide 
collars, waited at their writing tables, pens in hand, for Miraj to issue orders that they would copy out for distribution. 
He had already given what orders he could. There were as many as ninety thousand enemy soldiers in the mountains, 
nearly twice what he could muster here even with the native levies. Too many for belief, except that scouts did not lie; 
liars had their throats slit by their fellows. Too many, springing out of the ground like trap-worms in the Sen T'jore. At 
least they had a hundred miles of mountain yet to cover if they intended to threaten Ebou Dar. Almost two hundred, for 
the white discs furthest east. And hill country after that for another hundred miles. Surely the enemy general could not 
mean to let his dispersed forces be confronted one by one. Gathering them together would take more time. Time alone 
was on his side, right then. 
The entry flaps of the tent swept open, and the High Lady Suroth glided in, black hair a proud crest spilling down her 
back, pleated snow-white gown and richly embroidered over-robe somehow untouched by the mud outside. He had 
thought her still in Ebou Dar; she must have flown out by to'raken. She was accompanied by a small entourage, for her. 
A pair of Deathwatch Guards with black tassels on their sword hilts held the tentflaps, and more were visible outside, 
stone-faced men in red-and-green. The embodiment of the Empress, might she live forever. Even the Blood took note 
of them. Suroth sailed past as if they were as much servants as the lushly bodied da'covale in slippers and a nearly 
transparent white robe, her honey-yellow hair in a multitude of thin braids, who carried the High Lady's gilded writing 
desk a meek two paces behind. Suroth's Voice of the Blood, Alwhin, a glowering woman in green robes with the left 
side of her head shaved and the remainder of her pale brown hair in a severe braid, followed close on her mistress's 
heels. As Miraj stepped down from the dais, he realized with shock that the second da'covale behind Suroth, short and 
dark-haired and slim in her diaphanous robe, was damane! A damane garbed as property was unheard of, but odder 
still, it was Alwhin who led her by the a'dam! 
He let none of his amazement show as he went to one knee, murmuring, "The Light be upon the High Lady Suroth. All 
honor to the High Lady Suroth." Everyone else prostrated themselves on the canvas ground cloth, eyes down. Miraj 
was of the Blood, if too low to shave the sides of his scalp like Suroth. Only the nails of his little fingers were 
lacquered. Much too low to register surprise if a High Lady allowed her Voice to continue acting as sul’dam after being 
raised to the so'jhin. Strange times in a strange land, where the Dragon Reborn walked and marath'damane ran wild to 
kill and enslave where they would. 



Suroth barely glanced at him before turning to study the map table, and if her black eyes tightened at what she saw, she 
had cause. Under her, the Hailene had done far more than had been dreamed, reclaiming great stretches of the stolen 
lands. All they had been sent for was to scout the way, and after Falme, some had thought even that impossible. She 
drummed fingers on the table irritably, the long blue-lacquered fingernails on the first two clicking. Continued success, 
and she might be able to shave her head entirely and paint a third nail on each hand. Adoption into the Imperial family 
was not unheard of for achievements so great. And if she stepped too far, overstepped, she might find her fingernails 
clipped and herself stuffed into a filmy robe to serve one of the Blood, if not sold to a farmer to help till his fields, or 
sweat in a warehouse. At worst, Miraj would only have to open his own veins. 
He continued to watch Suroth in patient silence, but he had been a scout lieutenant, morat'raken, before being raised to 
the Blood, and he could not help being aware of everything around him. A scout lived or died by what he saw or did 
not, and so did others. The men lying on their faces around the tent; some hardly seemed to breathe. Suroth should have 
taken him aside and let them continue with their work. A messenger was being turned back by the soldiers at the 
entrance. How dire was the message that the woman tried to push past Deathwatch Guards? 
The da'covale with the writing desk in her arms caught his eye. Scowls flashed across her pretty doll's face, never 
pushed down for more than moments. Property showing anger? And there was something else. His gaze flickered to the 
damane, who stood with her head down but still looked around with curiosity. Brown-eyed da'covale and pale-eyed 
damane looked about as different as two women could, yet there was something about them. Something in their faces. 
Strange. He could not have said how old either was. Quick as his glance was, Alwhin noticed. With a twitch of the 
a'dam's silvery leash she put the damane face down on the ground cloth. Snapping her fingers, she pointed to the canvas 
with the hand not encumbered by the a'dam's bracelet, then grimaced when the honey-haired da'covale did not move. 
"Down, Liandrin!" she hissed almost under her breath. With a glare for Alwhin—a glare!—the da'covale sank to her 
knees, features painted with sulk-
mess. 
Most strange. But hardly important. Face impassive, and otherwise bursting with impatience, he waited. Impatience 
and no little discomfort. He had been raised to the Blood after riding fifty miles in a single night with three arrows in 
him to bring word of a rebel army marching on Seandar itself, and his back still pained him. 
Finally, Suroth turned from the map table. She did not give him leave to rise, much less embrace him as one of the 
Blood. Not that he had expected that. He was far beneath her. "You are ready to march?" she demanded curtly. At least 
she did not speak to him through her Voice. Before so many of his officers, the shame would have put his eyes on the 
ground for months if not years. 
"I will be, Suroth," he replied calmly, meeting her gaze. He was of the Blood, however low. "They cannot combine in 
fewer than ten days, with at least another ten before they can exit the mountains. Well before then, I—" 
"They could be here tomorrow," she snapped. "Today! If they come, Miraj, they will come by the ancient art of 
Traveling, and it seems very possible that they will come." 
He heard men shifting on their bellies before they could restrain themselves. Suroth lost control of her emotions and 
babbled of legends? "Are you certain?" The words popped out of his mouth before he could stop them. 
He had only thought she had lost control before. Her eyes blazed. She gripped the edges of her flower-worked robe, 
white-knuckled, and her hands shook. "Do you question me?" she snarled incredulously. "Suffice it that I have my 
sources of information." And was furious with them as much as with him, he realized. "If they come, there will be 
perhaps as many as fifty of these grandly named Asha'man, but no more than five or six thousand soldiers. It seems 
there have been no more since the beginning, whatever the fliers say." 
Miraj nodded slowly. Five thousand men, moved about in some way with the One Power, would explain a great deal. 
What were her sources, that she knew numbers so precisely? He was not fool enough to ask. She certainly had 
Listeners and Seekers in her service. Watching her, too. Fifty Asha'man. The very idea of a man channeling made him 
want to spit in disgust. Rumor claimed they were being gathered from every nation by the Dragon Reborn, this Rand 
al'Thor, but he had never expected there could be so many. The Dragon Reborn could channel, it was said. That might 
be true, but he was the Dragon Reborn. 
The Prophecies of the Dragon had been known in Seanchan even before Luthair Paendrag began the Consolidation. In 
corrupted form, it was said, much different from the pure version Luthair Paendrag brought. Miraj had seen several 
volumes of The Karaethon Cycle printed in these lands, and they were corrupted too— not one mentioned him serving 
the Crystal Throne!— but the Prophecies held men's minds and hearts still. More than a few hoped the Return came 
soon, that these lands could be reclaimed before Tarmon Gai'don so the Dragon Reborn could win the Last Battle for 



the glory of the Empress, might she live forever. The Empress surely would want al'Thor sent to her, so she could see 
what sort of man served her. There would be no difficulty with al'Thor once he had knelt to her. Few easily shook off 
the awe they felt, kneeling before the Crystal Throne, with the thirst to obey drying their tongues. But it seemed 
obvious that bundling the fellow onto a ship would be easier if disposing of the Asha'man— they had to be disposed of, 
certainly— waited until al'Thor was well on his way across the Aryth Ocean to Seandar. 
Which brought him back to the problem he had been trying to avoid, he realized with an inward start. He was not a man 
to shy from difficulties, much less ignore them blindly, but this was different from any he had faced before. He had 
fought in two dozen battles with damane used on both sides; he knew the way of them. It was not only a matter of 
striking out with the Power. Experienced sul'dam could somehow see what damane or marath'damane did and damane 
would tell the others, so they could defend as well. Could sul'dam see what a man did, too? Worse. . . . 
"You will release the sul'dam and damane to me?" he said. Taking a deep breath in spite of himself, he added, "If 
they're still sick, it will be a short fight and bloody. On our side." 
Which produced another stir among the men waiting on their faces. Every second rumor in the camp was about what 
illness had confined the sul'dam and damane to their tents. Alwhin reacted quite openly, most improper in a so'jhin, 
with a furious glare. The damane flinched again, and began to shiver where she lay. Oddly, the honey-haired da'covale 
flinched, as well. 
Smiling, Suroth glided to where the da'covale knelt. Why would she smile at a poorly trained serving girl? She began 
stroking the kneeling woman's thin braids, and a sullen pout appeared on that rosebud mouth. A former noblewoman of 
these lands? Suroth's first words supported that, though obviously meant for him. "Small failures bring small costs; 
great failures bring painfully great costs. You will have the damane you require, Miraj. And you will teach these 
Asha'man they should have remained in the north. You will wipe them from the face of the earth, the Asha'man, the 
soldiers, all of them. To the man. Miraj. I have spoken." 
"It will be as you say, Suroth," he replied. "They will be destroyed. To the man." There was nothing else he could say, 
now. He wished, though, that she had given him an answer about whether the sul'dam and damane were still sick. 
Rand reined Tai'daishar around near the crest of the bare, stony hill to watch most of his small army spilling out of 
other holes in the air. He held hard to the True Source, so hard it seemed to tremble in his grasp. With the Power in 
him, the sharp points of the Crown of Swords pricking his temples felt at once keener than ever and utterly removed, 
the midmorning chill both colder and beneath notice. The never-healing wounds in his side were a dull and distant 
ache. Lews Therin seemed to be panting in uncertainty. Or perhaps fear. Maybe after coming so close to death the day 
before, he did not want so much to die anymore. But then, he did not always want to die. The only constant in the man 
was the desire to kill. Which just happened to include killing himself, often enough. 
There'll be killing enough for anybody, soon, Rand thought. Light, the last six days were enough to sicken a vulture. 
Had it only been six days? The disgust did not touch him, though. He would not let it. Lews Therin did not answer. 
Yes. It was a time for iron hearts. And iron stomachs, too. He bent a moment to touch the long cloth-wrapped package 
under his stirrup leather. No. Not time, yet. Maybe not at all. Uncertainty shimmered across the Void, and maybe 
something else. Not at all, he hoped. Uncertainty, yes, but the other had not been fear. It had not! 
Half the surrounding low hills were covered with squat, gnarled olive trees, dappled by the sunlight, where lancers 
already rode along the rows to make sure they were clear. There was no sign of workers in those orchards, no 
farmhouse, no structure of any kind in sight. A few miles to the west, the hills were darker, forested. Legionmen, 
emerging in trotting files below Rand, formed up, trailed by a ragged square of Illianer volunteers, now enlisted into 
the Legion. As soon as their ranks were aligned, they marched out of the way to make room for Defenders and 
Companions. The ground seemed mostly clay, and boots and hooves alike skidded in the thin skim of mud. For a 
wonder, though, only a few clouds hung in the sky, white and clean. The sun was a pale yellow ball. And nothing flew 
up there larger than a sparrow. 
Dashiva and Flinn were among the men holding gateways, as were Adley and Hopwil, Morr and Narishma. Some of 
the gateways lay out of Rand's sight behind the folded hills. He wanted everyone through as quickly as possible, and 
except for a few Soldiers scanning the sky, every man in a black coat who was not already out scouting held a weave. 
Even Gedwyn and Rochaid, though both grimaced over it, at each other and in his direction. Rand thought them no 
longer used to doing anything so common as holding a gateway for others to use. 
Bashere cantered up the slope, very much at ease with himself, and with his short bay. His cloak was flung back despite 
the morning's coolness, not so cold as the mountains, but still wintery. He nodded casually to Anaiyella and Ailil, who 
gave bleak stares in return. Bashere smiled through those thick mustaches, like down-curving horns, a not entirely 



pleasant smile. He had as many doubts of the women as Rand did. The women knew, about Bashere's reservations at 
least. Turning her head quickly from the Saldaean, Anaiyella returned to stroking her gelding's mane; Ailil held her 
reins too rigidly. 
That pair had not strayed far from Rand since the incident on the ridge, even having their tents pitched in earshot of his 
the night before. On a brown-grass hillside opposite, Denharad shifted to study the two noblewomen's retainers, 
arrayed together behind him, then quickly returned to watching Rand. Very likely he watched Ailil, and maybe 
Anaiyella as well, but he watched Rand without doubt. Rand was unsure whether they still feared to take the blame if 
he was killed or simply wanted to see it happen. The one thing he was certain of was that if they did want him dead, he 
would give them no opportunity. 
Who knows a woman's heart? Lews Therin chuckled wryly. He sounded in one of his saner moods. Most women will 
shrug off what a man would kill you for, and kill you for what a man would shrug off. Rand ignored him. The last 
gateway in Rand's sight winked out. The Asha'man mounting their horses were too far for him to say for sure whether 
any still held on to saidin, but it did not matter so long as he did. Clumsy Dashiva tried to mount quickly and nearly fell 
off twice before successfully reaching his saddle. Most of the black-coated men in view began riding north or south. 
The rest of the nobles gathered quickly with Bashere on the slope just below Rand, the highest ranking and those with 
the most power in front after a little jostling here and there, where precedence remained uncertain. Tihera and Marcolin 
kept their horses on the fringes, on opposite sides of the mass of nobles, faces carefully blank; they might be asked for 
advice, but both knew the final decisions rested with others. Weiramon opened his mouth with a grand gesture, 
doubtless to begin another splendid peroration on the glories of following the Dragon Reborn. Sunamon and Torean, 
accustomed to his speeches and powerful enough to take no care around him, reined their horses together and began 
talking quietly. Sunamon's face wore an unaccustomed hardness, and Torean seemed ready to squabble over a 
boundary line despite the red satin stripes on his coatsleeves. Square-jawed Bertome and some of the other Cairhienin 
were not quiet at all, laughing at each other's jokes. Everyone had had a bellyful of Weiramon's grand declamations. 
Though Semaradrid's scowl deepened every time he looked at Ailil and Anaiyella— he did not like them remaining 
close to Rand, especially his countrywoman— so perhaps his sourness had more root than Weiramon's windiness. 
"About ten miles from us," Rand said loudly, "a good fifty thousand men are preparing to march." They were aware of 
that, but it pulled every eye to him and silenced every tongue. Weiramon's mouth snapped shut sourly; the fellow did 
love to hear himself talk. Gueyam and Maraconn, tugging at sharp oiled beards, smiled in anticipation, the fools. 
Semaradrid looked like a man who had eaten an entire bowl of bad plums; Gregorin and the three lords of the Nine 
with him merely wore grim determination on their faces. Not fools. "The scouts saw no signs of sul'dam or damane" 
Rand went on, "but even without them, even with Asha'man, that's enough to kill a lot of us if anybody forgets the plan. 
No one will forget, though, I'm sure." No charges without orders, this time. He had made that clear as glass, and hard as 
stone. No haring off because you thought maybe you just might have seen something, either. 
Weiramon smiled, managing to put as much oil into it as Sunamon ever could. 
It was a simple plan, in its way. They would advance west in five columns, each with Asha'man, and attempt to fall on 
the Seanchan from every side at once. Or as close to all sides as could be managed. Simple plans were best, Bashere 
insisted. If you won't be satisfied with a whole litter of fat piglets, he had muttered, if you have to rush into the woods 
to find the old sow, then don't get too fancy, or she'll gut you. 
No plan of battle survives first contact, Lews Therin said in Rand's head. For a moment, he still seemed lucid. For a 
moment. Something is wrong, he growled suddenly. His voice began to gain intensity, and drift into wild disbelieving 
laughter. It can't be wrong, but it is. Something strange, something wrong, skittering, jumping, twitching. His cackles 
turned to weeping. It can't be! I must be mad! And he vanished before Rand could mute him. Burn him, there was 
nothing wrong with the plan, or Bashere would have been on it like a duck on a beetle. 
Lews Therin was mad, no doubt of it. But so long as Rand al'Thor remained sane. ... A bitter joke on the world, if the 
Dragon Reborn went mad before the Last Battle even began. "Take your places," he commanded with a wave of the 
Dragon Scepter. He had to fight down the urge to laugh at that joke. 
The large clump of nobles broke apart at his order, milling and muttering as they sorted themselves out. Few liked the 
way Rand had divided them up. Whatever breaking down of barriers had occurred in the shock of the first fight in the 
mountains, they had sprung up again almost immediately. 
Weiramon frowned over his undelivered speech, but after an elaborate bow that thrust his beard at Rand like a spear he 
rode north over the hills followed by Kiril Drapaneos, Bertome, Doressin, and several minor Cairhienin lords, every 
last one of them stony-faced at a Tairen being placed over them. Gedwyn rode by Weiramon's side almost as if he were 



the one leading, and got dark scowls for it that he affected not to notice. The other groupings were as mixed. Gregorin 
also headed north, with a sullen Sunamon trying to pretend he was heading in the same direction by happenstance, and 
Dalthanes leading lesser Cairhienin behind. Jeordwyn Semaris, another of the Nine, followed Bashere south with 
Amondrid and Gueyam. Those three had accepted the Saldaean almost eagerly for the simple reason that he was not 
Tairen, or Cairhienin, or Illianer, depending on the man. Rochaid seemed to be trying the same with Bashere that 
Gedwyn was with Weiramon, but Bashere appeared to ignore it. A little way from Bashere's party, Torean and 
Maraconn rode with their heads together, likely venting spleen at having Semaradrid placed over them. For that matter, 
Ershin Netari kept glancing toward Jeordwyn, and standing in his stirrups to look back toward Gregorin and Kiril, 
though it was improbable he could see them any longer past the hills. Semaradrid, his back iron-rod straight, looked as 
unflappable as Bashere. 
It was the same principle Rand had used all along. He trusted Bashere, and he thought he might be able to trust 
Gregorin, and none of the others could dare think of turning against him with so many outlanders around him, so many 
old enemies and so few friends. Rand laughed softly, watching them all ride off from his hillside. They would fight for 
him, and fight well, because they had no other choice. Any more than he had. 
Madness, Lews Therin hissed. Rand shoved the voice away angrily. 
He was hardly alone, of course. Tihera and Marcolin had most of the Defenders and Companions mounted in ranks 
among the olive trees on hills flanking the one where he sat his horse. The rest were out as a screen against surprise. A 
company of blue-coated Legionmen waited patiently in the hollow below under Masond's eye, and at their rear, as 
many men in what they had worn surrendering on the heath back in Illian. They were trying to emulate the 
Legionmen's calm—the other Legionmen, now— trying without a great deal of success. 
Rand glanced at Ailil and Anaiyella. The Tairen woman gave him a simpering smile, but it faltered weakly. The 
Cairhienin woman's face was frost. He could not forget them, or Denharad and their armsmen. His column, in the 
center, would be the largest, and the strongest by a fair margin. A very fair margin. 
Flinn and the men Rand had chosen out after Dumai's Wells rode up the hill toward him. The balding old man always 
led, though all save Adley and Narishma now wore the Dragon as well as the Sword, and Dashiva had worn it first. In 
part it was because the younger men deferred to Flinn, with his long experience as a bannerman in the Andoran 
Queen's Guards. In part it was because Dashiva did not seem to care. He only appeared amused by the others. When he 
could spare time from talking to himself, that was. Most often, he hardly seemed aware of anything past his own nose. 
For that reason, it was something of a shock when Dashiva awkwardly booted his slab-sided mount ahead of the rest. 
That plain face, so often vague or bemused with the fellow's own thoughts, was fixed in a worried frown. It was more 
than something of a shock when he seized saidin as soon as he reached Rand and wove a barrier around them against 
eavesdropping. Lews Therin did not waste breath— if a disembodied voice had breath— on mutters about killing; he 
lurched for the Source snarling wordlessly, tried to claw the Power away from Rand. And just as abruptly fell silent and 
vanished. 
"There's something askew with saidin here, something amiss," Dashiva said, sounding not at all vague. In fact, he 
sounded . . . precise. And testy. A teacher lecturing a particularly dense pupil. He even stabbed a finger at Rand. "I 
don't know what it is. Nothing can twist saidin, and if it could be twisted, we'd have felt it back in the mountains. Well, 
there was something there, yesterday, but so small. ... I feel it clearly here, though. Saidin is . . . eager. I know; I know. 
Saidin is not alive. But it ... pulses, here. It is difficult to control." 
Rand forced his hand to loosen its grip on the Dragon Scepter. He had always been sure Dashiva was nearly as mad as 
Lews Therin himself. Usually the man maintained a better hold on himself, though, however precariously. "I've been 
channeling longer than you, Dashiva. You're just feeling the taint more." He could not soften his tone. Light, he could 
not go mad yet, and neither could they! "Get to your place. We'll be moving soon." The scouts had to return soon. Even 
in this flatter country, even limited to no further than they could see, ten miles would not take long to cover, Traveling. 
Dashiva made no move to obey. Instead, he opened his mouth angrily, then snapped it shut. Shaking visibly, he drew a 
deep breath. "I am well aware how long you have channeled," he said in an icy, almost contemptuous voice, "but surely 
even you can feel it. Feel, man! I don't like 'strange' applied to saidin, and I don't want to die or ... or be burned out 
because you're blind! Look at my ward! Look at it!" 
Rand stared. Dashiva pushing himself forward was peculiar enough, but Dashiva in a temper? And then he did look at 
the ward. Really look. The flows should have been as steady as the threads in tight-woven canvas. They vibrated. The 
ward stood solid as it should be, but the individual threads of the Power shimmered with faint movement. Morr had 
said saidin was strange near Ebou Dar, and for a hundred miles around. They were closer than a hundred miles, now. 



Rand made himself feel saidin. He was always aware of the Power—anything else meant death or worse—yet he had 
become used to the struggle. He fought for life, but the fight had become as natural as life. The struggle was life. He 
made himself feel that battle, his life. Cold to make stone shatter into dust. Fire to make stone flash to vapor. Filth to 
make a rotten cesspit smell a garden in full flower. And ... a pulsing, like something quivering in his fist. This was not 
the sort of throbbing he had felt in Shadar Logoth, when the taint on saidin had resonated with the evil of that place, 
and saidin had pulsed with it. The vileness was strong, but steady here. It was saidin itself that seemed full of currents 
and surges. Eager, Dashiva called it, and Rand could see why. 
Down the slope, behind Flinn, Morr scrubbed a hand through his hair and looked around uneasily. Flinn alternated 
shifting on his saddle and easing his sword in its scabbard. Narishma, watching the sky for flying creatures, blinked too 
often. A muscle twitched in Adley's cheek. Every one of them displayed some sign of nervousness, and little wonder. 
Relief welled up in Rand. Not madness after all. 
Dashiva smiled, a twisted self-satisfied smile. "I cannot believe you didn't notice before." There was very close to a 
sneer in his voice. "You've been holding saidin practically day and night since we began this mad expedition. This is a 
simple ward, but it did not want to form, then it snapped together like pulling out of my hands." 
The silver-blue slash of a gateway rotated open atop one of the bare hills, half a mile to the west, and a Soldier pulled 
his horse through and mounted hurriedly, returning from the scout. Even at a distance, Rand could make out the faint 
shimmer of the weaves surrounding the gateway before they vanished. The rider had not reached the bottom of the hill 
before another gateway opened on the crest, and then a third, a fourth, more, one after another, almost as fast as the 
preceding man could get out of the way. 
"But it did form," Rand said. So had the scouts' gateways. "If saidin is hard to control, it's always hard, and it still does 
what you want." But why more difficult here? A question for another time. Light, he wished Herid Fel were still alive; 
the old philosopher might have had an answer. "Get back with the others, Dashiva," he ordered, but the man stared at 
him in astonishment, and he had to repeat himself before the fellow let the ward vanish, jerked his horse around 
without a salute and thumped the animal back down the slope with his heels. 
"Some trouble, my Lord Dragon?" Anaiyella simpered. Ailil merely looked at Rand with flat eyes. 
Seeing the first scout on the way toward Rand, the others fanned off to north and south, where they would join one of 
the other columns. Finding them the old-fashioned way would be faster than casting about with gateways. Drawing rein 
in front of Rand, Nalaam slapped fist to chest— did he look a bit wild-eyed? No matter. Saidin still did what the man 
wielding it made it do. Nalaam saluted and gave his report. The Seanchan were not encamped ten miles away, they 
were no more than five or six distant, marching east. And they had sul'dam and damane by the score. 
Rand issued his orders as Nalaam galloped away, and his column began moving west. The Defenders and the 
Companions rode on either flank. The Legionmen marched at the rear, just behind Denharad. A reminder to the 
noblewomen, and their armsmen, if they needed one. Anaiyella certainly looked over her shoulder often enough, and 
Ailil's refusal to was pointed. Rand formed the main thrust of the column, Rand and Flinn and the others, just as it 
would be with the other columns. Asha'man to strike, and men with steel to guard their backs while they killed. The sun 
still had a long way to climb before midday. Nothing had changed to alter the plan. 
Madness waits for some, Lews Therin whispered. It creeps up on others. 
**** 
Miraj rode near the head of his army marching east along a muddy road that wound through hilly olive groves and 
patchy forest. Not at the head. A full regiment, most Seanchan, rode between him and the forward scouts. He had 
known generals who wanted to be at the very front. Most were dead. Most had lost the battles they died in. Mud kept 
down dust, yet word of an army on the move ran like wildfire on the Sa'las Plains, whatever the land. Here and there 
among the olive trees he spotted an overturned wheelbarrow or an abandoned pruning hook, but the workers had 
vanished long since. Luckily, they would avoid his opponents as much as they did him. With luck, lacking raken, his 
opponents would not know he was on them until it was too late. Kennar Miraj did not like trusting to luck. 
Aside from under-officers ready to produce maps or copy orders and messengers ready to carry them, he rode 
accompanied only by Abaldar Yulan, small enough to make his quite ordinary brown gelding seem immense, a fiery 
man with the nails of his little fingers painted green who wore a black wig to conceal his baldness, and Lisaine Jarath, a 
gray-haired woman from Seandar itself, whose pale plump face and blue eyes were a study in serenity. Yulan was not 
calm; Miraj's coal-dark Captain of the Air often wore a scowl for the rules that seldom let him touch the reins of a 
raken anymore, but today his frown went bone deep. The sky was clear, perfect weather for raken, but by Suroth's 
command, none of his fliers would be in the saddle today, not here. There were too few raken with the Hailene to risk 



them unnecessarily. Lisaine's calm troubled Miraj more. More than the senior der'sul'dam under his command, she was 
a friend with whom he had shared many a cup of kaf and many a game of stones. An animated woman, always 
bubbling over with enthusiasms and amusement. And she was icy calm, as silent as any sul'dam he had tried to 
question. 
Within his sight were twenty damane flanking the horsemen, each walking beside her sul'dam's mount. The sul'dam 
bobbed in their saddles, bending to pat a damane's head, straightening only to bend again to stroke her hair. The 
damane looked steady enough to his eye, but plainly the sul'dam were on razor's edge. And ebullient Lisaine rode silent 
as a stone. 
A torm appeared ahead, racing down the column. Well off to the side, on the edge of the groves, yet horses whickered 
and shied as the bronze-scaled creature flowed past. A trained torm would not attack horses—at least not unless the 
killing frenzy overtook it, the reason torm were no good in battle—but horses trained to be calm around torm were in as 
short supply as torm themselves. 
Miraj sent a skinny under-lieutenant named Varek to fetch the morat'torm's scouting report. Afoot, and the Light 
consume whether Varek lost sei'taer. He would not waste time on Varek trying to control a mount acquired locally. The 
man returned faster than he went and made a crisp bow, beginning his report before his back was straight again. 
"The enemy is less than five miles due east, my Lord Captain-General, marching in our direction. They are deployed in 
five columns spaced approximately one mile apart." 
So much for luck. But Miraj had considered how he would attack forty thousand with only five himself, and fifty 
damane. Quickly men were galloping with orders to deploy to meet an attempted envelopment, and the regiments 
behind him began turning into the groves, sul'dam riding among them with their damane. 
Gathering his cloak against a sudden cold wind, Miraj noticed something that made him feel colder still. Lisaine was 
watching the sul'dam vanish into the trees, too. And she had begun to sweat. 
**** 
Bertome rode easily, letting the wind stream his cloak to one side, but he studied the forested country ahead with a 
wariness he barely attempted to conceal. Of his four countrymen at his back, only Doressin was truly skilled in the 
Game of Houses. That fool Tairen dog Weiramon was blind, of course. Bertome glared at the puffed-up buffoon's back. 
Weiramon rode well ahead of the rest in deep conversation with Gedwyn, and if Bertome needed any further proof that 
the Tairen would smile at what gagged a goat, it was how he tolerated that hot-eyed young monster. He noticed Kiril 
glancing sideways at him, and reined his gray further from the towering man. He had no particular enmity toward the 
Illianer, but he did hate people looming over him. He could not wait to return to Cairhien, where he did not have to be 
surrounded by ungainly giants. Kiril Drapaneos was not blind, though, however over-tall. He had sent a dozen scouts 
forward, too. Weiramon had sent one. 
"Doressin," Bertome said softly, then, a little louder, "Doressin, you lump!" 
The bony man gave a start in his saddle. Like Bertome, like the other three, he had shaved and powdered the front of 
his head; the style of marking yourself like a soldier had become quite fashionable. Doressin should have called him a 
toad in return, the way they had since boyhood, but instead he heeled his gelding up beside Bertome's and leaned close. 
He was worried, and letting it show, his forehead furrowed deeply. "You realize the Lord Dragon means us to die?" he 
whispered, glancing at the column trailing behind them. "Blood and fire, I only listened to Colavaere, but I have known 
I was a dead man since he killed her." 
For a moment, Bertome eyed the column of armsmen, snaking back through the rolling hills. The trees were more 
scattered here than ahead, but still enough to shield an attack until it was right on top of you. The last olive grove lay 
nearly a mile behind. Weiramon's men rode at the fore, of course, in those ridiculous coats with their fat white-striped 
sleeves, and then Kiril's Illianers in enough green and red to shame Tinkers. His own people, decently clad in dark blue 
beneath their breastplates, were still beyond his sight with Doressin's and the others', ahead only of the company of 
Legionmen. Weiramon had seemed surprised that the foot kept up, though he had hardly set a difficult pace. 
It was not really the armsmen Bertome glanced at, though. Seven men rode before even Weiramon's, seven men with 
hard faces and death-cold eyes, in black coats. One wore a pin in the shape of a silver sword on his tall collar. 
"An elaborate way to go about it," he told Doressin dryly. "And I doubt al'Thor would have sent those fellows with us, 
if we were just being fed into a sausage grinder." Forehead still creased, Doressin opened his mouth again, but Bertome 
said, "I need to talk to the Tairen." He disliked seeing his childhood friend this way. Al'Thor had unhinged him. 
Absorbed in one another, Weiramon and Gedwyn did not hear him riding up on them. Gedwyn was idly playing with 
his reins, his features cold with contempt. The Tairen was red-faced. "I don't care who you are," he was saying to the 



black-coated man in a low, hard voice, spittle flying, "I won't take more risk without a command direct from the lips 
of—" 
Abruptly the pair became aware of Bertome, and Weiramon's mouth snapped shut. He glared as if he wanted to kill 
Bertome. The Asha'man's ever-present smile melted away. The wind gusted, cold and sharp as clouds drifted across the 
sun, but no colder than Gedwyn's sudden stare. With a small shock Bertome realized the man also wanted to strike him 
dead on the spot. Gedwyn's icily murderous gaze did not change, but Weiramon's face underwent a remarkable 
transformation. The red faded slowly as he produced a smile in an instant, an oily smile with only a trace of mocking 
condescension. "I've been thinking about you, Bertome," he said heartily. "A pity al'Thor strangled your cousin. With 
his own hands, I hear. Frankly, I was surprised you came when he called. I've seen him watching you. I fear he plans 
something more . . . interesting . . . for you than thrashing your heels on the floor while his fingers tighten on your 
throat." Bertome suppressed a sigh, and not only at the fool's clumsiness. A good many thought to manipulate him with 
Colavaere's death. She had been his favorite cousin, but ambitious beyond reason. Saighan had good claims to the Sun 
Throne, yet she could not have held it against the strength of Riatin or Damodred either one, let alone both together, 
not without the open blessings of the White Tower or the Dragon Reborn. Still, she bad been his favorite. What did 
Weiramon want? Certainly not what it seemed on the surface. Even this Tairen oaf was not that simple. 
Before he could frame any response, a horseman came galloping toward them through the trees ahead. A Cairhienin, 
and as he reined to a sudden halt in front of them, that made his horse sit back on its haunches, Bertome recognized one 
of his own arms-men, a gap-toothed fellow with seamed scars on both cheeks. Doile, he thought. From the Colchaine 
estates. 
"My Lord Bertome," the fellow panted, bowing hastily. "There are two thousand Taraboners hard on my heels. And 
women with them! With lightning on their dresses!" 
"Hard on his heels," Weiramon murmured disparagingly. "We'll see what my man has to say when he gets back. I 
certainly don't see any—!" 
Sudden whoops in the near distance ahead cut him off, and the thunder of hooves, and then quickly galloping lancers 
appeared, a flowing tide spreading through the trees. Straight toward Bertome and the others. 
Weiramon laughed. "Kill whoever you wish, wherever you wish, Gedwyn," he said, drawing sword with a flourish. "I 
use the methods I use, and that's that!" Racing back toward his arms-men, he waved the blade over his head shouting, 
"Saniago! Saniago and glory!" It was no surprise he did not add a shout for his country to those for his House and his 
greatest love. 
Spurring in the same direction, Bertome raised his own voice. "Saighan and Cairhien!" No need for sword waving yet. 
"Saighan and Cairhien!" What had the man been after? 
Thunder rumbled, and Bertome looked to the sky, perplexed. There were few more clouds than earlier. No; 
Doile—Dalyn?— had mentioned those women. And then he forgot all about whatever the fool Tairen wanted as 
steel-veiled Taraboners poured over the wooded hills toward him, the earth blooming fire and the sky raining lightning 
ahead of them. 
"Saighan and Cairhien!" he shouted. 
The wind rose. 
Horsemen clashed amid thick trees and heavy underbrush, where shadows hung heavily. The light seemed to be failing, 
the clouds thickening overhead, but it was hard to say with the dense forest canopy for a roof. Booming roars 
half-drowned the ring of steel on steel, the shouts of men, the screams of horses. Sometimes the ground shook. 
Sometimes the enemy raised shouts. 
"Den Lushenos! Den Lushenos and the Bees!" 
"Annallin! Rally to Annallin!" 
"Haellin! Haellin! For the High Lord Sunamon!" 
The last was the only cry Varek understood in the least, though he suspected any of the locals who named themselves 
High Lords or Ladies might not be offered the chance to swear the Oath. 
He jerked his sword free from where he had jammed it into his opponent's armpit, just above the breastplate, and let the 
pale little man topple. A dangerous fighter, until he made the mistake of raising his blade too high. The man's bay 
crashed off through the undergrowth, and Varek spared a moment for regret. The animal looked better than the 
white-footed dun he was forced to ride. A moment only, and then he was peering through the close-set trees, where it 
seemed vines dangled from half the branches and bunches of some gray, feathery plant from nearly all. 
Sounds of battle rose from every direction, but at first he could see nothing that moved. Then a dozen Altaran lancers 



appeared at fifty paces, walking their horses and peering about carefully, though the way they talked loudly among 
themselves more than justified the red slashes crisscrossing their breastplates. Varek gathered his reins, meaning to 
take them in. An escort, even this undisciplined rabble, might be the difference between the urgent message he carried 
reaching Banner-General Chianmai and not. Black streaks flashed from among the trees, emptying Altaran saddles. 
Their horses dashed in every direction as the riders fell, and then there were only a dozen corpses sprawled on the 
damp carpet of dead leaves, at least one crossbow bolt jutting from every man. Nothing moved. Varek shivered in spite 
of himself. Those foot in blue coats had seemed easy at first, with no pikes to stand behind, but they never came into 
the open, hiding behind trees, in dips in the ground. They were not the worst. He had been sure after the frantic retreat 
to the ships at Falme that he had seen the worse he ever could see, the Ever Victorious Army in a rout. Not half an hour 
gone, though, he had seen a hundred Taraboners face one lone man in a black coat. A hundred lancers against one, and 
the Taraboners had been ripped to shreds. Literally ripped to shreds, men and horses simply exploding as fast he could 
count; the slaughter had continued after the Taraboners turned to flee, went on so long as one of them remained in 
sight. Perhaps it was really no worse than having the ground erupt beneath your feet, but at least damane. usually left 
enough of you 
to be buried. 
He had been told by the last man he managed to speak to in these woods, a grizzled veteran from home leading a 
hundred Amadician pikes, that Chianmai was in this direction. Ahead, he spotted riderless horses tied to trees, and men 
afoot. Maybe they could give him further direction. And he would give them the lash of his tongue for standing about 
while a battle raged. 
When he rode in among them, he forgot tongue-lashings. He had found what he was looking for, but not at all what he 
wanted to find. A dozen badly burned corpses lay in a row. One, his honey-brown face untouched, was recognizably 
Chianmai. The men on their feet were all Taraboners, Amadicians, Altarans. Some of them were injured, too. The only 
Seanchan was a tight-faced sul'dam soothing a weeping damane. 
"What happened here?" Varek demanded. He did not think it was like these Asha'man to leave survivors. Maybe the 
sul'dam had fought him off. 
"Madness, my lord." A hulking Taraboner shrugged away the man who was spreading ointment down his seared left 
arm. The sleeve appeared to have been burned away clear to the fellow's breastplate, yet despite his burns, he did not 
grimace. His veil of steel mail hung by a corner from his red-plumed conical helmet, baring a hard face with thick gray 
mustaches that nearly hid his mouth, and his eyes were insultingly direct. "A group of Illianers, they fell on us without 
warning. At first, all went well. They had none of the blackcoats with them. Lord Chianmai, he led us bravely, and the . 
. . the woman . . . channeled lightnings. Then, just as the Illianers broke, the lightnings, they fell among us, too." He cut 
off with a significant look at the sul'dam. 
She was on her feet in an instant, shaking her free fist and striding as far toward the Taraboner as the leash attached to 
her other wrist would allow. Her damane lay in a weeping heap. "I will not hear this dog's words against my Zakai! She 
is a good damane! A good damane!" 
Varek made soothing gestures to the woman. He had seen sul'dam make their charges howl for misdeeds, and a few 
who crippled the recalcitrant, but most would bristle even at one of the Blood who cast aspersions on a favorite. This 
Taraboner was not of the Blood, and by the look of the quivering sul'dam, she was ready to do murder. Had the man 
voiced his ridiculous, unspoken charge, Varek thought she might have killed him on the spot. 
"Prayers for the dead must wait," Varek said bluntly. What he was about to do would end with him in the hands of the 
Seekers, if he failed, but there was not a Seanchan left standing here except the sul'dam. "I am assuming command. We 
will disengage and turn south." 
"Disengage!" the heavy-shouldered Taraboner barked. "It will take us days to disengage! The Illianers, they fight like 
badgers backed into a corner, the Cairhienin like ferrets in a box. The Tairens, they are not so hard as I have heard, but 
there are maybe a dozen of these Asha'man, yes? I do not even know where three-quarters of my men are, in this 
jolly-bag!" Emboldened by his example, the others began giving protest, too. 
Varek ignored them. And forbore asking what a "jolly-bag" was; looking at the tangled forest all around, listening to 
the clash of battle, the booms of explosions and lightnings, he could imagine. "You will gather your men and begin 
pulling back," he said loudly, cutting through their chatter. "Not too fast; you will act in unison." Miraj's orders to 
Chianmai said "with all possible speed"—he had memorized them, in case something happened to the copy in his 
saddlebags—"all possible speed," but too much speed in this, and half the men would be left behind, chopped to 
flinders at the enemy's leisure. "Now, move! You fight for the Empress, may she live forever!" 



That last was the sort of thing you told fresh recruits, but for some reason, the listening men jerked as if he had struck 
them all with his quirt. Bowing quickly and deeply, hands on knees, they all but flew to their horses. Strange. Now it 
was up to him to find the Seanchan units. One of those would be commanded by someone above him, and he could 
pass his responsibility. 
The sul'dam was on her knees, stroking her still weeping damane's hair and crooning softly. "Get her soothed down," 
he told her. With all possible speed. And he thought he had seen a touch of anxiety in Miraj's eyes. What could make 
Kennar Miraj anxious? "I think we will be depending on you sul'dam to the south." Now, why would that make the 
blood drain from her face? 
Bashere stood just inside the edge of the trees, frowning through his helmet's face-bars at what he saw. His bay nuzzled 
his shoulder. He held his cloak close against the wind. More to avoid any motion that would draw eyes than for the 
cold, though that chilled his flesh. It would have been a spring breeze back in Saldaea, but months in the southlands 
had softened him. Shining bright between gray clouds that sailed along quickly, the sun still lay a little short of midday. 
And ahead of him. Just because you began a battle facing west did not mean you ended it that way. Before him lay a 
broad pasture where flocks of black-and-white goats cropped at the brown grass in desultory fashion just as if there was 
no battle raging all around them. Not that there was any sign of it here. For the moment. A man could get himself cut to 
doll rags crossing that meadow. And in the trees, whether forest or olive groves or thickets, you did not always see the 
enemy before you were on top of him, scouts or no scouts. 
"If we're going to cross," Gueyam muttered, rubbing a wide hand over his bald head, "we should cross. Light's truth, 
we're wasting time." Amondrid snapped his mouth shut; likely, the moon-faced Cairhienin had been about to say much 
the same thing. He would agree with a Tairen when horses climbed trees. Jeordwyn Semaris snorted. The man should 
have grown a beard to hide that narrow jaw. It made his head look like a forester's splitting wedge. "I do say go 
around," he muttered. "I've lost enough men to those Light-cursed damane, and ..." He trailed off with an uneasy glance 
toward Rochaid. 
The young Asha'man stood by himself, mouth tight, fingering that Dragon pin on his collar. Maybe wondering whether 
it was worth it, by the look of him. There was no knowing air about the boy now, only frowning worry. 
Leading Quick by the reins, Bashere strode to the Asha'man and drew him farther aside in the trees. Pushed him farther 
aside. Rochaid scowled, going reluctantly. The man was tall enough to loom over Bashere, but Bashere was having 
none of it. 
"Can I count on your people next time?" Bashere demanded, jerking a mustache in irritation. "No delays?" Rochaid and 
his fellows seemed to have grown slower and slower responding when they found themselves opposite damane. 
"I know what I'm about, Bashere," Rochaid snarled. "Aren't we killing enough of them for you? As far as I can see, 
we're about done!" 
Bashere nodded slowly. Not in agreement with the last. There were plenty of enemy soldiers left, almost anywhere you 
looked hard enough. But a good many were dead. He had patterned his movements on what he had studied of the 
Trolloc Wars, when the forces of the Light seldom came anywhere near the numbers they had to face. Slash at the 
flanks, and run. Slash at the rear, and run. Slash, and run, and when the enemy chased after, turn on the ground you had 
chosen beforehand, where the legionmen lay waiting with their crossbows, turn and cut at him until it was time to run 
again. Or until he broke. Already today he had broken Taraboners, Amadicians, Altarans and these Seanchan in their 
strange armor. He had seen more enemy dead than in any fight since the Blood Snow. But if he had Asha'man, the 
other side had those damane. A good third of his Saldaeans lay dead along the miles behind. Nearly half his force was 
dead, all told, and there were still more Seanchan out there with their cursed women, and Taraboners, and Amadicians 
and Altarans. They just kept coming, more appearing as soon as he finished the last. And the Asha'man were growing . 
. . hesitant. 
Swinging into Quick's saddle, he rode back to Jeordwyn and the others. "We go around," he ordered, ignoring 
Jeordwyn's nods as much as he did Gueyam and Amondrid's scowls. "Triple scouts out. I mean to push hard, but I don't 
want to trip over a damane." No one laughed. 
Rochaid had gathered the other five Asha'man around him, one with a silver sword pinned to his collar, the others 
without. There had been two more with bare collars when they started out that morning, but if Asha'man knew how to 
kill, so did damane. Waving his arms angrily, Rochaid appeared to be arguing with them. His face was red, theirs blank 
and stubborn. Bashere just hoped Rochaid could keep all of them from deserting. Today had been costly enough 
without adding that sort of man wandering about loose. 
A light rain fell. Rand scowled at the thick black clouds gathering the sky, already beginning to obscure a pale sun 



halfway down to the far horizon. Light rain now, but it would thicken like those clouds! Irritably he returned to 
studying the land ahead of him. The Crown of Swords pricked his temples. With the Power in him, the land was clear 
as a map despite the weather. Clear enough, anyway. Hills sinking away, some covered with thickets or olive trees, 
others bare grass or just stone and weeds. He thought he saw movement at the edge of a copse, then again among the 
rows of an olive orchard on another hill a mile from the copse. Thinking was not enough. Dead men lay across the 
miles behind, dead enemies. Dead women, too, he knew, but he had stayed away from anywhere sul'dam and damane 
had died, refused to see their faces. Most thought it was hatred for those who killed so many of his followers. 
Tai'daishar frisked a few steps on the hilltop before Rand settled him with a firm hand and the pressure of his knees. A 
fine thing if a sul'dam spotted his movement. The few trees around him were not enough to hide much. Vaguely, he 
realized he did not recognize a one of them. Tai'daishar tossed his head. Rand tucked the Dragon Scepter into his 
saddlebags, just the carved butt-end sticking out, to free both hands in case the gelding was not satisfied. He could have 
taken weariness from the horse with saidin, but he knew no way to make it obey with the Power. 
He could not see how the gelding retained enough energy. Saidin filled him, bubbled in him, but his distantly felt body 
wanted to sag with weariness. Part of that was the sheer amount of the Power he had handled today. Part was the strain 
of fighting saidin to make it do what he wanted. Always, saidin had to be conquered, forced, but never before like 
today. The half-healed, never-healing wounds in his left side were agony, the older an auger trying to drill through the 
Void, the newer a blaze of raw flame. 
"It was an accident, my Lord Dragon," Adley said suddenly. "I swear it was!" 
"Shut up and watch!" Rand told him harshly. Adley's eyes sank to his hands on his own reins for a moment, then he 
raked damp hair out of his face and jerked his head up obediently. 
Today, here, controlling saidin was harder than ever, but letting it slip anytime, anywhere, could kill you. Adley had let 
it slip, and men had died in uncontrolled bursts of fire, not just the Amadicians he had been aiming at, but near thirty of 
Ailil's arms-men and almost as many of Anaiyella's. 
Except for his slip, Adley would have been with Morr, with the Companions in the woods half a mile to the south. 
Narishma and Hopwil were with the Defenders, to the north. Rand wanted Adley under his eye. Had any other 
"accidents" happened, out of his sight? He could not watch everyone, all the time. Flinn's face was grim as day-old 
death, and Dashiva, far from looking vague, seemed on the point of sweating with concentration. He still muttered to 
himself under his breath, so low Rand could not hear even with the Power in him, but the man mopped rain from his 
face continually with a sodden lace-edged linen handkerchief that had grown more than grimy as the day wore on. 
Rand did not think they had slipped. In any case, neither they nor Adley held the Power now. Nor would until he 
instructed them to seize it. 
"Is it done?" Anaiyella asked behind him. 
Heedless of who might be watching out there, Rand wheeled Tai'daishar around to face her. The Taken woman started 
back in her saddle, the hood of her richly elaborate rain cape falling to her shoulders. Her cheek gave a twitch. Her eyes 
might have been full of fear, or hate. At her side, Ailil fingered her reins calmly with red-gloved hands. 
"What more can you want?" the smaller woman asked in a cool voice. A lady being polite to a menial. Barely. "If the 
size of a victory is accounted by dead enemies, I think today alone will put your name in the histories." 
"I mean to drive the Seanchan into the sea!" Rand snapped. Light, he had to finish them now, when he had the chance! 
He could not fight the Seanchan and the Forsaken and the Light alone knew who or what else, all at the same time! "I 
did it before, and I will again!" 
Do you have the Horn of Valere hidden in your pocket this time? Lews Therin asked slyly. Rand snarled at him 
silently. 
"There's someone below," Flinn said suddenly. "Riding up this way. From the west." 
Rand pulled his mount back around. Legionmen ringed the slopes of the hill, though they hid well enough that he 
seldom caught sight of a blue coat. None of them had a horse. Who would be riding . . . 
Bashere's bay trotted up the slope almost as though it were level ground. Bashere's helmet hung from his saddle, and 
the man himself looked tired. Without preamble, he spoke in a flat voice. "We're finished, here. Part of fighting is 
knowing when to go, and it's time. I've left five hundred dead behind, near enough, and two of your Soldiers for salt. I 
sent three more to find Semaradrid, Gregorin and Weiramon and tell them to rally on you. I doubt they're in any better 
condition than I am. How does your butcher's bill run?" 
Rand ignored the question. His own dead topped Bashere's by close to two hundred. "You had no right sending orders 
to the others. So long as there are half a dozen Asha'man left—so long as there's me!—I have enough! I mean to find 



the rest of the Seanchan army and destroy it, Bashere. I won't let them add Altara to Tarabon and Amadicia." 
Bashere knuckled his thick mustaches with a wry laugh. "You want to find them. Look out there." He swept a 
gauntleted hand across the hills to the west. "I can't point to a particular spot, but there are ten, maybe fifteen thousand 
close enough to see from here, if those trees weren't in the way. I danced with the Dark One getting through them 
unseen to reach you. Maybe a hundred damane down there. Maybe more. More coming, for sure, and more men. Seems 
their general has decided to concentrate on you. I suppose it isn't always cheese and ale being ta'veren." 
"If they're out there . . ." Rand scanned the hills. The rain fell more heavily. Where had he seen movement? Light, he 
was tired. Saidin hammered at him. Unconsciously he touched the wrapped bundled beneath his stirrup leather. His 
hand jerked away of its own accord. Ten thousand, even fifteen . . . Once Semaradrid reached him, and Gregorin, and 
Weiramon . . . More important, once the rest of the Asha'man did . . . "If they're out there, that's where I'll destroy them, 
Bashere. I'll hit them from all sides, the way we intended in the first place." 
Frowning, Bashere reined his horse closer, until his knee almost touched Rand's. Flinn moved his mount away, but 
Adley was too focused on staring through the rain to notice anything so near, and Dashiva, still wiping his face 
incessantly, stared with open interest. Bashere lowered his voice to a murmur. "You aren't thinking straight. That was a 
good plan, in the beginning, but their general thinks fast. He spread out to blunt our attacks before we could fall on him 
spread out marching. We've cost him even so, it seems, and he now he's pulling everything together. You won't catch 
him by surprise. He wants us to come at him. He's out there waiting for it. Asha'man or no Asha'man, if we stand 
nose-to-nose with this fellow, I think maybe the vultures grow fat and nobody rides away." 
"Nobody stands nose-to-nose with the Dragon Reborn," Rand growled. "The Forsaken could tell him that, whoever he 
is. Right, Flinn? Dashiva?" Flinn nodded uncertainly. Dashiva flinched. "You think I can't surprise him, Bashere? 
Watch!" Pulling the long bundle loose, he stripped away the cloth covering, and Rand heard gasps as raindrops 
glistened on a sword seemingly made of crystal. The Sword That Is Not a Sword. "Let's see if he's surprised by 
Callandor in the hands of the Dragon Reborn, Bashere." 
Cradling the translucent blade in the crook of his elbow, Rand rode Tai'daishar forward a few steps. There was no 
reason to. He had no clearer view from there. Except . . . Something spidered across the outer surface of the Void, a 
wriggling black web. He was afraid. The last time he had used Callandor, really used it, he had tried to bring the dead 
back to life. He had been sure he could do anything, then, anything at all. Like a madman thinking he could fly. But he 
was the Dragon Reborn. He could do anything. Had he not proved it time and again? He reached for the Source 
through the Sword That Is Not a Sword. 
Saidin seemed to leap into Callandor before he touched the Source through it. From pommel to point, the crystal sword 
shone with a white light. He had only thought the Power filled him before. Now he held more than ten men could have 
unaided, a hundred, he did not know how many. The fires of the sun, searing through his head. The cold of all of the 
winters of all the Ages, eating into his heart. In that torrent, the taint was all the midden heaps in the world emptying 
into his soul. Saidin still tried to kill him, tried to scour away, burn away, freeze away, every scrap of him, but he 
fought, and he lived for a moment more, and another moment, another. He wanted to laugh. He could do anything! 
Once, holding Callandor, he had made a weapon that searched out Shadowspawn through the Stone of Tear, struck 
them dead with hunting lightning wherever they stood or ran or hid. Surely there must be something like that, to use 
against his enemies here. But when he called to Lews Therin, only anguished whimpers answered, as if that 
disembodied voice feared the pain of saidin. 
With Callandor blazing in his hand— he did not remember raising the blade overhead— he stared at the hills where his 
enemies hid. They were gray now, with thickening rain, and dense black clouds blocking the sun. What was it he had 
told Eagan Padros? 
"I am the storm," he whispered— a shout in his ears, a roar— and he channeled. 
Overhead, the clouds boiled. Where they had been the black of soot, they became midnight, the heart of midnight. He 
did not know what he was channeling. So often, he did not, in spite of Asmodean's teaching. Maybe Lews Therin was 
guiding him, in spite of the man's weeping. Flows of saidin spun across the sky, Wind and Water and Fire. Fire. The 
sky truly did rain lightning. A hundred bolts at once, hundreds, forked blue-white shafts stabbing down as far as he 
could see. The hills before him erupted. Some flew apart under the torrent of lightning like kicked anthills. Flames 
sprang up in thickets, trees turning to torches in the rain, flames racing through olive orchards. 
Something struck him hard, and he realized he was picking himself up from the ground. The crown had fallen from his 
head. Callandor still blazed in his hand, though. Vaguely, he was aware of Tai'daishar scrambling to his feet, trembling. 
So they thought to strike back at him, did they. 



Shoving Callandor high, he screamed at them. "Come against me, if you dare! I am the storm! Come if you dare,
Shai'tan! I am the Dragon Reborn!" A thousand sizzling lightning bolts hailed down from the clouds.
Again something struck him down. He tried to fight up again. Callandor, still shining, lay a pace from his outstretched
hand. The sky shattered with lightnings. Suddenly, he realized that the weight atop him was Bashere, that the man was
shaking him. It must have been Bashere who had flung him down!
"Stop it!" the Saldaean shouted. Blood fanned down his face from a split across his scalp. "You're killing us, man!
Stop!"
Rand turned his head, and one stunned look was enough. Lightnings flashed all around him, in every direction. A bolt
stabbed down onto the reverse slope, where Denharad and the armsmen were; the screams of men and horses rose.
Anaiyella and Ailil were both afoot, trying vainly to quiet mounts that reared, eyes rolling, trying to rip reins free. Flinn
was bending over someone, not far from a dead horse with legs already stiff.
Rand let saidin go. He let it go, but for moments it still flowed into him, and lightning raged. The flow into him
dwindled, tailed off and vanished. Dizziness swept through him in its place. For three more heartbeats, two of
Callandor shone where they lay on the ground, and lightning fell. Then, silence except for the rising drum of the rain.
And the screams from behind the hill. Slowly Bashere climbed off of him, and Rand rose unaided on tottering legs,
blinking as his sight returned to normal. The Saldaean watched him as he might have a rabid lion, fingering his sword
hilt. Anaiyella took one look at Rand on his feet and collapsed in a faint; her horse dashed away, reins dangling. Ailil,
still fighting her rearing animal, spared few glances for Rand. Rand let Callandor lie where it was for the moment. He
was not sure he dared pick it up. Not yet.
Flinn straightened, shaking his head, then stood silently as Rand went unsteadily to stand beside him. The rain fell on
Jonan Adley's sightless eyes, bulging as if in horror. Jonan had been one of the first. Those screams from behind the
hill seemed to slice through the rain. How many more, Rand wondered. Among the Defenders? The Companions?
Among . . . ?
Rain thick as a blanket hid the hills where the Seanchan army lay. Had he hurt them at all, striking out blindly? Or were
they still waiting out there with all their damane? Waiting to see how many more of his own he could kill for them.
"Set whatever guard you think we need," Rand told Bashere. His voice was iron. One of the first. His heart was iron.
"When Gregorin and the others reach us, we'll Travel to where the carts are waiting as fast as we can." Bashere nodded
without speaking, and turned away in the rain.
I've lost, Rand thought dully. I'm the Dragon Reborn, but for the first time, I've lost.
Suddenly, Lews Therin raged up inside him, sly digs forgotten. I've never been defeated, he snarled. I am the Lord of
the Morning! No one can defeat me!
Rand sat in the rain, turning the Crown of Swords in his hands, looking at Callandor lying in the mud. He let Lews
Therin rage.
Abaldar Yulan wept, grateful for the downpour that hid the tears on his cheeks. Someone would have to give the order.
Eventually someone would have to apologize to the Empress, might she live forever, and maybe to Suroth sooner.
Those were not why he wept, though, nor even for a dead comrade. Roughly ripping a sleeve from his coat, he laid it
across Miraj's staring eyes so the rain would not fall in them.
"Send out orders for retreat," Yulan ordered, and saw the men standing around him jerk. For the second time on these
shores, the Ever Victorious Army had suffered a devastating defeat, and Yulan did not think he was the only one who
wept.


Chapter 25 An Unwelcome Return


Seated behind her gilded writing table, Elaida fingered an age-dark ivory carving of a strange bird with a beak as long
as its body and listened with some amusement to the six women standing on the other side on the table. Each a Sitter
for her Ajah, they frowned sideways at one another, shifted velvet slippers on the brightly patterned carpet that covered
most of the russet floor tiles, twitched at vine-worked shawls so the colored fringes danced, and generally looked and
sounded like a gaggle of peevish serving girls wishing they had the nerve to go for each others' throats in front of their
mistress. Frost coated the glassed casements fitted into the windows so that it was hardly possible to see the snow
swirling outside, though sometimes the winds howled with an icy rage. Elaida felt quite warm, and not just for the thick
logs blazing in the white marble fireplace. Whether these women knew it or not—well, Duhara knew, certainly, and
perhaps the others did—she was their mistress. The elaborate gold-covered case clock that Cemaile had commissioned




ticked away. Cemaile's vanished dream would come true; The Tower returned to its glory. And firmly in the capable 
hands of Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan. 
"No ter'angreal has ever been found that can 'control' a woman's channeling," Velina was saying in a voice cool and 
precise but almost girlishly high-pitched, a voice at strong odds with her eagle's beak of a nose and her sharp, tilted 
eyes. She sat for the White, and was the very model of a White sister, in all but her fierce appearance. Her plain, snowy 
dress seemed stark and cold. "Very few have ever been found that perform the same function. Therefore, logically, if 
such a ter'angreal were found, or more than one, improbable as that must be, there could not be sufficient of them to 
control more than two or three women at most. It follows that the reports of these so-called Seanchan are exaggerated 
wildly. If women on 'leashes' exist, they cannot channel. Plainly not. I do not deny these people hold Ebou Dar, and 
Amador, and perhaps more, but clearly they are but a creation of Rand al'Thor, perhaps to frighten people into flocking 
to him. Like this Prophet of his. It is simple logic." 
"I am very glad you don't deny Amador and Ebou Dar at least, Velina," Shevan said drily. And she could be very dry 
indeed. As tall as most men, and bonily thin with it, the Brown Sitter had an angular face and a long chin, not improved 
by a cap of curls. With spidery fingers she rearranged her shawl and smoothed skirts of dark golden silk, and her voice 
took on pointed amusement. "I'm uncomfortable saying what can and can't be. For example, not long gone, everyone 
'knew' only a shield woven by a sister could stop a woman channeling. Then comes a simple herb, forkroot, and anyone 
at all can feed you a tea that leaves you unable as a stone to channel for hours. Useful with unruly wilders or the like, I 
suppose, but a nasty little surprise for those who think they knew everything, eh? Maybe next, someone will learn to 
make ter'angreal again." 
Elaida's mouth tightened. She did not concern herself with impossibilities, and if no sister had managed to rediscover 
the making of ter'angreal in three thousand years, one never would and that was that. It was knowledge slipping 
through her fingers when she wanted it held close that curled Elaida's tongue. In spite of all her efforts, every last 
initiate in the Tower had learned of forkroot, now. No one liked knowing in the least. No one liked suddenly being 
vulnerable to anyone with a knowledge of herbs and a little hot water. That knowledge was worse than poison, as the 
Sitters here made clear. 
At mention of the herb, Duhara's big, dark eyes grew uneasy in her coppery face, and she held herself more stiffly than 
usual, hands clutching skirts so red they seemed nearly black. Sedore actually swallowed, and her fingers tightened on 
the worked leather folder Elaida had handed her, though the round-faced Yellow usually carried herself with a frosty 
elegance. Andaya shivered! She actually wrapped her gray-fringed shawl around her convulsively. 
Elaida wondered what they would do if they learned the Asha'man had rediscovered Traveling. As it was, they were 
barely able to make themselves speak of them. At least she had managed to hold that knowledge to a handful. 
"I think we might better concern ourselves with what we know to be true, yes?" Andaya said firmly, back in control of 
herself. Her light brown hair, brushed till it gleamed, hung flowing down her back, and her silver-slashed blue dress 
was cut in the style of Andor, but Tarabon still rested strongly on her tongue. Though neither particularly small nor 
particularly slim, she somehow always reminded Elaida of a sparrow about to hop on a branch. A most 
unlikely-appearing negotiator, though her reputation had been earned. She smiled at the others, not very pleasantly, and 
that seemed sparrowlike, too. Perhaps it was how she held her head. "Idle speculation, it wastes precious time. The 
world hangs by a thread, and myself, I do not wish to fritter away valuable hours prattling about supposed logic or 
chattering over what every fool and novice knows. Does anyone have anything useful to say?" For a sparrow, she could 
put acid on her words. Velina's face went red, and Shevan's darkened. 
Rubinde twisted her lips at the Gray. Perhaps they were meant to make a smile, but they merely seemed to writhe. With 
raven-black hair and eyes like sapphires, the Mayener usually looked as if she intended to walk through a stone wall, 
and planting her fists on her hips now, she seemed ready to walk through two. "We've dealt with what we can for the 
time being, Andaya. Most of it, anyway. The rebels are caught by the snows in Murandy, and we'll make winter hot 
enough for them that in the spring they'll come crawling back to apologize and beg penance. Tear will be taken care of 
as soon as we find where the High Lord Darlin has vanished to, and Cairhien once we root Caraline Damodred and 
Toram Riatin out of their hiding places. Al'Thor has the crown of Illian for the moment, but that's in work. So, unless 
you have a scheme for snaffling the man into the Tower or making these so-called 'Asha'man' vanish, I have the 
business of my Ajah to be about." 
Andaya drew herself up, her feathers well and truly ruffled. For that matter, Duhara's eyes narrowed; mention of men 
who could channel always lit fires in her head. Shevan clicked her tongue as if at children squabbling—though she 
looked pleased to see it—and Velina frowned, for some reason sure Shevan had aimed at her. This was amusing, but 



getting out of hand. 
"The business of the Ajahs is important, daughters." Elaida did not raise her voice, but every head swiveled toward her. 
She replaced the ivory carving with the rest of her collection in the large box covered with roses and golden scrolls, 
carefully adjusted the positions of her writing case and correspondence box so the three lacquered boxes lined up just 
so on the table, and once their silence was perfect she went on. "The business of the Tower is more important, though. I 
trust you will effect my decrees promptly. I see too much sloth in the Tower. I fear Silviana may find herself very busy 
if matters do not come right soon." She did not voice any further threat. She merely smiled. 
"As you command, Mother," murmured six voices not so steady as their owners might have wished. Even Duhara's 
face was pasty pale as they made their curtsies. Two Sitters had been stripped of their chairs, and half a dozen had 
served days of Labor for penance—which was humiliating enough in their position to be Mortification of the Spirit 
besides; Shevan and Sedore certainly wore tight mouths as they remembered all too well scrubbing floors and working 
in the laundries—but none had been sent to Silviana for Mortification of the Flesh. No one wanted to be. The Mistress 
of Novices had two or three visits each week from sisters who been given penance by their Ajahs or set one for 
themselves—a dose of the strap, however painful, was done with much more quickly than raking garden paths for a 
month— but Silviana possessed considerably less mercy with sisters than with the novices and Accepted in her charge. 
More than one sister must have spent the next few days wondering whether a month pulling a rake might not have been 
preferable after all. 
They scurried toward the doors, eager to be away. Sitters or no, not one would have set foot this high in the Tower 
without Elaida's direct summons. Fingering her striped stole, Elaida let her smile become one of pleasure. Yes, she was 
the mistress in the White Tower. As was only proper for the Amyrlin Seat. 
Before that fast-stepping knot of Sitters reach the doorway, the left-hand door opened, and Alviarin stepped in, the 
narrow white stole of the Keeper almost vanishing against a silk dress that made Velina's seem dingy. 
Elaida felt her smile go crooked and begin sliding from her face. Alviarin had a single sheet of parchment in one slim 
hand. Odd, what one noticed at a time like this. The woman had been gone almost two weeks, vanished from the Tower 
without word or note, without anyone so much as seeing her go, and Elaida had begun to think fond thoughts of 
Alviarin lying in a snowbank, or swept away in a river, sliding beneath the ice. 
The six Sitters skidded to a halt uncertainly when Alviarin did not move out of their way. Even a Keeper with 
Alviarin's influence did not impede Sitters. Though Velina, normally the most self-possessed woman in the Tower, 
flinched for some reason. Alviarin glanced once at Elaida, coolly, studied the Sitters for a moment, and understood 
everything. 
"I think you should leave that with me," she said to Sedore in tones only a fraction warmer than the snow outside. "The 
Mother likes to consider her decrees carefully, as you know. This would not be the first time she changed her mind 
after signing." She held out a slim hand. 
Sedore, whose arrogance was notable even among Yellows, barely hesitated before giving her the leather folder. 
Elaida ground her teeth in fury. Sedore had hated her five days up to her elbows in hot water and scrub boards. Elaida 
would find something less comfortable for her next time. Maybe Silviana after all. Maybe cleaning the cesspits! 
Alviarin stepped aside without a word, and the Sitters went, adjusting shawls, muttering to themselves, reassuming the 
dignity of the Hall. Briskly, Alviarin closed the door behind them and walked toward Elaida thumbing through the 
papers in the folder. The decrees she had signed hoping Alviarin was dead. Of course, she had not rested on hope. She 
had not spoken to Seaine, in case someone might see and tell Alviarin when she returned, but Seaine was certainly 
working away as instructed, following the path of treason that surely would lead to Alviarin Freidhen. But Elaida had 
hoped. Oh, how she had hoped. 
Alviarin murmured to herself as she rifled the folder. "This can go through, I suppose. But not this. Or this. And 
certainly not this!" She crumpled a decree, signed and sealed by the Amyrlin Seat, and tossed it to the floor 
contemptuously. Stopping beside Elaida's gilded chair, with the Flame of Tar Valon in moonstones atop its high back, 
she slapped the folder and her own parchment down on the table. And then slapped Elaida's face so hard she saw black 
flecks. 
"I thought we had settled this, Elaida." The monstrous woman's voice made the snowstorm outside seem warm. "I 
know how to save the Tower from your blunders, and I won't have you making new ones behind my back. If you 
persist, be assured that I will see you deposed, stilled, and howling under the birch before every initiate and even the 
servants!" 
With an effort, Elaida kept her hand away from her cheek. She did not need a mirror to tell her it was red. She had to be 



careful. Seaine had found nothing yet, or she would have come. Alviarin could open her mouth before the Hall and 
reveal the whole disastrous kidnapping of the al'Thor boy. She might see her deposed, and stilled and birched with that 
alone, but Alviarin had another string to her bow. Toveine Gazal was leading fifty sisters and two hundred of the 
Tower Guard against a Black Tower Elaida had been sure, when she gave the orders, held perhaps two or three men 
who could channel. Yet even with the hundreds—hundreds! with Alviarin staring coldly down at her, that thought still 
curdled Elaida's stomach!—even with hundreds of these Asha'man, she had hope for Toveine. The Black Tower would 
be rent in fire and blood, she had Foretold, and sisters would walk its grounds. Surely that meant that somehow, 
Toveine would triumph. More, the rest of the Foretelling had told her that the Tower would regain all its old glories 
under her, that al'Thor himself would quail at her anger. Alviarin had heard the words coming out of Elaida's mouth 
when the Foretelling took her. And she had not remembered later, when she began her blackmail, had not understood 
her own doom. Elaida waited in patience. She would repay the woman threefold! But she could be patient. For now. 
Making no attempt to hide her sneer, Alviarin pushed the folder aside and moved the single parchment in front of 
Elaida. She flipped open the green-and-gold writing case, dipped Elaida's pen in the inkwell and thrust it at her. "Sign." 
Elaida took the pen wondering what madness she would be putting her name to this time. Yet another increase in the 
Tower Guard, when the rebels would be done before there was any use for soldiers? Another attempt to make the Ajahs 
reveal publicly which sisters headed them? That had certainly fallen on its nose! Reading quickly, she felt a knot of ice 
grow in her belly and keep growing. Giving each Ajah final authority over any sister in its quarter no matter her own 
Ajah had been the worst insanity so far—how could picking apart the very fabric of the Tower save it?—but this—! 
The world now knows that Rand al'Thor is the Dragon Reborn. The world knows that he is a man who can touch the 
One Power. Such men have lain within the authority of the White Tower since time immemorial. -The Dragon Reborn 
is granted the protection of the Tower, but whosoever attempts to approach him save through the White Tower lies 
attainted of treason against the Light, and anathema is pronounced against them now and forever. The world may rest 
easily knowing that the White Tower will safely guide the Dragon Reborn to the Last Battle and the inevitable triumph. 
Automatically, numbly, she added "of the Light" after "triumph," but then her hand froze. Publicly acknowledging 
al'Thor as the Dragon Reborn could be borne, since he was, and this might lead many to accept the rumors that he had 
knelt to her already, which would prove useful, but for the rest, she could not believe so much damage could be 
contained in so few words. 
"The Light have mercy," she breathed fervently. "If this is proclaimed, it will be impossible to convince al'Thor that his 
abduction was unsanctioned." It would be hard enough without, but she had seen people convinced before that what 
had happened, had not, and them in the middle of it happening. "And he will be ten times on his guard against another 
attempt. Alviarin, at best, this will frighten away a few of his followers. At best!" Many likely had waded so deep with 
him they did not dare try to wade back. Certainly not if they thought anathema already hung over their heads! "I might 
as well set fire to the Tower with my own hand as sign this!" 
Alviarin sighed impatiently. "You haven't forgotten your catechism, have you? Say it for me, as I taught you." 
Elaida's lips compressed of their own accord. One pleasure in the woman's absence—not the greatest, but a very real 
pleasure—had been not being forced to repeat that vile litany every day. "I will do as I am told," she said at last, in a 
flat voice. She was the Amyrlin Seat! "I will speak the words you tell me to speak, and no more." Her Foretelling 
ordained her triumph, but, oh, Light, let it come soon! "I will sign what you tell me to sign, and nothing else. I am . . ." 
She choked over the last. "I am obedient to your will." 
"You sound as if you need to be reminded of the truth of that," Alviarin said with another sigh. "I suppose I've left you 
alone too long." She tapped the parchment with a peremptory finger. "Sign." 
Elaida signed, dragging the pen across the parchment. There was nothing else she could do. 
Alviarin barely waited for the pen's nib to lift before snatching up the decree. "I will seal this myself," she said, heading 
for the door. "I shouldn't have left the Amyrlin's seal where you could find it. I want to talk to you later. I have left you 
to yourself too long. Be here when I return." 
"Later?" Elaida said. "When? Alviarin? Alviarin?" The door closed behind the woman, leaving Elaida to fume. Be 
there when Alviarin returned! Confined to her quarters like a novice in the punishment cells! 
For a time she fingered her correspondence box, with its golden hawks fighting among white clouds in a blue sky, yet 
she could not make herself open it. With Alviarin gone, that box had begun once more to hold letters and reports of 
importance, not just the table scraps Alviarin let fall to her, yet with the woman's return, it might as well have been 
empty. Rising, she began rearranging the roses in their white vases, each atop a white marble plinth in a corner of the 
room. Blue roses; the most rare. 



Abruptly she realized that she was staring at a broken rose stem in her hands, snapped in two. Half a dozen more 
littered the floor tiles. She made a vexed sound in her throat. She had been thinking of her hands around Alviarin's 
throat. It was not the first time she had considered killing the woman. But Alviarin would have taken precautions. 
Sealed documents, to be opened should anything untoward happen, had no doubt been left with the last sisters Elaida 
would suspect. That had been her one real worry during Alviarin's absence, that someone else might think the woman 
dead, and come forward with the evidence that would drag the stole from her shoulders. Sooner or later, though, one 
way or another, Alviarin was finished, as surely as those roses 
were"
You didn't answer my knock, Mother, so I came on in," a woman said gruffly behind her. 
Elaida turned, ready to flay with her tongue, but at the sight of the stocky, square-faced woman in a red-fringed shawl 
standing just inside the room, the blood drained from her own cheeks. 
"The Keeper said you wanted to speak me," Silviana said irritably. "About a private penance." Even to the Amyrlin 
Seat, she made no effort to hide her disgust. Silviana believed private penance a ridiculous affectation. Penance was 
public; only punishment took place in private. "She also asked me to remind you of something, but she rushed off 
before saying what." She finished with a snort. Silviana saw anything that took time away from her novices and 
Accepted as needless interruption. 
"I think I remember," Elaida told her dully. 
When Silviana finally left—after only half an hour by the chimes of Cemaile's clock, yet an endless eternity—all that 
kept Elaida from calling the Hall to sit immediately so she could demand Alviarin be stripped of the Keeper's stole 
were the certainty of her Foretelling and the certainty that Seaine would trace that trail of treason back to Alviarin. 
That, and the sure fact that whether or not Alviarin fell in the confrontation, she herself definitely would. So, Elaida do 
Avriny a'Roihan, Watcher of the Seals, the Flame of Tar Valon, the Amyrlin Seat, surely the most powerful ruler in the 
world, lay face down on her bed and blubbered into her pillows, too tender to don the shift that lay discarded on the 
floor, certain that when Alviarin returned, the woman would insist on her sitting through the entire interview. She 
blubbered, and through her tears she prayed for Alviarin's downfall to come soon. 
"I did not tell you to have Elaida . . . beaten," that voice of crystal chimes said. "Do you rise above yourself?" 
Alviarin flung herself from her knees onto her belly before the woman who seemed made of dark shadows and silvery 
light. Seizing the hem of Mesaana's dress, she rained kisses on it. The weave of Illusion—it must be that, though she 
could not see a single thread of saidar any more than she could sense the ability to channel in the woman who stood 
over her— did not hold completely, with her frantically shifting the skirt's edge. Flickers of bronze silk with a thin 
border of intricately embroidered black scrollwork showed through. 
"I live to serve and obey you, Great Mistress," Alviarin panted between kisses. "I know that I am among the lowest of 
the low, a worm in your presence, and I pray only for your smile." She had been punished once for "rising above 
herself" —not for disobedience, thanks be to the Great Lord of the Dark!— and she knew that whatever howls Elaida 
might be raising right then, they could not be half so loud as her own had been. 
Mesaana let the kissing go on for some time, and finally signaled an end by tipping Alviarin's face up with the toe of a 
slipper beneath the chin. "The decree has gone out." It was not a question, but Alviarin answered hastily. 
"Yes, Great Mistress. Copies went to Northharbor and Southharbor even before I had Elaida sign. The first couriers 
have gone, and no merchant will leave the city without copies to distribute." Mesaana knew all that, of course. She 
knew everything. A cramp tightened the back of Alviarin's awkwardly craned neck, but she did not move. Mesaana 
would tell her when to move. "Great Mistress, Elaida is an empty husk. With all humility, would it not be better 
without the need to use her?" She held her breath. Questions could be dangerous, with the Chosen. 
A shadow-nailed silvery finger tapped silver lips pursed in an amused smile. "Better if you wore the Amyrlin's stole, 
child?" Mesaana said at last. "An ambition small enough to fit you, but all in its time. For now, I have a tiny task for 
you. In spite of all the walls that have gone up between the Ajahs, the heads of the Ajahs seem to encounter one 
another with surprising frequency. By chance, they make it seem. All but the Red, at least; a pity Galina got herself 
killed, or she could tell you what they are about. Very probably it is trivial, but you will learn why they bare teeth at 
one another in public, then whisper together in private." 
"I hear and obey, Great Mistress," Alviarin replied promptly, grateful that Mesaana considered it unimportant. The 
great "secret" of who headed the Ajahs was none to her—every Black sister was required to relay to the Supreme 
Council every whisper inside her supposed Ajah—but only Galina among them had been Black. That meant querying 
the Black sisters among the Sitters, which meant going through all the layers between them and her. That would take 



time, and without any certainty of success. Except for Ferane Neheran and Suana Dragand, who were the heads of the 
their Ajahs, Sitters rarely seemed to know what their Ajah's head was thinking until they were told. "I will tell you as 
soon as I learn, Great Mistress." 
But she did file away a tidbit for herself. Trivial matter or not, Mesaana did not know everything that happened in the 
White Tower. And Alviarin would keep her eyes open for a sister in bronze skirts bordered on the hem in black 
scrollwork. Mesaana was hiding herself in the Tower, and knowledge was power. 

Chapter 26 The Extra Bit 

Seaine strode the hallways of the Tower with a growing sense of being confounded at every turn. The White Tower 
was quite large, true, but she had been at this for hours. She very much wanted to be snug in her own rooms. Despite 
casements in place in every window, drafts drifted along the broad, tapestry-hung corridors and made the stand-lamps 
flicker. Cold drafts, and difficult to ignore when they slipped under her skirts. Her rooms were warm and comfortable, 
and safe. 
Maids bobbed curtsies and manservants bowed in her wake, half-seen and completely ignored. Most sisters were in 
their own Ajahs' quarters, and those few out and about moved with wary pride, often in pairs, always of the same Ajah, 
shawls spread along their arms and displayed like banners. She smiled and nodded pleasantly to Talene, but the 
statuesque, golden-haired Sitter returned a hard stare, beauty carved from ice, then stalked away twitching her 
green-fringed shawl. 
Too late now to approach Talene about being part of the search, even had Pevara been agreeable. Pevara counseled 
caution, then more caution, and truth to tell, Seaine was more than willing to listen under the circumstances. It was just 
that Talene was a friend. Had been a friend. 
Talene was not the worst. Several ordinary sisters sniffed at her openly. At a Sitter! None White, of course, but that 
should have made no difference. No matter what was going on in the Tower, proprieties should be observed. Juilaine 
Madome, a tall, attractive woman with short-cut black hair who had held a chair for the Brown less than a year, 
brushed past her without so much as a murmur of apology and went off with those mannish strides of hers. Saerin 
Asnobar, another Brown Sitter, gave Seaine a fierce scowl and fingered that curved knife she always carried behind her 
belt before disappearing down a side corridor. Saerin was Altaran, slight touches of white at her dark temples 
emphasizing a thin age-faded white scar across one olive cheek, and only a Warder could match her for scowling. 
Perhaps these things were all to be expected. There had been several unfortunate incidents recently, and no sister would 
forget being bundled unceremoniously from the hallways around another Ajah's quarters, much less what had 
sometimes gone with it. Rumor said a Sitter—a Sitter!—had had more than her dignity ruffled by the Reds, though not 
who. A great pity the Hall could not obstruct Elaida's mad decree, but first one Ajah, then another, had leaped on the 
new prerogatives, few Sitters were willing to think of giving them up now they were in place, and the result was a 
Tower divided very nearly into armed camps. Once Seaine had thought the air in the Tower felt like a quivering hot 
jelly of suspicion and backbiting; now it was quivering hot jelly with an acid bite. 
Clicking her tongue in vexation, she adjusted her own white-fringed shawl as Saerin vanished. It was illogical to flinch 
because an Altaran scowled—even Saerin would go no further; surely not—and more than illogical to worry over what 
she could not change when she had a task. 
And then, after all of her search that morning, she took a single step and saw her long-sought quarry walking toward 
her. Zerah Dacan was a slim, black-haired girl with a prideful air, properly self-possessed, and by all outward evidence 
untouched by the heated currents flowing through the Tower these days. Well, not a girl precisely, but Seaine was sure 
she had not worn 
that white-fringed shawl fifty years yet. She was inexperienced. Relatively inexperienced. That might help. 
Zerah made no move to avoid a Sitter of her own Ajah, bowing her head in respect as Seaine fell in beside her. Quite a 
lot of intricate golden embroidery climbed the sleeves of her snowy dress and made a wide band at the bottom of her 
skirt. It was an unusual degree of show for the White Ajah. "Sitter," she murmured. Did her blue eyes hold a touch of 
worry? 
"I need you for something," Seaine said more calmly than she felt. Very likely she was transplanting her own feelings 
into Zerah's big eyes. "Come with me." There was nothing to fear, not in the heart of the White Tower, but keeping her 
hands folded at her waist, unclenched, required surprising effort. 
As expected— as hoped— Zerah went along with only another murmur, this of acquiescence. She glided at Seaine's 



side quite gracefully as they descended broad marble staircases and wide curving ramps, and gave only the slightest 
frown when Seaine opened a door on the ground floor, onto narrow stairs that spiraled down into darkness. 
"After you, sister," Seaine said, channeling a small ball of light. By protocol, she should have preceded the other 
woman, but she could not bring herself to do that. 
Zerah did not hesitate in going down. Logically, she had nothing to fear from a Sitter, a White Sitter. Logically, Seaine 
would tell her what she wanted when the time was ripe, and it would be nothing she could not do. Illogically, Seaine's 
stomach fluttered like a huge moth. Light, she held saidar and the other woman did not. Zerah was weaker in any case. 
There was nothing to fear. Which did nothing to quiet those fluttering wings in her middle. Down they climbed and 
down, past doors letting onto basements and sub-basements, until they reached the very lowest level, below even where 
the Accepted were tested. The dark hallway was lit only by Seaine's small light. They held their skirts high, but their 
slippers kicked up small clouds of dust however carefully they stepped. Plain wooden doors lined the smooth stone 
walls, many with great lumps of rust for hinges and locks. 
"Sitter," Zerah asked, finally showing doubt, "whatever can we be after down here? I don't believe anyone has been this 
deep for years." Seaine was sure her own visit, a few days earlier, had been the first to this level in at least a century. 
That was one of the reasons she and Pevara had chosen it. "Just in here," she said, swinging open a door that moved 
with only a little squealing. No amount of oil could loosen all the rust, and efforts to use the Power had been useless. 
Her abilities with Earth were better than Pevara's, but that was not saying very much. 
Zerah stepped in, and blinked in surprise. In an otherwise empty room, Pevara sat behind a sturdy if rather worn table 
with three small benches around it. Getting those few pieces down unseen had been difficult—especially when servants 
could not be trusted. Clearing out the dust had been much simpler if no more pleasant, and smoothing the dust in the 
hall outside, necessary after every visit, had been simply onerous. 
"I was about to give up sitting here in the dark," Pevara growled. The glow of saidar surrounded her as she lifted a 
lantern from beneath the table and channeled it alight, casting as much illumination as the rough-walled former 
storeroom deserved. Somewhat plump and normally pretty, the Red Sitter looked a bear with two sore teeth. "We want 
to ask you a few questions, Zerah." And she shielded the woman as Seaine shut the door. 
Zerah's shadowed face remained utterly calm, but she swallowed audibly. "About what, Sitters?" There was the faintest 
tremor in the younger woman's voice, as well. It could be simply the mood of the Tower, though. 
"The Black Ajah," Pevara replied curtly. "We want to know whether you're a Darkfriend." 
Amazement and outrage shattered Zerah's calm. Most would have taken that for sufficient denial without her snapped 
"I don't have to take that from you! You Reds have been setting up false Dragons for years! If you ask me, there's no 
need to look further than the Red quarters to find Black sisters!" 
Pevara's face darkened with fury. Her loyalty to her Ajah was strong, which went without saying, but worse, she had 
lost her entire family to Darkfriends. Seaine decided to step in before Pevara resorted to brute force. They had no proof. 
Not yet. 
"Sit, Zerah," she said with as much warmth as she could muster. "Sit down, sister." 
Zerah turned toward the door as though she might disobey an order from a Sitter— and of her own Ajah!— but at last 
she settled onto one of the benches, stiffly, sitting right at the edge. 
Before Seaine had finished taking a seat that placed Zerah between them, Pevara laid the ivory-white Oath Rod on the 
battered tabletop. Seaine sighed. They were Sitters, with a perfect right to use any ter'angreal they wished, but she had 
been the one to filch it— she could not help thinking of it as filching when she had observed none of the proper 
procedures— and the whole time, in the back of her head, she had been sure she would turn to find long-dead Sereille 
Bagand standing here, ready to haul her off to the Mistress of Novices' study by her ear. Irrational, but no less real. 
"We want to make sure you tell the truth," Pevara said, still sounding like an angry bear, "so you will swear an oath on 
this, and then I'll ask again." 
"I should not be subjected to this," Zerah said with an accusing look at Seaine, "but I will re-swear all of the Oaths, if 
that's what it needs to satisfy you. And I will demand an apology from you both, afterward." She hardly sounded like a 
women shielded and asked such a question. Almost contemptuously, she reached for the slim, foot-long rod. It shone in 
the dim light of the lantern. 
"You'll swear to obey the two of us absolutely," Pevara told her, and that hand snatched back as if from a coiled viper. 
Pevara went right on, even sliding the Rod closer to the woman with two fingers. "That way, we can tell you to answer 
truthfully and know you will, and if you give the wrong answer, we can know you'll be obedient and helpful in helping 
us hunt down your Black sisters. The Rod can be used to free you of the oath, if you give the right answer." 



"To free—?" Zerah exclaimed. "I've never heard of anyone being loosed horn an oath on the Oath Rod." 
"That is why we are taking all these precautions," Seaine told her. "Logically, a Black sister must be able to lie, which 
means she must have freed of at least that Oath and likely all three. Pevara and I tested, and found the procedure much 
the same as taking an oath." She did not mention how painful it had been, though, leaving the pair of them weeping. 
She also did not mention that Zerah would not be freed of her oath whatever her answer, not until the search for the 
Black Ajah came to a conclusion. For one thing, she could not be allowed to run off and complain about this 
questioning, which she most certainly would, with every right, if she was not of the Black. If. 
Light, but Seaine wished they had found a sister from another Ajah who fit the criteria they had set. A Green or a 
Yellow would have done quite nicely. That lot were overweening at the best of times, and of late . . . ! No. She was not 
going to fall prey to the sickness spreading through the Tower. Yet she could not help the names that flashed through 
her head, a dozen Greens, twice as many Yellows, and every one long past due taking down a few rungs. Sniff at a 
Sitter? 
"You freed yourselves from one of the Oaths?" Zerah sounded startled, disgusted, uneasy, all at the same time. 
Perfectly reasonable responses. 
"And took it again," Pevara muttered impatiently. Snatching up the slim rod, she channeled a little Spirit into one end 
while maintaining Zerah's shield. "Under the Light, I vow to speak no word that is not true. Under the Light, I vow to 
make no weapon for one man to kill another. Under the Light, I vow not to use the One Power as a weapon except 
against Shadowspawn, or in the last defense of my life, the life of my Warder, or that of another sister." She did not 
grimace over the part about Warders; new sisters bound for the Red often did. "I am not a Darkfriend. I hope that 
satisfies you." She showed Zerah her teeth, but whether in smile or snarl was hard to say. 
Seaine retook the Oaths in turn, each producing a slight momentary pressure everywhere from her scalp to the soles of 
her feet. In truth, the pressure was difficult to detect at all, with her skin still feeling too tight from retaking the Oath 
against speaking a lie. Claiming that Pevara had a beard or that the streets of Tar Valon were paved with cheese had 
been strangely exhilarating for a time—even Pevara had giggled—but hardly worth the discomfort now. Testing had 
not really seemed necessary, to her. Logically, it must be so. Saying that she was not of the Black twisted her 
tongue—a vile thing to be forced to deny—but she handed Zerah the Oath Rod with a decisive nod. 
Shifting on her bench, the slender woman turned the smooth white rod in her fingers, swallowing convulsively. The 
pale lantern light made her appear ill. She looked from one of them to the other, wide-eyed, then her hands tightened on 
the Rod, and she nodded. 
"Exactly as I said," Pevara growled, channeling Spirit to the Rod again, "or you'll be swearing until you have it right." 
"I vow to obey the two of you absolutely," Zerah said in a tight voice, then shuddered as the oath took hold. It was 
always tighter at the first. "Ask me about the Black Ajah," she demanded. Her hands shook holding the Rod. "Ask me 
about the Black Ajah!" Her intensity told Seaine the answer even before Pevara released the flow of Spirit and asked 
the question, commanding utter truth. "No!" Zerah practically shouted. "No, I am not Black Ajah! Now take this oath 
from me! Free me!" 
Seaine slumped dejectedly, resting her elbows on the table. She certainly had not wanted Zerah to answer yes, but she 
had been sure they had found the other woman out in a lie. One lie found, or so it had seemed, after weeks of searching. 
How many more weeks of searching lay ahead? And of looking over her shoulder from waking to sleeping? When she 
managed to sleep. Pevara stabbed an accusing finger at the woman. "You told people that you came from the north." 
Zerah's eyes went wide again. "I did," she said slowly. "I rode down the bank of the Erinin to Jualdhe. Now free me of 
this oath!" She licked her lips. 
Seaine frowned at her. "Goldenthorn seeds and a red cockle-burr were found on your saddlecloth, Zerah. Goldenthorn 
and red cockleburr can't be found for a hundred miles south of Tar Valon." Zerah leaped to her feet, and Pevara 
snapped, "Sit down!" The woman dropped onto the bench with a loud smack, but she did not even wince. She was 
trembling. No, shaking. Her mouth was clamped shut, otherwise Seaine was sure her teeth would have been chattering. 
Light, the question of north or south frightened her more than an accusation of being a Darkfriend. 
"From where did you start out," Seaine asked slowly, "and why—?" She meant to ask why the woman had gone 
roundabout— which plainly she had— just to hide which direction she came from, but answers burst from Zerah's 
mouth. 
"From Salidar," she squealed. There was no other word for it. Still clutching the Oath Rod, she writhed on her bench. 
Tears spilled from her eyes, eyes as wide as they would go and fixed on Pevara. Words poured out, though her teeth 
truly did chatter now. "I c-came to —make sure all the sisters here know about the R-Reds and Logain, so they'll 



d-depose Elaida and the T-Tower can be whole again." With a wail she collapsed into openmouthed bawling as she 
stared at the Red Sitter. 
"Well," Pevara said. Then again, more grimly, "Well!" Her face was all composure, but the glitter in her dark eyes was 
far from the mischief Seaine remembered as novice and Accepted. "So you are the source of that . . . rumor. You are 
going to stand before the Hall and reveal it for the lie it is! Admit the lie, girl!" 
If Zerah's eyes had been wide before, they bulged now. The Rod dropped from her hands to roll across the tabletop, and 
she clutched her throat. A choking sound came from her suddenly gaping mouth. Pevara stared at her in shock, but 
suddenly Seaine understood. 
"Light's mercy," she breathed. "You do not have to lie, Zerah." Zerah's legs thrashed beneath the table as if she were 
trying to rise and could not get her feet under her. "Tell her, Pevara. She believes it's true! You've commanded her to 
speak the truth and to lie. Don't look at me that way! She believes!" A bluish tinge appeared on Zerah's lips. Her 
eyelids fluttered. Seaine gathered calm with both hands. "Pevara, you gave the order so apparently you must release 
her, or she will suffocate right in front of us." 
"She's a rebel." Pevara's mutter invested that word with all the scorn it could hold. But then she sighed. "She hasn't 
been tried, yet. You don't have to ... lie ... girl." Zerah toppled forward and lay with her cheek pressed against the 
tabletop, gulping air between whimpers. 
Seaine shook her head in wonder. They had not considered the possibility of conflicting oaths. What if the Black Ajah 
did not merely remove the Oath against lying, but replaced it with one of their own? What if they replaced all Three 
with their own oaths? She and Pevara would need to go very carefully if they did find a Black sister, or they might have 
her fall dead before they knew what the conflict was. Perhaps first a renunciation of all oaths—no way to go about it 
more carefully without knowing what Black sisters swore— followed by retaking the Three? Light, the pain of being 
loosed from everything at once would be little short of being put to the question. Maybe not short of it at all. But 
certainly a Darkfriend deserved that and more. If they ever found one. 
Pevara glared down at the gasping woman without the slightest touch of pity on her face. "When she stands trial for 
rebellion, I intend to sit on her court." 
"When she is tried, Pevara," Seaine said thoughtfully. "A pity to lose the assistance of one we know isn't a Darkfriend. 
And since she is a rebel, we need not be overly concerned about using her." There had been a number of discussions, 
none to a conclusion, about the second reason for leaving the new oath in place. A sister sworn to obey could be 
compelled— Seaine shifted uneasily; that sounded entirely too close to the forbidden vileness of Compulsion—she 
could be induced to help in the hunt, so long as you did not mind forcing her to accept the danger, whether she wished 
to or not. "I cannot think they would send only one," she went on. "Zerah, how many of you came to spread this tale?" 
"Ten," the woman mumbled against the tabletop, then jerked erect, glaring in defiance. "I will not betray my sisters! I 
won't—!" Abruptly she cut off, lips twisting bitterly as she realized she had done just that. 
"Names!" Pevara barked. "Give me their names, or I will have your hide here and now!" 
Names spilled from Zerah's unwilling lips. At the command, certainly, more than the threat. Looking at Pevara's grim 
face, though, Seaine was sure she needed little provocation to stripe Zerah like a novice caught stealing. Strangely, she 
herself did not feel the same animosity. Revulsion, yes, but clearly not as strong. The woman was a rebel who had 
helped break the White Tower when a sister must accept anything to keep the Tower whole, and yet. . . . Very strange. 
"You agree, Pevara?" she said when the list concluded. The stubborn woman gave her only a fierce nod for agreement. 
"Very well. Zerah, you will bring Bernaile to my rooms this afternoon." There were two from each Ajah excepting the 
Blue and the Red, it seemed, but best to begin with the other White. "You will say only that I wish to speak to her on a 
private matter. You will give her no warning by word, deed, or omission. Then you will stand quietly and let Pevara 
and me do what is necessary. You are being recruited into a worthier cause than your misguided rebellion, Zerah." Of 
course it was misguided. No matter how mad with power Elaida had become. "You are going to help us hunt down the 
Black Ajah." 
Zerah's head jerked unwilling nods at each injunction, her face pained, but at mention of a hunt for the Black Ajah, she 
gasped. Light, her wits must have been totally unhinged by her experiences not to see that! 
"And you will stop spreading these . . . stories," Pevara put in sternly. "From this moment, you'll not mention the Red 
Ajah and false Dragons together. Am I understood?" 
Zerah's face donned a mask of sullen stubbornness. Zerah's mouth said, "I understand, Sitter." She looked ready to 
begin weeping again from sheer frustration. 
"Then get out of my sight," Pevara told her, releasing the shield and saidar together. "And compose yourself! Wash 



your face and straighten your hair!" That last was directed at the back of the woman already darting from the table. 
Zerah had to pull her hands away from her hair to open the door. As the door squeaked shut behind her, Pevara snorted. 
"I wouldn't put it past her to have gone to this Bernaile like a sloven, hoping to warn her that way." 
"A valid point," Seaine admitted. "But who will we warn if we scowl right and left at these women? At the very least, 
we will attract notice." 
"The way matters are, Seaine, we wouldn't attract notice kicking them across the Tower grounds." Pevara sounded as if 
that were an attractive notion. "They are rebels, and I intend to hold them so hard they squeak if one of them so much 
as has a wrong thought!" 
They went round and round about that. Seaine insisted that care in the orders they gave, leaving no loopholes, would be 
sufficient. Pevara pointed out that they were letting ten rebels— ten!—walk the Tower's halls unpunished. Seaine said 
they would face punishment eventually, and Pevara growled that eventually was not soon enough. Seaine had always 
admired the other woman's strength of will, but really, sometimes it was pure stubbornness. A faint creak from a hinge 
was all the warning Seaine had to snatch the Oath Rod into her lap, hiding it in folds of her skirt as the door opened 
wide. She and Pevara embraced the Source almost as one. 
Saerin walked into the room calmly, holding a lantern, and stood aside for Talene, who was followed by tiny Yukiri, 
with a second light, and boyishly slim Doesine, tall for a Cairhienin, who closed the door quite firmly and settled her 
back against it as if to keep anyone from leaving. Four Sitters, representing all the remaining Ajahs in the Tower. They 
seemed to ignore the fact that Seaine and Pevara held saidar. Suddenly, to Seaine, the room felt rather crowded. 
Imagination, and irrational, but . . . 
"Strange to see the pair of you together," Saerin said. Her face might be serene, but she slid fingers along the hilt of that 
curved knife behind her belt. She had held her chair forty years, longer than anyone else in the Hall, and everyone had 
learned to be careful of her temper. 
"We might say the same of you," Pevara replied dryly. Saerin's temper never upset her. "Or did you come down here to 
help Doesine try to get some of her own back?" A sudden flush made the Yellow's face look even more that of a pretty 
boy despite her elegant bearing, and told Seaine which Sitter had strayed too near the Red quarters with unfortunate 
results. "I wouldn't have thought that would bring you together, though. Greens at Yellows' throats, Browns at Grays'. 
Or did you just bring them down for a quiet duel, Saerin?" 
Frantically, Seaine cast around for what reason would have these four this deep into the bedrock of Tar Valon. What 
could tie them together? Their Ajahs—all of the Ajahs—truly were at one another's throats. All four had been handed 
penances by Elaida. No Sitter could enjoy Labor, especially when everyone knew exactly why she was scrubbing 
floors or pots, yet that was hardly a bond. What else? None were nobly born. Saerin and Yukiri were the daughters of 
innkeepers, Talene of farmers, while Doesine's father had been a cutler. Saerin had been trained first by the Daughters 
of Silence, the only one of that lot to reach the shawl. Absolutely useless drivel. Suddenly, something did strike her, 
and dried her throat. Saerin with her temper often barely in rein. Doesine, who had actually run away three times as a 
novice, though she had only once made it as far as the bridges. Talene, who might have earned more punishments than 
any other novice in the history of the Tower. Yukiri, always the last Gray to join her sisters' consensus when she 
wanted to go another way, the last to join the Hall's, for that matter. All four were considered rebels, in a way, and 
Elaida had humiliated every one. Could they be thinking they had made a mistake, standing to depose Siuan and raise 
Elaida? Could they have found about Zerah and the others? And if so, what did they intend to do? 
Mentally, Seaine prepared herself to weave saidar, though without much hope that she could escape. Pevara matched 
Saerin and Yukiri in strength, but she herself was weaker than any here save Doesine. She prepared herself, and Talene 
stepped forward and burst all of her logical deductions to flinders. 
"Yukiri noticed you two sneaking about together, and we want to know why." Her surprisingly deep voice held heat 
despite the ice that seemed to coat her face. "Did the heads of your Ajahs set you a secret task? In public, the Ajahs' 
heads snarl at one another worse than anyone else, but they've been sneaking off into corners to talk, it seems. 
Whatever they're scheming, the Hall has a right to know." 
"Oh, do give over, Talene." Yukiri's voice was always an even bigger surprise than Talene's. The woman looked a 
miniature queen, in dark silver silk with ivory lace, but she sounded a comfortable country woman. She claimed the 
contrast helped in negotiations. She smiled at Seaine and Pevara, a monarch perhaps unsure how gracious she should 
be. "I saw the pair of you sniffing about like ferrets at the hencoop," she said, "but I held my tongue—you might be 
pillow friends, for all I know, and whose business is that but yours?—I held my tongue till Talene here started yelping 
about who's been huddling in corners. I've seen a bit of huddling in corners myself, and I suspect some of those women 



might head their Ajahs as well, so. ... Sometimes six and six make a dozen, and sometimes they make a mess. Tell us if
you can, now. The Hall does have a right."
"We are not leaving until you do tell," Talene put in even more heatedly than before.
Pevara snorted and folded her arms. "If the head of my Ajah spoke two words to me, I'd see no reason to tell you what
they were. As it happens, what Seaine and I were discussing has nothing to do with the Red or the White. Snoop
elsewhere." But she did not release saidar. Neither did Seaine.
"Bloody useless and I bloody knew it," Doesine muttered from her place by the door. "Why I ever flaming let you talk
me into this. . . . Just as bloody well nobody else knows, or we'd have sheepswallop all over faces for the whole bloody
Tower to see." At times she had a tongue like a boy, too, a boy who needed his mouth washed out.
Seaine would have stood to leave if she had not feared her knees would betray her. Pevara did stand, and raised an
impatient eyebrow at the women between her and the door.
Saerin fingered her knife hilt and eyed them quizzically, not shifting a step. "A puzzle," she murmured. Suddenly she
glided forward, her free hand dipping into Seaine's lap so quickly that Seaine gasped. She tried to keep the Oath Road
hidden, but the only result was that she ended with Saerin holding the Rod waist high with one hand while she held the
other end and a fistful of her skirts. "I enjoy puzzles," Saerin said.
Seaine let go and adjusted her dress; there seemed nothing else to do.
The appearance of the Rod produced a momentary babble as nearly everyone spoke at once.
"Blood and fire," Doesine growled. "Are you down here raising new bloody sisters?"
"Oh, leave it with them, Saerin," Yukiri laughed right on top of her. "Whatever they're up to, it's their own business."
Atop both, Talene barked, "Why else are they sneaking about— together!— if it isn't to do with the Ajah heads?"
Saerin waved a hand, and after a moment gained quiet. All present were Sitters, but she had the right to speak first in
the Hall, and her forty years counted for something, too. "This is the key to the puzzle, I think," she said, stroking the
Rod with her thumb. "Why this, after all?" Abruptly the glow of saidar surrounded her, too, and she channeled Spirit to
the Rod. "Under the Light, I will speak no word that is not true. I am not a Dark-friend."
In the silence that followed, a mouse sneezing would have sounded loud. "Am I right?" Saerin said, releasing the
Power. She held the Rod out toward Seaine.
For the third time, Seaine retook the Oath against lying, and for the second time repeated that she was not of the Black.
Pevara did the same with frozen dignity. And eyes sharp as an eagle's.
"This is ridiculous," Talene said. "There is no Black Ajah."
Yukiri took the Rod from Pevara and channeled. "Under the Light, I will speak no word that is not true. I am not Black
Ajah." The light of saidar around her winked out, and she handed the Rod to Doesine.
Talene frowned in disgust. "Stand aside, Doesine. I for one will not put up with this filthy suggestion."
"Under the Light, I will speak no word that is not true," Doesine said almost reverently, the glow around her like a
halo. "I am not of the Black Ajah." When matters were serious, her tongue was as clean as any Mistress of Novices
could have wished. She extended the Rod to Talene.
The golden-haired woman started back as from a poisonous snake. "Even to ask this is a slander. Worse than slander!"
Something feral moved in her eyes. An irrational thought, perhaps, but that was what Seaine saw. "Now move out of
my way," Talene demanded with all the authority of a Sitter in her voice. "I am
leaving!"
"I think not," Pevara said quietly, and Yukiri nodded slowly in agreement. Saerin did not stroke her knife hilt; she
gripped it till her knuckles went white.
Riding through the deep snows of Andor, floundering through them, Toveine Gazal cursed the day she was born. Short
and slightly plump, with smooth copper skin and long glossy dark hair, she had seemed pretty to many over the years,
but none had ever called her beautiful. Certainly none would now. The dark eyes that had once been direct now bored
into whatever she looked at. That was when she was not angry. She was angry today. When Toveine was angry,
serpents fled.
Four other Reds rode— floundered— at her back, and behind them twenty of the Tower Guard in dark coats and
cloaks. None of the men liked it that their armor was stowed away on the packhorses, and they watched the forest
lining both sides of the road as though expecting attack any moment. How they thought to cross three hundred miles of
Andor unnoticed, wearing coats and cloaks with the Flame of Tar Valon shining bright on them, Toveine could not
imagine. The journey was almost done, though. In another day, perhaps two with roads knee-deep in snow on the
horses, she would join with nine other parties exactly like hers. Not all of the sisters in them were Red, unfortunately,




but that did not trouble her overmuch. Toveine Gazal, once a Sitter for the Red, would go into the histories as the 
woman who destroyed this Black Tower. 
She was sure Elaida thought her grateful for the chance, called back from exile and disgrace, given the opportunity for 
redemption. She sneered, and if a wolf had been looking into the deep hood of her cloak, it might have quailed. What 
had been done twenty years ago was necessary, and the Light burn all those who muttered that the Black Ajah must 
have been involved. It had been necessary and right, but Toveine Gazal had been driven from her chair in the Hall, and 
forced to howl for mercy under the birch, with the assembled sisters watching, and even novices and Accepted 
witnessing that Sitters, too, lay beneath the law, though they were not told what law. And then she had been sent to 
work these last twenty years on the isolated Black Hills farm of Mistress Jara Doweel, a woman who considered an 
Aes Sedai serving penance in exile no different from any other hand laboring in sun and snow. Toveine's hands shifted 
on her reins; she could feel the calluses. Mistress Doweel— even now, she could not think of the woman without the 
honorific she had demanded— Mistress Doweel believed in hard work. And discipline as tight as any novice faced! 
She had no mercy on anyone who tried to shirk the backbreaking labor that she herself shared, and less than none for a 
woman who sneaked away to comfort herself with a pretty boy. That had been Toveine's life these past twenty years. 
And Elaida had slipped through the cracks uncaught, danced her way to the Amyrlin Seat that Toveine had once 
dreamed of for herself. No, she was not grateful. But she had learned to wait her chance. 
Abruptly, a tall man in a black coat, dark hair falling to his shoulders, spurred his horse out of the forest into the road 
ahead of her, spraying snow. "There's no point struggling," he 
announced firmly, raising a gloved hand. "Surrender peacefully, and no one will be hurt." 
It was neither his appearance nor his words that made Toveine rein up short, letting the other sisters gather beside her. 
"Take him," she said calmly. "You had better link. He has me shielded." It seemed one of these Asha'man had come to 
her. How convenient of him. 
Abruptly she realized that nothing was happening and took her eyes from the fellow to frown at Jenare. The woman's 
pale, square face seemed absolutely bloodless. "Toveine," she said unsteadily, "I also am shielded." 
"I am shielded, too," Lemai breathed in disbelief, and the others chimed in, increasingly frantic. All shielded. 
More men in black coats appeared from among the trees, their horses stepping slowly, all around. Toveine stopped 
counting at fifteen. The Guards muttered angrily, waiting on a sister's command. They knew nothing yet except that a 
band of rogues had waylaided them. Toveine clicked her tongue in irritation. These men could not all channel, of 
course, but apparently every Asha'man who could do so had come against her. She did not panic. Unlike some of the 
sisters with her, these were not the first men who channeled that she had confronted. The tall man began riding toward 
her, smiling, apparently thinking they had obeyed his ridiculous order. 
"At my command," she said quietly, "we will break in every direction. As soon as you are far enough away that the 
man loses the shield," men always thought they had to be able to see to hold their weaves, which meant that they did 
have to, "turn back and help the Guards. Ready yourselves." She raised her voice to a shout. "Guardsmen, fight them!" 
Roaring, the Guardsmen surged forward, waving their swords and no doubt thinking to surround and protect the sisters. 
Pulling her mare around to the right, Toveine dug in her heels and crouched low over Sparrow's neck, dodging between 
startled Guardsmen, then between two very young men in black coats who gaped at her in astonishment. Then she was 
into the trees, urging more speed, snow spraying wildly, careless of whether the mare broke a leg. She liked the animal, 
but more than a horse would die today. Behind her, shouts. And one voice, roaring through all the cacophony. The tall 
man's voice. 
"Take them alive, by order of the Dragon Reborn! Harm an Aes Sedai, and you'll answer to me!" 
By order of the Dragon Reborn. For the first time, Toveine felt fear, an icicle worming into her middle. The Dragon 
Reborn. She thrashed Sparrow's neck with the reins. The shield was still on her! Surely there were enough trees 
between them already to block the cursed men's sight of her! Oh, Light, the Dragon Reborn! 
She grunted as something struck her across the middle, a branch where there was no branch, snatching her out of the 
saddle. She hung there watching Sparrow plow off at as much of a gallop as the snow allowed. She hung there. In the 
middle of the air, arms trapped at her sides, feet dangling a pace or more above the ground. She swallowed. Hard. It 
had to be the male part of the Power holding her up. She had never been touched by saidin before. She could feel the 
thick band of nothing snug around her middle. She thought she could feel the Dark One's taint. She quivered, fighting 
down screams. 
The tall man reined his horse to a halt in front of her, and she floated down to sit sideways in front of his saddle. He did 
not seem particularly interested in the Aes Sedai he had captured, though. "Hardlin!" he shouted. "Norley! Kajima! One 



of you bloody young louts come here now!"
He was very tall, with shoulders an axe-handle wide. That was how Mistress Doweel would have put it. Just short of
his middle years, handsome in a brooding, rugged fashion. Not at all like the pretty boys Toveine liked, eager and
grateful and so easily controlled. A silver sword decorated the tall collar of his black wool coat on one side, with a
peculiar creature in gold and red enamel on the other. He was a man who could channel. And he had her shielded and a
prisoner.
The shriek that burst from her throat startled even her. She would have held it back if she could, but another leaped out
behind it, higher still, and another even higher, another and another. Kicking wildly, she flung herself from side to side.
Useless against the Power. She knew that, but only in a tiny corner of her mind. The rest of her howled at the top of her
lungs, howled wordless pleas for rescue from the Shadow. Screaming, she struggled like a mad beast. Dimly she was
aware of his horse plunging and dancing as her heels drummed its shoulder. Dimly she heard the man talking. "Easy,
you lump-eared sack of coal! Calm down, sister. I'm not going to— Easy, you spavined mule! Light! My apologies,
sister, but this is how we learn to do it." And then he kissed her.
She had only a heartbeat to realize his lips were touching hers, then sight vanished, and warmth flooded through her.
More than warmth. She was melted honey inside, bubbling honey, rushing toward the boil. She was a harpstring,
vibrating faster and faster, vibrating to invisibility and faster still. She was a thin crystal vase, quivering on the brink of
shattering. The harpstring broke; the vase shattered.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!''
At first, she did not realize that sound had come from her gaping mouth. For a moment, she could not think coherently.
Panting, she stared up at the male face above her, wondering who it belonged to. Yes. The tall man. The man who
could—
"I could have done without the extra bit," he sighed, patting the horse's neck; the animal snorted, but it no longer leaped
about, "yet I suppose it is necessary. You're hardly a wife. Be calm. Don't try to escape, don't attack anyone in a black
coat, and don't touch the Source unless I give you permission. Now, what's your name?"
Unless he gave permission? The effrontery of the man! "Toveine Gazal," she said, and blinked. Now, why had she
answered him?
"There you are," another black-coated man said, splashing his horse through the snow to them. This one would be
much more to her liking—if he could not actually channel, at least. She doubted this pink-cheeked lad shaved more
than twice in the week. "Light, Logain!" the pretty boy exclaimed. "Did you take a second one? The M'Hael won't like
that! I don't think he likes us taking any! Maybe it won't matter, though, you two being so close and all."
"Close, Vinchova?" Logain said wryly. "If the M'Hael had his way, I'd be hoeing turnips with the new boys. Or buried
under the field," he added in a mutter she did not think he meant to be heard.
However much he heard, the pretty boy laughed with incredulous disbelief. Toveine barely heard him. She was gazing
up at the man looming over her. Logain. The false Dragon. But he was dead! Stilled and dead! And holding her before
his saddle with a casual hand. Why was she not screaming, or striking at him? Even her belt knife would do, this near.
Yet she had no desire at all to reach for the ivory haft. She could, she realized. That band around her middle was gone.
She could at least slip down off the horse and try to— She had no desire to do that, either.
"What did you do to me?" she demanded. Calmly. At least she had managed to hold on to that!
Turning his horse to ride back to the road, Logain told her what he had done, and she put her head against that wide
chest, not caring at all how big he was, and wept. She was going to make Elaida pay for this, she vowed. If Logain ever
let her, she would. That last was an especially bitter thought.


Chapter 27 The Bargain


Seated cross-legged in a heavily gilded, high-backed chair, Min tried to lose herself in the leather-bound copy of Herid
Pel's Reason and Unreason lying open on her knees. It was not easy. Oh, the book itself was mesmerizing; Master Pel's
writings always swept her into worlds of thought she had not dreamed of while working in stables. She very much
regretted the sweet old man's death. She hoped to find a clue in his books to why he had been killed. Her dark ringlets
swung as she shook her head and tried to apply herself.
The book was fascinating, but the room was oppressive. Rand's small throne room in the Sun Palace was thick with gilt
from the wide cornices to the tall mirrors on the walls replacing those Rand had smashed, from the two rows of chairs
like the one she sat in to the dais at the head of the rows and the Dragon Throne atop the dais. That was a monstrosity,




in the style of Tear as imagined by Cairhienin craftsmen, resting on the backs of a pair of Dragons with two more 
Dragons for the arms and others climbing the back, all with large sunstones for eyes, the whole glittering with gilt and 
red enamel. A huge golden, wavy-rayed Rising Sun set in the polished stone floor only added to the sense of heaviness. 
At least the fires blazing in two great fireplaces, tall enough for her to walk into, gave a pleasing warmth, especially 
with snow spilling down outside. And these were Rand's rooms; the comfort of that alone outweighed any amount of 
oppression. An irritating thought. This was Rand's room if he ever deigned to return. A very irritating thought. Being in 
love with a man seemed to consist largely of a great many irritating admissions to yourself! 
Shifting in a vain attempt to make the hard chair comfortable, she tried to read, but her eyes kept swinging to the tall 
doors, each climbed by its own line of gilded Rising Suns. She hoped to see Rand walk in; she feared to see Sorilea, or 
Cadsuane. Unconsciously, she adjusted her pale blue coat, fingering the tiny snow-flowers embroidered on the lapels. 
More twined around the sleeves, and the legs of breeches made as snug as she could manage to wriggle herself into. 
Not that great a change from what she had always worn. Not really. So far, she had avoided dresses, however much 
embroidery she wore, but she very much feared that Sorilea meant to stuff her into a dress if the Wise One had to peel 
her out of what she was wearing with her own hands. 
The woman knew all about her and Rand. All about. She felt her cheeks heating. Sorilea seemed to be trying to decide 
whether Min Farshaw was a suitable . . . lover ... for Rand al'Thor. That word made her feel foolishly giddy; she was 
not a fluff-brained girl! That word made her want to look over her shoulder guiltily for the aunts who had raised her. 
No, she thought wryly, you're not fluff-brained. Fluff has its wits about it compared to you! 
Or maybe Sorilea wanted to know whether Rand was suitable for Min; it seemed that way, at times. The Wise Ones 
accepted Min as one of them, or very nearly, but these past weeks, Sorilea had wrung her out like a laundress's mangle. 
The leather-faced, white-haired Wise One wanted to know every scrap about Min, and every shred about Rand. She 
wanted the dust from the bottoms of his pockets! Twice Min had tried balking at the incessant interrogation, and twice 
Sorilea had produced a switch! That terrible old woman simply bundled her over the side of the nearest table, and 
afterward told her that maybe that would loosen another scrap in her head. None of the other Wise Ones gave the 
slightest commiseration, either! Light, the things you had to put up with for a man! And she could not have him for 
herself alone, at that! 
Cadsuane was a different proposition altogether. The immensely dignified Aes Sedai, as gray-haired as Sorilea was 
white, did not seem to care two figs for Min or Rand either one, but she spent a great deal of time in the Sun Palace. 
Avoiding her entirely was impossible; she seemed to wander wherever she wanted. And when Cadsuane looked at Min, 
however briefly, Min could not help seeing a woman who could teach bulls to dance and bears to sing. She kept 
expecting the woman to point at her and announce that it was time Min Farshaw learned to balance a ball on her nose. 
Sooner or later, Rand had to face Cadsuane again, and the thought tied Min's stomach in knots. 
She made herself bend back over her book. One of the doors swung open, and Rand strolled in with the Dragon Scepter 
nestled in the crook his arm. He wore a golden crown, a broad circlet of laurel leaves— that must be this Crown of 
Swords everyone was talking about— snug breeches that showed his legs to advantage, and a gold-worked green silk 
coat that fit him beautifully. He was beautiful. 
Marking her place with the note Master Fel had written saying she was "too pretty," she carefully closed the book and 
carefully set it on the floor beside her chair. Then she folded her arms and waited. Had she been standing, she would 
have tapped her foot, but she would not have the man thinking she was springing up just because he finally appeared. 
For a moment he stood smiling at her, and tugging his ear-lobe for some reason— he seemed to be humming!— then 
abruptly he swung round to frown at the doors. "The Maidens out there didn't tell me you were in here. They hardly 
said a word at all. Light, they looked ready to veil at the sight of me." 
"Maybe they are upset," she said calmly. "Maybe they wondered where you were. The way I did. Maybe they 
wondered whether you were hurt, or sick, or cold." The way I did, she thought bitterly. The man looked confused! 
"I wrote to you," he said slowly, and she sniffed. 
"Twice! With Asha'man to deliver your letters, you wrote twice, Rand al'Thor. If you call it writing!" 
He staggered as if she had slapped him— no; as if she had kicked him in the belly!— and blinked. She took a firm hold 
on herself and settled against the chairback. Give a man sympathy at the wrong moment, and you never regained the 
ground lost. A part of her wanted to throw her arms around him, comfort him, draw out all his pains, soothe all his 
hurts. He had so many, and refused to admit a one. She was not going to spring up and rush to him, gushing to know 
what was wrong or ... Light, he had to be all right. 
Something took her gently beneath the elbows and lifted her out of the chair. Blue boots dangling, she floated toward 



him through the air. The Dragon Scepter floated away from him. So, he thought he could smile, did he? He thought a
pretty smile could turn her around? She opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind. A very sharp piece! Folding
his arms around her, he kissed her.
When she could breathe again, she peered up at him through her lashes. "The first time . . ." She swallowed to clear her
voice. "First, Jahar Narishma stalked in trying to stare inside everybody's skull the way he does, and vanished after
handing me a scrap of parchment. Let me see. It said, 'I have claimed the crown of Illian. Trust no one until I return.
Rand.' A little short of a proper love letter, I'd say." He kissed her again.
This time, getting her breath back took longer. This was not going as she had expected at all. On the other hand, it was
not going very badly. "The second time, Jonan Adley delivered a bit of paper that said, 'I will return when I finish here.
Trust no one. Rand.' Adley walked in on me in my bath," she added, "and he wasn't shy about getting an eyeful." Rand
always tried to pretend he was not jealous— as if there were a man in the world who was not— but she had noticed his
scowls at men who looked at her. And his very considerable ardor was more heated afterward, too. She wondered what
this kiss would be like. Maybe she should suggest retiring to the bedchamber? No, she would not be that forward no
matter—
Rand set her down, his face suddenly bleak. "Adley's dead," he said. Suddenly the crown flew from his head, spinning
the length of the room as though hurled. Just when she thought it would crash into the back of the Dragon Throne,
perhaps smash through it, the wide ring of gold stopped short and settled slowly onto the throne's seat.
Min's breath caught as she looked up at him. Blood glistened in the dark red curls above his left ear. Pulling a
lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve, she reached for his temple, but he caught her wrist.
"I killed him," he said quietly.
She shivered at the sound of his voice. Quiet, the way the grave was quiet. Perhaps the bedchamber was a very good
idea. No matter how forward it was. Making herself smile— and blushing when she realized how easy it was to smile,
thinking of that huge bed— she gripped the front of his shirt, preparing to rip shirt and coat from his back right then
and there.
Someone knocked at the doors.
Min's hands sprang away from Rand's shirt. She sprang away, too. Who could it be, she wondered irritably. The
Maidens either announced visitors when Rand was there, or simply sent them in.
"Come," he said loudly, giving her a rueful smile. And she blushed again at that.
Dobraine put his head in at the door, then entered and shut the door behind him when he saw them standing together.
The Cairhienin lord was a small man, little taller than she, with the front of his head shaved and the rest of his mostly
gray hair falling to his shoulders. Stripes of blue and white decorated the front of his nearly black coat to below his
waist. Even before gaining Rand's favor he had been a power in the land. Now, he ruled here, at least until Elayne
could claim the Sun Throne. "My Lord Dragon," he murmured, bowing. "My Lady Ta'veren."
"A joke," Min muttered, when Rand quirked an eyebrow at her.
"Perhaps," Dobraine said, shrugging slightly, "yet half the noblewomen in the city now wear bright colors in imitation
of the Lady Min. Breeches that display their legs, and many in coats that do not even cover their ..." He coughed
discreetly, realizing that Min's coat did not cover her hips completely.
She thought about telling him he had very pretty legs, even if they were decidedly knobby, then quickly thought better.
Rand's jealousy might be a wonderful flame if they were alone, but she did not want him striking out at Dobraine. He
was capable of that, she feared. Besides, she thought it really was a slip; Lord Dobraine Taborwin was not the sort to
make even slightly rough jokes.
"So you're changing the world, too, Min." Grinning, Rand tapped the tip of her nose with a finger. He tapped her nose!
Like a child he was amused with! Worse, she felt herself grinning back at him like a fool. "In better ways than I am, it
appears," he went on, and that momentary boyish grin faded like mist.
"Is all well in Tear and Illian, my Lord Dragon?" Dobraine enquired.
"In Tear and Illian, all is well," Rand replied grimly. "What do you have for me, Dobraine? Sit, man. Sit." He motioned
toward the rows of chairs, and took one for himself.
"I have acted on all of your letters," Dobraine said, seating himself across from Rand, "but there is little good to report,
I fear."
"I'll get us something to drink," Min said in a tight voice. Letters? It was not easy to stalk in heeled boots—she had
grown accustomed to them, but the things made you sway whatever you did— not easy, yet enough anger made
anything possible. She stalked to the small gilded table beneath one of the huge mirrors where a silver pitcher and




goblets sat. She busied herself with pouring spiced wine, splashing it out furiously. The servants always brought extra 
goblets, in case she had visitors, though she seldom did except for Sorilea or a fool lot of noblewomen. The wine was 
barely warm, but it was more than hot enough for the likes of that pair. She had received two letters, but she would bet 
Dobraine had had ten! Twenty! Banging pitcher and goblets about, she listened carefully. What had they been up to 
behind her back with their dozens of letters? 
"Toram Riatin appears to have vanished," Dobraine said, "though rumor, at least, says he still lives, worse luck. 
Rumors also say that Daved Hanlon and Jeraal Mordeth— Padan Fain, as you call the man— have deserted him. By 
the way, I have settled Toram's sister, the Lady Ailil, in generous apartments, with servants who are . . . trustworthy." 
By his tone, he clearly meant trustworthy toward himself. The woman would not be able to change her dress without 
him knowing. "I can understand bringing her here, and Lord Bertome and the others, but why High Lord Weiramon, or 
High Lady Anaiyella? It goes without saying, of course, that their servants also are trustworthy." 
"How do you know when a woman wants to kill you?" Rand mused. 
"When she knows your name?" Dobraine did not sound as if he were joking. Rand tilted his head thoughtfully, then 
nodded. Nodded! She hoped he was not still hearing voices. 
Rand gestured as if brushing away the women who wanted to kill him. A dangerous thing, with her about. She did not 
want to kill him, certainly, but she would not mind seeing Sorilea go at him with that switch! Breeches did not give 
much protection. 
"Weiramon is a fool who makes too many mistakes," Rand told Dobraine, who nodded sober agreement. "My mistake 
for thinking I could use him. He seems happy enough to stay near the Dragon Reborn in any case. What else?" Min 
handed him a goblet, and he smiled at her despite the wine that slopped over his wrist. Maybe he thought it was an 
accident. 
"Little else and too much," Dobraine began, then jerked back in his chair to avoid spilling wine as Min shoved the 
second silver goblet at him. She had not liked her brief stint as a tavernmaid. "My thanks, my Lady Min," he murmured 
graciously, but he eyed her askance as he took the goblet. She walked calmly back to fetch her own wine. Calmly. 
"I fear that Lady Caraline and the High Lord Darlin are in Lady Arilyn's palace here in the City," the Cairhienin lord 
went on, "under the protection of Cadsuane Sedai. Perhaps protection is not the correct word. I have been refused entry 
to see them, but I hear that they have attempted to leave the City and been brought back like sacks. In a sack, one story 
claims. Having met Cadsuane, I can almost believe it." 
"Cadsuane," Rand murmured, and Min felt a chill. He did not sound afraid, precisely, yet he did sound more than 
uneasy. "What do you think I should do about Caraline and Darlin, Min?" 
Settling into a chair two away from him, Min jerked at suddenly being included. Ruefully, she stared down at the wine 
soaking through her best cream silk blouse, and her breeches, too. "Caraline will support Elayne for the Sun Throne," 
she said glumly. For warm wine, it seemed very cold, and she doubted the stain would ever come out of the blouse. 
"Not a viewing, but I believe her." She did not glance toward Dobraine, though he nodded sagely. Everyone knew 
about her viewings, now. The only result had been a stream of noblewomen who wanted to know their futures, and 
right sulky, too, when she said she could not tell them. Most would not have been pleased with the little she had seen; 
nothing dire, but not at all the bright wonders that fortune-tellers at the fair forecast. "As for Darlin, aside from the fact 
that he'll marry Caraline, after she's wrung him out and hung him up to dry, all I can say is that one day he'll be a king. 
I saw the crown on his head, a thing with a sword on the front of it, but I don't know what country it belongs to. And, 
oh, yes. He'll die in bed, and she will survive him." 
Dobraine choked on his wine, spluttering and dabbing at his lips with a plain linen handkerchief. Most of those who 
knew did not believe. Quite satisfied with herself, Min drank the little that remained in her goblet. And then she was 
choking and gasping, jerking her handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe at her mouth. Light, she would have to give 
herself the dregs! 
Rand simply nodded, peering into his goblet. "So they will live to trouble me," he murmured. A very soft sound, for 
words like stone. He was hard as a blade, her sheepherder. "And what do I do about—" 
Abruptly he twisted in his chair, toward the doors. One was opening. He had very sharp ears. Min had heard nothing. 
Neither of the two Aes Sedai who entered was Cadsuane, and Min felt her shoulders loosen as she tucked her 
handkerchief away. While Rafela shut the door, Merana curtsied deeply to Rand, though the Gray sister's hazel eyes 
took in Min and Dobraine and filed them away, and then the round-faced Rafela was spreading her deep blue skirts 
wide, too. Neither rose until Rand gestured. They glided to him wearing cool serenity as they did their dresses. Except 
that the plump Blue sister fingered her shawl briefly as though to remind herself it was there. Min had seen that gesture 



before, from other sisters who had sworn fealty to Rand. It could not be easy for them. Only the White Tower 
commanded Aes Sedai, but Rand crooked a finger and they came, pointed and they went. Aes Sedai spoke with kings 
and queens as equals, perhaps slightly as their betters, yet the Wise Ones called them apprentices and expected them to 
obey twice as fast as Rand did. 
None of that showed on Merana's smooth face. "My Lord Dragon," she said respectfully. "We only just learned that 
you had returned, and we thought you might be eager to learn how matters went with the Atha'an Miere." She merely 
glanced at Dobraine, but he rose immediately. Cairhienin were used to people wanting to speak in private. 
"Dobraine can stay," Rand said curtly. Had he hesitated? He did not stand. His eyes like blue ice, he was being the 
Dragon Reborn for all he was worth. Min had told him these women were his in truth, that all five who had 
accompanied him to the Sea Folk ship were his, utterly loyal to their oath and therefore obedient to his will, yet he 
seemed to find trusting any Aes Sedai difficult. She understood, but he was going to have to learn how. 
"As you wish," Merana replied, inclining her head briefly. "Rafela and I have reached a bargain with the Sea Folk. The 
Bargain, they call it." The difference was clear to the ear. Hands lying still on gray-slashed green skirts, she drew a 
deep breath. She needed it. "Harine din Togara Two Winds, Wavemistress of Clan Shodein, speaking for Nesta din 
Reas Two Moons, Mistress of the Ships to the Atha'an Miere, and thus binding all the Atha'an Miere, has promised 
such ships as the Dragon Reborn needs, to sail when and where he needs them, for whatever purposes he requires." 
Merana did seem to grow a touch pontifical when there were no Wise Ones around; the Wise Ones did not allow it. "In 
return, Rafela and I, speaking for you, promised that the Dragon Reborn will not change any laws of the Atha'an Miere, 
as he has done among the . . ." For a moment, she faltered. "Forgive me. I am used to delivering agreements exactly as 
made. The word they used was 'shorebound,' but what they mean is what you have done in Tear and Cairhien." A 
question appeared in her eyes, and was gone. Perhaps she was wondering whether he had done the same in Illian. She 
had expressed relief that he had changed nothing in her native Andor. 
"I suppose I can live with that," he muttered. 
"Secondly," Rafela took up, folding plump hands at her waist, "you must give the Atha'an Miere land, a square one 
mile on a side, at every city on navigable water that you control now or come to control." She sounded less pompous 
than her companion, but only just. Nor did she sound entirely pleased with what she was saying. She was Tairen, after 
all, and few ports held a tighter control on their trade than Tear. "Within that area, the laws of the Atha'an Miere are to 
hold sway above any others. This agreement must also be made by the rulers of those ports so that ..." It was her turn to 
falter, and her dark cheeks turned a trifle gray. "So the agreement will survive me?" Rand said dryly. He barked a 
laugh. "I can live with that, too." 
"Every city on water?" Dobraine exclaimed. "Do they mean here, too?" He leaped to his feet and began pacing, spilling 
more of his wine than Min had. He did not seem to notice. "A mile square? Under the Light alone knows what peculiar 
laws? I've traveled on a Sea Folk ship, and it is peculiar! Bare legs are not in it! And what of the customs duties, and 
docking fees, and . . ." Suddenly he rounded on Rand. He scowled at the Aes Sedai, who paid him no mind, but it was 
to Rand he spoke, in a tone bordering on roughness. "They will ruin Cairhien in a year, my Lord Dragon. They will 
ruin any port where you allow them to do this." 
Min agreed, silently, but Rand merely waved a hand and laughed again. "They may think so, but I know something of 
this, Dobraine. They didn't say who chooses the land, so it doesn't have to be on the water at all. They'll have to buy 
their food from you, and live with your laws when they leave, so they can't be too arrogant. At worst, you can collect 
your customs when the goods come out of their . . . sanctuary. For the rest ... If I can accept it, you can, too." There was 
no laughter in his voice now, and Dobraine bowed his head. 
Min wondered where he had learned all that. He sounded a king, and one who knew what he was doing. Maybe Elayne 
had taught him. 
" 'Secondly' implies more," Rand said to the two Aes Sedai. 
Merana and Rafela exchanged glances, unconsciously touched skirts and shawls, and then Merana spoke, her voice not 
at all pompous. In fact, it was much too light. "Thirdly, the Dragon Reborn agrees to keep an ambassador chosen by the 
Atha'an Miere with him at all times. Harine din Togara has named herself. She will be accompanied by her Windfinder, 
her Swordmaster and a retinue." 
"What?" Rand roared, springing from the chair. 
Rafela rushed in, rushed ahead, as though afraid he might cut her off. "And fourthly, the Dragon Reborn agrees to go 
promptly to a summons from the Mistress of the Ships, but not more than twice in any three consecutive years." She 
finished panting a little, trying to make the last sound like extenuation. 



The Dragon Scepter flew from the floor behind Rand, and he snagged it out of the air without looking. His eyes were 
not ice any more. They were blue fire. "A Sea Folk ambassador clinging to my heels?" he shouted. "Obey 
summonses?" He shook the carved spearhead at them, the green-and-white tassel flailing. "There are a people out there 
who want to conquer all of us, and might be able to do it! The Forsaken are out there! The Dark One is waiting! Why 
didn't you agree I'd caulk their hulls while you were about it!" 
Normally, Min tried to soothe his temper when it flared, but this time she sat forward and glared at the Aes Sedai. She 
agreed with him fully. They had given away the barn to sell a horse! 
Rafela actually swayed before that blast, but Merana drew herself up, her own eyes managing a good imitation of 
brown fire flecked with gold. "You castigate us?" she snapped in tones as frosty as her eyes were hot. She was Aes 
Sedai as the child Min had seen them, regal above queens, powerful above powers. "You were present in the beginning, 
ta'veren, and you twisted them as you wanted them. You could have had them all kneeling to you! But you left! They 
were not pleased to know they had been dancing for a ta'veren. Somewhere, they learned to weave shields, and before 
you were well off their ship, Rafela and I were shielded. So we could not take advantage with the Power, they said. 
More than once, Harine threatened to hang us in the rigging by our toes until we came to our senses, and I for one 
believe she meant it! Feel lucky that you have the ships you want, Rand al'Thor. Harine would have given you a 
handful! Feel lucky she didn't want your new boots and that ghastly throne of yours as well! Oh, by the by, she 
formally acknowledged you as the Coramoor, may you get a bellyache from it!" 
Min stared at her. Rand and Dobraine stared at her, and the Cairhienin's jaw hung open. Rafela stared, her mouth 
working soundlessly. For that matter, the fire faded from Merana's eyes, and they slowly grew wider and wider as if 
she were just hearing what she had said. 
The Dragon Scepter trembled in Rand's fist. Min had seen his fury swell near to bursting for far less. She prayed for a 
way to avoid the explosion, and could not see one. 
"It seems," he said finally, "that the words a ta'veren drags out aren't always the words he wants to hear." He sounded . . 
. calm; Min was not about to think, sane. "You've done well, Merana. I handed you a dog's dinner, but you and Rafela 
have done well." The two Aes Sedai swayed, and for a moment, Min thought they might collapse in puddles on the 
floor from sheer relief. 
"At least we managed to keep the details from Cadsuane," Rafela said, smoothing her skirts unsteadily. "There was no 
way to stop everyone learning we had made some sort of agreement, but we kept that much from her." 
"Yes," Merana said breathlessly. "She even waylaid us on the way here. It's difficult keeping anything from her, but we 
did. We didn't think you'd want her to . . ." She trailed off at the stony look on Rand's face. 
"Cadsuane again," he said flatly. He frowned at the carved length of spearhead in his hand, then tossed it onto a chair 
as if he did not trust himself with it. "She's in the Sun Palace, is she? Min, tell the Maidens outside to carry a message 
to Cadsuane. She is to attend the Dragon Reborn in all haste." 
"Rand, I don't think," Min began uneasily, but Rand cut in. Not harshly, but quite firmly. 
"Do it, please, Min. This woman is like a wolf eyeing the sheepfold. I intend to find out what she wants." 
Min took her time getting up, and dragged her feet to the doors. She was not the only one to think this a bad idea. Or at 
least to want to be elsewhere when the Dragon Reborn faced Cadsuane Melaidhrin. Dobraine passed her on the way to 
the door, making a hasty bow with barely a pause, and even Merana and Rafela were out of the room before her, 
though they made it appear they were not hurrying. Inside the room, they did, anyway. When Min put her head into the 
hallway, the two sisters had caught Dobraine and were scurrying along at little short of a trot. 
Strangely, the half-dozen Maidens who had been outside when Min entered earlier had now grown in number until they 
lined the corridor as far as she could see in both directions, tall hard-faced women in the grays and browns and grays of 
the cadin'sor, shoufa wrapped around their heads with the long black veil hanging down. A good many carried their 
spears and bull-hide bucklers as if they expected a battle. Some were playing a finger-game called "knife, paper, 
stone," and the rest were watching intently. 
Not so intently that they did not see her, though. When she passed Rand's message, handtalk flashed up and down the 
rows, then two lanky Maidens went trotting off. The others promptly returned to the game, playing or watching. 
Scratching her head in puzzlement, Min went back in. The Maidens often made her nervous, yet they always had a 
word for her, sometimes respectful, as to a Wise One, sometimes joking, though their humor was odd, to say the least. 
Never had they ignored her like this. 
Rand was in the bedchamber. That simple fact set her heart racing. He had his coat off, his snowy shirt unlaced at neck 
and cuffs and pulled out of his breeches. Sitting on the foot of the bed, she leaned back against one of the heavy 



blackwood bedposts and swung her feet up, crossing her ankles. She had not had a chance to watch Rand undress 
himself, and she intended to enjoy it. 
Instead of continuing, though, he stood there looking at her. "What can Cadsuane possibly teach me?" he asked 
suddenly. 
"You, and all the Asha'man," she replied. That had been her viewing. "I don't know what, Rand. I only know you have 
to learn it. All of you do." It did not seem he intended to progress beyond letting his shirt hang down. Sighing, she went 
on. "You need her, Rand. You can't afford to make her angry. You can't afford to chase her away." Actually, she did 
not think fifty Myrddraal and a thousand Trollocs could chase Cadsuane anywhere, but the point was the same. 
A far-off look came into Rand's eyes, and after a moment, he shook his head. "Why should I listen to a madman?" he 
muttered almost under his breath. Light, did he really believe Lews Therin Telamon spoke in his head? "Let someone 
know you need them, Min, and they have a hold on you. A leash, to pull you where they want. I won't put a halter on 
my own neck for any Aes Sedai. Not for anyone!" Slowly his fists unclenched. "You, I need, Min," he said simply. 
"Not for your viewings. I just need you." 
Burn her, but the man could sweep her feet out from under her with a few words! 
With a smile as eager as hers, he grasped the bottom of his shirt with both hands and bent to begin hauling it over his 
head. Lacing her fingers over her stomach, she settled back to watch. 
The three Maidens who marched into the room no longer wore the shoufa that had concealed their short hair in the 
corridor. They were empty-handed, and no longer wore those heavy-blade belt knives, either. That was all Min had 
time to notice. 
Rand's head and arms were still inside the shirt, and Somara, flaxen-haired and tall even for an Aiel woman, seized the 
white linen and tangled it, trapping him. Almost in the same movement, she kicked him between the legs. With a 
strangled groan, he bent further, staggering. 
Nesair, fiery-haired and beautiful despite white scars on both sun-dark cheeks, planted a fist in his right side hard 
enough to make him stumble sideways. 
With a cry, Min launched herself from the bed. She did not know what madness was happening here, could not even 
begin to guess. One of her knives came smoothly from each sleeve, and she threw herself at the Maidens, shouting, 
"Help! Oh, Rand! Somebody, help!" At least, that was what she tried to shout. 
The third Maiden, Nandera, turned like a snake, and Min found a foot planted in her stomach. Breath rushed out of her 
in a wheeze. Her knives flew from numb hands, and she turned a somersault over the graying Maiden's foot, landing on 
her back with a crash that drove out what little air remained in her. Trying to move, trying to breathe— trying to 
understand!— all she could do was lie there and watch. 
The three women were quite thorough. Nesair and Nandera pounded Rand with their fists while Somara held him bent 
over and caught in his own shirt. Again and again and again they drove studied blows into Rand's hard belly, into his 
right side. Min would have laughed hysterically, had she had any breath. They were trying to beat him to death, and 
they very carefully avoid hitting anywhere near the tender round scar in his left side with the half-healed slash running 
through it. 
She knew very well how hard Rand's body was, how strong, but no one could stand up to that. Slowly, his knees 
folded, and when they thumped to the floor tiles, Nandera and Nesair stood back. Each nodded, and Somara released 
her hold on Rand's shirt. He fell forward on his face. She could hear him gasping, fighting groans that bubbled up 
despite his efforts. Kneeling, Somara pulled his shirt down almost tenderly. He lay there with his cheek on the floor, 
eyes bulging, struggling for breath. 
Nesair bent to catch a fistful of his hair and jerk his head up. "We won the right for this," she growled, "but every 
Maiden wanted to lay her hands on you. I left my clan for you, Rand al'Thor. I will not have you spit on me!" 
Somara moved a hand as if to smooth hair out of his face, then snatched it back. "This is how we treat a first-brother 
who dishonors us, Rand al'Thor," she said firmly. "The first time. The next, we will use straps." 
Nandera stood over Rand with fist planted on her hips and a face of stone. "You carry the honor of Far Dareis Mat, son 
of a Maiden," she said grimly. "You promised to call us to dance the spears for you, and then you ran to battle and left 
us behind. You will not do this again." 
She stepped over him to stride out, and the other two followed. Only Somara glanced back, and if sympathy touched 
her blue eyes, there was none in her voice when she said, "Do not make this necessary again, son of a Maiden." 
Rand had pushed himself up to hands and knees by the time Min managed to crawl to him. "They must be mad," she 
croaked. Light, but her middle hurt! "Rhuarc will—!" She did not know what Rhuarc would do. Not enough, whatever 



it was. "Sorilea." Sorilea would stake them out in the sun! To start! "When we tell her—" 
"We tell no one," he said. He almost sounded as if he had his breath back, although he was still slightly pop-eyed. How 
could he do that? "They have the right. They've earned the right." 
Min recognized that tone much to well. When a man decided to be stubborn, he would sit bare in a nettle patch and 
deny to your face that they made his bottom sting! She was almost pleased to hear him groan as she helped him to his 
feet. Well, as they helped each other. If he was going to be a pure wool-headed idiot, he deserved a few bruises! 
He eased himself onto the bed, lying back on the heaped pillows, and she snuggled in beside him. Not what she had 
been hoping for, but as much as was going to happen, she was sure. 
"Not what I was hoping to use this bed for," he muttered. She was not sure she had been supposed to hear. 
She laughed. "I enjoy you holding me just as much as ... as the other." Strangely, he smiled at her as if he knew she was 
lying. Her Aunt Miren claimed that was one of the three lies any man would believe from a woman. 
"If I am interrupting," a woman's cool voice said from the doorway, "I suppose I could return when it is more 
convenient." Min jerked away from Rand as though burned, but when he pulled her back, she settled against him again. 
She recognized the Aes Sedai standing in the doorway, a plump little Cairhienin with four thin stripes of color across 
her full bosom and white slashes in her dark skirts. Daigian Moseneillin was one of the sisters who had come with 
Cadsuane. And she was almost as overbearing as Cadsuane herself, in Min's opinion. 
"Who might you be when you're at home?" Rand said lazily. "Whoever you are, didn't anyone ever teach you to 
knock?" Min realized that every muscle in the arm holding her was hard as a rock, though. 
The moonstone dangling onto Daigian's forehead on a thin silver chain swung as she slowly shook her head. Plainly, 
she was not pleased. "Cadsuane Sedai received your request," she said, even more coolly than before, "and asked me to 
convey her regrets. She very much wishes to finish the piece of needlepoint she is working on. Perhaps she might be 
able to see you another day. If she can find time." 
"Is that what she said?" Rand asked dangerously. Daigian sniffed disdainfully. "I will leave you to resume . . . whatever 
you were doing." Min wondered whether she could get away with slapping an Aes Sedai. Daigian eyed her frostily, as 
if hearing the thought, and turned to glide from the room. 
Rand sat up with a muffled oath. "You tell Cadsuane she can go to the Pit of Doom!" he shouted after the retreating 
sister. "Tell her she can rot!" 
"It won't do, Rand," Min sighed. This was going to be harder than she had thought. "You need Cadsuane. She doesn't 
need you." 
"Doesn't she?" he said softly, and she shivered. She had only thought his voice was dangerous before. 
Rand prepared carefully, dressing in the green coat again, sending Min with messages for the Maidens to carry. At least 
they would still do that. His ribs ached almost as much on his right side as the wounds did on his left, and his belly felt 
as he had been beaten with a board. He had promised them. He seized hold of saidin alone in his bedchamber, 
unwilling to let even Min see him falter again. He could keep her safe, at least, somehow, but how could she feel safe if 
she saw him about to fall over? He had to be strong, for her sake. He had to be strong, for the world. That bundle of 
emotions in the back of his head that was Alanna reminded him of the cost of carelessness. Right then, Alanna was 
sulking. She must have pushed a Wise One too far, because if she was sitting, she was sitting gingerly. 
"I still think this is lunacy, Rand al'Thor," Min said as he placed the Crown of Swords carefully on his head. He did not 
want those tiny blades to draw blood again now. "Are you listening to me? Well, if you intend to go through with it, 
I'm going with you. You admitted you need me, and you'll need me more than ever for this!" She was in full fig, fists 
on her hips, foot tapping, eyes all but glowing. 
"You're staying here," he told her firmly. He was still not sure what he intended to do, not fully, and he did not want 
her to see him stumble. He was very afraid he might stumble. He expected an argument, though. 
She frowned at him, and her foot stopped tapping. The angry light in her eyes faded into worry that vanished in a 
twinkling. "Well, I suppose you're old enough to cross the stableyard without your hand held, sheepherder. Besides, I 
am falling behind in my reading." 
Dropping into one of the tall gilded chairs, she folded her legs beneath her and picked up the book she had been 
reading when he came in. In moments, she seemed totally engrossed in the page before her. 
Rand nodded. That was what he wanted; her here, and safe. Still, she did not have to forget him so completely. 
There were six Maidens squatting in the hallway outside his door. They stared at him flat-eyed, not speaking, Nandera's 
gaze the flattest of all. Though Somara and Nesair came close. He thought Nesair was Shaido; he would have to keep a 
hard eye on her. 



The Asha'man were waiting, too—Lews Therin muttered darkly of killing in Rand's head—all but Narishma with the 
Dragon on their collars as well as the Sword. Curtly, he ordered Narishma to stand guard on his apartments, and the 
man saluted sharply, those dark too-big eyes seeing too much, faintly accusing. Rand did not think the Maidens would 
take out their displeasure on Min, but he was not taking any chances. Light, he bad told Narishma everything about the 
traps he had woven in the Stone when he sent the man to fetch Callandor. The man was imagining things. Burn him, 
but that had been a mad risk to take. 
Only madmen never trust. Lews Therin sounded amused. And quite mad. The wounds in Rand's side throbbed; they 
seemed to resonate with each other in distant pain. 
"Show me where to find Cadsuane," he commanded. Nandera rose smoothly to her feet and started off without a 
backward glance. He followed, and the others fell in behind him, Dashiva and Flinn, Morr and Hopwil. He gave them 
hasty instructions as they walked. Flinn, of all people, tried to protest, but Rand bore him down; this was no time for 
quailing. The grizzled onetime Guardsman was the last Rand had expected it of. Morr or Hopwil, perhaps. If no longer 
exactly dewy-eyed, they were still young enough to leave their razors dry as many days as wet. But not Flinn. 
Nandera's soft boots made no sound; their footsteps reverberated from the high square-vaulted ceiling, chasing away 
everyone with the shadow of a reason for fear. His wounds pulsed. 
Every last person in the Sun Palace knew the Dragon Reborn on sight by now, and they knew who the black-coated 
men were, too. Black-liveried servants made deep bows or curtsies, and hurried to get out of his sight. Most nobles 
were almost as quick to put distance between themselves and five men who could channel, going somewhere with 
purpose on their faces. Ailil watched them pass with an unreadable expression. Anaiyella simpered, of course, but 
when Rand glanced back, she was staring after him with a face to match Nandera's. Bertome smiled as he made his leg, 
a dark smile with neither mirth nor pleasure in it. 
Nandera did not speak even when they reached their destination, merely pointed to a closed door with one of her 
spears, turned on her heel, and strode back the way they had come. The Car'a'carn without a single Maiden to guard 
him. Did they think four Asha'man enough to keep him safe? Or was her departure another sign of displeasure? 
"Do what I told you," Rand said. 
Dashiva gave a jerk as if coming back to himself, then seized the Source. The wide door, carved in vertical lines, 
swung open with a bang on a flow of Air. The other three took hold of saidin and followed Dashiva in, faces grim. 
"The Dragon Reborn," Dashiva's voice sounded loud, magnified slightly by the Power, "the King of Illian, the Lord of 
the Morning, comes to see the woman, Cadsuane Melaidhrin." 
Rand stepped in, standing tall. He did not recognize the other weave Dashiva had created, but the air seemed to hum 
with menace, a sense of something inexorable approaching, drawing ever nearer. 
"I sent for you, Cadsuane," Rand said. He did not use weaves. His voice was hard and flat enough without aid. 
The Green sister he remembered sat beside a small table with an embroidery hoop in her hands, an opened basket on 
the polished tabletop spilling out skeins of bright thread from some of its many compartments. She was exactly as he 
remembered. That strong face topped by an iron-gray bun decorated with small dangling golden fish and birds, stars 
and moons. Those dark eyes, seeming almost black in her fair face. Cool, considering eyes. Lews Therin gave a wail 
and fled at the sight of her. 
"Well," she said, setting the embroidery hoop on the table, "I must say I've seen better without paying. With all I've 
been hearing about you, boy, the least I expected was peals of thunder, trumpets in the heavens, flashing lights in the 
sky." Calmly, she regarded the five stone-faced men who could channel, which should have been enough to make any 
Aes Sedai flinch. Calmly, she regarded the Dragon Reborn. "I hope one of you is at least going to juggle," she said. "Or 
eat fire? I've always enjoyed watching gleemen eat fire." 
Flinn barked a laugh before catching himself, and even then raked a hand through his fringe of hair and seemed to be 
struggling with amusement. Morr and Hopwil exchanged looks both puzzled and more than a little outraged. Dashiva 
smiled unpleasantly, and the weave he was holding grew stronger, until Rand felt as if he wanted to look over his 
shoulder to see what was rushing toward him. 
"It is enough that you know I am who I am," Rand told her. "Dashiva, all of you, wait outside." 
Dashiva opened his mouth as if to protest. That had not been part of Rand's instructions, but they were not going to 
overawe the woman, not this way. The man went, though, muttering to himself. Hopwil and Morr actually stepped out 
eagerly, with sidelong glances at Cadsuane. Flinn was the only one to make a dignified withdrawal, in spite of his limp. 
And he still seemed amused! Rand channeled, and a heavy, leopard-carved chair floated into the air from its place by 
the wall, spinning end over end in somersaults before settling like a feather in front of Cadsuane. At the same time, a 



heavy silver pitcher drifted up from a long, draped table across the room, making a loud ping as it was suddenly heated; 
steam gushed from the top, and it tipped over, whirling round and round like a slow top, as a silver cup darted up to 
neatly catch the dark pouring. 
"Too hot, I think," Rand said, and the glassed casements leaped from the tall, narrow windows. Snowflakes billowed in 
on an icy blast, and the cup soared out through one of the windows, soared back again, straight to his hand as he sat 
himself. Let her see how calm she could stay with a madman staring at her. The dark liquid was tea, too strong after his 
boiling, and bitter enough to set his teeth on edge. But the warmth was just right. His skin pebbled in the gusts howling 
into the room and flapping tapestries against the walls, but in the Void, that was far away, someone else's skin. 
"The Laurel Crown is prettier than some," Cadsuane said with a faint smile. Her hair ornaments swayed whenever the 
wind rose, and small wisps flailed about her bun, but the only notice she 
took was to catch her embroidery hoop just before it was blown from the table. "I prefer that name. But you can't 
expect me to be impressed by crowns. I've paddled the bottoms of two reigning kings and three queens. Not sitting 
rulers, you understand, once I was done with them, not for a day or so, but it did get their attention. You can see why 
crowns don't impress me, though." 
Rand eased his jaw. Grinding his teeth would not help. He widened his eyes, hoping he looked insane instead of simply 
furious. "Most Aes Sedai avoid the Sun Palace," he told her. "Except for those who have sworn fealty to me. And those 
I hold prisoner." Light, what was he to do with those? As long as the Wise Ones kept them out of his hair, all was well 
enough. 
"The Aiel seem to think I should come and go as I please," she said absently, eyeing the hoop in her hand as if thinking 
of taking up her needle again. "A matter of some trifling help I gave some boy or other. Though why anyone but his 
mother should think him worth it, I can hardly say." 
Rand made another effort not to grind his teeth. The woman had saved his life. Her and Damer Flinn between them, 
and plenty of others in the bargain, Min among them. But he still owed Cadsuane something for that. Burn her. "I want 
you to be my advisor. I'm King of Illian now, and kings have Aes Sedai advisors." 
She gave his crown a dismissive glance. "Certainly not. An advisor has to stand and watch her charge make a muddle 
much too often to suit me. She also has to take orders, something I am particularly bad at. Won't someone else do? 
Alanna, perhaps?" 
Despite himself, Rand sat up straight. Did she know about the bond? Merana had said it was hard to keep anything 
from her. No; he could worry later about how much his "faithful" Aes Sedai were telling Cadsuane. Light, he wished 
Min could be wrong for once. But he would believe himself breathing water, first. "I . . ." He could not make himself 
tell her that he needed her. No halter! "What if you didn't have to swear any oaths?" 
"I suppose that might work," she said doubtfully, peering at her cursed stitchery. Her eyes rose to his. Considering. 
"You sound . . . uneasy. I don't like to tell a man he's afraid even when he has reason to be. Uneasy over a sister you 
haven't turned into a tame lapdog snaring you in some fashion? Let me see. I can make you a few promises; perhaps 
they will set your mind at rest. I expect you to listen, of course— make me waste my breath, and you'll yelp for it— but 
I won't make you do what I want. I won't tolerate anyone lying to me, certainly— that's another thing you'll find 
decidedly uncomfortable— but I don't expect you to tell me the deepest yearnings of your heart, either. Oh, yes. 
Whatever I do, it will be for your own good; not mine, not the good of the White Tower, yours. Now, does that ease 
your fears? Pardon me. Your unease." 
Wondering whether he was supposed to laugh, Rand stared at her. "Do they teach you how to do that?" he demanded. 
"Make a promise sound a threat, I mean." 
"Oh, I see. You want rules. Most boys do, whatever they say. Very well. Let me see. I cannot abide incivility. So you 
will be properly civil to me, to my friends, and my guests. That includes not channeling at them, in case you haven't 
guessed, and holding your temper, which I understand is memorable. It also takes in your . . . companions in those 
black coats. A pity if I had to spank you for something one of them did. Does that suffice? I can make more, if you 
need them." 
Rand set his cup down beside the chair. The tea had gone cold as well as bitter. Snow was beginning to pile up in drifts 
beneath the windows. "I'm the one who's supposed to go mad, Aes Sedai, but you already are." Rising, he strode for the 
door. 
"I do hope you haven't tried to use Callandor" she said complacently behind him. "I have heard it's vanished from the 
Stone. You managed to escape once, but you might not twice." 
He stopped short, looking over his shoulder. The woman was pushing that bloody needle through the cloth stretched on 



her hoop! The wind gusted, swirling snow around her, and she did not even lift her head. "What do you mean, escape?" 
"What?" She did not look up. "Oh. Very few even in the Tower knew what Callandor is before you drew it, but there 
are surprising things hidden in musty corners of the Tower Library. I went rummaging some years ago, when I first had 
the suspicion you might be suckling at your mother's breast. Just before I decided to go back into retirement. Babes are 
messy things, and I could not see how to find you before you stopped dripping at one end or the other." 
"What do you mean?" he demanded roughly. 
Cadsuane looked up then, and with her hair flung about and snow settling on her dress, she looked a queen. "I told you 
I cannot abide incivility. If you ask for my help again, I expect you to ask politely. And I will expect an apology for 
your behavior today!" 
"What do you mean about Callandor?" 
"It is flawed," she replied curtly, "lacking the buffer that makes other sa'angreal safe to use. And it apparently 
magnifies the taint, inducing wildness of the mind. So long as a man is using it, anyway. The only safe way for you to 
use The Sword That Is Not a Sword, the only way to use it without the risk of killing yourself, or trying to do the Light 
alone knows what insanity, is linked with two women, and one of them guiding the flows." 
Trying not to hunch his shoulders, he strode away from her. So it had been not just the wildness of saidin around Ebou 
Dar that had killed Adley. He had murdered the man the moment he sent Narishma for the thing. 
Cadsuane's voice pursued him. "Remember, boy. You must ask very nicely, and apologize. I might even agree, if your 
apology sounds truly sincere." 
Rand barely heard her. He had hoped to use Callandor again, hoped it would be strong enough. Now only one chance 
remained, and it terrified him. He seemed to hear another woman's voice, a dead woman's voice. You could challenge 
the Creator. 

Chapter 28 Crimsonthorn 

It hardly seemed the setting for the explosion Elayne feared. Harlon Bridge was a village of moderate size, with three 
inns and enough houses that no one had to sleep in a hayloft. When Elayne and Birgitte went downstairs to the 
common room that morning, Mistress Dill, the round innkeeper, smiled warmly and offered as much of a curtsy as her 
size allowed. It was not just that Elayne was Aes Sedai. Mistress Dill was so pleased that her inn was full, what with 
the roads snowpacked, that she bobbed at nearly everyone. At their entrance, Aviendha hastily gulped the last of her 
breakfast bread and cheese, brushed a few crumbs from her green dress, and snatched up her dark cloak to join them. 
Outside, the sun was just peeking over the horizon, a low dome of pale yellow. Only a few clouds marred a beautiful 
blue sky, and they were white and fluffy, not the sort to carry snow. It seemed a wonderful day for traveling. 
Except that Adeleas was trampling a path up the snowy street, and the white-haired sister was dragging one of the Kin, 
Garenia Rosoinde, by her arm. Garenia was a slim-hipped Saldaean who had spent the last twenty years as a merchant 
although she looked only a few years older than Nynaeve did. Normally, her strongly hooked nose gave her a forceful 
appearance, a woman who would make hard trading and not back away. Now her dark tilted eyes were large in her face 
and her wide mouth hung open, emitting a wordless wail. A growing knot of Kinswomen followed behind, skirts held 
high out of the snow, whispering among themselves, with more running from every direction to join. Reanne and the 
rest of the Knitting Circle were in the front, all grim-faced except for Kirstian, who seemed even paler than usual. Alise 
was there, too, wearing an utterly blank expression. 
Adeleas stopped in front of Elayne and shoved Garenia so hard the woman fell to hands and knees in the snow. Where 
she stayed, still wailing. The Kinswomen gathered behind her, more of their number flocking in. 
"I'm bringing this to you because Nynaeve is busy," the Brown sister told Elayne. She meant that Nynaeve was 
enjoying a little time alone with Lan somewhere, but for once, not so much as a hint of a smile crossed her lips. "Be 
quiet, child!" she snapped at Garenia. Who promptly went silent. Adeleas gave a satisfied nod. "This is not Garenia 
Rosoinde," she said. "I finally recognized her. Zarya Alkaese, a novice who ran away just before Vandene and I 
decided to retire and write our history of the world. She admitted it, when I confronted her. I'm surprised Careane didn't 
recognize her before this; they were novices together for two years. The law is clear, Elayne. A runaway must be put 
back in white as soon as possible and kept under strict discipline until she can be returned to the Tower for proper 
punishment. She won't think of running again after that!" 
Elayne nodded slowly, trying to think of what to say. Whether or not Garenia— Zarya— thought of running again, she 
would not be allowed the opportunity. She was very strong in the Power; the Tower would not let her go if it took the 



rest of her life to earn the shawl. But Elayne was recalling something she had heard this woman say the first time she 
met her. The meaning had not registered then, but now it did. How would Zarya face novice white again after living as 
her own woman for seventy years? Worse, those whispers among the Kinswomen had begun to sound like rumbles. 
She did not have long to think. Suddenly Kirstian fell to her knees, clutching at Adeleas' skirts with one hand. "I submit 
myself," she said calmly, her tone a wonder coming from that bloodless face. "I was enrolled in the novice book almost 
three hundred years ago, and ran away less than a year later. I submit myself, and . . . and beg mercy." 
It was white-haired Adeleas' turn to go wide-eyed. Kirstian was claiming to have run away from the White Tower when 
she herself was an infant, if not before she was born! Most of the sisters still did not really believe the ages claimed by 
the Kin. Indeed, Kirstian appeared just into her middle years. 
Even so, Adeleas recovered herself quickly. However old the other woman was, Adeleas had been Aes Sedai about as 
long as anyone living. She carried an aura of age, and authority. "If that is so, child," her voice did falter just a bit at 
that, "I fear we must put you in white, too. You will still be punished, but surrendering as you have will gain you some 
mitigation." 
"That is why I did it." Kirstian's steady tone was spoiled somewhat by a hard swallow. She was almost as strong as 
Zarya— none of the Knitting Circle were weak— and she would be held very closely. "I knew you would find me out 
sooner or later." 
Adeleas nodded as though that were clearly obvious, though how the woman would have been found out, Elayne could 
not guess. She very much doubted that Kirstian Chalwin was the name the woman had been born with. Most of the Kin 
believed in Aes Sedai omniscience, though. They had, at least. 
"Rubbish!" Sarainya Vostovan's husky voice cut through the murmured babble of the Kin. Neither strong enough to 
become Aes Sedai nor nearly old enough to stand very high among the Kin, she still stepped from the pack defiantly. 
"Why should we give them up to the White Tower? We have helped women run away, and rightly so! It is not part of 
the rules to give them back!" "Control yourself!" Reanne said sharply. "Alise, take Sarainya in hand, please. It seems 
she forgets too many of the rules she claims to know." 
Alise looked at Reanne, her face still unreadable. Alise, who enforced the Kin's rules with a firm hand. "It is not part of 
our rules to hand runaways back, Reanne," she said. Reanne jerked as though struck. "And how do you suggest keeping 
them?" she demanded finally. "We have always held runaways apart until we were sure they were no longer hunted, 
and if they were found before, we let the sisters take them. That is the rule, Alise. What other rule do you propose 
violating? Do you suggest that we actually set ourselves against Aes Sedai?" Ridicule of such a notion larded her voice, 
yet Alise stood looking at her, silent. 
"Yes!" a voice shouted from the crowd of Kinswomen. "We are many, and they are few!" Adeleas stared at the crowd 
in disbelief. Elayne embraced saidar, though she knew the voice was right—the Kin were too many. She felt Aviendha 
embracing the Power, and Birgitte setting herself. 
Giving herself a shake as if coming to, Alise did something far more practical, certainly far more effective. "Sarainya," 
she said loudly, "you will report to me when we stop tonight, with a switch you cut yourself before we leave this 
morning. You, too, Asra; I recognize your voice!" And then, just as loudly, she said to Reanne, "I will report myself for 
your judgment when we stop tonight. I don't see anyone getting ready!" 
The Kinswomen broke up quickly then, heading off to gather their things, yet Elayne saw some of them talking quietly 
as they went. When they rode over the bridge across the frozen stream that wound down beside the village, with 
Nynaeve incredulous over what she had missed and glaring about for someone to call down, Sarainya and Asra carried 
switches—as did Alise—and Zarya and Kirstian wore hastily found white dresses beneath their dark cloaks. The 
Windfinders pointed at them and laughed uproariously. But many of the Kinswomen still talked in clusters, falling 
silent whenever a sister or one of the Knitting Circle looked at them. And there was a darkness to their eyes when they 
looked at Aes Sedai. 
Eight more days of floundering through the snow when it was not falling, and grinding her teeth in an inn when it was. 
Eight more days of brooding by the Kin, of staring bleakly at the sisters, days of strutting by the Windfinders around 
Kin and Aes Sedai alike. On the morning of the ninth day, Elayne began to wish everyone had simply gone for 
everyone else's throat. She was just wondering whether they could cover the last ten miles to Caemlyn without a 
murder, when Kirstian rapped at her door and darted in without waiting for an answer. The woman's plain woolen dress 
was not the shade of white proper for a novice, and she had regained much of her dignity somehow, as if knowing her 
future had smoothed her present, but now she made a hasty curtsy, almost tripping over her cloak, and her nearly black 
eyes were anxious. "Nynaeve Sedai, Elayne Sedai, Lord Lan says you are to come at once," she said breathlessly. "He 



told me to speak to no one, and you aren't to, either." 
Elayne and Nynaeve exchanged looks with Aviendha and Birgitte. Nynaeve growled something under her breath about 
the man not knowing private from public, but it was clear before she blushed that she did not believe it. Elayne felt 
Birgitte focus, the drawn arrow hunting a target. 
Kirstian did not know what Lan wanted, only where she was to lead them. The small hut outside of Cullen's Crossing 
where Adeleas had taken Ispan the night before. Lan stood outside, his eyes as cold as the air, and would not let 
Kirstian enter. When Elayne went inside, she saw why. 
Adeleas lay on her side beside an overturned stool, a cup on the rough wooden floor not far from one outstretched 
hand. Her eyes stared, and a pool of congealed blood spread out from the deep slash across her throat. Ispan lay on a 
small cot, staring at the ceiling. Lips drawn back in a rictus bared her teeth, and her bulging eyes seemed full of horror. 
As well they might have, since a wrist-thick wooden stake stood out from between her breasts. The hammer that had 
plainly been used to drive it in lay beside the cot, on the edge of a dark stain that ran back under the cot. Elayne forced 
herself to stop thinking about emptying her stomach on the spot. "Light," she breathed. "Light! Who could do this? 
How could anyone do this?" Aviendha shook her head wonderingly, and Lan did not even bother with that. He just 
watched nine directions at once, as though he expected whoever, or whatever, had committed this murder to come 
through one of the two tiny windows if not through the walls. Birgitte drew her belt knife, and by her face, she dearly 
wished she had her bow. That drawn arrow was stronger than ever in Elayne's head. At first, Nynaeve simply stood in 
one spot, studying the hut's interior. There was little to see, aside from the obvious. A second three-legged stool, a 
rough table holding a flickering lamp, a green teapot and a second cup, a rude stone fireplace with cold ash on the 
hearthstone. That was all. The hut was so small it only took Nynaeve a step to reach the table. Dipping her finger into 
the teapot, she touched it to the tip of her tongue, then spat vigorously and emptied the whole teapot into the table in a 
wash of tea and tea leaves. Elayne blinked wonderingly. 
"What happened?" Vandene asked coolly from the door. Lan moved to bar her way, but she stopped him with a small 
gesture. Elayne started to put an arm around her, and received another raised hand to keep her back. Vandene's eyes 
remained on her sister, calm in a face of Aes Sedai serenity. The dead woman on the cot might as well not have existed. 
"When I saw all of you heading this way, I thought . . . We knew we didn't have many years remaining, but . . ." Her 
voice sounded serenity itself, but small wonder if that was a mask. "What have you found, Nynaeve?" 
Sympathy looked odd on Nynaeve's face. Clearing her throat, she pointed to the tea leaves without touching them. To 
white shavings among the matted black leaves. "This is crimsonthorn root," she said, trying to sound matter-of-fact and 
failing. "It's sweet, so you might miss it in tea unless you know what it is, especially if you take a lot of honey." 
Vandene nodded, never taking her eyes from her sister. "Adeleas developed a taste for sweet tea in Ebou Dar." 
"A little kills pain," Nynaeve said. "This much . . . This much kills, but slowly. Even a few sips would be enough." 
Taking a deep breath, she added, "They might have remained conscious for hours. Not able to move, but aware. Either 
whoever did this didn't want to risk someone coming too soon with an antidote— not that I know one, for a brew this 
strong—or else they wanted one or the other to know who was killing them." Elayne gasped at the brutality, but 
Vandene simply nodded. 
"Ispan, I think, since they appear to have taken the most time with her." The white-haired Green almost seemed to be 
thinking aloud, working out a puzzle. Cutting a throat took less time than driving a stake through someone's heart. The 
calm of her made Elayne's skin crawl. "Adeleas would never have accepted anything to drink from someone she didn't 
know, not out here with Ispan. Those two facts name her killer, in a way. A Darkfriend, and one of our party. One of 
us." Elayne felt two chills, her own, and Birgitte's. 
"One of us," Nynaeve agreed sadly. Aviendha began testing the edge of her belt knife on her thumb, and for once, 
Elayne felt no objection. 
Vandene asked to be left alone with her sister for a few moments, and sat on the floor to cradle Adeleas in her arms 
before they were out of the door. Jaem, Vandene's gnarled old Warder, was waiting outside with a shivering Kirstian. 
Suddenly a wail burst out inside the hut, the full-throated cry of a woman mourning the loss of everything. Nynaeve, of 
all people, turned to go back, but Lan laid a hand on her arm, and Jaem planted himself before the door with eyes not 
much warmer than Lan's. There was nothing to do but leave them, Vandene to shriek her pain, and Jaem to guard her in 
it. And share it, Elayne realized, feeling that knot of emotions in her head that was Birgitte. She shivered, and Birgitte 
put an arm around her shoulders. Aviendha did the same from the other side, and motioned for Nynaeve to join them, 
which she did, after a moment. The murder Elayne had thought of so lightly had come, one of their companions was a 
Darkfriend, and the day suddenly felt cold enough to shatter bones, but there was a warmth in the closeness of her 



friends. 
The last ten funereal miles to Caemlyn took two days in the snow, with even the Windfinders decently subdued. Not 
that they pushed Merilille any less hard. Not that Kin stopped talking, and falling silent whenever a sister or one of the 
Knitting Circle came near. Vandene, with her sister's silver-mounted saddle on her horse, appeared as serene as she had 
at Adeleas' graveside, but Jaem's eyes carried a silent promise of death that surely rode in Vandene's heart, too. Elayne 
could not have been happier to see the walls and towers of Caemlyn if the very sight had given her the Rose Crown and 
brought back Adeleas. 
Even Caemlyn, one of the great cities of the world, had never seen the likes of their party before, and once inside the 
fifty-foot walls of gray stone they attracted notice as they crossed the New City along wide, slush-filled streets bustling 
with people and carts and wagons. Shopkeepers stood in their doorways and gaped. Wagon drivers reined in their 
teams to stare. Towering Aielmen and tall Maidens eyed them from every corner, it seemed. The people seemed to take 
no notice of the Aiel, but Elayne did. She loved Aviendha as she did herself, more, but she could not love an army of 
armed Aiel walking Caemlyn's streets. 
The Inner City, ringed by towered walls of silver-streaked white, was a remembered delight, and Elayne finally began 
to feel that she was coming home. The streets followed the curves of the hills, and every rise presented a new vista of 
snow-covered parks and monuments laid out to be seen from above as well as up close, of brightly tiled towers shining 
with a hundred colors in the afternoon sun. And then the Royal Palace itself was before them, a confection of pale 
spires and golden domes and intricate stonework traceries. The banner of Andor waved from nearly every prominence, 
the White Lion on red. And from the others, the Dragon Banner or the Banner of Light. 
At the tall gilded gates of the Palace, Elayne rode forward alone in her travel-stained gray riding dress. Tradition and 
legend said women who first approached the Palace in splendor always failed. She had made clear that she had to do it 
alone, yet she almost wished Aviendha and Birgitte had succeeded in overruling her. Half the two dozen guards in front 
of the gates were Aiel Maidens, the others men in blue helmets and blue coats with a red-and-gold Dragon marching 
across the chest. 
"I am Elayne Trakand," she announced loudly, surprised at how calm she sounded. Her voice carried, and across the 
great plaza people turned from staring at her companions to stare at her. The ancient formula rolled from her tongue. 
"In the name of House Trakand, by right of descent from Ishara, I have come to claim the Lion Throne of Andor, if the 
Light wills it so." 
The gates opened wide. 
It would not be that easy, of course. Even possession of the Palace was not enough to hold the throne of Andor by 
itself. Passing her companions into the care of an astonished Reene Harfor— and very pleased to see that the graying 
First Maid, round and as regal as any queen, still had the Palace in her capable hands—and a coterie of servants in 
red-and-white livery, Elayne hurried to the Grand Hall, the throne room of Andor. Alone, again. This was not part of 
the ritual, not yet. She should have been going to change into the red silk with the pearl-worked bodice and white lions 
climbing the sleeves, but she felt compelled. This time, not even Nynaeve tried to object. 
White columns twenty paces high marched down the sides of the Grand Hall. The throne room was empty, still. That 
would not last long. Clear afternoon light through the glassed casements in tall windows along the walls mingled with 
the colored light through the great windows set in the ceiling, where the White Lion of Andor alternated with scenes of 
Andoran victories and the faces of the land's earliest queens, beginning with Ishara herself, as dark as any of the 
Atha'an Miere, as full of authority as any Aes Sedai. No ruler of Andor could forget herself with the predecessors who 
had forged this nation staring down at her. 
One thing she feared to see—the huge monstrosity of a throne, all gilded Dragons, that she had seen standing on the 
dais at the far end of the Hall in Tel'aran'rhiod. It was not there, thank the Light. The Lion Throne no longer rested on a 
tall plinth like some trophy, either, but kept its proper place upon the dais, a massive chair, carved and gilded, but sized 
for a woman. The White Lion, picked out in moonstones on a field of rubies, would stand above the head of any 
woman who sat there. No man could feel at his ease sitting on that throne, because, so legend said, he would know he 
had sealed his doom. Elayne thought it more likely the builders had simply made sure a man would not fit on it easily. 
Climbing the white marble steps of the dais, she laid a hand on one arm of the throne. She had no right to sit on it 
herself, not yet. Not until she was acknowledged Queen. But taking oaths on the Lion Throne was a custom as old as 
Andor. She had to resist the desire to simply fall on her knees and weep into the throne's seat. Reconciled to her 
mother's death she might be, but this brought back all the pain. She could not break down now. 
"Under the Light, I will honor your memory, Mother," she said softly. "I will honor the name of Morgase Trakand, and 



try to bring only honor to House Trakand." 
"I ordered the guards to keep the curious and the favor-seekers away. I suspected you might want to be alone here for a 
time." 
Elayne turned slowly to face Dyelin Taravin, as the golden-haired woman walked the length of the Grand Hall. Dyelin 
had been one of her mother's earliest supporters in her own quest for the throne. There was more gray in her hair than 
Elayne remembered, more lines at the corners of her eyes. She was still quite beautiful. A strong woman. And powerful 
as friend or foe. 
She stopped at the foot of the dais, looking up. "I've been hearing for two days that you were alive, but I didn't really 
believe it until now. You've come to accept the throne from the Dragon Reborn, then?" 
"I claim the throne by my own right, Dyelin, with my own hand. The Lion Throne is no bauble to be accepted from a 
man." Dyelin nodded, as at self-evident truth. Which it was, to any Andoran. "How do you stand, Dyelin? With 
Trakand, or against? I have heard your name often on my way here." 
"Since you claim the throne by your own right, with." Few people could sound as dry as she. Elayne sat down on the 
top step, and motioned the older woman to join her. "There are a few obstacles, of course," Dyelin went on as she 
gathered her blue skirts to sit. "There have been several claimants already, as you may know. Naean and Elenia, I have 
securely locked up. On a charge of treason that most people seem willing to accept. For the time being. Elenia's 
husband is still active for her, though quietly, and Arymilla has announced a claim, the silly goose. She's getting 
support of a kind, but nothing that need worry you. Your real worries—aside from Aiel all over the city waiting for the 
Dragon Reborn to come back—are Aemlyn, Arathelle, and Pelivar. For the moment, Luan and Ellorien will be behind 
you, but they might go over to those three." 
A very succinct list, delivered in a tone suitable for discussing a possible horse trade. Naean and Elenia she knew 
about, if not that Jarid still thought his wife had a chance at the throne. Arymilla was a goose to believe she would be 
accepted, whatever her support. The last five names were worrying, though. Each had been as strong a supporter of her 
mother, as had Dyelin, and each led a strong House. 
"So Arathelle and Aemlyn want the throne," Elayne murmured. "I can't believe it of Ellorien, not for herself." Pelivar 
might be acting for one of his daughters, but Luan had only granddaughters, none near old enough. "You spoke as if 
they might unite, all five Houses. Behind whom?" That would be a dire threat. 
Smiling, Dyelin propped her chin in her hand. "They seem to think I should have the throne. Now, what do you intend 
about the Dragon Reborn? He hasn't been back here in some time, but he can pop out of the air, it seems." 
Elayne squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, but when she opened them, she was still sitting on the steps of the dais in 
the Grand Hall, and Dyelin was still smiling at her. Her brother fought for Elaida, and her half-brother was a 
Whitecloak. She had filled the Palace with women who might turn on one another at any moment, not to mention the 
fact that one was a Darkfriend, maybe even Black Ajah. And the strongest threat she faced in claiming the throne, a 
very strong one, stood behind a woman who said she supported Elayne. The world was quite mad. She might as well 
add her bit. 
"I mean to bond him my Warder," she said, and went on before the other woman could more than blink in 
astonishment. "I also hope to marry him. Those things have nothing to do with the Lion Throne, however. The very 
first thing I intend ..." 
As she went on, Dyelin began to laugh. Elayne wished she knew whether it was from delight over her plans or because 
Dyelin saw her own path to the Lion Throne being made smooth. At least she knew what she faced, now. 
Riding into Caemlyn, Daved Hanlon could not help thinking what a city for the looting it was. In his years soldiering, 
he had seen many villages and towns looted, and once, twenty years ago, a great city, Cairhien, after the Aiel left. 
Strange that all these Aiel had left Caemlyn so apparently untouched, but then, if the tallest towers in Cairhien had not 
been burning, it might have been hard to know they had been there; plenty of gold, among other things, lying about for 
the picking up, and plenty of men to do the picking. He could see these broad streets full of horsemen and fleeing 
people, fat merchants who would give up their gold before the knife touched them in the hope their lives would be 
spared, slim girls and plump women so terrified when they were dragged into a corner that they could hardly manage to 
squeal, much less struggle. He had seen those things and done them, and he hoped to again. Not in Caemlyn, though, he 
admitted with a sigh. If the orders that sent him here had been the sort he could disobey, he would have gone where the 
pickings might not be so rich, but definitely easier to pluck. 
His instructions had been clear. Stabling his horse at The Red Bull, in the New City, he walked a mile to a tall stone 
house on a side street, the house of a wealthy merchant discreet about her gold, marked with a tiny painted sigil on the 



doors, a red heart on a golden hand. The hulking fellow who let him in was no merchant's servant, with his sunken 
knuckles and sullen eyes. Without a word, the huge man led him deeper into the house, then down, toward the 
basements. Hanlon eased his sword in its scabbard. Among the things he had seen were men and women, failures, led 
to their own very elaborate executions. He did not think he had failed, but then again, he had hardly succeeded. He had 
followed orders, though. Which was not always enough. 
In the rough stone basement, lit by gilded lamps set all around, his eyes went first to a pretty woman in a lace-trimmed 
dress of scarlet silk, with her hair caught in frothy lace net. He did not know who this Lady Shiaine was, but his orders 
had been to obey her. He made his best leg, smiling. She simply looked at him, as if waiting for him to notice what else 
the basement held. 
He could hardly have missed it, since except for a few casks the room held only a large heavy table, decorated in a very 
strange fashion. Two ovals had been cut in the tabletop, and from one stuck the head and shoulders of a man, his head 
wrenched back against the wooden surface and held there by means of leather straps nailed to the tabletop and fastened 
to a block of wood jammed between his teeth. A woman, prepared the same, provided the other decoration. Beneath the 
table, they knelt with wrists tied to ankles. Quite securely held for any sort of pleasure. The man had a touch of gray in 
his hair and the face of a lord, but unsurprisingly, his deep-set eyes rolled wildly. The woman's hair, spread out on the 
table, was dark and glossy, but her face was a little long for Hanlon's taste. 
Suddenly he really saw her face, and his hand leaped to his sword before he could stop it. Releasing the hilt took some 
effort, which he made pains to hide. An Aes Sedai's face, but an Aes Sedai who let herself be fastened like that was no 
threat. 
"So you have some brains," Shiaine said. By her accents, she was a noble, and she certainly had the commanding air, 
sweeping around the table to peer down into the bound man's face. "I asked the Great Master Moridin to send me a man 
with brains. Poor Jaichim here has very few." 
Hanlon frowned, and smoothed it away immediately. His orders had come from Moghedien herself. Who in the Pit of 
Doom was Moridin? It did not matter. His orders had come from Moghedien; that was enough. 
The hulking fellow handed Shiaine a funnel, which she fitted into a hole bored through the block of wood between this 
Jaichim's teeth. The man's eyes seemed ready to leap from his head. "Poor Jaichim here failed very badly," Shiaine 
said, smiling like a fox looking at a chicken. "Moridin wishes him punished. Poor Jaichim does like his brandy." 
She stepped back, not so far that she could not see clearly, and Hanlon gave a start as the hulking man came to the table 
with one of the casks. Hanlon did think he could have lifted the thing unaided, but the big man tipped it easily. The 
bound man shrieked once, and then a stream of dark liquid was pouring from the cask into the funnel, turning his cry to 
gurgling. The rough smell of crude brandy filled the air. Secured as he was, the man fought, thrashing about, even 
managing to heave the table sideways, but the brandy kept pouring. Bubbles rose in the funnel as he tried to shout or 
scream, but the steady stream never faltered. And then his thrashing slowed and stopped. Wide, glazing eyes stared up 
the ceiling, and brandy trickled from his nostrils. The big fellow still did not stop until the last drops fell from an empty 
cask. 
"I think poor Jaichim has finally had enough brandy," Shiaine said, and laughed in delight. 
Hanlon nodded. He supposed the man had, at that. He wondered who he had been. 
Shiaine was not quite finished. At a gesture from her, the hulking man ripped one of the straps holding the Aes Sedai's 
gag off of its nail. Hanlon thought the wooden block might have loosened a few of her teeth coming out of her mouth, 
but if so, she did not waste time on them. She began babbling before the fellow let go of the strap. 
"I will obey you!" she howled. "I will obey, as the Great Master commanded! He set the shield on me to dissolve so I 
could obey! He told me so! Let me prove myself! I will crawl! I am a worm, and you are the sun! Oh, please! Please! 
Please!" 
Shiaine stifled words if not whimpers by putting a hand over the Aes Sedai's mouth. "How do I know you won't fail 
again, Falion? You have failed before, and Moridin left your punishment to me. He gave me another; do I need two of 
you? I may give you a second chance to plead your case, Falion—perhaps— but if I do, you will have to convince me. 
I will expect true enthusiasm." 
Falion began screaming pleas again, making extravagant promises, the moment Shiaine's hand moved, but soon enough 
she was reduced to wordless shrieks and tears as the gag was replaced, the nail driven through the strap again, and 
Jaichim's funnel placed above her gaping throat. The hulking man stood another cask on the table beside her head. The 
Aes Sedai seemed to go mad, bulging eyes rolling, flinging herself about below the table till it trembled. 
Hanlon was impressed. An Aes Sedai must be harder to break than a plump merchant or his round-cheeked daughter. 



Still, she had had the help of one of the Chosen, it seemed. Realizing that Shiaine was looking at him, he stopped
smiling down at Falion. His first rule in life was never to offend those the Chosen set above him.
"Tell me, Hanlon," Shiaine said, "how would you like to put your hands on a queen?"
He licked his lips in spite of himself. A queen? That he had never done.


Chapter 29 A Cup of Sleep


Don't be an utter woolhead, Rand," Min said. Making herself remain seated, she crossed her legs and kicked her foot
idly, but she could not keep exasperation out of her voice. "Go to her! Speak to her!"
"Why?" he snapped. "I know which letter to believe, now. It's better this way. She's safe, now. From anyone who wants
to strike at me. Safe from me! It's better!" But he stalked up and down in his shirtsleeves between the two rows of
chairs in front of the Dragon Throne, his fists white-knuckle hard, glaring to beat the black clouds beyond the
casements that were laying a new blanket of snow on Cairhien.
Min exchanged looks with Fedwin Morr, who stood by the sun-carved doors. The Maidens now let anyone who was
not an obvious threat walk in unannounced, but those Rand did not want to see this morning would be turned away by
the husky boy. He wore the Dragon and Sword on his black collar, and Min knew he had already seen more
battles—more horror—than most men three times his age, yet he was a boy. Today, casting uneasy glances at Rand, he
seemed younger than ever. The sword on his hip still looked out of place, to her.
"The Dragon Reborn is a man, Fedwin," she said. "And like any man, he's sulking because he thinks a woman doesn't
want to see him again."
Goggling, the boy jerked as if she had goosed him. Rand stopped to scowl at her sullenly. All that kept her from
laughing was knowing that he was hiding pain as real as any stab wound. That, and the sure knowledge that he would
be as hurt if she had done what had been done. Not that she would ever have the chance to rip down his banners, but
the point applied. Rand had been stunned at first by the news Taim brought from Caemlyn at dawn, but as soon as the
man left, he had stopped looking like a poleaxed bull and started . . . This!
Standing, she adjusted her pale green coat, folded her arms beneath her breasts, and confronted him directly. "What
else can it be?" she asked calmly. Well, she tried for calm, and almost made it. She loved the man, but after a morning
of this, she wanted to box his ears soundly. "You haven't mentioned Mat twice, and you don't know whether he's even
alive."
"Mat's alive," Rand snarled. "I'd know if he was dead. What do you mean I'm—!" His jaw clenched as if he could not
make himself say the word.
"Sulking," she provided. "Soon, you'll be pouting. Some women think men are prettier when they pout. I'm not one of
them." Well, enough of that. His face had darkened, and he was not blushing. "Haven't you twisted yourself into knots
to make sure she got the throne of Andor? Which is hers by right, might I add. Didn't you say you wanted her to have
Andor whole, not ripped apart like Cairhien or Tear?"
"I did!" he roared. "And now it's hers, and she wants me out of it! Good enough, I say! And don't tell me again to stop
shouting! I'm not—!" He realized that he was, and clamped his teeth shut. A low growl came from his throat. Morr set
to studying one of his buttons, twisting it back and forth. He had been doing a lot of that this morning.
Min kept her face smooth. She was not going to slap him, and he was too big for her to spank. "Andor is hers, just as
you wanted," she said. Calmly. Almost. "None of the Forsaken are going after her now she's torn your banners down."
A dangerous light appeared in those blue-gray eyes, but she pressed on. "Just as you wanted. And you can't believe
she's siding with your enemies. Andor will follow the Dragon Reborn, and you know it. So the only reason for you to
be in a snit is because you think she doesn't want to see you. Go to her, you fool!" The next part was the hardest to say.
"Before you can say two words, she'll be kissing you." Light, she loved Elayne almost as much as she did Rand—
maybe as much, in a very different way— but how was a woman to compete with a beautiful golden-haired queen who
had a powerful nation at her beck and call?
"I am not . . . angry," Rand said in a tight voice. And started pacing again. Min considered kicking him square in the
bottom. Hard.
One of the doors opened to admit leathery white-haired Sorilea, who brushed Morr aside even as he was looking to see
whether Rand wanted her allowed entry. Rand opened his mouth—angrily, whatever he chose to claim—and five
women in thick black robes damp with melted snow followed the Wise One into the room, hands folded, eyes down,
and deep hoods not quite hiding their faces. Their feet were wrapped in rags.




Min's scalp prickled. To her eyes, images and auras danced and vanished and were replaced around all six women, just 
as around Rand. She had been hoping he had forgotten those five were alive. What in the name of the Light was that 
wicked old woman doing? 
Sorilea gestured once in a clatter of gold and ivory bracelets, and the five hastily arranged themselves in a line atop the 
golden Rising Sun set in the stone floor. Rand strode along that row, stripping back hoods, baring faces that he stared 
into cold-eyed. 
Every one of the black-robed women was unwashed, her hair lank and dirty with sweat. Elza Penfell, a Green sister, 
met his gaze eagerly, a strangely fervent look on her face. Nesune Bihara, a slender Brown, studied him as intently as 
he did her. Sarene Nemdahl, so beautiful even in her dirt that you thought her agelessness must be natural, appeared to 
be holding to her White Ajah coolness by a fingernail. Beldeine Nyram, too new to the shawl to have the ageless 
features, essayed an uncertain smile that melted under his stare. Brian Boroleos, pale and almost as lovely as Sarene, 
flinched, then visibly forced herself to look into that frigid gaze. Those last two also were Green, and all five had been 
among the sisters who kidnapped him on Elaida's orders. Some had been among those who tortured him while trying to 
carry him to Tar Valon. Sometimes Rand still woke, sweating and panting, mumbling about being confined, being 
beaten. Min hoped she did not see murder in his stare. 
"These were named da'tsang, Rand al'Thor," Sorilea said. "I think they feel their shame in the bone, now. Brian 
Boroleos was the first to ask to be beaten as you were, sunrise and sunset, but now each has done so. That plea has 
been granted. Each has asked to serve you however she may. The toh for their betrayal cannot be met," her voice 
darkened for a moment; to the Aiel, the betrayal of the kidnapping was far worse than what they had done after, "yet 
they know their shame, and they wish to try. We have decided to leave the choice to you." 
Min frowned. Leave the choice to him? Wise Ones rarely left any choice they could make to anyone else. Sorilea never 
did. The sinewy Wise One casually shifted her dark shawl on her shoulders and watched Rand as if this was of no 
importance at all. But she shot one blue ice glance at Min, and suddenly Min was sure that if she said the wrong thing 
here, that bony old woman would have her hide. It was not a viewing. She just knew Sorilea better than she wanted to, 
by now. 
Determinedly she set to studying what was appearing and vanishing around the women. No easy task when they stood 
so close together she could not be certain whether a particular image belonged to one woman or the woman next to her. 
At least the auras were always certain. Light, let her be able to understand at least some of what she saw! 
Rand took Sorilea's announcement coolly, on the surface. He rubbed his hands together slowly, then thoughtfully 
examined the herons branded on his palms. He examined each of those Aes Sedai faces in turn. Finally, he focused on 
Brian. 
"Why?" he asked her in a mild voice. "I killed two of your Warders. Why?" Min winced. Rand was many things, but 
seldom mild. And Brian was one of the few who had beaten him more than once. 
The pale Illianer sister straightened. Images danced, and auras flashed and were gone. Nothing Min could read. 
Dirty-faced and her long black hair matted, Brian gathered Aes Sedai authority around her and met his gaze levelly. 
But her answer came simply and directly. "We did be wrong in taking you. I have considered long on it. You must fight 
the Last Battle, and we must help you. If you will no accept me, I do understand, but I will help as you do require if 
you will allow." 
Rand stared at her without expression. 
He put that same one-word question to each, and their answers were as different as the women. 
"The Green is the Battle Ajah," Beldeine told him proudly, and despite smudges on her cheeks and dark circles beneath 
her eyes, she did look a Queen of Battles. But then, Saldaean women seemed to find that second nature. "When you go 
to Tarmon Gai'don, the Green must be there. I will follow, if you will accept me." Light, she was going to bond an 
Asha'man as a Warder! How . . . ? No; it was not important now. 
"What we did was logical at the time." Sarene's tightly held cool serenity slipped into clear worry, and she shook her 
head. "I say that to explain, not to exculpate. Circumstances have changed. For you, the logical course might seem to 
..." She drew a decidedly unsteady breath. Images and auras; a tempestuous love affair, of all things! The woman was 
ice, however beautiful. And there was nothing useful in knowing some man would melt her! "To send us back to 
captivity," she went on, "or even execute us. For me, logic says I must serve you." 
Nesune tilted her head, and her nearly black eyes seemed to be trying to store away every scrap of him. One 
red-and-green aura spoke of honors, and fame. A huge building appeared above her head and vanished. A library she 
would found. "I want to study you," she said simply. "I can hardly do that carrying stones or digging holes. They do 



leave plenty of time for thought, but serving you seems a fair exchange for what I might learn." Rand blinked at the 
directness of that, but otherwise, his expression did 
not alter. 
The most surprising answer came from Elza, in her manner of delivery more than the words. Sinking to her knees, she 
gazed up at Rand with feverish eyes. Her whole face seemed to shine with fervor. Auras flared and images cascaded 
around her, telling nothing. "You are the Dragon Reborn," she said breathlessly. "You must be there for the Last Battle. 
I must help you be there! Whatever is necessary, I will do!" And she flung herself face down, pressing her lips to the 
polished stone floor in front of his boots. Even Sorilea looked taken aback, and Sarene's mouth dropped open. Morr 
gaped at her and hastily returned to twisting his button. Min thought he giggled nervously, almost under his breath. 
Turning on his heel, Rand stalked halfway to the Dragon Throne, where his scepter and the crown of Illian rested atop 
his gold-embroidered red coat. His face was so bleak that Min wanted to rush to him no matter who was watching, but 
she continued to study the Aes Sedai. And Sorilea. She had never seen anything really useful around that white-haired 
harridan. 
Abruptly, Rand turned back, striding toward the line of women so quickly that Beldeine and Sarene stepped back. A 
sharp gesture from Sorilea jerked them into place again. 
"Would you accept being confined in a box?" His voice grated, stone grinding on frozen stone. "Locked in a chest all 
day, and beaten before you go in and when you come out?" That was what they had done to him. 
"Yes!" Elza moaned against the floor. "Whatever I must do, I will!" 
"If you do require it," Brian managed shakily, and, faces aghast, the others nodded slowly. 
Min stared in amazement, knotting her fists in her coat pockets. That he might think of getting his own back in the 
same manner seemed almost natural, but she had to stop it, somehow. She knew him better than he did himself; she 
knew where he was hard as a knife blade, and where he was vulnerable no matter how he denied it. He would never 
forgive himself this. But how? Fury contorted his face, and he shook his head as he did when arguing with that voice he 
heard. He muttered one word aloud that she understood. Ta'veren. Sorilea stood there calmly examining him as closely 
as Nesune did. Not even the threat of the chest shook the Brown. Except for Elza, still moaning and kissing the floor, 
the others were hollow-eyed, as if seeing themselves doubled up and bound as he had been. 
Among all of those images spilling around Rand and the women, suddenly an aura flashed, blue and yellow tinged with 
green, encompassing them all. And Min knew its meaning. She gasped, half in surprise, half in relief. 
"They will serve you, each in her fashion, Rand," she said hurriedly. "I saw it." Sorilea would serve him? Suddenly 
Min wondered exactly what "in her fashion" meant. The words came with the knowing, but she did not always know 
what the words themselves meant. But they would serve; that much was plain. 
The fury drained from Rand's face as he silently studied the Aes Sedai. Some of them glanced at Min with raised 
eyebrows, obviously marveling that a few words from her carried so much weight, but for the most part, they watched 
Rand and hardly seemed to breathe. Even Elza lifted her head to gaze up at him. Sorilea gave Min one quick look, and 
the faintest nod. Approving, Min thought. So the old woman pretended not to care one way or the other, did she? 
At last, Rand spoke. "You can swear to me as Kiruna and the others did. That, or go back to wherever the Wise Ones 
have been keeping you. I'll accept nothing less." Despite a hint of demand in his voice, he looked as if he, too, did not 
care, arms folded, eyes impatient. The oath he demanded of them came out in a rush. 
Min did not expect quibbles, not after her viewing, yet it was still a surprise when Elza scrambled up to her knees, and 
the others lowered themselves to theirs. In ragged unison, five more Aes Sedai swore under the Light and by their hope 
of salvation to serve the Dragon Reborn faithfully until the Last Battle had come and gone. Nesune delivered the words 
as though examining each one, Sarene as if stating a principle of logic, Elza wearing a wide, victorious smile, but they 
all swore. How many Aes Sedai would he gather around him? 
With the oath, Rand seemed to lose interest. "Find them clothes and put them with your other 'apprentices,'" he told 
Sorilea absently. He was frowning, but not at her or the Aes Sedai. "How many do you think you'll end up with?" Min 
almost jumped at the echo of her own thought. 
"However many are necessary," Sorilea said dryly. "I think more will come." She clapped her hands once and gestured, 
and the five sisters sprang to their feet. Only Nesune looked surprised at the alacrity with which they had obeyed. 
Sorilea smiled, a very satisfied smile for an Aiel, and Min did not think it was caused by the other women's obedience. 
Nodding, Rand turned away. He was already beginning to pace again, already beginning to scowl over Elayne. Min 
settled into her chair once more, wishing she had one of Master Pel's books to read. Or to throw at Rand. Well, one of 
Master Fel's to read, and someone else's to throw. 



Sorilea herded the black-clad sisters out of the room, but at the last, she paused with one hand holding a door and 
looked back at Rand striding away from her toward the gilded throne. Her lips pursed thoughtfully. "That woman, 
Cadsuane Melaidhrin, is beneath this roof again today," she said at last, to his back. "I think she believes you are afraid 
of her, Rand al'Thor, the way you avoid her whereabouts." With that, she left. 
For a long moment, Rand stood staring at the throne. Or maybe at something beyond it. Abruptly, he gave himself a 
shake and strode the remaining distance to pick up the Crown of Swords. On the point of setting it on his head, though, 
he hesitated, then put it back. Donning the coat, he left crown and scepter where they lay. 
"I mean to find out what Cadsuane wants," he announced. "She doesn't come to the palace every day because she likes 
a trip through the snow. Will you come with me, Min? Maybe you'll have a viewing." 
She was on her feet faster than any of those Aes Sedai. A visit with Cadsuane would likely be as pleasurable as a visit 
with Sorilea, yet anything was better than sitting there alone. Besides, maybe she would have a viewing. Fedwin fell in 
behind her and Rand with an alert look in his eyes. 
The six Maidens outside in the tall vaulted hallway rose, but they did not follow. Somara was the only one Min knew; 
she gave Min a brief smile, and Rand a flat, disapproving stare. The others glowered. The Maidens had accepted his 
explanation about why he had gone without them in the first place, so any watchers would believe for as long as 
possible that he was still in Cairhien, but they still demanded to know why he had not sent for them afterward, and 
Rand had had no answers. He muttered something under his breath, and quickened his pace so Min had to stretch her 
legs to keep up. 
"Watch Cadsuane carefully, Min," he said. "And you, too, Morr. She's up to some Aes Sedai scheme, but burn me if I 
can see what. I don't know. There's—" 
A stone wall seemed to strike Min from behind; she thought she heard roaring, crashing. And then Rand was turning 
her over— she was lying on the floor?— looking down at her with the first fear she remembered seeing in those 
morning-blue eyes. It only faded when she sat up, coughing. The air was full of dust! And then she saw the corridor. 
The Maidens were gone from in front of Rand's doors. The doors themselves were gone, along with most of the wall, 
and a jagged hole nearly as big gaped in the wall opposite. She could see into his apartments clearly despite the dust, 
into devastation. Massive piles of rubble lay everywhere, and above, the ceiling yawned open to the sky. Snow swirled 
down onto flames dancing among the rubble. One of the massive blackwood posts of his bed stuck burning out of 
shattered stone, and she realized she could see all the way outside to the stepped towers veiled by the snowfall. It was 
as if a huge hammer had smashed into the Sun Palace. And had they been in there, instead of going to see Cadsuane . . . 
Min shivered. 
"What . . . ?" she began unsteadily, then abandoned the useless question. Any fool would see what had happened. 
"Who?" she asked instead. 
Covered in dust, hair every which way, and with tears in their coats, the two men looked as if they had been rolled 
along the corridor, and perhaps they had. She thought they were all a good ten paces farther from the doors than she 
remembered. From where the doors had been. In the distance, anxious shouts rose, echoing along the halls. Neither 
man answered her. 
"Can I trust you, Morr?" Rand asked. 
Fedwin met his gaze openly. "With your life, my Lord Dragon," he said simply. 
"That's what I am trusting you with," Rand said. His fingers brushed her cheek, and then he stood abruptly. "Guard her 
with your life, Morr." Hard as steel, his voice. Grim as death. "If they're still in the Palace, they'll feel you try to make a 
gateway, and strike before you can finish. Don't channel at all unless you must, but be ready. Take her down to the 
servants' quarters, and kill anyone or anything that tries to get to her. Anyone!" 
With a last look down at her— oh, Light, any other time, she would have thought she could die happily, seeing that 
look in his eyes!— he went running, away from the ruination. Away from her. Whoever had tried to kill him would be 
hunting for him. 
Morr patted her on the arm with a dusty hand and gave her a boyish grin. "Don't worry, Min. I'll take care of you." 
But who was going to take care of Rand? Can I trust you, he had asked this boy who had been one of the first to come 
asking to learn. Light, who would make him safe? 
Rounding a corner, Rand stopped with a hand against one wall to seize the Source. A fool thing, not wanting Min to 
see him stagger when someone tried to kill him, but there it was. Not just any someone. A man, Demandred, or perhaps 
Asmodean come back at last. Maybe both; there had been an oddity, as if the weaving came from different directions. 
He had felt the channeling too late to do anything. He would have died, in his rooms. He was ready to die. But not Min, 



no, not Min. Elayne was better off, turning against him. Oh, Light, she was! 
He seized the Source, and saidin flooded him with molten cold and freezing heat, with life and sweetness, filth and 
death. His stomach twisted, and the hallway in front of him doubled itself. For an instant, he thought he saw a face. Not 
with his eyes; in his head. A man, shimmering and unrecognizable, gone. He floated in the Void, empty, and full of the 
Power. 
You won't win, he told Lews Therin. If I die, I'll die me! 
I should have sent Ilyena away, Lews Therin whispered back. She would have lived. 
Pushing the voice away as he pushed himself from the wall, Rand slipped along the Palace corridors with all the stealth 
he could muster, stepping lightly, gliding close to tapestry-hung walls, around gold-worked chests and gilded cabinets 
bearing fragile golden porcelains and ivory statuettes. His eyes searched for his attackers. They would not be satisfied 
short of finding his body, but they would be very careful in approaching his rooms in case he had survived by some 
ta'veren swirl of fate. They would wait, to see whether he stirred. In the Void, he was as near one with the Power as any 
man could live through. In the Void, as with a sword, he was one with his surroundings. 
Frantic shouts and clamor rose in every direction, some screaming to know what had happened, others crying that the 
Dragon Reborn had gone mad. The bundle of frustration in his head that was Alanna provided one small comfort. She 
was out of the Palace, as she had been all morning, maybe even outside the city walls. He wished Min was, too. 
Sometimes he saw men and women down one hallway or another, black-liveried servants mainly, running, falling 
down and scrambling up to run again. They did not see him. With the Power in him, he could hear every whisper. 
Including the whisper of soft boots running, light-footed. 
Backing against the wall beside a long table topped with porcelain, he quickly wove Fire and Air around himself and 
held very still wrapped in Folded Light. 
Maidens appeared, a stream of them, veiled, and ran by without seeing him. Toward his apartments. He could not let 
them accompany him; he had promised, but to let them fight, not to lead them to slaughter. When he found Demandred 
and Asmodean, all the Maidens could do was die, and he already had five names to learn and add to his list. Somara of 
the Bent Peak Daryne was already there. A promise he had had to make, a promise he had to keep. For that promise 
alone, he deserved to die! 
Eagles and women can only be kept safe in cages, Lews Therin said as though quoting, then abruptly began weeping as 
the last of the Maidens vanished. 
Rand moved on, sweeping back and forth through the palace in arcs that slowly moved away from his apartments. 
Folded Light used very little of the Power— so little no man could have felt the use of saidin unless right on top of it— 
and he used it whenever anyone seemed about to see him. His attackers had not struck at his rooms on the chance he 
would be there. They had eyes-and-ears in the Palace. Maybe it had been ta'veren work that pulled him out of the 
apartments, if a ta'veren could work on himself, and maybe just happenstance, but perhaps his tugging at the Pattern 
could bring his attackers within his grasp while they thought him dead or injured. Lews Therin chuckled at the thought. 
Rand could almost feel the man rubbing his hands in anticipation. 
Three more times he had to hide behind the Power as veiled Maidens rushed by, and once when he saw Cadsuane 
sweeping along the corridor ahead with no fewer than six Aes Sedai at her heels, and not one other that he recognized 
besides her. They seemed to be hunting. He was not afraid of the gray-haired sister, precisely. No, of course not afraid! 
But he waited until she and her friends were well out of sight before letting his concealing weave go. Lews Therin did 
not chuckle over Cadsuane. He was deathly silent until she was gone. 
Rand stepped away from the wall, a door opened right beside him, and Ailil peeked out. He had not known he was near 
her rooms. Behind her shoulder stood a dark woman with fat golden rings in her ears and a medallion-filled golden 
chain running across her left cheek to her nose ring. Shalon, Windfinder to Harine din Togara, the Atha'an Miere 
ambassador who had moved into the Palace with her retinue almost as Merana informed him of the agreement. And 
meeting with a woman who might want him dead. Their eyes popped at the sight of him. 
He was as gentle as he could be, but he had to be quick. A few moments after the door opened, he was tucking a 
somewhat rumpled Ailil beneath her bed alongside Shalon. Perhaps they were not part of what was happening. 
Perhaps. Safe was better than sorry. Glaring at him above mouths wadded full of Ailil's scarves, the two women 
writhed against the torn strips of bed-sheet he had used to bind their wrists and ankles. The shield he had tied off on 
Shalon would hold her for a day or two before the knot unraveled, but someone would find them and cut their other 
bonds before too much longer. 
Worrying about that shield, he opened the door enough to check the hallway, and hurried out, along the empty corridor. 



He could not have left the Windfinder free to channel, but shielding a woman was not a matter of dribbles of the 
Power. If one of his attackers had been close enough.... But he saw no one down any of the crossing corridors, either. 
Fifty paces beyond Ailil's rooms, the corridor opened into a square-railed balcony of blue marble with broad stairs at 
either end, fronting a square chamber with a high, vaulted ceiling and the same sort of balcony at the other side. 
Tapestries ten paces long hung along the walls, birds soaring to the skies in rigid patterns. Below, Dashiva stood 
looking about, licking his lips uncertainly. Gedwyn and Rochaid were with him! Lews Therin chittered of killing. 
"... telling you I felt nothing," Gedwyn was saying. "He's 
dead!" 
And Dashiva saw Rand, at the head of the stairs. 
The only warning he had was the sudden snarl that contorted Dashiva's face. Dashiva channeled, and with no time to 
think, Rand wove—as so often, he did not know what; something dredged from Lews Therin's memories; he was not 
even sure he created the weave entirely himself, or whether Lews Therin snatched at saidin—Air and Fire and Earth 
woven around himself just so. The fire that leaped from Dashiva erupted, shattering marble, flinging Rand back down 
the hallway, bounding and rolling in his cocoon. 
That barrier would keep out anything short of balefire. Including air to breathe. Rand released it panting, scraping 
along the floor, with the crash of the explosions still ringing in the air, dust still hanging and bits of broken marble 
tumbling. As much as for breath, though, he let it go because what could keep the Power out, kept it in. Before he 
stopped sliding, he channeled Fire and Air, but woven much differently than for Folded Light. Thin red wires leaped 
from his left hand, fanning out as they sliced through the intervening stone toward where Dashiva and the others had 
been standing. From his left sped balls of flame, Fire woven with Air, faster than he could count, and they burned 
through the stone before exploding in that chamber. One continuous deafening roar made the Palace tremble. Dust that 
had fallen rose up again, and pieces of stone bounced. 
Almost immediately, though, he was up and running, back past Ailil's apartments. The man who struck and stayed in 
one spot was asking to die. He was ready to die, but not yet. Snarling soundlessly, he sped down another hall, 
descended narrow servants' stairs, and came out on the floor below. 
He took care making his way back to where he had seen Dashiva, deadly weaves ready to fling at so much as a 
glimpse. I should have killed them all in the beginning, Lews Therin panted. I should haw killed them all! 
Rand let him rage. 
The large chamber seemed to have been washed in fire. Only charred fragments licked by flames remained of the 
tapestries, and great gouges a pace across had been burned into floor and walls. The stairs Rand had been about to 
descend ended in a ten-foot gap halfway down. Of the three men, there was no sign. They would not have been 
consumed completely. Something would have remained. 
A servant in a black coat cautiously poked his head from a tiny door beside the stairs on the other side of the chamber. 
His eyes fell on Rand, rolled up in his head, and he fell forward in a heap. Another servant peeped out of a corridor, 
then gathered her skirts and raced back the way she had come, shrieking at the top of her lungs that the Dragon Reborn 
was killing everyone in the Palace. 
Rand slipped out of the chamber grimacing. He was very good at frightening people who could not harm him. Very 
good at destroying. 
To destroy, or be destroyed, Lews Therin laughed. When that's your choice, is there a difference? 
Somewhere in the Palace, a man channeled enough of the Power to make a gateway. Dashiva and the others fleeing? 
Or wanting him to think that? 
He walked the corridors of the Palace, no longer bothering to hide. Everyone else seemed to be. The few servants he 
saw, fled screaming. Corridor after corridor, he hunted, filled near to bursting with saidin, full of fire and ice trying to 
annihilate him as surely as Dashiva had, full of the taint worming its way into his soul. He had no need of Lews 
Therin's ragged laughter and ravings to be filled with a desire to kill. 
A glimpse of a black coat ahead, and his hand shot up, fire streaking, exploding, tearing away the corner where the two 
hallways met. Rand let the weave subside, but did not let it go. Had he killed him? 
"My Lord Dragon," a voice shouted from beyond the torn stonework, "it's me, Narishma! And Flinn!" 
"I didn't recognize you," Rand lied. "Come here." 
"I think maybe your blood's hot," Flinn's voice called, "I think may we should wait for everybody to cool down." 
"Yes," Rand said slowly. Had he really tried to kill Narishma? He did not think he could claim the excuse of Lews 
Therin. "Yes, that might be best. For a little while longer." There was no answer. Did he hear boots retreating? He 



forced his hands down and turned another way. 
He searched through the Palace for hours without finding a sign of Dashiva or the others. The corridors and great halls, 
even the kitchens, were empty of people. He found nothing, and learned nothing. No. He realized that he had learned 
one thing. Trust was a knife, and the hilt was as sharp as the blade. 
Then he found pain. 
The small stone-walled room was deep below the Sun Palace and warm despite the lack of a fireplace, but Min felt 
cold. Three gilded lamps on the tiny wooden table gave more than enough light. Rand had said that from there, he 
could get her away even if someone tried to root the Palace out of the ground. He had not sounded as if he were joking. 
Holding the crown of Illian on her lap, she watched Rand. Watched Rand watching Fedwin. Her hands tightened on the 
crown, and loosened immediately at the stabs of those small swords hidden among the laurel leaves. Strange, that the 
crown and scepter should have survived when the Dragon Throne itself was a pile of gilded splinters buried in rubble. 
A large leather scrip beside her chair, with Rand's sword belt and scabbarded sword resting against it, held what else he 
had been able to salvage. Strange choices for the most part, in her estimation. 
You brainless loobie, she thought. Not thinking about what's right in front of you won't make it go away. 
Rand sat cross-legged on the bare stone floor, still covered in dust and scratches, his coat torn. His face might have 
been carved. He seemed to watch Fedwin without blinking. The boy was sitting on the floor, too, his legs sprawled out. 
Tongue caught between his teeth, Fedwin was concentrating on making a tower out of blocks of wood. Min swallowed 
hard. 
She could still remember the horror when she realized the boy "guarding" her now had the mind of a small child. The 
sadness remained, too— Light, he was only a boy! it was not right!— but she hoped Rand still had him shielded. It had 
not been easy, talking Fedwin into playing with those wooden blocks instead of pulling stones out of the walls with the 
Power to make a "big tower to keep you safe in." And then she had sat guarding him until Rand came. Oh, Light, she 
wanted to cry. For Rand even more than Fedwin. 
"You hide yourself in the depths, it appears." The deep voice was not finished speaking from the doorway before Rand 
was on his feet, facing Mazrim Taim. As usual, the hook-nosed man wore a black coat with blue-and-gold Dragons 
spiraling up the arms. Unlike the other Asha'man, he had neither Sword nor Dragon on his high collar. His dark face 
wore nearly as little expression as Rand's. Now, staring at Taim, Rand seemed to be gritting his teeth. Min 
surreptitiously eased a knife in her coatsleeve. As many images and auras danced around one as the other, but it was 
not a viewing that made her suddenly wary. She had seen a man trying to decide whether to kill another before, and she 
was seeing it again. 
"You come here holding saidin, Taim?" Rand said, much too softly. Taim spread his hands, and Rand said, "That's 
better." But he did not relax. 
"It was just that I thought I might be stabbed by accident," Taim said, "making my way here through corridors packed 
with those Aiel women. They seem agitated." His eyes never left Rand, but Min was sure he had noticed her touching 
her knife. "Understandably, of course," he went on smoothly. "I cannot express my joy at finding you alive after seeing 
what I did above. I came to report deserters. Normally, I wouldn't have bothered, but these are Gedwyn, Rochaid, 
Torval, and Kisman. It seems they were malcontented over events in Altara, but I never thought they would go this far. 
I haven't seen any of the men I left with you." For an instant, his gaze flickered to Fedwin. For no more than an instant. 
"There were . . . other . . . casualties? I will take this one with me, if you wish." 
"I told them to stay out of sight," Rand said in a harsh voice. "And I'll take care of Fedwin. Fedwin Morr, Taim; not 
'this one.'" He actually backed to the small table to pick up the silver cup sitting among the lamps. Min's breath caught. 
"The Wisdom in my village could cure anything," Rand said as he knelt beside Fedwin. Somehow, he managed to 
smile at the boy without taking his eyes from Taim. Fedwin smiled back happily and tried to take the cup, but Rand 
held it for him to drink. "She knows more about herbs than anybody I've ever met. I learned a little from her, which are 
safe, which not." Fedwin sighed as Rand took the cup away and held the boy to his chest. "Sleep, Fedwin," Rand 
murmured. 
It did seem that the boy was going to sleep. His eyes closed. His chest rose and fell more slowly. Slower. Until it 
stopped. The smile never left his lips. 
"A little something in the wine," Rand said softly as he laid Fedwin down. Min's eyes burned, but she would not cry. 
She would not! 
"You are harder than I thought," Taim muttered. 
Rand smiled at him, a hard feral smile. "Add Corlan Dashiva to your list of deserters, Taim. Next time I visit the Black 



Tower, I expect to see his head on your Traitor's Tree."
"Dashiva?" Taim snarled, his eyes widening in surprise. "It will be as you say. When next you visit the Black Tower."
That quickly, he recovered himself, all polished stone and poise once more. How she wished she could read her
viewings of him.
"Return to the Black Tower, and don't come here again." Standing, Rand faced the other man over Fedwin's body. "I
may be moving about for a while."
Taim's bow was minuscule. "As you command."
As the door closed behind him, Min let out a long breath.
"No point wasting time, and no time to waste," Rand muttered. Kneeling in front of her, he took the crown and slipped
it into the scrip with the other things. "Min, I thought I was the whole pack of hounds, chasing down one wolf after
another, but it seems I'm the wolf."
"Burn you," she breathed. Tangling both hands in his hair, she stared in his eyes. Now blue, now gray, a morning sky
just at sunrise. And dry. "You can cry, Rand al'Thor. You won't melt if you cry!"
"I don't have time for tears, either, Min," he said gently. “Sometimes the hounds catch the wolf and wish they hadn’t.
Sometimes he turns on them or waits in ambush. But first, the wolf has to run”
“When do we go?” she asked. She did not let go of his hair. She was never going to let go of him! Never!


Chapter 30 Beginnings


Holding his fur-lined cloak close with one hand, Perrin let Stayer walk at the bay's own pace. The midmorning sun
gave no warmth, and the rutted snow on the road leading into Abila made poor footing. He and his dozen companions
shared the way with only two lumbering ox-carts and a handful of farmfolk in plain dark woolens. They all trudged
along with heads down, clutching at hat or cap whenever a gust rose but otherwise concentrating on the ground beneath
their
shoes.
Behind him, he heard Neald make a ribald joke in a low voice; Grady grunted in reply, and Balwer sniffed prissily.
None of the three seemed at all affected by what they had seen and heard this past month since crossing the border into
Amadicia, or by what lay ahead. Edarra was sharply berating Masuri for letting her hood slip. Edarra and Carelle both
wore their shawls wrapped around their heads and shoulders in addition to cloaks, but even after admitting the
necessity to ride, they had refused to change out of their bulky skirts, so their dark-stockinged legs were bared above
the knee. The cold did not seem to bother them in the least; just the strangeness of snow. Carelle began quietly advising
Seonid as to what would happen if she did not keep her face hidden.
Of course, if she let her face be seen too soon, a dose of the strap would be the least she had to fear, as she and the
Wise One knew well. Perrin did not have to look back to know the sisters' three Warders, bringing up the rear in
ordinary cloaks, were men expecting the need at any moment to out sword and carve a way clear. They had been that
way since leaving the camp at dawn. He ran a gloved thumb along the axe hanging at his belt, then regathered his own
cloak just before a sudden gust could make it billow. If this went badly, the Warders might be right.
Off to the left, short of where the road crossed a wooden bridge over a frozen stream that twisted along the town's edge,
charred timbers thrust out of the snow atop a large square stone platform with drifts piled around the bottom. Slow to
proclaim allegiance to the Dragon Reborn, the local lord had been lucky merely to be flogged and fined all that he
possessed. A knot of men standing at the bridge watched the mounted party approaching. Perrin saw no sign of helmets
or armor, but every man clutched spear or crossbow almost as hard as he did his cloak. They did not talk to one
another. They just watched, the mist of their breath curling before their faces. There were other guards bunched all
around the town, at every road leading out, at every space between two buildings. This was the Prophet's country, but
the Whitecloaks and King Ailron's army still held large parts of it.
"I was right not to bring her," he muttered, "but I'll pay for it anyway."
"Of course you'll pay," Elyas snorted. For a man who had spent most of the last fifteen years afoot, he handled his
mouse-colored gelding well. He had acquired a cloak lined with black fox, dicing with Gallenne. Aram, riding on
Perrin's other side, eyed Elyas darkly, but the bearded man ignored him. They did not get on well. "A man always pays
sooner or later, with any woman, whether he owes or not. But I was right, wasn't I?"
Perrin nodded. Grudgingly. It still did not seem right taking advice about his wife from another man, even
circumspectly, obliquely, yet it did seem to be working. Of course, raising his voice to Faile was as hard as not raising




it to Berelain, but he had managed the last quite often and the first several times. He had followed Elyas' advice to the 
letter. Well, most of it. As well as he could. That spiky scent of jealousy still flared at the sight of Berelain, yet on the 
other hand, the hurt smell had vanished as they made their slow way south. Still, he was uneasy. When he firmly told 
her she was not coming with him this morning, she had not raised a single word of protest! She even smelled . . . 
pleased! Among other things, including startled. And how could she be pleased and angry at the same time? Not a 
scrap of it had showed on her face, but his nose never lied. Somehow, it seemed that the more he learned about women, 
the less he knew! 
The bridge guards frowned and fingered their weapons as Stayer's hooves thudded hollowly onto the wooden planking. 
They were the usual odd mix that followed the Prophet, dirty-faced fellows in silk coats too big for them, scar-faced 
street toughs and pink-cheeked apprentices, former merchants and craftsmen who looked as if they had slept in their 
once fine woolens for months. Their weapons appeared well cared for, though. Some of the men had a fever in their 
eyes; the rest wore guarded, wooden faces. Along with unwashed, they smelled eager, anxious, fervent, afraid, all 
jumbled together. 
They made no move to bar passage, just watched, hardly blinking. By what Perrin had heard, all sorts from ladies in 
silks to beggars in rags came to the Prophet hoping that submitting to him in person might gain added blessings. Or 
maybe added protection. That was why he had come this way, with only a handful of companions. He would frighten 
Masema if he had to, if Masema could be frightened, but it had seemed better to try reaching the man without fighting a 
battle. He could feel the guard's eyes on his back until he and the others were all across the short bridge and onto the 
paved streets of Abila. When that pressure left, though, it brought no sense of relief. 
Abila was a goodly sized town, with several tall watch towers and many buildings rising four stories, every last one 
roofed in slate. Here and there, mounded stone and timbers filled a gap between two structures where an inn or some 
merchant's house had been pulled down. The Prophet disapproved of wealth gained by trade as much as he did 
carousing or what his followers called lewd behavior. He disapproved of a great many things, and made his feelings 
known with sharp examples. 
The streets were jammed with people, but Perrin and his companions were the only ones on horseback. The snow had 
long since been trampled to half-frozen ankle-deep mush. Plenty of oxcarts made their slow way through the throng, 
but very few wagons, and not a single carriage. Except for those wearing worn castoffs or possibly stolen clothes, 
everyone wore drab woolens. Most people hurried, but like the folk on the road, with heads down. Those who did not 
hurry were straggling groups of men carrying weapons. In the streets, the smell was mainly dirt and fear. It made 
Perrin's hackles rise. At least, if it came to that, getting out of a town with no wall would not prove harder than getting 
in. 
"My Lord," Balwer murmured as they came abreast of one of those heaps of rubble. He barely waited for Perrin's nod 
before turning his hammer-nosed mount aside and making his way in another direction, hunched in his saddle with his 
brown cloak held tight around him. Perrin had no worries about the dried-up little man going off alone, even here. For a 
secretary, he managed to learn a surprising amount on these forays of his. He seemed to know what he was about. 
Dismissing Balwer from his thoughts, Perrin set to what he was there about. 
It took only one question, put to a lanky young man with an ecstatic light on his face, to learn where the Prophet was 
staying, and three more to other folk in the streets to find the merchant's house, four stories of gray stone with white 
marble moldings and window frames. Masema disapproved of grubbing for money, but he was willing to accept 
accommodations from those who did. On the other hand, Balwer said he had slept in a leaky farmhouse as often and 
been as satisfied. Masema drank only water, and wherever he went, he hired a poor widow and ate the food she 
prepared, fair or foul, without complaint. The man had made too many widows for that charity to count far with Perrin. 
The throng that packed the streets elsewhere was absent in front of the tall house, yet the number of armed guards like 
those at the bridge almost made up for it. They stared at Perrin sullenly, those who did not sneer insolently. The two 
Aes Sedai kept their faces hidden in their deep hoods and their heads down, white breath rising from the cowls like 
steam. From the corner of his eye, Perrin saw Elyas thumbing the hilt of his long knife. It was hard not to stroke his 
axe. 
"I've come with a message for the Prophet from the Dragon Reborn," he announced. When none of the men moved, he 
added, "My name is Perrin Aybara. The Prophet knows me." Balwer had cautioned him about the dangers of using 
Masema's name, or calling Rand anything but the Lord Dragon Reborn. He was not there to start a riot. 
The claim of knowing Masema seemed to put a spark into the guards. Several exchanged wide-eyed looks, and one 
went running inside. The rest stared at him as if he were a gleeman. In a few moments, a woman came to the door. 



Handsome, with white at her temples, in a high-necked dress of blue wool that was fine if unadorned, she might have 
been the merchant herself. Masema did not throw those who offered him hospitality into the streets, but their servants 
or farmhands usually ended up with one of the bands "spreading the glories of the Lord Dragon." 
"If you will come with me, Master Aybara," the woman said calmly, "you and your friends, I will take you to the 
Prophet of the Lord Dragon, may the Light illumine his name." Calm she might sound, but terror filled her scent. 
Telling Neald and the Warders to watch the horses until they returned, Perrin followed her inside with the others. The 
interior was dark, with few lamps lit, and not much warmer than outside. Even the Wise Ones seemed subdued. They 
did not smell afraid, but almost as close to it as the Aes Sedai, and Grady and Elyas smelled of wariness, of raised 
hackles and ears laid back. Strangely, Aram's scent was eager. Perrin hoped the man did not try to draw that sword on 
his back. 
The large, carpeted room the woman led them to, with fires blazing on hearths at either end, might have been a 
general's study, every table and half the chairs covered with maps and papers, and warm enough that Perrin tossed his 
cloak back and regretted wearing two shirts under his coat. But it was Masema standing in the middle of the room who 
drew his eyes immediately, like iron filings to a lodestone, a dark, scowling man with a shaven head and a pale 
triangular scar on one cheek, in a wrinkled gray coat and scuffed boots. His deep-set eyes burned with a black fire, and 
his scent . . . The only name Perrin could give that smell, steel-hard and blade-sharp and quivering with wild intensity, 
was madness. And Rand thought he could put a leash on this? 
"So, it is you," Masema growled. "I did not think you would dare show your face. I know what you've been up to! Hari 
told me more than a week ago, and I have kept myself informed." A man shifted in a corner of the room, a narrow-eyed 
fellow with a thrusting nose, and Perrin upbraided himself for not noticing him before. Hari's green silk coat was much 
finer than what he had worn when he denied collecting ears. The fellow rubbed his hands together and grinned at Perrin 
viciously, but he kept silent as Masema went on. The Prophet's voice grew hotter by the word, not with anger, but as 
though he meant to burn every syllable deep into Perrin's flesh. "I know about you murdering men who have come to 
the Lord Dragon. I know about you trying to carve out your own kingdom! Yes, I know about Manetheren! About your 
ambition! Your greed for glory! You have turned your back on—!" 
Suddenly Masema's eyes bulged, and for the first time, anger flamed in his scent. Hari made a strangled sound and tried 
to back through the wall. Seonid and Masuri had lowered their hoods and stood with bare faces, calm and cool, and 
plainly Aes Sedai to anyone who knew the look. Perrin wondered whether they held the Power. He would have 
wagered that the Wise Ones did. Edarra and Carelle were quietly watching every direction at once, and smooth faces or 
no, if he had ever seen anyone ready to fight, it was them. For that matter, Grady wore readiness like his black coat; 
maybe he held the Power, too. Elyas was leaning against the wall beside the open doors, outwardly as composed as the 
sisters, but he smelled ready to bite. And Aram stood gazing at Masema with his mouth hanging open! Light! 
"So that is true, too!" Masema snapped, spittle flying from his lips. "With filthy rumors spreading against the holy 
name of the Lord Dragon, you dare to ride with these . . . these . . . !" 
"They've sworn fealty to the Lord Dragon, Masema," Perrin cut in. "They serve him! Do you? He sent me to stop the 
killing. And to bring you to him." No one was offering him a chair, so he pushed a stack of papers from one and sat. He 
wished the rest would sit, too; shouting seemed harder when you were sitting down. 
Hari goggled at him, and Masema was practically shaking. Because he had taken a chair without being asked? Oh. Yes. 
"I have given up the names of men," Masema said coldly. "I am simply the Prophet of the Lord Dragon, may the Light 
illumine him and the world come to kneel before him." By his tone, the world and the Light would regret failure 
equally. "There is much to do here, yet. Great works. All must obey when the Lord Dragon calls, but in winter, travel is 
always slow. A delay of a few weeks will make little difference." 
"I can have you in Cairhien today," Perrin said. "Once the Lord Dragon has spoken to you, you can return the same 
way and be back here in a few days." If Rand let him return. 
Masema actually recoiled. Baring his teeth, he glared at the Aes Sedai. "Some contrivance of the Power? I will not be 
touched with the Power! It is blasphemy for mortals to touch it!" 
Perrin came close to gaping. "The Dragon Reborn channels, man!" 
"The blessed Lord Dragon is not as other men, Aybara!" Masema snarled. "He is the Light made flesh! I will obey his 
summons, but I will not be touched by the filth these women do!" 
Slumping back in the chair, Perrin sighed. If the man was this bad over Aes Sedai, how would he be when he learned 
that Grady and Neald could channel? For a moment, he considered simply knocking Masema over the head, and . . . 
Men were passing by in the corridor, pausing to glance in before hurrying on. All it took was one of them raising a 



shout, and Abila could become a slaughterhouse. "Then we ride, Prophet," he said sourly. Light, Rand had said to keep 
this secret until Masema stood in front of him! How to manage that riding all the way to Cairhien? "But no delays. The 
Lord Dragon is very anxious to talk with you." 
"I am anxious to speak with the Lord Dragon, may his name be blessed by the Light." His eyes flickered toward the 
two Aes Sedai. He tried to hide it, actually smiling at Perrin. But he smelled . . . grim. "I am very anxious indeed." 
"Would my Lady like me to ask one of the handlers to bring her a hawk?" Maighdin asked. One of Alliandre's four 
hawk handlers, all men as lean as their birds, urged a sleek duckhawk wearing a feathered hood onto his heavy gauntlet 
from the wooden stand in front of his saddle and lifted the gray bird toward her. The falcon, with its blue-tipped wings, 
was on Alliandre's green-gloved wrist. That bird was reserved to her, unfortunately. Alliandre knew her place as a 
vassal, but Faile understood not wanting to relinquish a favorite bird. 
She merely shook her head, and Maighdin bowed in her saddle and moved her roan mare away from Swallow, far 
enough not to intrude but close enough to be at hand without Faile raising her voice. The dignified golden-haired 
woman had proved to be every bit as good a lady's maid as Faile had hoped, knowledgeable, capable. At least, she had 
once she learned that whatever their relative positions with their former mistress, Lini was first among Faile's serving 
women, and willing to use her authority. Surprisingly, that had actually taken an episode with a switch, but Faile 
pretended not to know. Only an utter fool embarrassed her servants. There was still the matter of Maighdin and 
Tallanvor, of course. She was certain Maighdin had begun sharing his bed, and if she found proof, they would marry if 
she had to turn Lini loose on both of them. Still, that was a small matter, and could not spoil her morning. 
Hawking had been Alliandre's idea, but Faile had not objected to a ride through this sparse forest, where snow made a 
rolling blanket over everything and lay thick and white on bare branches. The green of the trees that still held their 
leaves seemed sharper. The air was crisp, and it smelled new and fresh. 
Bain and Chiad had insisted on accompanying her, but they squatted nearby, shoufa wrapped around their heads, 
watching her with disgruntled expressions. Sulin had wanted to come with all of the Maidens, but with a hundred 
stories of Aiel depredations floating everywhere, the sight of an Aiel was enough to send most people in Amadicia 
running or reaching for a sword. There must be some truth in those tales, or so many would not know an Aiel, though 
the Light alone knew who they were or where they had come from, yet even Sulin agreed that whoever they were, they 
had moved on east, perhaps into Altara. In any case, this close to Abila, twenty of Alliandre's soldiers and as many 
Mayener Winged Guards provided sufficient escort. The streamers on their lances, red or green, lifted like ribbons 
when the breeze stirred. Berelain's presence was the only blight. Though watching the woman shiver in her 
fur-trimmed red cloak, thick enough for two blankets, was certainly amusing. Mayene did not have a real winter. This 
was like the last days of autumn. In Saldaea, the heart of winter could freeze exposed flesh hard as wood. Faile took a 
deep breath. She felt like laughing. 
By some miracle, her husband, her beloved wolf, had begun behaving as he should. Instead of shouting at Berelain or 
running from her, Perrin now tolerated the jade's blandishments, plainly tolerated them the way he would a child 
playing around his knees. And best of all, there was no longer any need to tamp down her anger when she wanted to let 
it loose. When she shouted, he shouted back. She knew he was not Saldaean, but it had been so hard, thinking in her 
heart of hearts that he believed her too weak to stand up to him. A few nights ago at supper, she had almost pointed out 
to him that Berelain was going to fall out of her dress if she leaned over the table any further. Well, she was not going 
to that far, not with Berelain; the trull still thought she could win him. And that very morning, he had been 
commanding, quietly brooking no argument, the sort of man a woman knew she had to be strong to deserve, to equal. 
Of course, she would have to nip him over that. A commanding man was wonderful, so long as he did not come to 
believe he could always command. Laugh? She could have sung! 
"Maighdin, I think after all I will ..." Maighdin was there immediately with an enquiring smile, but Faile trailed off at 
the sight of three riders ahead of her, plowing through the snow as fast as they could push their horses. 
"At least there are plenty of hares, my Lady," Alliandre said, walking her tall white gelding up beside Swallow, "but I 
had hoped . . . Who are they?" Her falcon shifted on her thick glove, the bells on its jesses jingling. "Why, it looks like 
some of your people, my Lady." 
Faile nodded grimly. She recognized them, too. Parelean, Arrela and Lacile. But what were they doing here? 
The three drew rein before her, their horses panting steam. Parelean looked as wide-eyed as his dapple. Lacile, her pale 
face nearly hidden in the deep cowl of her cloak, was swallowing anxiously, and Arrela's dark face seemed gray. "My 
Lady," Parelean said urgently, "dire news! The Prophet Masema has been meeting with the Seanchan!" 
"The Seanchan!" Alliandre exclaimed. "Surely he cannot believe they will come to the Lord Dragon!" 



"It might be simpler," Berelain said, heeling her too-showy white mare up on Alliandre's other side. Without Perrin 
about for her to try to impress, her dark blue riding dress was cut quite modestly, with a neck up under her chin. She 
still shivered. "Masema dislikes Aes Sedai, and the Seanchan keep women who can channel as prisoners." 
Faile clicked her tongue in vexation. Dire news indeed, if true. And she could only hope Parelean and the others 
retained enough of their wits to at least pretend they had simply overheard talk by chance. Even so, she had to be sure, 
and quickly. Perrin might already have reached Masema. "What proof do you have, Parelean?" 
"We talked to three farmers who saw a large flying creature land four nights ago, my Lady. It brought a woman who 
was taken to Masema and remained with him for three hours." 
"We were able to trace her all the way to where Masema stays in Abila," Lacile added. 
"The three men all thought the creature was Shadowspawn," Arrela put in, "but they seemed fairly reliable." For her to 
say any man not of Cha Faile was fairly reliable was the same as anyone else saying they thought he was honest as a 
bell. 
"I think I must ride into Abila," Faile said, gathering Swallow's reins. "Alliandre, take Maighdin and Berelain with 
you." Any other time, the tightening of Berelain's lips over that would have been amusing. "Parelean, Arrela and Lacile 
will accompany me—" A man screamed, and everyone jerked. 
Fifty paces away, one of Alliandre's green-coated soldiers was toppling from his saddle, and a moment later, a Winged 
Guard fell with an arrow standing out from his throat. Aiel appeared among the trees, veiled and wielding bows as they 
ran. More soldiers fell. Bain and Chiad were on their feet, dark veils hiding their faces to the eyes; their spears were 
thrust through the straps of the bow cases on their back, and they worked their bows smoothly, but they cast glances 
toward Faile, too. There were Aiel all around, hundreds it seemed, a great noose closing in. Mounted soldiers lowered 
lances, pulling back in their own circle around Faile and the others, but gaps appeared immediately as Aiel arrows 
struck home. 
"Someone must get this news of Masema to Lord Perrin," Faile told Parelean and the two women. "One of you must 
reach him! Ride like fire!" Her sweeping gaze took in Alliandre and Maighdin. And Berelain, too. "All of you, ride like 
fire, or die here!" Barely waiting for their nods, she suited actions to words, and dug her heels into Swallow's flanks, 
bursting through the useless ring of soldiers. "Ride!" she shouted. Someone had to get the news to Perrin. "Ride!" 
Leaning low on Swallow's neck, she urged the black mare for speed. Fleet hooves splashed snow as Swallow ran, light 
as her namesake. For a hundred strides, Faile thought she might break free. And then Swallow screamed and stumbled, 
pitching forward with the sharp snap of a breaking leg. Faile flew through air and struck hard, most of the breath driven 
out of her as she plunged face down into the snow. Fighting for air, she struggled to her feet and snatched a knife from 
her belt. Swallow had screamed before she stumbled, before that awful crack. 
A veiled Aielman loomed up before her as if out of the air, chopping at her wrist with a stiffened hand. Her knife 
dropped from suddenly numb fingers, and before she could try to draw another with her left hand, the man was on her. 
She fought, kicking, punching, even biting, but the fellow was as wide as Perrin and a head taller. He seemed as hard as 
Perrin, too, for all the impression she made on him. She could have wept with frustration at the humiliating ease with 
which he handled her, first rooting out all of her knives and tucking them behind his belt, then using one of her own 
blades to cut her clothes away. Almost before she knew it, she was naked in the snow, her elbows bound together 
behind her back with one of her stockings, the other tied about her neck for a leash. 
She had no choice except to follow him, shivering and stumbling through the snow. Her skin pebbled with the cold. 
Light, how she had ever thought this day anything less than icy? Light, if only someone had managed to escape with 
the news of Masema! To carry word of her capture to Perrin, of course, but she could escape somehow. The other was 
more important. 
The first body she saw was Parelean, sprawled on his back with his sword in one outflung hand and blood all over his 
fine coat with the satin-striped sleeves. There were plenty of corpses after, Winged Guards in their red breastplates, 
Alliandre's soldiers in their dark green helmets, one of the hawkers, the hooded duckhawk flapping vainly against the 
jesses still gripped in the dead man's fist. She held on to hope, though. 
The first other prisoners she saw, kneeling among some Aiel, men and Maidens with their veils hanging down their 
chests, were Bain and Chiad, each naked, unbound hands on her knees. Blood ran down across Bain's face and matted 
her flame-red hair. Chiad's left cheek was purple and swollen, and her gray eyes looked slightly glazed. They knelt 
there, straight-backed, impassive, and unashamed, but as the big Aielman pushed her roughly to her knees beside them, 
they roused themselves. 
"This is not right, Shaido," Chiad mumbled angrily. "She does not follow ji'e'toh," Bain barked. "You cannot make her 



gai'shain." 
"The gai'shain will be quiet," a graying Maiden said absently. Bain and Chiad gave Faile regretful looks, then settled 
back to their calm waiting. Huddling, trying to hide her nakedness against her knees, Faile did not know whether to 
weep or laugh. The two women she would have chosen to help her escape from anywhere, and neither would raise a 
hand to try because of ji’e’toh. 
"I say again, Efalin," the man who had captured her muttered, "this is foolishness. We travel at a crawl in this . . . 
snow." He said the word awkwardly. "There are too many armed men, here. We should be moving east, not taking 
more gai'shain to slow us further." 
"Sevanna wants more gai'shain, Rolan," the graying Maiden replied. She frowned, though, and her hard gray eyes 
seemed disapproving for a moment. 
Shivering, Faile blinked as the names sank in. Light, but the cold was making her wits slow. Sevanna. Shaido. They 
were in Kinslayer's Dagger, as far from here as was possible to be without crossing the Spine of the World! Clearly 
they were not, though. That was something Perrin should know, another reason for her to escape soon. There seemed 
little chance of that, crouching there in the snow and wondering which bits of her were going to freeze first. The Wheel 
was balancing her amusement over Berelain's shivers with a vengeance. She was actually looking forward to the thick 
woolen robes that gai'shain wore. Her captors made no move to depart, though. There were other captives to be brought 
in. 
First was Maighdin, stripped bare and bound as Faile was, and struggling every step of the way. Until the Maiden who 
was pushing her along abruptly kicked her feet out from under her. Maighdin plunked down sitting in the snow, and her 
eyes popped so wide that Faile might have laughed if she had not felt sorry for the woman. Alliandre came next, bent 
nearly double in an effort to shield herself, and then Arrela, who seemed half paralyzed by her nudity and was almost 
being dragged by a pair of Maidens. Finally, another tall Aielman appeared with a furiously kicking Lacile tucked 
under one arm like a package. 
"The rest are dead or escaped," the man said, dropping the small Cairhienin woman beside Faile. "Sevanna will have to 
be satisfied, Efalin. She puts too much store in taking people who wear silk." 
Faile did not struggle at all when she was prodded to her feet and set to laboring through the snow at the head of the 
other prisoners. She was too stunned to fight. Parelean dead, Arrela and Lacile captive, and Alliandre, and Maighdin. 
Light, someone had to warn Perrin about Masema. Someone. It seemed a final blow. Here she was, shivering and 
gritting her teeth to keep them from chattering, trying her best to pretend that she was not stark naked and bound, on 
her way to an uncertain captivity. All of that, and she had to hope that that slinking cat— that pouting trull!— Berelain, 
had managed to escape so she could reach Perrin. Alongside everything else, that seemed the worst of all. 
**** 
Egwene walked Daishar along the column of initiates, sisters on their horses among the wagons, Accepted and novices 
afoot despite the snow. The sun was bright in a sky with few clouds, but mist curled from her gelding's nostrils. 
Sheriam and Siuan rode at her back, talking quietly about information learned from Siuan's eyes-and-ears. Egwene had 
thought the fire-haired woman an efficient Keeper once she learned that she was not the Amyrlin, but day by day, 
Sheriam seemed to grow ever more assiduous about her duties. Chesa followed on her tubby mare in case the Amyrlin 
wanted anything, and unlike her, she was muttering again about Meri and Selame both running away, the ungrateful 
wretches, leaving her to do the work of three. They rode slowly, and Egwene very carefully did not look toward the 
column. 
A month of recruiting, a month of the novice book being open to all, had brought in startling numbers, a flood anxious 
to become Aes Sedai, women of every age some from hundreds of miles away. There were now twice as many novices 
with the column as before. Almost a thousand! Most by far would never wear the shawl, yet the number of them had 
everyone staring. Some might cause minor problems, and one, a grandmother named Sharina with a potential above 
even that of Nynaeve, certainly had everyone startled, but it was not the sight of a mother and daughter squabbling 
because the daughter would be the stronger by far one day that she was trying to avoid, or noblewomen who were 
beginning to think they had made the wrong choice asking to be tested, or even Sharina's disturbingly direct looks. The 
gray-haired woman obeyed every rule and showed every proper respect, but she had run her large family by the sheer 
force of her presence, and even some of the sisters stepped warily around her. What Egwene did not want to see were 
the young women who had joined them two days before. The two sisters who brought them had been more than startled 
to find Egwene as Amyrlin, but their charges could not believe it, not Egwene al'Vere, the Mayor's daughter from 
Emond's Field. She did not want to order anyone else punished, but she would have to if she saw another stick her 



tongue out at her. 
Gareth Bryne had his army in a wide column, too, cavalry and foot all arrayed and stretching out of sight through the 
trees. The pale sun glinted off breastplates and helmets and the points of pikes. Horses stamped their hooves in the 
snow impatiently. 
Bryne walked his sturdy bay to meet her before she reached the Sitters waiting on their horses, in a large clearing ahead 
of both columns. He smiled at her through the face-bars of his helmet. A reassuring smile, she thought. "A fine 
morning for it, Mother," he said. "Here." 
She only nodded, and he fell in behind her, beside Siuan. Who did not immediately begin spitting at him. Egwene was 
not certain exactly what accommodation Siuan had reached with the man, but she seldom grumbled about him anymore 
in Egwene's hearing, and never when he was present. Egwene was glad he was there, now. The Amyrlin Seat could not 
let her general know she wanted his reassurance, but she felt the need of it this morning. 
The Sitters had their horses in a line at the edge of the trees, and thirteen more sisters sat their mounts a little way off, 
watching the Sitters carefully. Romanda and Lelaine spurred their animals forward almost together, and Egwene could 
hardly help sighing as they approached, cloaks flaring behind them, hooves spraying snow as if at the charge. The Hall 
obeyed her because it had no choice. In matters concerning the war against Elaida, they did, but Light, how they could 
quibble over what did or did not concern the war. When it did not, getting anything out of them was like pulling duck's 
teeth! Except for Sharina, they might have found a way to put a stop to accepting women of any age. Even Romanda 
was impressed by Sharina. 
The pair reined in before her, but before they could open their mouths, she spoke. "It's time we got on with it, 
daughters, and no time for wasting in idle chatter. Proceed." Romanda sniffed, though softly, and Lelaine looked as 
though she wanted to. 
They wheeled their horses as one, then glared at one another a moment. Events this past month had only heightened 
their dislike for each other. Lelaine tossed her head angrily in concession, and Romanda smiled, a faint curving of her 
lips. Egwene almost smiled, too. That mutual animosity was still her greatest strength in the Hall. 
"The Amyrlin Seat commands you to proceed," Romanda announced, raising one hand grandly. 
The light of saidar sprang up around the thirteen sisters near the Sitters, around all of them together, and a thick slash 
of silver appeared in the middle of the clearing, rotating into a gateway ten paces tall and a hundred wide. Falling snow 
drifted through from the other side. Shouted orders rose among the soldiers, and the first armored heavy calvary rode 
through. The swirling snow beyond the gateway was too thick to see far, yet Egwene imagined that she could make out 
the Shining Walls of Tar Valon and the White Tower itself. 
"It has begun, Mother," Sheriam said, sounding almost surprised. 
"It has begun," Egwene agreed. And the Light willing, soon Elaida would fall. She was supposed to wait until Bryne 
said sufficient of his soldiers were through, but she could not stop herself. Digging her heels into Daishar's flanks, she 
rode through into the falling snow, onto the plain where Dragonmount reared black and smoking against a white sky. 

Chapter 31 After 

Winter winds and winter snows slowed the passage of trade across lands where they did not end it until spring, and for 
every three pigeons sent by merchants, two fell to hawks or weather, but where ice did not cover the rivers, ships still 
sailed, and rumor flew faster than lightnings. A thousand rumors, each throwing off a thousand seeds that sprouted and 
grew in snow and ice as in fertile soil. 
At Tar Valon, some stories said, great armies had clashed, and the streets ran with blood, and rebel Aes Sedai had stuck 
the head of Elaida a'Roihan on a pike. No; Elaida had closed her hand, and those who survived among the rebels 
groveled at Elaida's feet. There had been no rebels, no division of the White Tower. It was the Black Tower that had 
been broken, by Aes Sedai designs and Aes Sedai power, and Asha'man hunted Asha'man across the nations. The 
White Tower had shattered the Sun Palace in Cairhien, and the Dragon Reborn himself was bound now to the Amyrlin 
Seat, her puppet and her tool. Some tales said Aes Sedai had been bound to him, bound to the Asha'man, yet few 
believed that, and those few were ridiculed. 
Artur Hawkwing's armies had returned to reclaim his long-dead empire, and the Seanchan were sweeping all before 
them, even to driving the Dragon Reborn from Altara in defeat. The Seanchan had come to serve him. No; he had cast 
the Seanchan into the sea, destroying their army utterly. They had carried the Dragon Reborn away, to kneel before their 
Empress. The Dragon Reborn was dead, and there was as much celebration as mourning, as many tears as cries of joy. 



Across the nations the stories spread like spiderweb laid upon spiderweb, and men and women planned the future, 
believing they knew truth. They planned, and the Pattern absorbed their plans, weaving toward the future foretold. 

The End 
of the Eighth Book of 
The Wheel of Time 

Glossary 
A Note on Dates in This Glossary. The Toman Calendar (devised by Toma dur Ahmid) was adopted approximately two 
centuries after the death of the last male Aes Sedai, recording years After the Breaking of the World (AB). So many 
records were destroyed in the Trolloc Wars that at their end there was argument about the exact year under the old 
system. A new calendar, proposed by Tiam of Gazar, celebrated freedom from the Trolloc threat and recorded each 
year as a Free Year (FY). The Gazaran Calendar gained wide acceptance within twenty years after the Wars' end. Artur 
Hawkwing attempted to establish a new calendar based on the founding of his empire (FF, From the Founding), but 
only historians now refer to it. After the death and destruction of the War of the Hundred Years, a third calendar was 
devised by Uren din Jubai Soaring Gull, a scholar of the Sea Folk, and promulgated by the Panarch Farede of Tarabon. 
The Farede Calendar, dating from the arbitrarily decided end of the War of the Hundred Years and recording years of 
the New Era (NE), is currently in use. 

armsmen: Soldiers who owe allegiance or fealty to a particular lord or lady. 

Asha'man: (1) In the Old Tongue, "Guardian" or "Guardians," but always a guardian of justice and truth. (2) The name 
given, both collectively and as a rank, to the men who have come to the Black Tower, near Caemlyn in Andor, in order 
to learn to channel. Their training concentrates on the ways in which the One Power can be used as a weapon, and in 
another departure from the usages of the White Tower, once they learn to seize saidin, the male half of the Power, they 
are required to perform all chores and labors with the Power. When newly enrolled, a man is termed a Soldier; he wears 
a plain black coat with a high collar, in the Andoran fashion. Being raised to Dedicated brings the right to wear a silver 
pin, called the Sword, on the collar of his coat. Promotion to Asha'man brings the right to wear a Dragon pin, in gold 
and red enamel, on the collar opposite the Sword. Although many women, including wives, flee when they learn that 
their men actually can channel, a fair number of men at the Black Tower are married, and they use a version of the 
Warder bond to create a link with their wives. This same bond, altered to compel obedience, has recently been used to 
bond captured Aes Sedai as well. 

Balwer, Sebban: Formerly Pedron Niall’s secretary, in public, and secretly Niall's spymaster. He aided Morgase's 
escape from the Seanchan in Amador for his own reasons, and now is employed as secretary to Perrin t'Bashere Aybara 
and Faile ni Bashere t'Aybara. 

Blood, the: Term used by the Seanchan to designate the nobility. One can be raised to the Blood as well as born to it. 

Cha Faile: (1) In the Old Tongue, "the Falcon's Talon." (2) Name taken by the young Cairhienin and Tairens, attempted 
followers of ji'e'toh, who have sworn fealty to Faile ni Bashere t'Aybara. In secret, they act as her personal scouts and 
spies. 

Companions, the: The elite military formation of Illian, currently commanded by First Captain Demetre Marcolin. The 
Companions provide a bodyguard for the King of Illian and guard key points around the nation. Additionally, the 
Companions have traditionally been used in battle to assault the enemy's strongest positions, to exploit weaknesses, 
and, if necessary, to cover the retreat of the King. Unlike most other such elite formations, foreigners (excepting 
Tairens, Altarans and Murandians) are not only welcome, they can rise even to the highest rank, as can commoners, 
which also is unusual. The uniform of the Companions consists of a green coat, a breastplate worked with the Nine 
Bees of Illian, and a conical helmet with a faceguard of steel bars. The First Captain wears four rings of golden braid 
on the cuffs of his coat, and three thin golden plumes on his helmet. The Second Captain wears three rings of golden 



braid on each cuff, and three golden plumes tipped with green. Lieutenants wear two yellow rings on their cuffs, and 
two thin green plumes, under-lieutenants one yellow ring and a single green plume. Bannermen are designated by two 
broken rings of yellow on the cuffs and a single yellow plume, squadmen by a single broken ring of yellow. 

Consolidation, the: When the armies sent by Artur Hawkwing under his son Luthair landed in Seanchan, they 
discovered a shifting quilt of nations often at war with one another, where Aes Sedai often reigned. Without any 
equivalent of the White Tower, Aes Sedai worked for their own individual power, using the Power. Forming small 
groups, they schemed against one another constantly. In large part it was this constant scheming for personal advantage 
and the resulting wars among the myriad nations that allowed the armies from east of the Aryth Ocean to begin the 
conquest of an entire continent, and for their descendants to complete it. This conquest, during which the descendants 
of the original armies became Seanchan as much as they conquered Seanchan, took more than nine hundred years and 
is called the Consolidation. 

Corenne: In the Old Tongue, "the Return." The name given by the Seanchan both to the fleet of thousands of ships and 
to the hundreds of thousands of soldiers, craftsmen and others carried by those ships, who will come behind the 
Forerunners to reclaim the lands stolen from Artur Hawkwing's descendants. See also Forerunners. 

Daughters of Silence, the: During the history of the White Tower (over three thousand years), various women who 
have been put out have been unwilling to accept their fates and have tried to band together. Such groups— most of 
them by far, at least— have been dispersed by the White Tower as soon as found and punished severely and publicly to 
make sure that the lesson is carried to everyone. The last group to be dispersed called themselves the Daughters of 
Silence (794-798 NE). The Daughters consisted of two Accepted who had been put out of the Tower and twenty-three 
women they had gathered and trained. All were carried back to Tar Valon and punished, and the twenty-three were 
enrolled in the novice book. Only one of those managed to reach the shawl. See also Kin, the. 

da'covale: (1) In the Old Tongue, "one who is owned," or "person who is property." (2) Among the Seanchan, the term 
often used, along with property, for slaves. Slavery has a long and unusual history among the Seanchan, with slaves 
having the ability to rise to positions of great power and open authority, including over those who are free. See also 
so'jhin. 

Deathwatch Guards, the: The elite military formation of the Seanchan Empire, including both humans and Ogier. The 
human members of the Deathwatch Guard are all da’covale, born as property and chosen while young to serve the 
Empress, whose personal property they are. Fanatically loyal and fiercely proud, they often display the ravens tattooed 
on their shoulders, the mark of a da'covale of the Empress. The helmets and armor are lacquered in dark green and 
blood-red, their shields are lacquered black, and their spears and swords carry black tassels. See also da'covale. 

Defenders of the Stone, the: The elite military formation of Tear. The current Captain of the Stone (commander of the 
Defenders) is Rodrivar Tihera. Only Tairens are accepted into the Defenders, and officers are usually of noble birth, 
though often from minor Houses or minor branches of strong Houses. The Defenders are tasked to hold the great 
fortress called the Stone of Tear, in the city of Tear, to defend the city, and to provide police services in place of any 
City Watch or the like. Except in times of war, their duties seldom take them far from the city. Then, as with other elite 
formations, they are the core around which the army is formed. The uniform of the Defenders consists of a black coat 
with padded sleeves striped black-and-gold with black cuffs, a burnished breastplate, and a rimmed helmet with a 
faceguard of steel bars. The Captain of the Stone wears three short white plumes on his helmet, and on the cuffs of his 
coat three intertwined golden braids on a white band. Captains wear two white plumes and a single line of golden braid 
on white cuffs, lieutenants one white plume and a single line of black braid on white cuffs and under-lieutenants one 
short black plume and plain white cuffs. Bannermen have gold-colored cuffs on their coats, and squadmen have cuffs 
striped black-and-gold. 

Delving: (1) The ability to use the One Power to diagnose physical condition and illness. (2) The ability to find 
deposits of metal ores with the One Power. That this has long been a lost ability among Aes Sedai may account for the 
name becoming attached to another ability. 



der'morat: (1) In the Old Tongue, "master handler." (2) Among the Seanchan, the suffix applied to indicate a senior and 
highly skilled handler of one of the exotics, one who trains others, as in der'morat'raken. Der'morat can have a fairly 
high social status, the highest of all held by der'sul'dam, the trainers of sul'dam, who rank with fairly high military 
officers. See also morat. 

Fain, Padan: Former Darkfriend, now more and worse than a Darkfriend, and an enemy of the Forsaken as much as he 
is of Rand al'Thor, whom he hates with a passion. Last seen using the name Jeraal Mordeth, advising Lord Toram 
Riatin in his rebellion against the Dragon Reborn in Cairhien. 

Fists of Heaven, the: Lightly armed and lightly armored Seanchan infantry carried into battle on the backs of the flying 
creatures called to'raken. All are small men, or women, largely because of limits as to how much weight a to'raken can 
carry for any distance. Considered to be among the toughest soldiers, they are used primarily for raids, surprise assaults 
on positions at an enemy's rear, and where speed in getting soldiers into place is of the essence. 

Forerunners, the: See Hailene. 

Forsaken, the: The name given to thirteen powerful Aes Sedai, men and women both, who went over to the Shadow 
during the Age of Legends and were trapped in the sealing of the Bore into the Dark One's prison. While it has long 
been believed that they alone abandoned the Light during the War of the Shadow, in fact others did as well; these 
thirteen were only the highest ranking among them. The Forsaken (who call themselves the Chosen) are somewhat 
reduced in number since their awakening in the present day. The known survivors are Demandred, Semirhage, 
Graendal, Mesaana, Moghedien, and two who were reincarnated in new bodies and given new names, Osan'gar and 
Aran'gar. Recently, a man calling himself Moridin has appeared, and may be yet another of the dead Forsaken brought 
back from the grave by the Dark One. The same possibility may exist regarding the woman calling herself Cyndane, 
but since Aran'gar was a man brought back as a woman, speculation as to the identities of Moridin and Cyndane may 
prove futile until more is learned. 

Hailene: In the Old Tongue, "Forerunners," or "Those Who Come Before." The term applied by the Seanchan to the 
massive expeditionary force sent across the Aryth Ocean to scout out the lands where Artur Hawkwing once ruled. 
Now under the command of the High Lady Suroth, its numbers swollen by recruits from conquered lands, the Hailene 
has gone far beyond its original goals. 

Hanlon, Daved: A Darkfriend, formerly commander of the White Lions in service to the Forsaken Rahvin while he 
held Caemlyn using the name Lord Gaebril. From there, Hanlon took the White Lions to Cairhien under orders to 
further the rebellion against the Dragon Reborn. The White Lions were destroyed by a "bubble of evil," and Hanlon has 
been ordered back to Caemlyn for purposes as yet unknown. 

Ishara: The first Queen of Andor (circa FY 994-1020). At the death of Artur Hawkwing, Ishara convinced her husband, 
one of Hawkwing's foremost generals, to raise the siege of Tar Valon and accompany her to Caemlyn with as many 
soldiers as he could break away from the army. Where others tried to seize the whole of Hawkwing's empire and failed, 
Ishara took a firm hold on a small part and succeeded. Today, nearly every noble House in Andor contains some of 
Ishara's blood, and the right to claim the Lion Throne depends both on direct descent from her and on the number of 
lines of connection to her that can be established. 

Kin, the: Even during the Trolloc Wars, more than two thousand years ago (circa 1000—1350 AB), the White Tower 
continued to maintain its standards, putting out women who failed to measure up. One group of these women, fearing 
to return home in the midst of the wars, fled to Barashta (near the present-day site of Ebou Dar), as far from the 
fighting as was possible to go at that time. Calling themselves the Kin, and Kinswomen, they kept in hiding and offered 
a safe haven for others who had been put out. In time, their approaches to women told to leave the Tower led to 
contacts with runaways, and while the exact reasons may never be known, the Kin began to accept runaways, as well. 
They made great efforts to keep these girls from learning anything about the Kin until they were sure that Aes Sedai 
would not swoop down and retake them. After all, everyone knew that runaways were always caught sooner or later, 



and the Kin knew that unless they held themselves secret, they themselves would be punished severely. 
Unknown to the Kin, Aes Sedai in the Tower were aware of their existence almost from the very first, but prosecution 
of the wars left no time for dealing with them. By the end of the wars, the Tower realized that it might not be in their 
best interests to snuff out the Kin. Prior to that time, a majority of runaways actually had managed to escape, whatever 
the Tower's propaganda, but once the Kin began helping them, the Tower knew exactly where any runaway was 
heading, and they began retaking nine out of ten. Since Kinswomen moved in and out of Barashta (and later Ebou Dar) 
in an effort to hide their existence and their numbers, never staying more than ten years lest someone notice that they 
did not age at a normal speed, the Tower believed they were few, and they certainly were keeping themselves low. In 
order to use the Kin as a trap for runaways, the Tower decided to leave them alone, unlike any other similar group in 
history, and to keep the very existence of the Kin a secret known only to full Aes Sedai. The Kin do not have laws, but 
rather rules based in part on the rules for novices and Accepted in the White Tower, and in part on the necessity of 
maintaining secrecy. As might be expected given the origins of the Kin, they maintain their rules very firmly on all of 
their members. Recent open contacts between Aes Sedai and Kinswomen, while known only to a handful of sisters, 
have produced a number of shocks, including the facts that there are twice as many Kinswomen as Aes Sedai and that 
some are more than a hundred years older than any Aes Sedai has lived since before the Trolloc Wars. The effect of 
these revelations, both on Aes Sedai and on Kinswomen, is as yet a matter for speculation. See also Daughters of 
Silence, the; Knitting Circle, 

the. Knitting Circle, the: The leaders of the Kin. Since no member of the Kin has ever known how Aes Sedai arrange 
their own hierarchy— knowledge passed on only when an Accepted has passed her test for the shawl— they put no 
store in strength in the Power but give great weight to age, with the older woman always standing above the younger. 
The Knitting Circle (a title chosen, like the Kin, because it is innocuous) thus consists of the thirteen oldest Kinswomen 
resident in Ebou Dar, with the oldest given the title of Eldest. By the rules, all will have to step down when it is time 
for them to move on, but so long as they are resident in Ebou Dar, they have supreme authority over the Kin, to a 
degree that any Amyrlin Seat would envy. See also Kin, the. 

Lance-Captain: In most lands, noblewomen do not personally lead their armsmen into battle under normal 
circumstances. Instead, they hire a professional soldier, almost always a commoner, who is responsible both for 
training and leading their armsmen. Depending on the land, this man can be called a Lance-Captain, Sword-Captain, 
Master of the Horse, or Master of the Lances. Rumors of closer relationships than Lady and servant often spring up, 
perhaps inevitably. Sometimes they are true. 

Legion of the Dragon, the: A large military formation, all infantry, giving allegiance to the Dragon Reborn, trained by 
Davram Bashere along lines worked out by himself and Mat Cauthon, lines which depart sharply from the usual 
employment of foot. While many men simply walk in to volunteer, large numbers of the Legion are scooped up by 
recruiting parties from the Black Tower, who first gather all of the men in an area who were willing to follow the 
Dragon Reborn, and only after taking them through gateways to near Caemlyn winnow out those who can be taught to 
channel. The remainder, by far the greater number, are sent to Bashere's training camps. 

marath'damane: In the Old Tongue, "those who must be leashed," and also "one who must be leashed." The term 
applied by the Seanchan to any woman capable of channeling who has not been collared as a damane. 

Master of the Lances: See Lance-Captain. 

Master of the Horse: See Lance-Captain. 

Mera'din: In the Old Tongue, "the Brotherless." The name adopted, as a society, by those Aiel who abandoned clan and 
sept and went to the Shaido because they could not accept Rand al'Thor, a wetlander, as the Car'a'carn, or because they 
refused to accept his revelations concerning the history and origins of the Aiel. Deserting clan and sept for any reason 
is anathema among the Aiel, therefore their own warrior societies among the Shaido were unwilling to take them in, 
and they formed this society, the Brotherless. 



morat: In the Old Tongue, "handler." Among the Seanchan, it is used for those who handle exotics, such as 
morat'raken, a raken handler or rider, also informally called a flier. See also der'morat 

Prophet, the: More formally, the Prophet of the Lord Dragon. Once known as Masema Dagar, a Shienaran soldier, he 
underwent a revelation and decided that he had been called to spread the word of the Dragon's Rebirth. He believes that 
nothing— nothing!— is more important than acknowledging the Dragon Reborn as the Light made flesh and being 
ready when the Dragon Reborn calls, and he and his followers will use any means to force others to sing the glories of 
the Dragon Reborn. Forsaking any name but "the Prophet," he has brought chaos to much of Ghealdan and Amadicia, 
large parts of which he controls. 

Return, the: See Corenne. 

Sea Folk hierarchy: The Atha'an Miere, the Sea Folk, are ruled by the Mistress of the Ships to the Atha'an Miere. She is 
assisted by the Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships, and by the Master of the Blades. Below this come the clan 
Wavemistresses, each assisted by her Windfinder and her Swordmaster. Below her are the Sailmistresses (ship 
captains) of her clan, each assisted by her Windfinder and her Cargomaster. The Windfinder to the Mistress of the 
Ships has authority over all Windfinders to clan Wavemistresses, who in turn have authority over all the Windfinders 
of her clan. Likewise, the Master of the Blades has authority over all Swordmasters, and they in turn over the 
Cargomasters of their clans. Rank is not hereditary among the Sea Folk. The Mistress of the Ships is chosen, for life, 
by the First Twelve of the Atha'an Miere, the twelve most senior clan Wavemistresses. A clan Wavemistress is elected 
by the twelve seniormost Sailmistresses of her clan, called simply the First Twelve, a term which is also used to 
designate the senior Sailmistresses present anywhere. She can also be removed by a vote of those same First Twelve. In 
fact, anyone other than the Mistress of the Ships can be demoted, even all the way down to deckhand, for malfeasance, 
cowardice or other crimes. Also, the Windfinder to a Wavemistress or Mistress of the Ship who dies will, of necessity, 
have to serve a lower ranking woman, and her own rank thus decreases. The Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships 
has authority over all Windfinders, and the Windfinder to a clan Wavemistress authority over all Windfinders of her 
clan. Likewise, the Master of the Blades has authority over all Sword-masters and Cargomasters, and a Swordmaster 
over the Cargomaster of his clan. 

sei'mosiev: In the Old Tongue, "lowered eyes," or "downcast eyes." Among the Seanchan, to say that one has "become 
sei'mosiev" means that one has "lost face." See also sei'taer. 

sei'taer: In the Old Tongue, "straight eyes," or "level eyes." Among the Seanchan, it refers to honor or face, to the 
ability to meet someone's eyes. It is possible to "be" or "have" sei'taer, meaning that one has honor and face, and also to 
"gain" or "lose" sei'taer. See also sei'mosiev. 

Shen an Calhar: In the Old Tongue, "the Band of the Red Hand." (1) A legendary group of heroes who had many 
exploits, finally dying in the defense of Manetheren when that land was destroyed during the Trolloc Wars. (2) A 
military formation put together almost by accident by Mat Cauthon and organized along the lines of military forces 
during what is considered the height of the military arts, the days of Artur Hawkwing and the centuries immediately 
preceding. 

so'jhin: The closest translation from the Old Tongue would be "a height among lowness," though some translate it as 
meaning "both sky and valley" among several other possibilities. So'jhin is the term applied by the Seanchan to 
hereditary upper servants. They are da'covale, property, yet occupy positions of considerable authority and often 
power. Even the Blood step carefully around so'jhin of the Imperial family, and speak to so'jhin of the Empress herself 
as to equals. See also Blood, the; da'covale. 

Sword-Captain: See Lance-Captain. 

Wise Woman: Honorific used in Ebou Dar for women famed for their incredible abilities at healing almost any injury. 
A Wise Woman is traditionally marked by a red belt. While some have noted that many, indeed most, Ebou Dari Wise 



Women were not even from Altara, much less Ebou Dar, what was not known until recently, and still is known only to 
a few, is that all Wise Women are in fact Kinswomen and use various versions of Healing, giving out herbs and 
poultices only as a cover. With the flight of the Kin from Ebou Dar after the Seanchan took the city, no Wise Women 
remain there. See also Kin, the. 

About the Author 
Robert Jordan was born in 1948 in Charleston, South Carolina, where he now lives with his wife, Harriet, in a house 
built in 1797. He taught himself to read when he was four with the incidental aid of a twelve-years-older brother, and 
was tackling Mark Twain and Jules Verne by five. He is a graduate of The Citadel, the Military College of South 
Carolina, with a degree in physics. He served two tours in Vietnam with the U.S. Army; among his decorations are the 
Distinguished Flying Cross, the Bronze Star with "V," and two Vietnamese Crosses of Gallantry. A history buff, he has 
also written dance and theater criticism. He enjoys the outdoor sports of hunting, fishing, and sailing, and the indoor 
sports of poker, chess, pool, and pipe collecting. He has been writing since 1977 and intends to continue until they nail 
shut his coffin. 



 WINTER’S HEART 


The seals that hold back the night shall weaken, 
And in the heart of winter shall winter’s heart be born 
Amid the wailing of lamentation and the gnashing of teeth, 
For winter’s heart shall ride a black horse, 
And the name of it is Death. 
--from The Karaethon Cycle: 
The Prophecies of the Dragon 


Prologue: Snow 


Three lanterns cast a flickering light, more than enough to 
illuminate the small room with its stark white walls and 
ceiling, but Seaine kept her eyes fixed on the heavy wooden 
door. Illogical, she knew; foolish in a Sitter for the White. 
The weave of saidar she had pushed around the jamb brought her 
occasional whispers of distant footsteps in the warren of 
hallways outside, whispers that faded away almost as soon as 
heard. A simple thing learned from a friend in her long-ago 
novice days, but she would have warning long before anyone 
came near. Few people came down as deep as the second 
basement, anyway. 


Her weave picked up the far-off chittering of rats. Light! 
How long since there had been rats in Tar Valon, in the Tower 
itself? Were any of them spies for the Dark One? She wet her 
lips uneasily. Logic counted for nothing in this. True. If 
illogical. She wanted to laugh. With an effort she crept back 
from the brink of hysteria. Think of something besides rats. 
Something besides...A muffled squeal rose in the room behind 
her, faltered into muted whimpering. She tried to stop up her 
ears. Concentrate! 


In a way, she and her companions had been led to this room 
because the heads of the Ajahs seemed to be meeting in secret. 
She herself had glimpsed Ferane Neheran whispering in a 
secluded nook of the library with Jesse Bilal, who stood very 
high among the Browns if not at the very top. She thought she 
stood on firmer ground with Suana Dragand, of the Yellows. 
She thought so. But why had Ferane gone walking with Suana in 
a secluded part of the Tower grounds, both swathed in plain 
cloaks? Sitters of different Ajahs still talked to one 
another openly, if coldly. The others had seem similar 
things; they would not give names from their own Ajahs, of 
course, but two had mentioned Ferane. A troubling puzzle. 
The Tower was a seething swamp these days, every Ajah at every 
other Ajah's throat, yet the heads met in corners. NO one 
outside an Ajah knew for certain who within it led, but 
apparently the leaders knew each other. What could they be up 
to? What? It was unfortunate that she could not simply ask 
Ferane, but even had Ferane been tolerant of anyone's 
questions, she did not dare. Not now. 


Concentrate as she would, Seaine could not keep her mind on 
the question. She knew she was staring at the door and 




worrying at puzzles she could not solve just to avoid looking 
over her shoulder. Toward the source of those stifled 
whimpers and snuffling groans. 

As if thinking of the sounds compelled her, she looked back 
slowly to her companions, her breath growing more uneven as 
her head moved by inches. Snow was falling heavily on Tar 
Valon, far overhead, but the room seemed unaccountably hot. 
She made herself see! 


Brown-fringed shawl looped on her elbows, Saerin stood with 
her feet planted apart, fingering the hilt of the curved 
Altaran dagger thrust behind her belt. Cold anger darkened 
her olive complexion enough to make the scar along her jaw 
stand out in a pale line. Pevara appeared calmer, at first 
glance, yet one hand gripped her red-embroidered skirts 
tightly and the other held the smooth white cylinder of the 
Oath Rod like a foot-long club she was ready to use. She 
might be ready; Pevara was far tougher than her plumb exterior 
suggested, and determined enough to make Saerin seem a 
shirker. 


On the other side of the chair of remorse, tiny Yukiri had 
her arms rapped tightly around herself; the long silvery-grey 
fringe on her shawl trembled with her shivers. Licking her 
lips, Yukiri cast a worried glance at the woman standing 
beside her. Doesine, looking more like a pretty boy than a 
Yellow sister of considerable repute, displayed no reaction to 
what they were doing. She was the one actually manipulating 
the weaves that stretched into the Chair, and she stared at 
the ter'angreal, focusing so hard on her work that 
perspiration beaded on her pale forehead. They were all 
Sitters, including the tall woman writhing on the Chair. 


Sweat drenched Talene, matting her golden hair, soaking her 
linen shift till it clung to her. The rest of her clothes 
made a jumbled pile in the corner. Her closed eyelids 
fluttered, and she let out a constant stream of strangled 
moans and mewling, half-uttered pleas. Seaine felt ill, but 
could not drag her eyes away. Talene was a friend. Had been 
a friend. 


Despite its name, the ter’angreal looked nothing like a 
chair, just a large rectangular block of marbled gray. No one 
knew what it was made of, but the material was hard as steel 
everywhere except the slanted top. The statuesque Green sank 
a little into that, and somehow it molded itself to her no 
matter how she twisted. Doesine’s weavings flowed into the 
only break anywhere in the Chair, a palm-sized rectangular 
hole in one side with tiny notches spaced unevenly around it. 
Criminals caught in Tar Valon were brought down here to 
experience the Chair of Remorse, to experience carefully 
selected consequences of their crimes. On release, they 
invariably fled the island. There was very little crime in 
Tar Valon. Queasily, Seaine wondered whether this was 
anything like the use the Chair had been put to in the Age of 
Legends. 


“What is she…seeing?” Her question came out a whisper in 
spite of herself. Talene would be more than seeing; to her, 
it all would seem real. Thank the light she had no Warder, 
almost unheard of for a Green. She had claimed a Sitter had 
no need for one. Different reasons came to mind, now. 




 “She is bloody being flogged by bloody Trollocs,” Doesine 
said hoarsely. Touches of her native Cairhien had appeared in 
her voice, something that seldom happened except under stress. 
“When they are done…. She can see the Trolloc’s cook kettle 
boiling over the fire, and a Myrddraal watching her. She must 


know it will be one or the other next. Burn me, if she 
doesn’t break this time….” 
Doesine brushed perspiration from her forehead irritably and 

drew a ragged breath. “Stop joggling my elbow. It has been a 
long while since I did this.” 


“Three times under,” Yukiri muttered. “The toughest 
strongarm is broken by his own guilt, if nothing else, after 
two! What if she’s innocent? Light, this is like stealing 
sheep with the shepherd watching!” Even shaking, she managed 
to appear regal, but she always sounded like what she had 
been, a village woman. She glared around at the rest of them 
in a sickly fashion. “The law forbids using the Chair on 
initiates. We’ll all be unchaired! And if being thrown out 
of the hall isn’t enough, we’ll probably be exiled. And 
birched before we go, just to drop salt in our tea! Burn me, 
if we’re wrong, we could all be stilled!” 


Seaine shuddered. They would escape that last, if their 
suspicions proved right. No, not suspicions, certainties. 
They had to be right! But even if they were, Yukiri was 
correct about the rest. Tower law seldom allowed for 
necessity, or any supposed higher good. If they were right, 
though, the price was worth paying. Please, the Light send 
they were right! 


“Are you blind and deaf?” Pevara snapped, shaking the Oath 
Rod at Yukiri. “She refused to reswear the Oath against 
speaking an untrue word, and it had to be more than stupid 
Green Ajah pride after we’d all done as much already. When I 
shielded her, she tried to stab me! Does that shout 
innocence? Does it? For all she knew, we just meant to talk 
at her until our tongues dried up! What reason would she have 
to expect more?” 


“Thank you both,” Saerin put in dryly, “for stating the 
obvious. It’s too late to go back, Yukiri, so we might as 
well go forward. And if I were you, Pevara, I wouldn’t be 
shouting at one of the four women in the whole Tower I knew I 
could trust.” 


Yukiri flushed and shifted her shawl, and Pevara looked a 
trifle abashed. A trifle. They might all be Sitters, but 
Saerin had most definitely taken charge. Seaine was unsure 
how she felt about that. A few hours ago, she and Pevara had 
been two old friends alone on a dangerous quest, equals 
reaching decisions together; now they had allies. She should 
be grateful for more companions. They were not in the Hall, 
though, and they could not claim Sitter’s rights on this. 
Tower hierarchies had taken over, all the subtle and not-so-
subtle distinctions as to who stood where with respect to 
whom. In truth, Saerin had been both novice and Accepted 
twice as long as most of them, but forty years as a Sitter, 
longer than anyone else in the Hall, counted for a great deal. 
Seaine would be lucky if Saerin asked her opinion, much less 
her advice, before deciding anything at all. Foolish, yet the 
knowledge pricked like a thorn in her foot. 




 “The Trollocs are dragging her toward the kettle,” Doesine 
said suddenly, her voice grating. A thin keening escaped 
thorough Talene’s clenched teeth; she shook so hard she seemed 
to vibrate. “I—I do not know if I can…can flaming make 
myself….” 


“Bring her awake,” Saerin commanded without so much as 
glancing at anyone else to see what they thought. “Stop 
sulking, Yukiri, and be ready.” 


The Gray gave her a proud, furious stare, but when Doesine 
let her weaves fade and Talene’s blue eyes fluttered open, the 
glow of saidar surrounded Yukiri and she shielded the woman 
lying on the Chair without uttering a word. Saerin was in 
charge, and everyone knew it, and that was that. A very sharp 
thorn. 


A shield hardly seemed necessary. Her face a mask of 
terror, Talene trembled and panted as though she had run ten 
miles at top speed. She still sank into the soft surface, but 
without Doesine channeling, it no longer formed itself to her. 
Talene stared at the ceiling with bulging eyes, then squeezed 
them shut, but they popped right open again. Whatever 
memories lay behind her eyelids were nothing she wanted to 
face. 


Covering the two strides to the Chair, Pevara thrust the 
Oath Rod at the distraught woman. “Forswear all oaths that 
bind you and retake the Three Oaths, Talene,” she said 
harshly. Talene recoiled from the Rod as from a poisonous 
serpent, then jerked the other way as Saerin bent over her. 


“Next time, Talene, it’s the cookpot for you. Or the 
Myrddraal’s tender attentions.” Saerin’s face was implacable, 
but her tone made it seem soft by comparison. “No waking up 
before. And if that doesn’t do, there’ll be another time, and 
another, as many as it takes if we must stay down here until 
summer.” Doesine opened her mouth in protest before giving 
over with a grimace. Only she among them knew how to operate 
the Chair, but in this group, she stood as low as Seaine. 


Talene continued to stare up at Saerin. Tears filled her 
big eyes, and she began to weep, great shuddering, hopeless 
sobs. Blindly, she reached out, groping until Pevara stuck 
the Oath Rod into her hand. Embracing the Source, Pevara 
channeled a thread of Spirit to the Rod. Talene gripped the 
wrist-thick rod so hard that her knuckles turned white, yet 
she just lay there sobbing. 


Saerin straightened. “I fear it’s time to put her back to 
sleep, Doesine.” 


Talene’s tears redoubled, but she mumbled through them. 
“I—forswear—all oaths—that bind me.” With the last word, she 
began to howl. 


Seaine jumped, then swallowed hard. She personally knew the 
pain of removing a single oath and had speculated on the agony 
of removing more than one at once, but now the reality was in 
front of her. Talene screamed till there was no breath left 
in her, then pulled in air only to scream again, until Seaine 
half expected people to come running down from the Tower 
itself. The tall Green convulsed, flinging her arms and legs 
about, then suddenly arched up till only her heels and head 
touched the gray surface, every muscle clenched, her whole 
body spasming wildly. 




 As abruptly as the seizure had begun Talene collapsed 
bonelessly and lay there weeping like a lost child. The Oath 
Rod rolled from her limp hand down the sloping gray surface. 
Yukiri murmured something with the sound of a fervent prayer. 
Doesine kept whispering “Light!” over and over in a shaken 
voice. “Light! Light!” 


Pevara scooped up the Rod and closed Talene’s fingers around 
it again. There was no mercy in Seaine’s friend, not in this 
matter. “Now swear the Three Oaths,” she spat. 


For an instant, it seemed Talene might refuse, but slowly 
she repeated to oaths that made them all Aes Sedai and held 
them together. To speak no word that was not true. Never to 
make a weapon for one man to kill another. Never to use to 
One Power as a weapon, except in defense of her life, or that 
of her Warder or another sister. At the end, she began 
weeping in silence, shaking without a sound. Perhaps it was 


the oaths tightening down on her. They were uncomfortable 
when fresh. Perhaps. 
Then Pevara told the other oath required of her. Talene 

flinched, but muttered the words in tones of hopelessness. “I 
vow to obey all five of you absolutely.” Otherwise, she only 
stared straight ahead dully, tears trailing down her cheeks. 


“Answer me truthfully,” Saerin told her. “Are you of the 
Black Ajah?” 


“I am.” The words creaked, as if Talene’s throat were 
rusty. 


The simple words froze Seaine in a way she had never 
expected. She had set out to hunt the Black Ajah, after all, 
and believed in her quarry as many sisters did not. She had 
laid hands on another sister, on a Sitter, had helped bundle 
Talene along deserted basement hallways wrapped in flows of 
Air, had broken a dozen Tower laws, committed serious crimes, 
all to hear an answer she had been nearly certain of before 
the question was asked. Now she had heard. The Black Ajah 
really did exist. She was staring at a Black sister, a 
Darkfriend who wore the shawl. And believing turned out to be 
a pale shadow of confronting. Only her jaw clenched near to 
cramping kept her teeth from chattering. She struggled to 
compose herself, to think rationally. But nightmares were 
awake and walking the Tower. 


Someone exhaled heavily, and Seaine realized she was not the 
only one who found her world turned upside down. Yukiri gave 
herself a shake, then fixed her eyes on Talene as though 
determined to hold the shield on her by willpower if need be. 
Doesine was licking her lips, and smoothing her dark golden 
skirts uncertainly. Only Saerin and Pevara appeared at ease. 


“So,” Saerin said softly. Perhaps “faintly” was a better 
word. “So. Black Ajah.” She drew a deep breath, and her 
tone became brisk. “There’s no more need for that, Yukiri. 
Talene, you won’t try to escape, or resist in any way. You 
won’t so much as touch the Source without permission from one 
of us. Though I suppose someone else will take this forward 
once we hand you over. Yukiri?” The shield on Talene 
dissipated, but the glow remained around Yukiri, as if she did 
not trust the effect of the Rod on a Black sister. 


Pevara frowned. “Before we give her to Elaida, Saerin, I 
want to dig out as much as we can. Names, places, anything. 




Everything she knows!” Darkfriends had killed Pevara’s entire 
family, and Seaine was sure she would go into exile ready to 
hunt down every last Black sister personally. 


Still huddled on the Chair, Talene made a sound, half bitter 
laugh, half weeping. “when you do that, we are all dead. 


Dead! Elaida is Black Ajah!” 
“That’s impossible!” Seaine burst out. “Elaida gave me the 
order herself.” 
“She must be,” Doesine half whispered. “Talene’s sworn the 

oaths again; she just named her!” Yukiri nodded vehemently. 


“Use your heads,” Pevara growled, shaking her own in 
disgust. “You know as well as I do if you believe a lie, you 
can say it for truth.” 


“And that is truth,” Saerin said firmly. “What proof do you 
have, Talene? Have you seen Elaida at your….meetings?” She 
gripped her knife hilt so hard that her knuckles paled. 
Saerin had had to fight harder than most for the shawl, for 
the right to remain in the Tower at all. To her, the Tower 
was more than home, more important than her own life. If 
Talene gave the wrong answer, Elaida might not live to face 
trial. 


“They don’t have meetings,” Talene muttered sullenly. 


“Except the Supreme Council, I suppose. But she must be. 
They know every report she receives, even the secret ones, 
every word spoken to her. They know every decision she makes 
before it’s announced. Days before; sometimes weeks. How 
else, unless she tells them?” Sitting up with an effort, she 
tried to fix them each in turn with an intent stare. It only 
made her eyes seem to dart anxiously. “We have to run’ we 
have to find a place to hide. I’ll help you—tell you 
everything I know!—but they’ll kill us unless we run.” 


Strange, Seaine thought, how quickly Talene had made her 
former cronies “they” and tried to identify herself with the 
rest of them. No. She was avoiding the real problem, and 
avoidance was witless. Had Elaida really set her to dig out 
the Black Ajah? She had never once actually mentioned the 
name. Could she have meant something else? Elaida had always 
jumped down the throat of anyone who even mentioned the Black. 
Nearly any sister would do the same yet…. 


“Elaida’s proven herself a fool,” Saerin said, “and more 
than once I’ve regretted standing for her, but I’ll not 
believe she’s Black, not without more than that.” Tight-
lipped, Pevara jerked an agreeing nod. As a Red, she would 
want much more. 


“That’s as may be, Saerin,” Yukiri said, “but we cannot hold 
Talene long before the Greens start asking where she is. Not 
to mention the …the Black. We’d better decide what to do 
fast, or we’ll still be digging at the bottom of the well when 
the rains hit.” Talene gave Saerin a feeble smile that was 
probably meant to be ingratiating. It faded under the Brown 
Sitter’s frown. 


“We don’t dare tell Elaida anything until we can cripple 
the Black at one blow,” Saerin said finally. “Don’t argue, 
Pevara; it’s sense.” Pevara threw up her hands and put on a 
stubborn expression, but she closed her mouth. “if Talene is 
right,” Saerin went on, “the Black knows about Seaine or soon 
will, so we must ensure her safety, as much s we can. That 




won’t be easy, with only five of us. We can’t trust anyone 
until we are certain of them! At least w have Talene, and who 
knows what we’ll learn before she’s wrung out?” Talene 
attempted to look willing to be wrung out, but no one was 
paying her any mind. Seaine’s throat had gone dry. 


“We might not be entirely alone,” Pevara said reluctantly. 
“Seaine, tell them your little scheme with Zerah and her 
friends.” 


“Scheme?” Saerin said. “Who’s Zerah? Seaine? Seaine!” 


Seaine gave a start. “What? Oh. Pevara and I uncovered a 
small nest of rebels here in the Tower,” she began breathily. 
“Then sisters sent to spread dissent.” Saerin was going to 
make sure she was safe, was she? Without so much as asking. 
She was a Sitter herself; she had been Aes Sedai for almost a 
hundred and fifty years. What right had Saerin or anyone to 
….? “Pevara and I have begun putting an end to that. We’ve 
already made one of them, Zerah Dacan, take the same extra 
oath Talene did, and told her to bring Bernaile Gelbarn to my 
rooms this afternoon without rousing her suspicions.” Light, 
any sister outside this room might be Black. Any sister. 
“Then we will use those two to bring another, until they have 
all been made to sear obedience. Of course, we’ll ask the 
same question we put to Zerah, the same we put to Talene.” 
The Black Ajah might already have her name, already know she 
had been set hunting them. How could Saerin keep her safe? 
“Those who give the wrong answer can be questioned, and those 
who give the right can repay for a little of their treachery 
by hunting the Black under our direction.” Light, how? 


When she was done, the others discussed the matter at some 
length, which could only mean that Saerin was unsure what 
decision she would make. Yukiri insisted on giving Zerah and 
her confederates over to the law immediately—if it could be 
done without exposing their own situation with Talene. Pevara 
argued for using the rebels, though halfheartedly; the dissent 
they had been spreading centered around vile tales concerning 
the Red Ajah and false Dragons. Doesine seemed to be 
suggesting that they kidnap every sister in the Tower and 
force them all to take the added oath, but the other three 
paid little attention to her. 


Seaine took no part in the discussion. Her reaction to 
their predicament was the only possible one, she thought. 
Tottering to the nearest corner, she vomited noisily. 


Elayne tried not to grind her teeth. Outside, another 
blizzard pelted Caemlyn, darkening the midday sky enough that 
the lamps along the sitting room’s paneled walls were all lit. 
Fierce gusts rattled the casements set into the tall arched 
windows. Flashes of lightning lit the clear glass panes, and 
thunder boomed hollowly overhead. Thunder snow, the worse 
kind of winter storm, the most violent. The room was not 
precisely cold, but….Spreading her fingers in front of the 
logs crackling in the broad marble fireplace, she could still 
feel a chill rising through the carpets layered over the floor 
tiles, and through her thickest velvet slippers, too. The 
wide black fox collar and cuffs on her red-and-white gown were 
pretty, but she was not sure they added any more to its warmth 




than the pearls on the sleeves. Refusing to let the cold 
touch her did not mean she was unaware. 
Where was Nynaeve? And Vandene? Her thoughts snarled like 

the weather. They should be here already! Light! I wish I 
could learn to go without sleep, and they take their sweet 
time! No, that was unfair. Her formal claim for the Lion 
Throne was only a few days old, and for her, everything else 
had to take second place for the time being. Nynaeve and 
Vandene had other priorities; other responsibilities, as they 
saw them. Nynaeve was up to her neck planning with Reanne and 
the rest of the Knitting Circle how to spirit Kinswomen out of 
Seanchan-controlled lands before they were discovered and 
collared. The Kin were very good at staying low, but the 
Seanchan would not just pass them by for wilders the way Aes 
Sedai always had. Supposedly, Vandene was still shaken by her 
sister’s murder, barely eating and hardly able to give advice 
of any sort. The barely eating part was true, but finding the 
killer consumed her. Supposedly walking the halls in grief at 
odd hours, she was secretly hunting the Darkfriend among them. 
Three days earlier, just the thought of that could make Elayne 
shiver; now, it was one danger among many. More intimate than 
most, true, but only most. 


They were doing important tasks, approved and encouraged by 
Egwene, but she still wished they would hurry, selfish though 
it might be. Vandene had a wealth of good advice, the 
advantage of long experience and study, and Nynaeve’s years of 
dealing with the Village Council and the Women’s Circle back 
in Emond’s Field gave her a keen eye for practical politics, 
however much she denied it. Burn me, I have a hundred 
problems, some right here in the Palace, and I need them! If 
she had her way, Nynaeve al’Meara was going to be the Aes 
Sedai advisor to the next Queen of Andor. She needed all the 
help she could find—help she could trust. 


Smoothing her face, she turned away from the blazing hearth. 
Thirteen tall armchairs, carved simply but with a fine hand, 
made a horseshoe arc in front of the fireplace. 
Paradoxically, the place of honor, where the Queen would sit 
if receiving here, stood farthest from the fire’s heat. Such 
was it was. Her back began to warm immediately, and her front 
to cool. Outside, snow fell, thunder crashed and lightning 
flared. Inside her head, too. Calm. A ruler had as much 
need of calm as any Aes Sedai. 


“It must be the mercenaries,” she said, not quite managing 
to keep regret out of her voice. Armsmen from her estates 
surely would begin arriving inside a month—once they learned 
she was alive—but the men Birgitte was recruiting would 
require half a year or more before they were fit to ride and 
handle a sword at the same time. “And Hunters for the Horn, 
if any will sign and swear.” There were plenty of both 
trapped in Caemlyn by the weather. Too many of both, most 
people said, carousing, brawling, troubling women who wanted 
no part of their attentions. At least she would be putting 
them to good use, to stop trouble instead of beginning it. 
She wished she did not think she was still trying to convince 
herself of that. “Expensive, but the coffers will cover it.” 
For the time, they would. She had better start receiving 
revenues from her estates soon. 




 Wonder of wonders, the two women standing before her reacted 
in much the same fashion. 


Dyelin gave an irritated grunt. A large, round silver pin 
worked with Taravin’s Owl and Oak was fastened at the high 
neck of her dark green dress, her only jewelry. A show of 
pride in her House, perhaps too much pride; the High Seat of 
House Taravin was a proud woman altogether. Gray streaked her 
golden hair and fine lines webbed the corners of her eyes, yet 
her face was strong, her faze level and sharp. Her mind was a 
razor. Or maybe a sword. A plain spoken woman, or so it 
seemed, who did not hide her opinions. 


“Mercenaries know the work,” she said dismissively, “but 
they are hard to control, Elayne. When you need a feather 
touch, they’re liable to be a hammer, and when you need a 
hammer, they’re liable to be elsewhere, and stealing to boot. 
They are loyal to gold, and only as long as the gold lasts. 


If they don’t betray for more gold first. I’m sure this once 
Lady Birgitte will agree with me.” 
Arms folded tightly beneath her breasts and heeled boots 

planted wide, Birgitte grimaced, as always when anyone used 
her new title. Elayne had granted her an estate as soon as 
they reached Caemlyn, where it could be registered. In 
private, Birgitte grumbled incessantly over that, and the 
other change in her life. Her sky-blue trousers were cut the 
same as those she usually wore, billowing and gathered at the 
ankles, but her short red coat had a high white collar, and 
wide white cuffs banded with gold. She was the Lady Birgitte 
Trahelion and the Captain General of the Queen’s Guard, and 
she could mutter and whine all she wanted, so long as she kept 
it private. 


“I do,” she growled unwillingly, and gave Dyelin a not-quite-
sidelong glare. The Warder bond carried what Elayne had been 
sensing all morning. Frustration, irritation, determination. 
Some of that might have been a reflection of herself, though. 
They mirrored one another in surprising ways since the 
bonding, emotionally and otherwise. Why, her courses had 
shifted by more than a week to match the other woman’s! 


Birgitte’s reluctance to take the second-best argument was 
clearly almost as great as her reluctance to agree. “Hunters 
aren’t much bloody better, Elayne,” she muttered. “they took 
the Hunter’s Oath to find adventure, and a place in the 
histories if they can. Not to settle down keeping the law. 
Half are supercilious prigs, looking down their flaming noses 
at everyone else; the rest don’t just take necessary chances, 
they look for chances to take. And one whisper of a rumor of 
the Horn of Valere, and you’ll be lucky if only two in three 
vanish overnight.” 


Dyelin smiled a thin smile, as though she had won a point. 
Oil and water were not in it compared to those two; each 
managed well enough with nearly anyone else, but for some 
reason they could argue over the color of charcoal. Could and 
would. “Besides, Hunters and mercenaries alike, nearly all 
are foreigners. That will sit poorly with high and low alike. 
Very poorly. The last thing you want is to start a 
rebellion.” Lightning flared, briefly lighting the casements, 
and a particularly loud peal of thunder punctuated her words. 
In a thousand years, seven Queens of Andor had been toppled by 




open rebellion, and the two who survived probably wished they 
had not. 


Elayne stifled a sigh. One of the small inlaid tables along 
the walls held a heavy silver ropework try with cups and a 
tall pitcher of hot spiced wine. Lukewarm spiced wine, now. 
She channeled briefly, Fire, and a thin wisp of steam rose 
from the pitcher. Reheating gave the spices a slight 
bitterness, but the warmth of the worked silver cup in her 
hands was worth it. With an effort she resisted the desire 
to heat the air in the room with the Power and released the 
Source; the warmth would not have lasted unless she maintained 
the weaves, anyway. She had conquered her unwillingness to 
let go every time she took in saidar—well, to some extent—yet 
of late, the desire to draw more grew every time. Every 
sister had to face that dangerous desire. A gesture brought 
the others to pour their own wine. 


“You know the situation,” she told them. “Only a fool could 
think it anything but dire, and you’re neither of you fools.” 
The Guards were a shell, a handful of acceptable men and a 
double handful of strongarms and toughs better suited to 
throwing drunks out of taverns, or being thrown out 
themselves. And with the Saldaeans gone and the Aiel leaving, 
crime was blooming like weeds in spring. She would have 
thought the snow would damp it down, but every day brought 
robbery, arson, and worse. Every day, the situation grew 
worse. “At this rate, we’ll see riots in a few weeks. Maybe 
sooner. If I can’t keep order in Caemlyn itself, the people 
will turn against me.” If she could not keep order in the 
capital, she might as well announce to the world she was unfit 
to rule. “ I don’t like it but it has to be done, so it will 
be.” Both opened their mouths, ready to argue further, but 
she gave them no chance. She made her voice firm. “It will 
be done.” 


Birgitte’s waist-long golden braid swung as she shook her 
head, yet grudging acceptance filtered through the bond. She 
took a decidedly odd view of their relationship as Aes Sedai 
and Warder, but she had learned to recognize when Elayne would 
not be pressed. After a fashion she had learned. There was 
the estate and title. And commanding the Guards. And a few 
other small matters. 


Dyelin bent her neck a fraction, and perhaps her knees; it 
might have been a curtsy, yet her face was stone. It was well 
to remember that many who did not want Elayne Trakand on the 
Lion Throne wanted Dyelin Taravin instead. The woman had been 
nothing but helpful, but it was early days yet, and sometimes 
a niggling voice whispered in the back of Elayne’s head. Was 
Dyelin simply waiting for her to bungle badly before stepping 
in to “save” Andor? Someone sufficiently prudent, 
sufficiently devious, might try that route, and might even 
succeed. 


Elayne raised a hand to rub her temple but made it into 
adjusting her hair. So much suspicion, so little trust. The 
Game of Houses had infected Andor since she left for Tar 
Valon. She was grateful for her months among Aes Sedai for 
more than learning the power. Daes Dae’mar was breath and 
bread, to most sisters. Grateful for Thom’s teaching, too. 
Without both, she might not have survived her return as long 




as she had. The Light send Thom was safe, that he and Mat 
and the others had escaped the Seanchan and were on their way 
to Camelyn. Every day since leaving Ebou Dar she prayed for 
their safety, but that brief prayer was all she had time for, 
now. 


Taking the chair at the center of the arc, the Queen’s 
chair, she tried to look like a queen, back straight, her free 
hand resting lightly on the carved chair arm. Looking a queen 
is not enough, her mother had told her often, but a fine mind, 
a keen grasp of affairs, and a brave heart will go for nothing 
if people do not seen you as a queen. Birgitte was watching 


her closely, almost suspiciously. Sometimes the bond was 
decidedly inconvenient! Dyelin raised her winecup to her 
lips. 

Elayne took a deep breath. She had harried this question 
from every direction she knew, and she could see no other way. 
“Birgitte, by spring, I want the Guards to be an army equal to 
anything ten Houses can put in the field.” Impossible to 
achieve, likely, but just trying meant keeping the mercenaries 
who signed now and finding more, signing every man who showed 
the least inclination. Light, what a foul tangle! 


Dyelin choked, her eyes bulging; dark wine sprayed from her 
mouth. Still sputtering, she plucked a lace-edged 
handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her chin. 


A wave of panic shot down the bond from Birgitte. “Oh, burn 
me, Elayne, you can’t mean….! I’m an archer, not a general! 
That’s all I’ve ever been, don’t you understand yet? I just 
did what I had to do, what circumstances forced on me! 
Anyway, I’m not her, anymore; I’m just me and….!” She trailed 
off, realizing she might have said too much. Not for the 
first time. Her face went crimson as Dyelin eyed her 
curiously. 


They had put it about that Birgitte was from Kandor, where 
country women wore something like her clothes, yet Dyelin 
clearly suspected the lie. And every time Birgitte let her 
tongue slip, she came closer to letting her secret slip, too. 
Elayne shot her a look that promised a talking-to, later. 


She would not have thought Birgitte’s cheeks could get any 
redder. Mortification drowned everything else in the bond, 
flooding through until Elayne felt her own face coloring. 
Quickly she put on a stern expression, hoping her crimson 
cheeks would pass for something other than an intense desire 
to squirm in her seat with Birgitte’s humiliation. That 
mirroring effect could be more than merely inconvenient! 


Dyelin wasted only a moment on Birgitte. Tucking her 
handkerchief back in its place, she carefully set her cup back 
on the tray then planted her hands on her hips. Her face was 
a thunderhead, now. “The Guards have always been the core of 
Andor’s army, Elayne, but this….Light’s mercy, this is 
madness! You could turn every hand against you from the River 
Erinin to the Mountains of Mist!” 


Elayne focused on calm. If she was wrong, Andor would 
become another Cairhien, another blood-soaked land filled with 
chaos. And she would die, of course, a price not high enough 
to meet the cost. Not trying was unthinkable, and in any case 
would have the same result for Andor as failure. Cool, 
Composed, steely calm. A queen could not show herself afraid, 




even when she was. Especially when she was. Her mother had 
always said to explain decisions as seldom as possible; the 
more often you explained, the more explanations were 
necessary, until they were all you had time for. Gareth Bryne 
said to explain if you could; your people did better if they 


knew the why as well as the what. Today, she would follow 
Gareth Bryne. A good many victories had been won following 
him. 

“I have three declared challengers.” And maybe one not 
declared. She made herself meet Dyelin’s gaze. Not angrily; 
just eyes meeting eyes. Or maybe Dyelin did take it for 
anger, with her jaw tight and her face flushed. If so, so be 
it. “By herself, Arymilla is negligible, but Nasin has joined 
House Caeren To her, and whether or not he’s sane, his support 
means she must be considered. Naean and Elenia are 
imprisoned; their armsmen are not. Naean’s people may dither 
and argue until they find a leader, but Jarid is High Seat of 
Sarand, and he will take chances to feed his wife’s ambition. 
House Baryn and House Anshar flirt with both; the best I can 
hope for is that one goes with Sarand and one with Arawn. 
Nineteen Houses in Andor are strong enough that smaller Houses 
will follow where they lead. Six are arrayed against me, and 
I have two.” Six so far, and the Light send she had two! She 
would not mention the three great Houses that had all but 
declared for Dyelin; at least Egwene had them tied down in 
Murandy for now. 


She motioned to a chair near her, and Dyelin sat, carefully 
arranging her skirts. The storm clouds had left the older 
woman’s face. She studied Elayne, giving no hint as to her 
questions or conclusions. “I know all that as well as you, 
Elayne, but Luan and Ellorien will bring their Houses to you, 
and Abelle will as well, I’m sure.” A careful voice, too, but 
it gathered heat as she went on. “Other Houses will see 
reason, then. As long as you don’t frighten them out of 
reason. Light, Elayne, this is not a Succession. Trakand 
succeeds Trakand, not another House. Even a Succession has 
seldom come to open fighting! Make the Guards into an army, 
and you risk everything.” 


Elayne threw her head back, but her laughter held no 
amusement. It fit right in with the peals of thunder. “I 
risked everything the day I came home, Dyelin. You say 
Norwelyn and Traemane will come to me, and Pendar? Fine; then 
I have five to face six. I don’t think the other Houses will 
‘see reason,’ as you put it. If any of them move before it’s 
clear as good glass the Rose Crown is mine, it will be against 
me, not for.” With lucky, those lords and ladies would shy 
away from associating with cronies of Gaebril, but she did not 
like depending on luck. She was not mat Cauthon. Light, most 
people were sure Rand had killed her mother, and few believed 
that “Lord Gaebril” had been one of the Forsaken. Mending the 
damage Rahvin had done in Andor might take her entire lifetime 
even if she managed to live as long as the Kinswomen! Some 
Houses would stand aside from supporting her because of the 
outrages Gaebril had perpetrated in Morgase’s name, and others 
because Rand had said he intended to “give” her the throne. 
She loved the man to her toes, but burn him for giving voice 
to that! Even if it was what reined in Dyelin. The meanest 




crofter in Andor would shoulder his scythe to pull a puppet 
from the Lion Throne! 


“I want to avoid Andoran killing Andoran If I can, Dyelin, 
but Succession or no Succession, Jarid is ready to fight, even 
with Elenia locked away. Naean is ready to fight.” Best to 
bring both women to Caemlyn as soon as possible; too much 
chance of them slipping messages, and orders, out of Aringill. 
“Arymilla is ready, with Nasin’s men behind her. To them, 


this is a Succession, and the only way to stop them from 
fighting is to be so strong they don’t dare. If Birgitte can 
build the Guards into an army by spring, well and good, 

because if I don’t have an army before then, I will have need 
of one. And if that isn’t enough, remember the Seanchan. 
They won’t be satisfied with Tanchico and Ebou Dar; they want 
everything. I won’t let them have Andor, Dyelin, any more 
than I’ll let Arymilla.” Thunder roared overhead. 


Twisting a little to look back at Birgitte, Dyelin moistened 
her lips. Her fingers plucked unconsciously at her skirts. 
Very little frightened her, but the tales of the Seanchan had. 
What she murmured, though, as if to herself, was “I had hoped 
to avoid outright civil war.” And that might mean nothing, or 
a great deal! Perhaps a little probing might show which. 


“Gawyn,” Birgitte said suddenly. Her expression had 
lightened, and so had the emotions flowing through the bond. 
Relief stood out strong. “When he comes, he’ll take command. 
He’ll be your first prince of the sword.” 


“Mother’s milk in a cup!” Elayne snapped, and lightning 
flared in the windows for emphasis. Why did the woman have to 
change the subject now? Dyelin gave a start, and heat flooded 
back into Elayne’s face. By the older woman’s gaping mouth, 
she knew exactly how coarse that curse was. Strangely 
embarrassing, that; it should not have counted for anything 
that Dyelin had been her mother’s friend. Unthinking, she 
took a deep swallow of wine—and nearly gagged at the 
bitterness. Quickly she suppressed images of Lini threatening 
to wash out her mouth and reminded herself that she was a 
grown woman with a throne to win. She doubted her mother had 
ever found herself feeling foolish so often. 


“Yes, he will, Birgitte,” she went on, more calmly. “When 
he comes.” Three couriers were on their way to Tar Valon. 
Even if none managed to get past Elaida, Gawyn would learn 
eventually that she had made her claim, and he would come. 
She needed him desperately. She had no illusions of herself 
as a general, and Birgitte was so fearful she could not live 
up to the legends about her that sometimes she seemed afraid 
to try. Face an army, yes; lead an army, never under the sun! 


Birgitte was well aware of the tangle in her own mind. 
Right that moment her face was frozen, but her emotions were 
full of self-anger and embarrassment, with the first growing 
stronger by the moment. With a stab of irritation, Elayne 
opened her mouth to pursue Dyelin’s mention of civil war 
before she began reflecting Birgitte’s anger. 


Before she could utter a word, though, the tall red doors 
opened. Her hopes for Nynaeve or Vandene were dashed by the 
entrance of two Sea Folk women, barefoot despite the weather. 
A cloud of musky perfume wafted ahead of them, and by 
themselves they made up a procession in brightly brocaded silk 




trousers and blouses, jeweled daggers and necklaces of gold 
and ivory. And other jewelry. Straight black hair with white 
at the temples nearly hid the ten small, fat golden rings in 
Renaile din Calon’s ears, but the arrogance in her dark eyes 
was as plain as the medallion-laden golden chain that 
connected one earring to her nose ring. Her face was set, and 
despite a graceful sway to her walk, she appeared ready to 
stride through a wall. Nearly a hand shorter than her 
companion and darker than charcoal, Zaida din Parede wore half 
again as many golden medallions dangling on her left cheek and 
carried an air of command rather than arrogance, a sure 
certainty that she would be obeyed. Gray flecked her cap of 
tight black curls, yet she was stunning, one of those women 
who grew more and more beautiful as they aged. 


Dyelin flinched at sight of them, and half raised a hand to 
her nose before she could stop herself. A common enough 
reaction in people unused to the Atha’an Miere. Elayne 
grimaced, and not for their nose rings. She even considered 
another curse, something more…pungent. Excepting the 
Forsaken, she could not have named two people she wanted less 
to see right then. Reene was supposed to see this did not 
happen! 


“Forgive me,” she said, rising smoothly, “but I am very 
busy, now. Matters of state, you understand, or I would greet 
you as your stations deserve.” The Sea Folk were sticklers 
for ceremony and propriety, at least on their own terms. Very 
likely they had gotten past the First Maid by simply not 
telling her they wanted to see Elayne, but they easily might 
take offense if she greeted them sitting before the crown was 
hers. And, the Light burn both of them, she could not afford 
to offend. Birgitte appeared at her side, bowing formally to 
take her cup; the Warder bond carried wariness. She was 
always ginger around the Sea Folk; she had let her tongue slip 
around them, too. “I will see you later in the day,” Elayne 
finished, adding, “The Light willing.” They also were great 
ones for ceremonial turns of phrase, and that one showed 
courtesy and gave a way out. 


Renaile did not stop until she stood right in front of 
Elayne, and much too close. One tattooed hand gestured curt 
permission for her to sit. Permission. “You have been 
avoiding me.” Her voice was deep for a woman, and as chill as 
the snow falling on the roof. “Remember that I am Windfinder 
to Nesta din Reas Two Moons, Mistress of the Ships to the 
Atha’an Miere. You still must fulfill the rest of the bargain 
you made for your White Tower.” The Sea Folk knew of the 
division in the Tower—by this time, everyone and her sister 
knew—but Elayne had not seen fit to add to her difficulties by 
making public which side she was on. Not yet. Renaile 
finished on an imperious, commanding note. “You will deal 
with me, and now!” So much for ceremony and propriety. 


“She has been avoiding me, I think, not you, Windfinder.” 
In contrast to Renaile, Zaida sounded as though she were 
merely making conversation. Rather than rushing across the 
carpets, she moved idly about the room, pausing to touch a 
tall vase of thin green porcelain, then rising on her toes to 
peer through a four-barreled kaleidoscope atop a tall stand. 
When she glanced toward Elayne and Renaile, an amused glint 




twinkled in her black eyes. “After all, the bargain was with 
Nesta din Reas, speaking for the ships.” In addition to 
Wavemistress of Clan Catelar, Zaida was an ambassador from the 
Mistress of the Ships. To Rand, not Andor, but her warrant 
gave the authority to speak and bind for Nesta herself. 
Changing one gold-chased barrel for another, she went on 


tiptoe to look through the eyepiece again. “You promised the 
Atha’an Miere twenty teachers, Elayne. So far you have 
delivered one.” 

Their entrance had been so sudden, so dramatic, that Elayne 
was surprised to see Merilille turn from closing the doors. 
Shorter still than Zaida, the Gray sister was elegant in dark 
blue wool trimmed with silvery fur and sewn with small 
moonstones across the bodice, yet barely more than two weeks 
teaching the Windfinders had brought changes. Most were 
powerful women with a thirst for knowledge, more than ready to 
squeeze Merilille like a grape in the winepress, demanding the 
last drop of juice. Once, Elayne had thought her self-
possessed beyond the ability to surprise, but now Merilille 
was constantly wide-eyed, her lips always a little parted, as 
though she had just been startled half out of her wits and 
expected to be startled again any moment. Folding her hands 
at her waist, she waited by the doorway, and appeared relieved 
to be out of the center of attention. 


Harrumphing loudly, Dyelin got to her feet and scowled at 
Zaida and Renaile both. “Have a care how you speak,” she 
growled. “You are in Andor, now, not on one of our ships, and 
Elayne Trakand will be Queen of Andor! Your bargain will be 
met in good time. For now, we have more important matters to 
contend with.” 


“Under the Light, there are none more important,” Renaile 
rumbled in turn, rounding on her. “You say the bargain will 
be met? So you stand surety. Know there will be room to 
dangle you by your ankles in the rigging as well if—“ 


Zaida snapped her fingers. That was all, but a tremor 
passed through Renaile. Snatching the golden scent-box 
dangling from one of her necklaces, she pressed it to her nose 
and breathed deeply. Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships 
she might be, a woman of great authority and power among the 
Atha’an Miere, but to Zaida, she was…a Windfinder. Which 
grated her pride excessively. Elayne was sure there must be a 
way to use that to keep them out of her hair, but she had not 
found it, yet. Oh, yes; for good or ill, Daes Dae’mar was in 
her bones, now. 


She glided around a silently furious Renaile as if around a 
column, a part of the room, though not toward Zaida. If 
anyone had a right be be casual here, she did. She could not 
afford to give Zaida a hair of advantage, or the Wavemistress 
would shave her scalp for wigmakers. At the fireplace, she 
spread her hands in front of the flames again. 


“Nesta din Reas trusted we would fulfill the bargain, or she 
never would have agreed to it,” she said calmly. “You have 
regained the Bowl of the Winds, but assembling nineteen more 
sisters to join you requires time. I know you worry about the 
ships that were at Ebou Dar when the Seanchan came. Have 
Renaile make a gateway to Tear. There are hundreds of Atha’an 
Miere vessels there.” Every report said so. “You can learn 




what they know, and rejoin your people. They will have need 
of you, against the Seanchan.” And she would be rid of them. 
“The other sisters will be sent to you as soon as can be 
arranged.” Merilille did not move from the doorway, but her 
face took on a green tinge of panic at the possibility of 
being alone among the Sea Folk. 


Zaida gave over looking through the kaleidoscope and eyed 
Elayne sideways. A smile quirked her very full lips. “I must 
remain here, at least until I speak to Rand al’Thor. If he 
ever comes.” That smile tightened for an instant before 
blooming once more; Rand would have a hard time with her. 
“And I will keep Renaile and her companions, for the time. A 
handful of Windfinders more or less will make no great 
difference against these Seanchan, and here, the Light 
willing, they may learn what will be useful.” Renaile 
snorted, just loudly enough to be heard. Zaida frowned 
briefly and began fiddling with the eyepiece that stood level 
with the top of her head. “There are five Aes Sedai here in 
your palace, counting yourself,” she murmured thoughtfully. 
“Perhaps some of you might teach.” As though the idea had 
just occurred to her. And if that were so, Elayne could lift 
both Sea folk women with one hand! 


“Oh, yes, that would be wonderful,” Merilille burst out, 
taking a step forward. Then she glanced at Renaile and 
subsided, a blush suffusing her Cairhienin paleness. Folding 
her hands at her waist once more, she snatched meekness around 


herself like a second skin. Birgitte shook her head in 
amazement. Dyelin stared as if she had never seen the Aes 
Sedai before. 

“Something may be worked out, if the Light pleases,” Elayne 
said cautiously. Not rubbing at her temples took effort. She 
wished she could blame the ache inside her skull on the 
incessant thunder. Nynaeve would erupt at the suggestion, and 
Vandene likely would ignore any such order, but Careane and 
Sareitha might be possible. “For no more than a few hours a 
day, you understand. When they have time.” She avoided 
looking at Merilille. Even Careane and Sareitha might rebel 
at being tossed into that winepress. 


Zaida touched the fingers of her right hand to her lips. 
“It is agreed, under the light.” 


Elayne blinked. That was ominous; in the Wavemistress’s 
eyes, apparently, they had just made another bargain. Her 
limited experience of dealing with the Atha’an Miere was that 
you were lucky to walk away with your shift. Well, this time 
things were going to be different. For instance, what were 
the sisters to gain in it? There had to be two sides to a 
bargain. Zaida smiled, as if she knew what Elayne was 
thinking and was amused. One of the doors opening again was 
almost a relief, giving her an excuse to turn away from the 
Sea Folk woman. 


Reene Harfor slipped into the room with deference but 
without servility, and her curtsy was restrained, suitable for 
the High Seat of a powerful House to her Queen. But then, any 
High Seat worth a pinch of salt knew enough to offer respect 
to the First Maid. Her graying hair was arranged in a bun, 
like a crown atop her head, and she wore a scarlet tabard over 
her red-and-white dress, with the White Lion of Andor’s head 




resting on her formidable bosom. Reene had no say in who 
would sit on the throne, but she had adopted full formal dress 
on the day of Elayne’s arrival, as if the Queen already were 
in residence. Her round face hardened momentarily at sight of 
the Atha’an Miere women who had bypassed her, but that was all 
the notice she gave them. For now. They would learn to their 
cost what incurring the animosity of the First Maid entailed. 


“Mazrim Taim has come at last, my Lady.” Reene managed to 
make that sound very like “my Queen.” “Shall I tell him to 
wait?” 


Not beforetime! Elayne muttered in her head. She had 
summoned the man two days ago! “Yes, Mistress Harfor. Give 
him wine. The third best, I think. Inform him that I will 
see him as soon as I—“ 


Taim strode into the room as though he owned the Palace. 
She did not need him named. Blue-And-gold Dragons wove round 
the sleeves of his black coat from elbows to cuffs, in 
imitation of the Dragons on Rand’s arms. Though she suspected 
he would not appreciate the observation. He was tall, nearly 
as tall as Rand, with a hooked nose and dark eyes like augurs, 
a physically powerful man who moved with something of a 
Warder’s deadly grace, but shadows seemed to follow him, as if 
half the lamps in the room had gone out; not real shadows, but 
an air of imminent violence that seemed palpable enough to 
soak up light. 


Two more black-coated men followed at his heels, a bald 
fellow with a long grizzled beard and leering blue eyes, and a 
younger man, snake-slim and dark-haired, with the sneering 
arrogance young men often adopted before they learned better. 
Both wore the silver Sword and red-enameled Dragon on their 
tall collars. None of the three wore a sword on his hip, 
though; they did not need swords. Suddenly the sitting room 
felt smaller, and crowded. 


Instinctively, Elayne embraced saidar and reached out to 
link. Merilille slipped into the circle easily; astoundingly, 
so did Renaile. A quick glance at the Windfinder lessened her 
surprise. Her face gray, Renaile was gripping the dagger 
thrust behind her sash so hard that Elayne could feel the pain 
in her knuckles through the link. She had been in Caemlyn 
long enough to be aware of what an Asha’man was. 


The men knew someone had embraced saidar, of course, even if 
they could not see the glow surrounding the three women. The 
bald man stiffened; the slim young man clenched his fists. 
They stared with angry eyes. Surely they had seized saidin. 
Elayne began to regret giving in to reflex, but she was not 
going to let go of the Source, not now. Taim radiated danger 
the way a fire gave off heat. She drew deeply through the 
link, to the point where the overwhelming sense of life became 
sharp, warning prickles. Even those felt ….joyous. With that 
much of the Power in her, she could lay waste to the Palace, 
but she wondered whether it was enough to match Taim and the 
other two. She very much wished she had one of the three 
angreal they had found in Ebou Dar, now safely locked away 
with the rest of the things from the cache until she had time 
to study them again. 


Taim shook his head contemptuously, a half-smile flickering 
across his lips. “Use your eyes.” His voice was quiet, but 




hard and sneering. “There are two Aes Sedai here. Are you 
afraid of two Aes Sedai? Besides, you don’t want to frighten 
the future Queen of Andor.” His companions relaxed visibly, 
then began trying to emulate the unthinking dominance of his 
stance. 


Reene knew nothing of saidar or saidin; she had rounded on 
the men, scowling, as soon as they entered. Asha’man or no 
Asha’man, she expected people to behave as they should. She 
muttered something almost under her breath. Not quite far 
enough under, though. The words “sneaking rats” were just 
audible. 


The First Maid reddened when she realized everyone in the 
room had heard, and Elayne got a chance to see Reene Harfor 
flustered. Which was to say that the woman drew herself up 
and said, with a grace and dignity any ruler might envy, 
“Forgive me, my Lady Elayne, but I’ve been told there are rats 
infesting the storerooms. Most unusual this time of year, and 
so many of them. If you will excuse me, I must make sure my 
orders for ratcatchers and poison baits are being carried 
out.” 


“Stay,” Elayne told her coolly. Calmly. “Vermin can be 
dealt with in due time.” Two Aes Sedai. He did not realize 
Renaile could channel and he had emphasized two. Would just 
three women give some advantage? Or did it take more? Plainly 
the Asha’man knew of some advantage to women in numbers less 
than a circle of thirteen. Walk in on her without so much as 
a by-your-leave, would they? “You can show these goodmen out 
when I’m done with them.” Taim’s companions scowled at being 
called “goodmen,” but the man himself merely flashed another 
of those almost-smiles. He was quick enough to know she had 
been thinking of him when she spoke of vermin. Light! Maybe 
Rand had needed this man once, but why would he keep him now, 
and in a position of such authority? Well, his authority 
counted for nothing here. 


Unhurriedly, she took her chair again, and gave a moment to 
adjusting her skirts. The men would have to come around in 
front of her like supplicants, or else talk to the side of her 
head while she refused to look at them. For an instant she 
considered passing control of the small circle. The Asha’man 
would surely focus their attention on her. Renaile was still 
gray, though, anger and fear tumbling over one another inside 
her; she might strike out as soon as the link was hers. 
Merilille had some fear, just under control, mixed with a very 
great deal of a…goosey…feeling that matched her wide eyes and 
parted lips; the Light alone knew what she might do with the 
link. 


Dyelin glided to the side of Elayne’s chair, as if to shield 
her from the Asha’man. Whatever lay inside the High Seat of 
Taravin, her face was stern, unfrightened. The other women 
had wasted no time in preparing as best they could. Zaida 
stood very still beside the kaleidoscope, doing her best to 
look diminutive and harmless, but her hands were behind her 
back and the dagger was missing from behind her sash. 
Birgitte lounged beside the fireplace, left hand propped on 
the jamb, seemingly at her ease, but the sheath of her belt 
knife was empty, and from the way her other hand rested by her 
side, she was ready for an underhand throw. The bond 




carried…focus. Arrow nocked, drawn to cheek, ready to loose. 


Elayne made no effort to look around Dyelin at the three 
men. “first you re too slow obeying my summons, Master Taim, 
and then too sudden.” Light was he holding saidin? There 
were methods of interfering with a man channeling short of 
shielding him, but it was a difficult skill, chancy, and she 
knew little more than the theory. 


He did come in front of her, several paces off, but he did 
not look a supplicant. Mazrim Taim knew who he was and his 
own worth, though he plainly set it higher than the sky. 
Lightning flashed in the windows sent strange lights across 
his face. Many would feel overawed by him, even without his 
fancy coat or his infamous name. She did not. She would not! 


Taim rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “I understand you’ve 
taken down the Dragon banners all over Camelyn, Mistress 
Elayne.” There was amusement in his deep voice if none in his 
eyes! Dyelin hissed in fury at the slight to Elayne, but he 
ignored her. “The Saldaeans have withdrawn to the Legion of 
the Dragon’s camp, I hear, and soon the last of the Aiel will 
be in camps outside the city, as well. What will he say when 
he learns?” There was no doubt who he meant. “And after 
he’s sent you a gift, too. From the south. I’ll have it 
delivered later. 


”I will ally Andor with the Dragon Reborn in due course,” 
she told him coldly, “but Andor is not a conquered province, 
not for him or anyone else.” She made her hands stay relaxed 
on the arms of the chair. Light, talking the Aiel and 
Saldaeans into leaving had been her biggest achievement yet, 
and even with the flareup in crime, it had been necessary! 
“In any case, Master Taim, it is not your place to call me to 
task. If Rand objects, I will deal with him!” Taim raised an 
eyebrow, and that odd quirk of his mouth lingered. 


Burn me, she thought indignantly, I shouldn’t have used 
Rand’s name! The man clearly thought he knew exactly how she 
would deal with the anger of the bloody Dragon Reborn! The 
worst of it was, if she could trip Rand into a bed, she would. 
Not for this, not to deal with him, but because she wanted to. 
What sort of gift had he sent her? 


Anger hardened her voice. Anger at Taim’s tone, at Rand for 
staying away so long. At herself, for blushing and thinking 
of gifts. Gifts! “You’ve walled in four miles of Andor.” 
Light, that was more than half as large as the Inner City! 
How many of these fellows could it hold? The thought made her 
skin crawl. “With whose permission, Master Taim? Don’t tell 
me the Dragon Reborn. He has no right to give permission for 
anything in Andor.” Dyelin shifted beside her. No right, but 
enough strength could make right. Elayne kept her attention 
on Taim. “You’ve refused the Queen’s Guards entry to 
your…compound.” Not that they had tried before she came home. 
“The law in Andor runs over all of Andor, Master Taim. 
Justice will be the same for lord or farmer—or Asha’man. 
won’t claim I can force my way in.” He began to smile again, 
or nearly so. “ I wouldn’t demean myself. But unless the 
Queen’s Guards are allowed in, I promise you not so much as a 
potato will go through your gates, either. I know you can 
Travel. Let your Asha’man spend their days Traveling to buy 
food.” The almost smile vanished in a faint grimace; his 




boots shifted slightly. 


Annoyance lasted only an instant, though. “Food is a small 
problem,” he said smoothly, spreading his hands. “As you say, 
my men can Travel. To anywhere I command. I doubt you could 
stop me buying whatever I want even ten miles from Caemlyn, 
but it wouldn’t bother me if you could. Still, I am willing 
to allow visits whenever you ask. Controlled visits, with 
escorts at all times. The training is hard in the black 
tower. Men die almost every day. I would not want any 
accidents.” 


He was irritatingly accurate on how far from Caemlyn her 
writ ran. But no more than irritating. Were his remarks 
about Traveling anywhere he commanded and “accidents” meant to 
be veiled threats? Surely not. A wave of fury ran through 
her as she realized that she was certain he would not threaten 
her because of Rand. She would not hide behind Rand al’Thor. 
Controlled visits? When she asked? She ought to burn the man 
to a cinder where he stood! 


Abruptly she became aware of what was coming through the 
bond from Birgitte, anger, a reflection of hers, joining with 
Birgitte’s, reflecting from Birgitte to her, bouncing from her 
to Birgitte, feeding on itself, building. Birgitte’s knife 
hand quivered with the desire to throw. And herself? Fury 
filled her! A whisker more, and she would lose saidar. Or 
lash out with it. 


With an effort she forced rage down, into a semblance of 
calm. A rough, seething, semblance. She swallowed, and 
struggled to keep her voice level. “The Guards will visit 
every day, Master Taim.” And how she was to manage that in 
this weather, she did not know. “Perhaps I will come myself, 
with a few other sisters.” If the thought of having Aes Sedai 
inside his Black Tower upset Taim, he did not show it. Light, 
she was trying to establish Andor’s authority, not goad the 
man. Hurriedly she did a novice exercise—the river contained 
by the bank—seeking calm. It worked, a little. Now she 
merely wanted to throw all the winecups at him. “I will 
accede to your request for escorts, but nothing is to be 
hidden. I won’t have crimes concealed by your secrets. Do we 
understand one another?” 


Taim’s bow was mocking---mocking!—but there was a tightness 
in his voice. “I understand you perfectly. Understand me, 
though. My men are not farmers knuckling their foreheads when 
you pass. Press an Asha’man too hard, and you may learn just 
how strong your law is.” 


Elayne opened her mouth to tell him exactly how strong the 
law was in Andor. 


“It is time, Elayne Trakand,” a woman’s voice said from the 
doorway. 


“Blood and ashes!” Dyelin muttered. Is the whole world 
just going to walk in here?” 


Elayne recognized the new voice. She had been expecting 
this summons, without knowing when it would come. Knowing 
that it must be obeyed, though, on the instant. She stood, 
wishing she could have a little longer to make matters clear 
to Taim. He frowned at the woman who had just entered, and at 
Elayne, clearly uncertain what to make of this. Good. Let 
him stew until she had time to set him straight on what 




special rights Asha’man had in Andor. 


Nadere stood as tall as either of the two men by the door, a 
wide woman, as close to stout as any Aiel Elayne had seen. 
Her green eyes examined the pair for a moment before 
dismissing them as unimportant. Asha’man did not impress Wise 
Ones. Very little did. Adjusting her dark shawl on her 
shoulders in a clatter of bracelets, she walked over in front 
of Elayne, her back to Taim. Despite the cold, she wore only 
that shawl over her thin white blouse, though oddly, she 
carried a heavy wool cloak draped across one arm. “You must 
come now,” she told Elayne, “without delay.” Taim’s eyebrows 
seemed to be climbing his forehead; no doubt he was 
unaccustomed to being so thoroughly ignored. 


“Light of heaven!” Dyelin breathed, massaging her forehead. 
“I don’t know what this is about, Nadere, but it will have to 
wait until—“ 


Elayne laid a hand on her arm. “You don’t know, Dyelin, and 
it can’t wait. I will send everyone away and come with you, 
Nadere.” 


The Wise One shook her head disapprovingly. “A child 
waiting to be born cannot take time to send people away.” She 
shook out the thick cloak. “I brought this to shield your 
skin from the cold. Perhaps I should leave it, and tell 
Aviendha your modesty is greater than your desire for a 
sister.” Dyelin gasped in sudden realization. The Warder 
bond quivered with Birgitte’s outrage. 


There was only one choice possible. NO choice, really. 
Letting the link to the other two women dissolve, she released 
saidar herself. The glow remained around Remaile and 
Merilille, though. “Will you help me with my buttons, 
Dyelin?” Elayne was proud of how steady her voice was. She 
had expected this. Just not with so many witnesses! she 
thought faintly. Turning her back on Taim—at least she would 
not have to see him watching her!—she gegan with the tiny 
buttons on her sleeves. “Dyelin, if you please? Dyelin?” 
After a moment Dyelin moved as if sleep walking and began 
fumbling with the buttons down Elayne’s back, muttering to 
herself in shocked tones. One of the Asha’man by the doors 
snickered. 


“About turn!” Taim snapped, and boots stamped by the doors. 


Elayne did not know whether he had turned away as well—she 
was certain she could feel his eyes on her—but suddenly 
Birgitte was there, and Merilille and Reene, and Zaida, and 
even Renaile, crowding shoulder-to-shoulder, scowling as they 
formed a wall between her and the men. Not a very adequate 
wall. None were as tall as she, and neither Zaida nor 
Merilille stood higher than her shoulder. 


Focus, she told herself. I am composed, I am tranquil. 
am….I’m stripping naked in a room full of people is what I am! 
She undressed as hurriedly as she could, letting her dress and 
shift fall to the floor, tossing her slippers and stockings on 
top of them. Her skin pebbled in the cool air; ignoring the 
chill just meant she was not shivering. And she rather 
thought the heat in her cheeks might have something to do with 
that. 


“Madness!” Dyelin muttered in a low voice, snatching up the 
clothes. “Utter madness!” “What is this about?” Birgitte 




whispered. “Should I come with you?” 


“I must go alone,” Elayne whispered back. “Don’t argue!” 
Not that Birgitte gave any outward sign of it, but the bond 
carried volumes. Taking the golden hoops from her ears, she 
handed them to Birgitte, then hesitated before adding her 
Great Serpent ring. The Wise Ones had said she must come as a 
child came to birth. They had had a great many instructions, 
first among them to tell no one what was coming. For that 
matter, she wished she knew. A child came to birth without 
foreknowledge of what was to happen. Birgitte’s mutterings 
began to sound like Dyelin’s. 


Nadere came forward with the cloak, but simply held it out; 
Elayne had to take it and wrap it around herself hastily. She 
was still sure she could feel Taim’s gaze. Holding the heavy 
wool close, her instinct was to hurry from the room, but 
instead she drew herself up and turned around slowly. She 
would not scurry out cloaked in shame. 


The men who had come with Taim stood rigidly, facing the 
doors, and Taim himself was peering at the fireplace, arms 
folded across his chest. The feel of his eyes had been 
imagination, then. Excepting Nadere, the other women looked 
at her in variations of curiosity, consternation and shock. 
Nadere merely seemed impatient. 


Elayne tried for her most queenly voice. “Mistress Harfor, 
you will offer Master Taim and his men wine, before they go.” 
Well, at least it did not tremble. “Dyelin, please entertain 
the Wavemistress and the Windfinder, and see if you can allay 


their fears. Birgitte, I expect to hear your plan for 
recruiting tonight.” The women she named blinked in 
startlement, nodded wordlessly. 

Then she walked from the room, followed by Nadere, wishing 
she could have done better. The last thing she heard before 
the door closed behind her was Zaida’s voice. 


“Strange customs, you shorebound have.” 


In the corridor she tried to move a little faster, though it 
was not easy while keeping the cloak from gaping. The red-and-
white floor tiles were much colder than the carpets in the 
sitting room. A few servants, warmly bundled in good woolen 
livery, stared when they saw her, then hurried on about their 
tasks. The flames of the stand-lamps flickered; there were 
always drafts in the hallways. Occasionally the air stirred 
enough to make a wall hanging ripple lazily. 


“That was on purpose, wasn’t it?” she said to Nadere, not 
really asking a question. “Whenever you called me, you’d have 
made sure there were plenty of people to watch. To make sure 
adopting Aviendha was important enough to me.” It had to be 
more important than anything else, they had been told. “What 
did you do to her?” Aviendha seemed to have very little 
modesty sometimes, often walking around her apartments 
unclothed and unconcerned, not even noticing when servants 
entered. Making her undress in a crowd would have proved 
nothing. 


“That is for her to tell you if she wishes,” Nadere said 
complacently. “You are sharp to see it; many do not.” Her 
large bosom heaved in a grunt that might have been a laugh. 




“Those men, turning their backs, and those women, guarding 
you. I would have put a stop to it if the man in the 
embroidered coat had not kept looking over his shoulder to 
admire your hips. And if you blushes had not said you knew.” 


Elayne missed a step and stumbled. The cloak flared, losing 
the little body warmth it had trapped before she could snatch 
it closed again. “That filthy pig-kisser!” she growled. 
“I’ll…I’ll…!” Burn her, what could she do? Tell Rand? Let 
him deal with Taim? Never in life! 


Nadere eyed her quizzically. “Most men enjoy looking at a 


woman’s bottom. Stop thinking about men, and start thinking 
about the woman you want for a sister.” 
Flushing again, Elayne put her mind on Aviendha. It did 

nothing to settle her nerves. There were specific things she 
had been told to think on before the ceremony, and some made 
her uneasy. 


Nadere kept her pace to Elayne’s, and Elayne took great care 
not to let her legs flash through the cloak’s opening—there 
were servants everywhere—so it took them some little time to 
reach the room where the Wise Ones were gathered, more than a 
dozen of them in their bulky skirts and white blouses and dark 
shawls, decked with necklaces and bracelets of gold and 
silver, gems and ivory, their long hair held back with folded 
scarves. All the furnishings and carpets had been cleared 
out, leaving bare white floor tiles, and there was no fire on 
the hearth. Here, deep in the palace, with no windows, the 
crash of thunder was barely audible. 


Elayne’s eyes went straight to Aviendha, standing on the far 
side of the room. Naked. She smiled at Elayne nervously. 
Nervously! Aviendha! Hurriedly throwing off the cloak, 
Elayne smiled back. Nervously, she realized. Aviendha gave a 
soft laugh, and after a moment, Elayne did, too. Light, the 
air was cold! And the floor was colder! 


She did not know most of the Wise Ones in the room, but one 
face jumped at her. Amy’s prematurely white hair combined 
with features that appeared short of their middle years to 
give her something of the look of an Aes Sedai. She must have 
Traveled from Cairhien. Egwene had been teaching the 
dreamwalkers, to repay their teaching about Tel’aran’rhiod. 
And to meet a debt, she claimed, though she had never made 
clear what debt. 


“I hoped Melaine would be here,” Elayne said. She liked 
Bael’s wife, a warm and generous woman. Not like two others 
in the room she recognized, bony Tamela with her angular face, 
and Viendre, a beautiful, blue-eyed eagle. Both were stronger 
in the Power than she, stronger than any sister she had met 
save Nynaeve. That was not supposed to matter among Aiel, but 
she could think of no other reason why they always sneered and 
looked down their noses when they saw her. 


She expected Amys to take charge—Amys always did, it 
seemed—but it was a short woman named Monaelle, her hair 
yellow with hints of red, who stepped forward. Not truly 
short, yet still the only woman in the room shorter than 
Elayne. And the weakest in the Power, too, barely strong 
enough, had she gone to Tar Valon, to have earned the shawl. 
Perhaps that really did not count with Aiel. 


“Were Melaine here,” Monaelle said, her tone brisk but not 




unfriendly, “the babes she carries would be part of the bond 
between you and Aviendha, if the weaves brushed them. If they 
survived, that is; the unborn are not strong enough for this. 
The question is, are the two of you?” She gestured with both 
hands, pointing to spots on the floor not far from her. “Come 
here to the middle of the chamber, both of you.” 


For the first time, Elayne realized that saidar was to be 
part of this. She had thought it would be just a ceremony, 
pledges exchanged, perhaps oaths given. What was going to 
happen? It did not matter, except….Her steps dragged as she 
moved toward Monaelle. “My warder….Our bond….Will she 
be….affected…by this?” Aviendha, coming to face her, had 
frowned when Elayne hesitated, but at the question, she swung 
startled eyes to Monaelle. Clearly, it was something she had 
not thought of. 


The short Wise One shook her head. “No one outside this 
chamber can be touched by the weaves. She may sense some part 
of what you share with each other, because of her bond with 
you, but only a very little.” Aviendha heaved a sigh of 
relief that Elayne echoed. 


“Now,” Monaelle went on. “There are forms to be followed. 
Come. We are not clan chiefs discussing water pledges over 
oosquai.” Laughing, making what seemed to be jokes about clan 
chiefs and the strong Aiel liquor, the other women formed a 
circle around Aviendha and Elayne. Monaelle settled 
gracefully to the floor, sitting cross-legged two paces to one 
side of the bare women. Laughter ceased as her voice became 
formal. “We are gathered because two women wish to be first-
sisters. We will see whether they are strong enough, and if 
they are, help them. Are their mothers present?” 


Elayne gave a start, but the next moment Viendre was behind 
her. “I stand for Elayne Trakand’s mother, who cannot be 
here.” Hands on Elayne’s shoulders, Viendre pushed her 
forward and pressed down until she was kneeling on the cold 
tiles in front of Aviendha, then knelt behind her. “I offer 
my daughter to her testing.” 


Another time, Elayne might have giggled. Neither woman 
looked more than a half-dozen years older than Aviendha or 
her. Another time. Not now. The standing Wise Ones wore 
solemn faces. They were studying her and Aviendha as if 
weighing them, unsure they would measure up. 


“Who will suffer the pangs of birth for them?” Monaelle 
asked, and Amys stepped forward. 


Two others came with her, a fiery redhead named Shyanda, 
whom Elayne had seen with Melaine, and a graying woman she did 
not know. They helped Amys strip to her skin. Proud in her 
nakedness, Amys faced Monaelle and slapped her taut belly. “I 
have borne children. I have given suck,” she said, cupping 
breasts that looked as if she had done nothing of the kind. 
“I offer myself.” 


At Monaelle’s dignified nod of acceptance, Amys went to her 
knees two paces on the other side of Elayne and Aviendha and 
settled back on her heels. Shyanda and the graying Wise One 
knelt flanking her, and suddenly the glow of the Power 
surrounded every woman in the room except Elayne, Aviendha and 
Amys. 


Elayne took a deep breath, and saw Aviendha do the same. 




Occasionally a bracelet clicked against another among the Wise 
Ones, the only sound in the room beyond breathing, and faint, 
distant thunder. It was almost a shock when Monaelle spoke. 


“You will both do as you are instructed. If you waver or 
question, your dedication is not strong enough. I will send 
you away, and that will be the end of it, forever. I will ask 
questions, and you will answer truthfully. If you refuse to 
answer, you will be sent away. If any here think you lie, you 
will be sent away. You may leave at any time on your own, of 
course. Which also will end this for all time. There are no 
second chances here. Now. What is the best you know of the 
woman you want for a first-sister?” 


Elayne half-expected the question. This was one of the 
things she had been told to think about. Choosing one virtue 
among many had not been easy, yet she had her answer ready. 
When she spoke, flows of saidar suddenly wove together between 
her and Aviendha, and no sound came from her tongue, or 
Aviendha’s. Without thought, a part of her mind tucked away 
the weaves; even now, trying to learn was as much a part of 
her as the color of her eyes. The weaves vanished as her lips 
closed. 


“Aviendha is so confident, so proud. She doesn’t care what 
anyone thinks she should do, or be; she is who she wants to 
be,” Elayne heard her own voice say, while Aviendha’s words 
suddenly were audible at the same time. “Even when Elayne is 
so afraid that her mouth dries, her spirit will not bend. She 
is braver than anyone I have ever known.” 


Elayne stared at her friend. Aviendha thought she was 
brave? Light, she was no coward, but brave? Strangely, 
Aviendha was staring at her in disbelief. 


“Courage is a well,” Viendre said at Elayne’s ear, “deep in 
some, shallow in others. Deep or shallow, wells go dry 
eventually, even if they fill again later. You will face what 
you cannot face. Your spine will turn to jelly, and your 
vaunted courage will leave you weeping in the dust. The day 
will come.” She sounded as though she wanted to be there to 
see it come. Elayne gave a curt nod. She knew all about her 
spine turning to jelly; she fought it every day, it seemed. 


Tamela was speaking to Aviendha, in a voice almost as 
satisfied as Viendre’s. “Ji’e’toh binds you like bands of 
steel. For ji, you make yourself exactly what is expected of 
you, to the last hair. For toh, if necessary you will abase 
yourself and crawl on your belly. Because you care to your 
bones what everyone thinks of you.” 


Elayne nearly gasped. That was harsh, and unfair. She knew 
something of ji’e’toh, but Aviendha was not like that. Yet 
Aviendha was nodding, much as she herself had. An impatient 
acceptance of what she already knew. 


“Fine traits to love in a first-sister,” Monaelle said, 
lifting her shawl down to her elbows, “but what do you find 
worst in her?” 


Elayne shifted on her chilling knees, licked her lips before 
speaking. She had dreaded this. It was not just Monaelle’s 
warning. Aviendha had said they must speak the truth. Must, 
or what was sisterhood worth? Again the weaves held their 
words captive until they were done. 


“Aviendha….” Elayne’s voice said suddenly, hesitantly. 




“She…she thinks violence is always the answer. At times, she 
won’t think beyond her belt knife. At times, she’s like a boy 
who won’t grow up!” 


“Elayne knows that…” Aviendha’s voice began, then gulped and 
went on in a rush. “She knows she is beautiful, knows the 
power it gives her over men. She exposes half her bosom 
sometimes, in the open air, and she smiles to make men do what 
she wants.” 


Elayne gaped. Aviendha thought that of her? It made her 
sound a lightskirt! Aviendha frowned back and half-opened her 
mouth, but Tamela pressed her shoulders again and began to 
speak. 


“You think men do not stare at your face in approval?” 
There was an edge in the Wise One’s voice; strong was the best 
anyone would ever say of her face. “Do they not look at your 
breasts in the sweat tent? Admire your hips? You are 
beautiful, and you now it. Deny it, and deny yourself! You 
have taken pleasure in men’s looks, and smiled at them. Will 
you never smile at a man to give your arguments more weight, 
or touch his arm to distract him from the weakness of your 
arguments? You will, and you will be no less for it.” 


Red flooded Aviendha’s cheeks, but Elayne was having to 
listen to Viendre. And fight blushes of her own. “There is 
violence in you. Deny it, and deny yourself. Have you never 
raged and struck out? Have you never drawn blood? Have you 
never wished to? Without any thought at all? While you 
breathe, that will be part of you.” Elayne though of Taim, 
and other times, and her face felt like a furnace. 


This time, there was more than one response. 


“Your arms will grow weak,” Tamela was telling Aviendha. 
“Your legs will lose their swiftness. A youth will be able to 
take the knife from your hand. How will skill or ferocity 
avail you then? Heart and mind are the true weapons. But did 
you learn to use the spear in a day, when you were a Maiden? 
If you do not hone mind and heart now, you will grow old and 
children will befuddle your wits. Clan chiefs will sit you in 
a corner to play cat’s cradle, and when you speak, all will 
hear only the wind. Take heed while you can.” 


“Beauty flees,” Viendre went on, to Elayne. “Years will 
make your breasts sag, your flesh grow slack, your skin grow 
leathery. Men who smiled to see your face will speak to you 
as if you were just another man. Your husband may see you 
always as the first time his eyes caught you, but no other man 
will dream of you. Will you no longer be you? Your body is 
only clothing. Your flesh will wither, but you are your heart 
and mind, and they do not change except to grow stronger.” 


Elayne shook her head. Not in denial. Not really. She had 
never thought on aging, though. Especially not since going to 
the Tower. The years lay lightly even on very old Aes Sedai. 
But what if she lived as long as the Kinswomen? That would 
mean giving up being Aes Sedai, of course, but what if she 
did? The Kin took a very long time to grow wrinkles, but grow 
them they did. What was Aviendha thinking? She knelt there 
looking…sullen. 


“What is the most childish thing you know of the woman you 
want for a first-sister?” Monaelle said. 


This was easier, not so fraught. Elayne even smiled as she 




spoke. Aviendha grinned back, sullenness gone. Again the 
weaves took their words and released them together, voices 
with laughter in them. 


“Aviendha won’t let me teacher her to swim. I’ve tried. 
She isn’t afraid of anything, except getting into more water 
than a bathtub.” 


“Elayne gobbles sweets with both hands like a child who’s 
escaped her mother’s eye. If she keeps on, she will be fat as 
a pig before she grows old.” 


Elayne jerked. Gobbles? Gobbles? A taste, now and then, 
was all she took. Just now and then. Fat? Why was Aviendha 
glaring at her? Refusing to step into water more than knee-
deep was childish. 


Monaelle covered a slight cough with one hand, but Elayne 
thought she was hiding a smile. Some of the standing Wise 
Ones laughed outright. At Aviendha’s silliness? Or 
her…gobbling? 


Monaelle resumed dignity, adjusting her skirts spread out of 
the floor, but there was still a touch of mirth in her voice. 
“What is your greatest jealousy of the woman you want for a 
first-sister?” 


Perhaps Elayne would have hedged her answer despite the 
requirement for truth. Truth had jumped up as soon as she was 
told to think on this, but she had found something smaller, 
less embarrassing for them both, that would have passed 
muster. Perhaps. But there was that about her smiling at me 
and exposing her bosom. Maybe she did smile, but Aviendha 
walked in front of red-faced serving men without a stitch on 
and seemed not even to see them! So she gobbled candy, did 
she? She was going to get fat? She spoke the bitter truth 
while the weaves took her words and Aviendha’s mouth moved in 
grim silence, until at last, what they had said was loosed. 


“Aviendha has lain in the arms of the man I love. I never 
have; I may never, and I could weep over it!” 


“Elayne has the love of Rand al’Th…of Rand. My heart is 
dust for wanting him to love me, but I do not know if he ever 
will.” 


Elayne peered into Aviendha’s unreadable face. She was 
jealous of her over Rand? When the man avoided Elayne Trakand 
as if she had scabies? She had no time for more though. 


“Strike her as hard as you can with your open hand,” Tamela 
told Aviendha, removing her own hands from Aviendha’s 
shoulders. 


Viendre squeezed Elayne’s lightly. “Do not defend 
yourself.” They had not been told anything of this! Surely, 
Aviendha would not— 


Blinking, Elayne pushed herself up from the icy floor tiles. 
Gingerly she felt her cheek, and winced. She was going to 
wear a palm print the rest of the day. The woman did not have 


to hit her that hard. 
Everyone waited until she was kneeling again, and then 
Viendre leaned closer. “Strike her as hard as you can with 
your open hand.” 
Well she was not going to knock Aviendha on her ear. She 

was not going to—Her full-armed slap sent Aviendha sprawling, 
sliding on her chest across the tiles almost to Monaelle. 
Elayne’s palm stung almost as much as her cheek. 




 Aviendha half pushed herself up, gave her head a shake, then 
scrambled back to her position. And Tamela said, “Strike her 
with the other hand.” 


This time, Elayne slid all the way to Amys’s knees on the 
frozen tiles, her head ringing, both cheeks burning. And when 
she regained her own knees in front of Aviendha, when Viendre 
told her to strike, she put her whole body into the slap, so 
much that she nearly fell over atop Aviendha as the other 
woman went down. 


“You may go now,” Monaelle said. 


Elayne’s eyes jerked toward the Wise One. Aviendha, halfway 
back to her knees, went stiff as a stone. 


“If you wish to,” Monaelle continued. “Men usually do, at 
this point if not sooner. Many women do, too. But if you 
still love one another enough to go on, then embrace.” 


Elayne flung herself at Aviendha, and was met wit ha rush 
that nearly knocked her over backwards. They clung together. 
Elayne felt tears trickling from her eyes, and realized 
Aviendha was crying as well. “I’m sorry,” Elayne whispered 
fervently. “I’m sorry, Aviendha.” 


“Forgive me,” Aviendha whispered back. “Forgive me.” 


Monaelle was standing over them, now. “You will know anger 
at one another again, you will speak harsh words, but you will 
always remember that you have already struck her. And for no 
better reason than you were told to. Let those blows pass for 
all you might wish to give. You have toh toward one another, 
toh you cannot repay and will not try to, for every woman is 
always in her first-sister’s debt. You will be born again.” 


The feel of saidar in the room was changing, but Elayne had 
no chance to see how even had she thought of it. The light 
dwindled as if the lamps were being put out. The feel of 
Aviendha’s hug dwindled. Sound dwindled. The last thing she 
heard was Monaelle’s voice. “You will be born again.” 
Everything faded. She faded. She ceased to exist. 


Awareness, of a sort. She did not think of herself as she, 
she did not think at all, but she was aware. Of sound. A 
liquid swishing around. Muted gurgles and rumbles. And a 
rhythmic thudding. That above all. Thu-thud. Thu-thud. She 
did not know contentment, but she was content. Thu-thud. 


Time. She did not know time, yet Ages passed. There was a 
sound within her, a sound that was her. Thu-thud. The same 
sound, the same rhythm as the other. Thu-thud. And from 
another place, nearer. Thu-thud. Another. Thu-thud. The 
same sound, the same beat, as her own. Not another. They 
were the same; they were one. Thu-thud. 


Forever went by to that pulse, all the time that had ever 
been. She touched the other that was herself. She could 
feel. Thu-thud. She moved, she and the other that was 
herself, writhing against one another, limbs entangling, 
rolling away but always coming back to each other. Thu-thud. 
There was light sometimes, in the darkness; dim beyond seeing, 
but bright to one who had never known anything but darkness. 
Thu-thud. She opened her eyes, stared into the eyes of the 
other that was herself, and closed hers again, content. Thu-
thud. 


Change, sudden, shocking to one who had never known any 
change. Pressure. Thu-thud-thu-thud. That comforting beat 




was faster. Convulsive pressure. Again. Again. Getting 
stronger. Thu-thud-thu-thud! Thu-thud-thu-thud! 


Suddenly, the other that was herself—was gone. She was 
alone. She did not know fear, but she was afraid, and alone. 
Thu-thud-thu-thud! Pressure! Greater than anything before! 
Squeezing her, crushing her. If she had known how to scream, 
if she had known what a scream was, she would have shrieked. 


And then light, blinding, full of swirling patterns. She 
had weight; she had never felt weight before. A cutting pain 
at her middle. Something tickled her foot. Something tickled 
her back. At first she did not realize that wailing sound was 
coming from her. She kicked feebly, waved limbs that did not 
know how to move. She was lifted, laid on something soft but 
firmer than anything she had felt before, except for 
recollections of the other that was herself, the other that 
was gone. Thu-thud. Thu-thud. The sound. The same sound, 
the same beat. Loneliness reigned, unrecognized, but there was 
contentment, too. 


Memory began to return, slowly. She lifted her head from a 
breast and looked up into Amys’ face. Yes, Amys. Sweat-slick 
and weary-eyed, but smiling. And she was Elayne; yes, Elayne 
Trakand. But there was something more to her, now. Now like 
the Warder bond, but like it in a way. Fainter, but more 
magnificent. Slowly, on a neck that wobbled uncertainly, she 
turned her head to look at the other that was herself, lying 
on Amys’ other breast. To look at Aviendha, her hair matted, 
her face and body shining with sweat. Smiling with joy. 
Laughing, weeping, they clutched each other and hung on as if 
they never intended to let go. 


“This is my daughter Aviendha,” Amys said,” and this is my 
daughter Elayne, born on the same day, within the same hour. 
May they always guard one another, support one another, love 
one another.” She laughed softly, tiredly, fondly. “And now 
will someone bring us garments before my new daughters and I 
all freeze to death?” 


Elayne did not care at that moment if she did freeze to 
death. She clung to Aviendha in laughter and tears. She had 
found her sister. Light, she had found her sister! 


Toveine Gazal woke up to the sounds of quiet bustle, other 
women moving about, some talking softly. Lying on her hard 
narrow cot, she sighed with regret. Her hands around Elaida’s 
throat had been just a pleasant dream. This tiny canvas-
walled room was reality. She had slept poorly, and she felt 
thinned, drained. She had overslept, too; there would be no 
time for breakfast. Reluctantly she tossed off her blankets. 
The building had been a small warehouse of some sort, with 
thick walls and heavy rafters low overhead, but there was no 
heat. Her breath misted, and the crisp morning air pricked 
through her shift before her feet reached the rough 
floorboards. Even if she could have considered lying abed in 
this place, she had her orders. Logain’s filthy bond made 
disobedience impossible, no matter how often she wished it. 


She always tried to think of him as simply Ablar, or at 
worst master Ablar, but it was always just Logain that came 
into her mind. The name he had made infamous. Logain, the 




false Dragon who had shattered the armies of his native 
Ghealdan. Logain who had carved a path through the few 
Altarans and Murandians with nerve enough to try stopping him 
until he threatened Lugard itself. Logain, who had been 
gentled and somehow could channel again, who had dared to fix 
his cursed weave of saidin on Toveine Gazal. A pity for him 
he had not commanded her to stop thinking! She could feel the 
man, in the back of her head. He was always there. 


For a moment, she squeezed her eyes shut. Light! Mistress 
Doweel’s farm had seemed the Pit of Doom, years of exile and 
penance with no way out except the unthinkable, to become a 
hunted renegade. Barely half a week since her capture, she 
knew better. This was the Pit of Doom. And there was no 
escape. Angrily, she shook her head, and scrubbed glistening 
dampness from her cheeks with her fingers. No! She would 
escape, somehow, if only for long enough to put her real hands 
on Elaida’s throat. Somehow. 


Aside from the cot, there were only three pieces of 
furniture, yet they left little space for her to move. She 
cracked the ice in the yellow-striped pitcher on the washstand 
with her belt knife, filled the chipped basin, and channeled 
to heat water till tendrils of steam rose. It was allowed to 
channel for that. That and no more. By rote she washed and 
scrubbed her teeth with salt and soda, then took a fresh shift 
and stockings from the small wooden chest at the foot of the 
cot. Her ring she left in the chest, tucked under everything 
else in a small velvet pouch. Another order. All of her 
things were here, except for her lapdesk. Luckily, that had 
been lost when she was taken. Her dresses hung on a 
cloakstand, the last of the room’s furnishings. Choosing one 
without really looking, she put it on mechanically and used 
comb and brush on her hair. 


The ivory-backed brush slowed as she really saw herself in 
the washstand’s cheap, bubbled mirror. Breathing raggedly, 
she set the brush down beside the matching comb. The dress 
she had chosen was thick, finely woven wool of an unadorned 
red so dark it seemed nearly black. Black, like an Asha’man’s 
coat. Her distorted image stared back at her, lips writhing. 
Changing would be a sort of surrender. Determinedly she 
snatched her marten-lined gray cloak from the stand. 


When she pushed aside the canvas doorflap, twenty or so 
sisters already occupied the long central hallway lined with 
canvas rooms. Here and there a few were speaking in murmurs, 
but the rest avoided each other’s eyes, even when they 
belonged to the same Ajah. Fear had its presence, but it was 
shame that coated most faced. Akoure, a stout Gray, was 
staring at the hand where she normally wore her ring. 
Desandre, a willowy Yellow, was hiding her right hand in her 
armpit. 


The soft conversations trailed off when Toveine appeared. 
Several women glared at her openly. Including Jenare and 
Lemai, from her own Ajah! Desandre came to herself enough to 
turn her back stiffly. In the space of two days, fifty-one 
Aes Sedai had fallen captive to the black-coated monsters, and 
fifty of them blamed Toveine Gazal as though Elaida a’Roihan 
had no hand in the disaster at all. Except for Logain’s 
intervention, they would have had their revenge their first 




night here. She did not love him for putting a stop to it and 
making Carniele Heal the welts left by belts, the bruises left 
by fists and feet. She would rather they had beaten her to 
death than own him. 


Putting her cloak on her shoulders, she walked proudly down 
the corridor, out into pale morning sunshine that suited her 
wash-out mood. Behind her, someone shouted acid words before 
the closing door cut them off. Her hands trembled as she 
pulled up her hood, nestling the dark fur around her face. NO 
one got away with pushing down Toveine Gazal. Even Mistress 
Doweel, who had crushed her into a semblance of submission 
over the years, learned that when her exile ended. She would 
show them. She would show them all! 


The dormitory she shared with the others lay on the very 
edge of a large village, if a very strange one. A village of 
Asha’man. Elsewhere, so she had been told, ground was marked 
off for structures they claimed would dwarf the White Tower, 
but this was where most of them lived now. Five large, blocky 
stone barracks, spaced along streets as wide as anything in 
Tar Valon, could each hold a hundred Asha’man Soldiers. They 
were not full yet, the Light be thanked, but snow-covered 
scaffolding awaited the arrival of workmen around the thick 
walls of two more than were almost ready for roofing in 
thatch. Nearly a dozen smaller stone structures were made to 
hold ten Dedicated each, and another of those was under 
construction, too. Scattered around them stood nearly two 
hundred houses that might have been seen in any village, where 
some of the married men lived, and the families of others not 
far enough along in training. 


Men who could channel did not frighten her. Once she had 
given in to panic for a moment, true, but that was beside the 
point. Five hundred men who could channel, however, were a 
scrap of bone wedged between two of her teeth where she could 
not free it. Five hundred! And they could Travel, some of 
them. A sharp scrap of bone. More, she had tramped the mile 
or more through the woods to the wall. That frightened her, 
what it signified. 


Nowhere was the wall finished, nowhere more than twelve or 
fifteen feet high, none of the towers or bastions more than 
begun. In places, she could have clambered over the piles of 
black stone, except for her orders not to attempt escape. The 
thing ran for eight miles, though, and she believed Logain 
when he said it was begun less than three months ago. The 
man held her too tightly to bother with lying. He called the 
wall a waste of time and effort, and perhaps it was, but it 
made her teeth chatter. Just three months. Made using the 
Power. The male half of the Power. When she thought of that 
black wall, she saw an implacable force that could not be 
stopped, an avalanche of black stone sliding down to bury the 
White Tower. Impossible, of course. Impossible, but when she 
did not dream of strangling Elaida, she dreamed of that. 


There had been snowfall in the night, and a heavy blanket of 
white covered every roof, but she did not have to pick her way 
along the broad streets. The hard-packed dirt had been 
cleared, a chore of men in training before the sun came up. 
They used the Power for everything from filling woodboxes to 
cleaning their clothes! Black-clad men hurried here and there 




in the streets, and more were gathering in rows in front of 
their barracks with others calling roll in loud voices. Women 
bundled up against the cold walked past them, placidly 
carrying baskets to the quartermaster’s storehouse or watch 
buckets to the nearest fountain, though how any woman could 
remain, knowing what her husband was, was beyond Toveine’s 
comprehension. Even more bizarre, children ran up and down 
the street, around the squares of men who could channel, 
shouting and laughing, rolling hoops, tossing painted balls, 
playing with dolls or dogs. A drop of normality that 
heightened the evil stench of the rest. 


Ahead of her, a mounted party was approaching up the street 
at a walk. In the short time she had been here—the endless 
time—she had not seen anyone ride in the village except 
workmen on carts or wagons. Nor any visitors, which some of 
these plainly must be. Five men in black were escorting a 
dozen in the red coats and cloaks of the Queen’s Guard, with 
two yellow-haired women at the front, one in a red-and-white 
cloak lined with black fur and the other….Toveine’s eyebrows 
climbed. The other wore green Kandori trousers and a coat 
make up as if it belonged to the Captain-General of the Guard. 
Her red cloak even had golden knots of rank on the shoulder! 
Maybe she was mistaken about the man. That one would find 
short shift when she encountered real Guardsmen. In any case, 
it was strangely early for visitors. 


Each time the odd party reached one of the formations, the 
man in front shouted “Asha’man, attend front!” and boot heels 
stamped on the hardened earth as the others stiffened like 
pillars of stone. 


Pulling her hood forward better to hide her face, Toveine 
moved to the side of the wide street, close beside the corner 
of one of the smaller stone barracks. A fork-bearded old man 
coming out, a silver sword pin on his high collar, glanced at 
her curiously without slowing his stride. 


What she had done struck her like a bucket of cold water, 
and she nearly wept. None of those strangers would spot an 
Aes Sedai face, now, if they could recognize one. If either 
of those women could channel, unlikely though that was, she 
would not pass close enough to tell that Toveine could, too. 
She fretted and fumed over how to disobey Logain, and then did 
everything necessary to carry out his instructions without 
even thinking about it! 


As in act of defiance, she stopped where she was, turning to 
watch the visitors. Automatically, her hands checked her hood 
before she could snatch them to her sides. It was pitiful, 
and ridiculous. She knew the Asha’man guiding the party, by 
sight at least, a bulky man in his middle years with oily 
black hair, an oily smile, and eyes like augurs. None of the 
others, though. What could she hope to gain by this? How 
could she entrust a message to any of them? Even if the 
escort vanished, how could she get close enough to pass a 
message when she was forbidden to let any outsider discover 
the presence of Aes Sedai? 


The auger-eyed fellow looked bored with his duty this 
morning, hardly bothering to hide his yawns behind a gloved 
hand..”…when we do finish here,” he was saying as he rode past 
Toveine, “I will show you the Craft Town. Quite a bit bigger 




than this. We do have every kind of craftsfolk, from masons 
and carpenters to metalsmiths and tailors. We can make 
everything we need, Lady Elayne.” 


“Except turnips,” one of the women said in a high voice, and 
the other laughed. 


Toveine’s head jerked. She watched the riders move on down 
the street accompanied by shouted orders and stamping boots. 
Lady Elayne? Elayne Trakand? The younger of the pair might 
match the description she had been given. Elaida did not 
reveal why she was so desperate to lay her hands on one 
runaway Accepted, even one who might become a queen, but she 
never let a sister leave the Tower without orders on what to 
do if she encountered the girl. Be very careful, Elayne 
Trakand, Toveine thought. I would not like Elaida to have the 
satisfaction of laying hands on you. 


She wanted to think on this, on whether there was some way 
to use the girl’s presence here, but abruptly she became aware 
of the sensations at the back of her head. A mild contentment 
and a growing purpose. Logain had finished his breakfast. He 
would be coming out, soon. He had told her to be there when 
he did. 


Her feet were running before she thought. With the result 
that her skirts tangled in her legs, and she fell hard, 
knocking her breath out. Anger welled up, fury, but she 
scrambled to her feet and, without pausing to brush off the 
dust, gathered her skirts about her knees and began to run 
again, cloak billowing behind. Men’s raucous shouts followed 
her down the street, and laughing children pointed as she ran 
past. 


Suddenly a pack of dogs was around her, snarling, nibbling 
at her heels. She leapt and spun and kicked, but they harried 
her. She wanted to shriek with frustration and fury. Dogs 
were always a bother, and she could not channel a feather to 
drive them off. A gray hound seized a mouthful of dangling 
skirt, pulling her sideways. Panic overwhelmed everything 
else. If she fell again, they would tear her to shreds. 


A shouting woman in a brown wool swung her heavy basket at 
the dog tugging Toveine’s skirt, making it dodge away. A 
round woman’s bucket caught a brindled cur in the ribs, and it 
ran yelping. Toveine gaped in astonishment, and for her 
inattention had to pull her left leg away from another dog at 
the cost of a piece of her stocking and a little skin. There 
were women all around her, flailing away at the animals with 
whatever they had to hand. 


“Go on with you, Aes Sedai,” a skinny, graying woman told 
her, slicing at a spotted dog with a switch. “They won’t 
bother you more. I’d like a nice cat, myself, but cats won’t 
abide the husband now. Go on.” 


Toveine did not wait to thank her rescuers. She ran, 
considering furiously. The women knew. If one did, they all 
did. But they would carry no messages, give no help to an 
escape, not when they were willing to remain themselves. Not 
if they understood what they were helping. There was that. 


Just short of Logain’s house, one of several down a narrower 
side street, she slowed and hastily let down her skirts. 
Eight or nine men in black coats were waiting outside, boys 
and oldsters and in between, but there was no sign of Logain 




yet. She could still sense him, full of purpose but 
concentrating. Reading, perhaps. She walked the rest of the 
way at a dignified pace. Composed and every inch an Aes 
Sedai, no matter the circumstances. She almost managed to 
forget her frantic flight from the dogs. 


The house surprised her every time she saw it. Others on 
the street were as large and two larger. An ordinary wooden 
house of two stores, though the red door, shutters and window 
frames looked odd. Plain curtains hid the interior, but the 
glass in the windows was so poor she doubted she could have 
seen anything clearly with the curtains drawn. A house 
suitable for a not overly successful shopkeeper; hardly the 
dwelling for one of the most notorious men alive. 


Briefly she wondered what was keeping Gabrelle. The other 
sister bonded to Logain had the same instruction she did, and 
until now, she had always been here first. Gabrelle was 
eager, studying the Asha’man as if she intended writing a book 
on the subject. Perhaps she did; Browns would write about 
anything. She put the other sister out of her mind. 
Although, if Gabrelle did turn up late, she would have to find 
out how the woman had managed it. For now, she had her own 
studying. 


The men outside the red door eyed her, but said nothing, 
even to each other. Still there was no animosity. They were 
simply waiting. None had a cloak, though their breath made 
pale feathers in front of their faces. All were Dedicated, 
with the silver sword pin on their collars. 


It had been the same every morning she had reported this 
way, though not always the same men. She knew some, knew 
their names at least, and sometimes a few other gleaned 
tidbits. Evin Vinchova, the pretty lad who had been there 
when Logain captured her, leaning against the corner of the 
house and toying with a bit of string. Donalo Sandomere, if 
that was his real name, with his creased farmer’s face and 
sharply trimmed oiled beard, attempting the languid stance he 
thought a nobleman would assume. The Taraboner Androl 
Genhald, a square fellow with is heavy eyebrows drawn in 
thought and his hands clasped behind his back; he wore a gold 
signet ring, but she thought his an apprentice who had shaved 
his mustaches and abandoned his veil. Mezar Kurin, a Domani 
with gray at his temples, fingering the garnet in his left 
ear; he very well might be a minor noble. She was collecting 
a neat file of names and faces in her head. Sooner or later 
they would be hunted down, and every piece of information that 
could help identify them would be useful. 


The red door opened, and the men straightened, but it was 
not Logain who came out. 


Toveine blinked in surprise, then met Gabrelle’s sooty green 
eyes with a flat stare, making no effort to hid her disgust. 
That accursed link with Logain had made clear what he was up 
to the night before—she had been afraid she would never fall 
asleep!—but not in her darkest imaginings had she suspected 
Gabrelle! Some of the men seemed as startled as she. Some 
attempted to hid smiles. Kurin grinned openly and strokes his 
thin mustache with a thumb. 


The dusky woman did not even have the grace to blush. She 
lifted her upturned nose a trifle, then boldly adjusted her 




dark blue dress over her hips as if to advertise that she had 
just donned the garment. Sweeping her cloak around her 
shoulders, she tied the ribbons as she glided toward Toveine, 
as serene as if she were back in the Tower. 


Toveine grabbed the taller woman’s arm, pulling her a little 
way from the men. “We may be captives, Gabrelle,” she 
whispered harshly, “but that is no reason to surrender. 
Especially to Ablar’s vile lusts!” The other woman did not so 
much as look abashed! A thought came. Of course. “Did he…? 
Did he order you? 


With something close to a sneer, Gabrelle pulled free. 
“Toveine, it took me two days to decide I should ‘surrender’ 
to his lusts, as you put it. I feel lucky it only required 
four to convincehim to let me. You Reds might not be aware, 
but men love to talk and gossip. All you need do is listen, 
or even pretend to, and a man will tell you his whole life.” 
A thoughtful frown creased her forehead, and the twist to her 
lips vanished. “I wonder whether it’s like that for ordinary 
women.” 


“Whether what is like what?” Toveine demanded. Gabrelle 
was spying on him? Or just trying to get more material for 
her book? But this was unbelievable, even for a Brown! “What 
are you talking about?” 


That musing expression never left the other’s face. “I 
felt…helpless. Oh, he was gentle, but I never really thought 
before on how strong a man’s arms are, and me unable to 
channel a whisker. He was …in charge, I suppose, though that 
isn’t quite right. Just…stronger, and I knew it. It 
felt…strangely exhilarating.” 


Toveine shuddered. Gabrelle must be insane! She was about 
to tell her so when Logain himself appeared, closing the door 
behind him. He was tall, tall than any other man there, with 
dark hair that brushed wide shoulders and framed an arrogant 
face. His high collar carried both the silver sword and that 
ridiculous snake with legs. He flashed a smile at Gabrelle as 
the others gathered around him. The hussy smiled back, too. 
Toveine shuddered again. Exhilarating. The woman was insane! 


As on previous mornings, the men began making reports. Most 
of the time, Toveine had not been able to make up from down 
with them, but she listened. 


“I found two more who seem interested in that new kind of 
Healing this Nynaeve used on you, Logain,” Genhald said, 
frowning, “but one can barely do the Healing we already know, 
and the other, he wants to know more than I could tell him.” 


“What you can tell him is all I know,” Logain replied. 
“Mistress al’Meara didn’t tell me much of what she was doing, 
and I could only learn bits and pieces listening to the other 
sisters talk. Just keep planting the seed and hope something 
grows. It’s all you can do.” Several other men nodded along 
with Genhald. 


Toveine filed it away. Nynaeve al’Meara. She had heard 
that name often after returning to the Tower. Another runaway 
Accepted, another one Elaida wanted more than the normal 
desire to catch runaways seemed to account for. From the same 
village as al’Thor, too. And associated somehow with Logain. 
That might lead to something, eventually. But a new kind of 
Healing? Used by an Accepted? That was unlikely bordering 




close on impossible, but she had seen the impossible happen 
before, so she tucked it away. Gabrelle was listening 
closely, too, she noticed. But watching her as well, out of 
the corner of her eye. 


“There’s a problem with some of those Two Rivers men, 
Logain,” Vinchova said. An angry flush rose on his smooth 
face. “Men, I say, but these two are boys, fourteen at most! 
They won’t say.” He might have been a year or two older, with 
his beardless cheeks. “It was a crime, bringing them here.” 


Logain shook his head; whether it was in anger or regret was 
hard to say. “I’ve heard the White Tower takes girls as young 
as twelve. Look after the Two Rivers men where you can. No 
coddling, or the others will turn on them, but try to see they 
don’t do anything stupid. The Lord Dragon might not like it 
if we kill too many from his district.” 


“He doesn’t seem to be caring much at all as I can see,” a 
sleek fellow muttered. The sound of Murandy was strong in his 
mouth, though his fiercely curled mustaches told where he was 
from plainly enough. He was rolling a silver coin across the 
backs of his fingers and seemed as intent on that as on 
Logain. “I was hearing it was the Lord Dragon himself told 
the M’Hael to pluck up anything male in this Two Rivers that 
could channel, down to the roosters. With the number he 
brought back, I’m just surprised he didn’t bring the chicks 
and lambs, as well.” Chuckles met his sally, but Logain’s 
level tones cut them like a blade. 


“Whatever the Lord Dragon ordered, I trust I’ve made my 
orders clear.” Every head nodded this time, and some men 
murmured “Yes, Logain” and “As you say, Logain.” 


Toveine hastily smoothed the sneer from her lips. Ignorant 
louts. The Tower accepted girls under fifteen only if they 
had already begun channeling. The other was interesting, 
though. The Two Rivers again. Everyone said al’Thor had 
turned his back on his home, but she was not so certain. Why 
was Gabrelle watching her? 


“Last night,” Sandomere said after a moment, “I learned that 
Mishraile is having private lessons from the M’Hael.” He 
stroked his pointed beard with satisfaction, as if he had 
produced a gem of great price. 


Perhaps he had, but Toveine could not say what kind. Logain 
nodded slowly. The others exchanged silent looks with faces 
that might have been carved. She chewed frustration, 
watching. Too often it was like this, matters they saw no 
reason to comment on—or feared to?—and she did not understand. 
She always felt there were gems hidden there, beyond her 
reach. 


A wide Cairhienin fellow, barely as tall as Logain’s chest, 
opened his mouth, but whether he meant to speak of Mishraile, 
whoever he was, she never found out. 


“Logain!” Welyn Kajima pounded down the street at a dead 
run, the bells at the ends of his black braids jangling. 
Another Dedicated, a man in his middle years who smiled too 
much, he had been there when Logain captured her, too. Kajima 
had bonded Jenare. He was almost out of breath when he pushed 
through the other me, and he was not smiling now. 


“Logain,” he panted, “the M’Hael’s back from Cairhien, and 
he’s posted new deserters on the board at the palace. You 




won’t believe the names!” He spilled out his list in a 
breathless rush amid exclamations from the other that kept 
Toveine from hearing more than fragments. 


“Dedicated have deserted before,” the Cairhienin muttered 
when Kajima was done, “but never a full Asha’man. And now 
seven at once/” 


“If you don’t believe me,” Kajima began, drawing himself up 
in a fussy manner. He had been a clerk, in Arafel. 


“We believe you,” Genhald said soothingly. “But Gedwyn and 
Torval, they are the M’Hael’s men. Rochaid and Kisman, too. 
Why would they desert? He gave them anything a king could 
want.” 


Kajima shook his head irritably, making his bells chime. 
“You know the list never gives reasons. Just names.” 


“Good riddance,” Kurin growled. “At least, it would be if 
we didn’t have to hunt them down, now.” 


“It’s the others I cannot understand,” Sandomere put in. “I 
was at Dumai’s Wells. I saw the Lord Dragon choose, after. 
Dashiva had his head in the clouds, like always. But Flinn, 
Hopwil, Narishma? You never saw men more pleased. They were 
like lambs let loose in the barley shed.” 


A sturdy fellow with gray in his hair spat. “Well, I wasn’t 
at the Wells, but I went south against the Seanchan.” His 
accents were Andoran. “Maybe the lambs didn’t like the 
butcher’s yard as much as they did the barley shed.” 


Logain had been listening without taking part, arms folded 
across his chest. His face was unreadable, a mask. “Do you 
worry about the butcher’s yard, Canler?” he said now. 


The Andoran grimaced, then shrugged. “I reckon we’re all 
headed there, sooner or late, Logain. Don’t see we have much 
choice, but I don’t have to grin about it.” 


“As long as you’re there on the day,” Logain said quietly. 
He addressed the man called Canler, but several of the others 
nodded. 


Looking past the men, Logain considered Toveine and 
Gabrelle. Toveine tried to look as if she had not been 
eavesdropping, and remembering names fiercely. “Go inside out 
of the cold,” he told them. “Have some tea to warm you. I’ll 
be back as soon as I can. Don’t touch my papers.” Gathering 
up the other men with a gesture, he led them off in the 
direction Kajima had come from. 


Toveine gritted her teeth in frustration. At least she 
would not have to follow him to the training grounds, past the 
so-called Traitor’s Tree, where heads hung like diseased fruit 
from the bare branches, and watch men studying how to destroy 
with the Power, but she had hoped for another day to herself, 
free to wander about and see what she could learn. She had 
heard men speak of Taim’s “palace” before, and today she had 
hoped to find it and perhaps catch a glimpse of the man whose 
name was as black as Logain’s. Instead, she meekly followed 
the other woman through the red door. There was no use in 
fighting it. 


Inside, she looked around the front room while Gabrelle hung 
her cloak on a peg. Despite the exterior, she had expected 
something grander for Logain. A low fire burned in a rough 
stone fireplace. A long narrow table and ladder-backed chairs 
stood on bare floorboards. A desk, only slightly more 




elaborate than the other furnishings, caught her eye. Stacks 
of lidded letters littered the desktop, and leather folders 
full of long sheets of paper. Her fingers itches, but she 
knew that even if she sat at the desk, she would not be able 
to lay a finger on anything more than a pen or glass ink 
bottle. 


With a sigh, she followed Gabrelle into the kitchen, where 
an iron stove gave too much heat and dirty breakfast dishes 
sat on a low cabinet beneath the window. Gabrelle filled a 
teakettle and put it on the stove, then took a green-glazed 
teapot and a wooden canister from another cabinet. Toveine 
draped her cloak over a chair and sat down at the square 
table. She did not want tea unless it cam with the breakfast 
she mad missed, but she knew she was going to drink it. 


The silly Brown nattered on as she carried out her domestic 
tasks like a contented farmwife. “I’ve learned a good deal 
already. Logain is the only full Asha’man to live here in 
this village. The others all live in Taim’s ‘palace.’ They 
have servants, but Logain hired the wife of a man in training 
to cook and clean for him. She’ll be here soon, and she 
thinks he put the sun in the sky, so we best be done talking 
anything important by then. He found your lapdesk.” 


Toveine felt as though an icy hand had seized her throat. 
She tried to hide it, but Gabrelle was looking straight at 
her. 


“He burned it, Toveine. After reading the contents. He 
seemed to think he had done us a favor.” 


The hand eased, and Toveine could breathe again. “Elaida’s 
order was among my papers.” She cleared her throat to rid 
herself of hoarseness. Elaida’s order to gentle every man 
found her and then hang them on the spot, without the trial in 
Tar Valon required by Tower law. “She imposed harsh 
conditions, and these men would have reacted harshly, if they 
knew.” In spite of the heat from the stove, she shivered. 
That single paper could have gotten them all stilled and 
hanged. “Why would he do us favors?” 


“I don’t know why, Toveine. He isn’t a villain, no more 
than most men. It could be as simple as that.” Gabrelle set 
a plate of crusted rolls and another with white cheese on the 
table. “Or it could be that this bond is like the Warder bond 
in more ways than we know. Maybe he just did not want to 
experience the two of us executed.” Toveine’s stomach 
rumbled, but she picked up a roll as if she did not care for 
more than a nibble. 


“I suspect ‘harsh’ was a mild choice,” Gabrelle went on, 
spooning tea into the teapot. “I saw you flinch. Of course, 
they went to a great deal of trouble to bring us here. Fifty-
one sisters in their midst, and even with the bond, they must 
fear we’ll find some way around their orders, some loophole 
they missed. The obvious answer is, if we were dead, the 
Tower would be roused to fury. With us alive and captive, 
even Elaida will move cautiously.” She laughed, quietly 
amused. “Your face, Toveine. Did you think I’ve spent all my 
time thinking about tangling my fingers in Logain’s hair?” 


Toveine closed her mouth and put down the untouched roll. 
It was cold, anyway, and felt hard. Always a mistake to 
assume Browns were unworldly, absorbed in their books and 




studies to the exclusion of everything else. “What else have 
you seen?” 


Still gripping the spoon, Gabrelle sat across the table from 
her and leaned forward intently. “Their wall maybe strong 
when it’s done, but this place is full of fractures. There is 
Mazrim Taim’s faction, and Logain’s faction, though I am 


uncertain either thinks of them so. Perhaps other factions, 
too, and certainly men who don’t know there are factions. 
Fifty-one sisters should be able to make something of that, 

even with the bond. The second question is, what do we make 
of it?” 


“The second question?” Toveine demanded, but the other 
woman merely waited. “If we manage to break those fissures 
open,” she said finally, “we scatter ten or fifty or a hundred 
bands across the world, each more dangerous than any army ever 
seen. Catching them all might take a lifetime and rip the 
world apart like a new Breaking, and that with Tarmon Gai’don 
on its way. That is, if this fellow al’Thor really is the 
Dragon Reborn.” Gabrelle opened her mouth, but Toveine waved 
away whatever she was going to say. That he was, very likely. 
It hardly mattered, here and now. “But if we don’t….Put down 
the rebellion and gather those sisters back to the Tower, call 
back every retired sister, and I don’t know whether all of us 
together could destroy this place. I suspect half the tower 
would die in the attempt, either way. What was the first 
question?” 


Gabrelle leaned back in her chair, her face suddenly weary. 
“Yes, not an easy decision. And they bring in more men every 
day. Fifteen or twenty since we’ve been here, I believe.” 


“I won’t be trifled with, Gabrelle! What is the first 
question?” The Brown’s gaze sharpened, stared at her for a 
long moment. 


“Soon, the shock will wear off,” she said finally. “What 
comes then? The authority Elaida gave you is finished, the 
expedition is finished. The first question is, are we fifty-
one sisters united, or do we revert to being Browns and Reds, 
Yellows and Greens and Grays? And poor Ayako, who must be 
regretting that the Whites insisted on having a sister 
included. Lemai and Desandre stand highest among us.” 
Gabrelle waved the spoon in admonishment. “The only chance we 
have of holding together is if you and I publicly submit to 
Desandre’s authority. We must! That will start it, at any 
rate. I hope. If we can only bring a few others, to begin 
with, it will be a start.” 


Toveine drew a deep breath and pretended to stare at 
nothing, as if considering. Submitting to a sister who stood 
higher than she was no hardship, in itself. The Ajahs had 
always kept secrets, and sometimes schemed a little against 
one another, but the open dissension in the Tower now appalled 
her. Besides, she had learned how to be humble before 
Mistress Doweel. She wondered how the woman enjoyed poverty, 
and working on a farm for a taskmistress even harsher than 
herself. 


“I can bring myself to do it,” she said finally. “We should 
have a plan of action to present to Desandre and Lemai, if we 
mean to convince them.” She already had one partly formed, if 
not for presentation to anyone. “Oh, the water is boiling, 




Gabrelle.” 


Suddenly smiling, the foolish woman rose and hurried to the 
stove. Browns always were better reading books than people, 
come to think of it. Before Logain and Taim and the rest were 
destroyed, they would help Toveine Gazal bring down Elaida. 


The great city of Cairhein was a hulking mass inside massive 
walls, crowding the River Alguenya. The sky was clear and 
cloudless, but a cold wind blew and the sun shone on roofs 
covered with snow, glinted on icicles that showed no sign of 
melting. The Alguenya was not frozen, but small, jagged ice 
floes from farther upriver spun in the currents, now and then 
banging against the hulls of ships waiting their turns at the 
docks. Trade slowed for winter and wars, and the Dragon 
Reborn, but it never really stopped, not until nations died. 
Despite the cold, wagons and carts and people flowed along 
streets that razored the terraced hills of the city. The 
City, it was called here. 


In front of the square-towered Sun Palace, a crowd jammed 
together around the long entry ram and stared up, merchants 
wrapped in fine woolens and nobles in velvets rubbing 
shoulders with grimy-faced laborers and dirtier refugees. No 
one cared who stood next to him, and even the cutpurses forgot 
to follow their trade. Men and women departed, often shaking 
their heads, but others took their places, sometimes hoisting 
a child to get a better view of the Palace’s ruined wing, 
where workmen were clearing away the rubble of the third 
story. Throughout the rest of Cairhein, craftsmen’s hammers 
and creaking axles filled the air, together with the cries of 
shopkeepers, the complaints of buyers, the murmurs of 
merchants. The crowd before the Sun Palace was silent. 


A mile from the Palace, Rand stood at a window in the 
grandly named Academy of Cairhein, peering through the frosted 
panes at the stone-paved stableyard below. There had been 
schools called Academies in Artur Hawkwing’s time and before, 
centers of learning filled with scholars from every corner of 
the known world. The conceit made no difference, they could 
have called it the Barn, so long as it did what he wanted. 
More important concerns filled his thoughts. Had he made a 
mistake, returning to Cairhein so soon? But he had been 
forced to flee too quickly, so it would be known in the right 
quarters that he actually had fled. Too quickly to prepare 
everything. There were questions he needed to ask, and tasks 
that could not be put off. And Min wanted more of Master 
Fel’s books. He could hear her muttering to herself as she 
rummaged through the shelves where they had been stored after 
Fel’s death. With the bounty for books and manuscripts it did 
not yet possess, the Academy’s library was fast outgrowing the 
rooms that could be spared in Lord Barthanes’ former palace. 
Alanna sat in the back of his head, sulking it seemed; she 
would know he was in the City. This near, she would be able 
to walk straight to him, but he would know if she tried. 
Blessedly, Lews Therin was silent for the moment. Of late, 
the man seemed madder than ever. 


He rubbed a spot clear on a windowpane with his coat sleeve. 
Stout dark gray wool, good enough for a man with a little 




money and a few airs, it was not a garment anyone would expect 
to see on the Dragon Reborn. The golden-maned Dragon’s head 
on the back of his hand glittered metallically; it presented 
no danger here. His boot touched the leather scrip sitting 
below the window as he leaned forward to look out. 


In the stableyard, the paving stones had been swept clear of 
snow, and a large wagon stood surrounded by buckets like 
mushroom sin a clearing. Half a dozen men in heavy coats and 
scarves and caps seemed to be working on the wagon’s odd 
cargo, mechanical devices crowded around a fat metal cylinder 
that took up more than half the wagon bed. Even stranger, the 
wagon shafts were missing. One of the men was moving split 
firewood from a large wheelbarrow into the side of a metal box 
fastened below one end of the big cylinder. The open door in 
the box glowed with the red of fire inside, and smoke rose 
from a tall narrow chimney. Another fellow danced around the 
wagon, bearded, capless and bald-headed, gesturing and 
apparently shouting orders that did not seem to make the 
others move any faster. Their breath made faint white plumes. 
It was almost warm inside; the Academy had large furnaces in 
the cellars and an extensive system of vents. The half-
healed, never healing wounds in his side were hot. 


He could not make out Min’s curses—he was sure they were 
curses—but her tone was enough to say they would not be 
leaving yet unless he dragged her away. There were one or two 
items he might ask about still. “What are people saying? 
About the palace?” 


“What you might expect,” Lord Dobraine answered behind him 
with level patience, as he had answered all the other 
questions. Even when he admitted a lack of knowledge, his 
tone had not changed. “Some say the Forsaken attacked you, or 
that Aes Sedai did. Those who think you swore fealty to the 
Amyrlin Seat favor the Forsaken. Either way, there is 
considerable debate on whether you are dead or kidnapped, or 
fled. Most believe you live, wherever you are, or say they 
do. Some, a good many I fear, think…” 


His voice faded to silence. 


“That I’ve gone mad,” Rand finished for him in the same 
level tone. Not a matter for concern, or anger. “That I 
destroyed part of the Palace myself?” He would not speak of 
the dead. Fewer than other times, other places, but enough, 
and some of their names appeared whenever he closed his eyes. 
One of the men below climbed down from the wagon, but the bald 
fellow caught his arm and dragged him back up, making him show 
what he had done. A man on the other side jumped on the 
pavement carelessly, skidding, and the capless man abandoned 
the first to chase around the wagon and make that one climb 
back up with him. What in the Light could they be doing? 
Rand glanced over his shoulder. “They’re not far wrong.” 


Dobraine Taborwin, a short man with the front of his head 
shaved and formally powdered and the rest of his hair nearly 
all gray, looked back with dark impassive eyes. Not a 
handsome man, but steady. Blue-and-white stripes marched down 
the front of his dark velvet coat from his neck almost to his 
knees. His signet ring was a carved ruby, and he wore another 
at his collar, not much larger yet flamboyant for a 
Cairheinin. He was High Seat of his House, with more battles 




behind him than most, and not much frightened him. He had 
proved that at Dumai’s Wells. 
But then, the stocky, graying woman patiently waiting her 

turn at his shoulder appeared just as unafraid. In sharp 
contrast to Dobraine’s noble elegance, Idrien Tarsin’s 
sensible brown woolens were plain enough for a shopkeeper, yet 
she had her own well of authority and dignity. Idrien was 
Headmistress of the Academy, the title she had been given 
herself since most of the scholars and mechanics called 
themselves master of this or mistress of that. She ran the 
school with a strong hand and believed in practical things, 
new methods of surfacing roads or making dyes, improvements to 
foundries and mills. She also believed in the Dragon Reborn. 
Whether or not that was practical, it was pragmatic, and he 
would settle for that. 


He turned to the window and cleared his patch on the glass 
again. Maybe it was for heating water—some of those buckets 
seemed to have water in them still; in Shienar, they used big 
boilers to heat water for the baths—but why on a wagon? “Has 
anyone left suddenly since I went? Or come unexpectedly?” 


He did not expect that anyone had, anyone of importance to 
him. Between merchant’s pigeons and White Tower eyes-and-
ears—and Mazrim Taim; he must not forget Taim—Lews Therin 
snarled wordlessly at the name—with all those pigeons and 
spies and babbling tongues, in a few more days the whole world 
would be aware that he had vanished from Cairhein. All the 
world that mattered, here and now. Cairhein was no longer the 
ground where the battle would be fought. Dobraine’s answer 
surprised him. 


“No one except…Ailil Riatin and some high Sea Folk official 
are both missing since the…attack.” A bare pause, but a 
pause. Perhaps he was not so sure what had happened, either. 
Yet he would keep his word. He had proved that at Dumai’s 
Wells, too. “No bodies were found, but they may have been 
killed. The Sea Folk Wavemistress refuses to counterance the 
possibility, though. She is raising a storm with demands that 
her woman be produced. In truth, Ailil may have fled to the 
countryside. Or gone to join her brother, despite her pledges 
to you. Your three Asha’man are still in the Sun Palace. 
Flinn, Narishma and Hopwil. They make people nervous. More 
so now than before.” The Headmistress made a sound in her 
throat, and her shoes shifted audibly on the floorboards. 
They certainly made her nervous. 


Rand dismissed the Asha’man. Unless much closer than the 
Palace, none was strong enough to have felt him open a gateway 
here. Those three had not been part of the attack on him, but 
a wise planner might have considered the chance of failure. 
Planned how to keep someone close to him if he survived. You 
won’t survive, Lews Therin whispered. None of us will 
survive. 


Go back to sleep, Rand thought irritably. He knew he was 
not going to survive. But he wanted to. A derisive laugh 
answered in his head, but the sound thinned and was gone. The 
bald man was letting the others climb down, now, and rubbing 
his hands together in a pleased fashion. Of all things, the 
fellow seemed to be giving a speech! 


“Ailil and Shalon are alive, and they didn’t flee,” Rand 




said outloud. He had left them bound and gagged, stuffed 
under a bed, where they would have been found by servants in a 
few hours, though the shield he had woven on that Sea Folk 
Windfindder should have dissipated before that. The two women 
should have been able to free themselves then. “Look to 
Cadsuane. She’ll have them in Lady Arilyn’s palace.” 


“Cadsuane Sedai is in and out of the Sun Palace as if it 
were her own,” Dobraine said judiciously, “but how could she 
have taken them out unseen? And why? Ailil is Toram’s sister, 
ye this claim to the Sun Throne is dust now, if it was ever 
more. She is unimportant even as a counter, now. As for 
holding an Atha’an Miere of high rank…To what purpose?” 


Rand made his voice light, uncaring. “Why is she keeping 
Lady Caraline and High Lord Darlin as ‘guests,’ Dobraine? Why 
do Aes Sedai do anything? You’ll find them where I said. If 
she lets you in to look.” Why was not a foolish question. He 
just did not have the answer. Of course, Caraline Damodred 
and Ailil Riatin did represent the last two Houses to hold the 
Sun Throne. And Darlin Sisnera led the nobles in Tear who 
wanted him thrown out of their precious Stone, out of Tear. 


Rand frowned. He had been sure Cadsuane was focused on him 
despite her pretense otherwise, but what if it was not 
pretense? A relief, if so. Of course it was. The last thing 
he needed was an Aes Sedai who though she could meddle in his 
affairs. The very last. Perhaps Cadsuane was directing her 
meddling elsewhere. Min had seen Sisnera wearing a strange 
crown; Rand had thought a great deal on that viewing of hers. 
He did not want to think of other things she had seen, 
concerning himself and the Green sister. Could it be as 
simple as Cadsuane thinking she could decide who would rule 
both Tear and Cairhein? 


Simple? He almost laughed. But that was how Aes Sedai 
behaved. And Shalon, the Windfinder? Possessing her might 
give Cadsuane leverage with Harine, the Wavemistress, but he 
suspected she had just been scooped up with Ailil, to try 
hiding who took the noblewoman. Cadsuane would have to be 
disabused. Who would rule in Tear and Cairhein had already 
been decided. He would point that out to her. Later. It 
stood far down his list of priorities. 


“Before I go, Dobraine, I need to give you—“ Words froze on 
his tongue. 


In the stableyard, the capless man had pulled a lever on the 
wagon, and one end of a long horizontal beam suddenly rose, 
then sank, driving a shorter beam down through a hole cut in 
the wagon bed. And, vibrating till it seemed ready to shake 
apart, trailing smoke from the chimney, the wagon lurched 
ahead, the beam rising and falling, slowly at first, then 
faster. It moved, without horses! 


He did not realize he had spoken aloud until the 
Headmistress answered him. 


“Oh, that! That’s Mervin Poel’s steamwagon, as eh calls it, 
my Lord Dragon.” Disapproval freighted her high, startling 
youthful voice.” Claims he can pull a hundred wagons with the 
contraption. Not unless he can make it go further than fifty 
paces without bits breaking or freezing up. It has only done 
that far once, that I know.” 


Indeed, the –steamwagon?—shuddered to a halt not twenty 




paces from where it first stood. Shuddered indeed; it seemed 
to be shaking harder by the heartbeat. Most of the men 
swarmed over it again, one of them frantically twisting at 
something with a cloth wrapped around his hand. Abruptly 
steam shot into the air from a pipe, and the shuddering 
slowed, stopped. 


Rand shook his head. He remembered seeing this fellow 
Mervin, with a device that quivered on a tabletop and did 
nothing. And this marvel had come from that? He had thought 
it was meant to make music. That must be Mervin leaping about 
and shaking his fists and the others. What other odd things, 
what marvels, were people building here at the Academy? 


When he asked, still watching the men in the courtyard work 
on the wagon, Idrien sniffed loudly. Respect for the Dragon 
Reborn held only a thin edge in her voice as she began, and 
quickly lost ground to disgust. “Bad enough I must give space 
to philosophers and historians and arithmatists and the like, 
but you said take in anyone who wanted to make anything new 
and let them stay if they showed progress. I suppose you 
hoped for weapons, but now I have dozens of dreamers and 
wastrels on my hands, every one with an old book or manuscript 
or six, all of which date back to the Compact of the Ten 
Nations, mind, if not the Age of Legends itself, or so they 
say, and they are all trying to make sense of drawings and 
sketches and descriptions of things they’ve never seen and 
maybe nobody ever did see. I have seen old manuscripts that 
talk about people with their eyes in their bellies, and 
animals ten feet tall with tusks longer than a man, and cities 
where—“ 


“But what are they making, Headmistress Tarsin?” Rand 
demanded. The men working on the thing below moved with an 
air of purpose, not as if they saw failure. And it had moved. 


She sniffed louder this time. “Foolishness, my Lord Dragon, 
that is what they make. Kin Tovere constructed his big 
looking glass. You can see the moon through it plain as your 
hand, and what he claims are other worlds, but what is the 
good of that? He wants to build a bigger, now. Maryl Harke 
makes huge kites she calls gliders, and come spring, she will 
be throwing herself off hills again. Puts your heart in your 
mouth to see her sailing downhill on the things; she will 
break more than her arm next time one folds up on her, I 
warrant. Jander Parentakis believes he can move riverboats 
with waterwheels off a mill, or near enough, but when he put 
enough men into the boat to turn the cranks, there was no room 
for cargo, and any craft with sails could outrun it. Ryn 
Anhara traps lightning in big jars—I doubt even he knows 
why—Niko Tokama is just as silly with her—“ 


Rand spun around so fast that she stepped back, and even 
Dobraine shifted on his feet, a swordman’s move. No, they 
were not sure of him at all. “He traps lightning?” he asked 
quietly. 


Comprehension flooded her blunt face, and she waved her 
hands in front of her. “No, no! Not like…like that!” Not 
like you, she had almost said. “It is a thing of wires and 
wheels and big clay jars and the Light knows what. He calls 
it lightning, and I saw a rat jump down on one of the jars 
once, on the metal rods sticking out of the top. It certainly 




looked struck by lightning.” A hopeful tone entered her 
voice. “I can make him stop, if you wish.” 


He tried to picture someone riding on a kit, but the image 
was ludicrous. Catching lightning in jars was beyond his 
ability to imagine. And yet…”Let them go on as before, 
Headmistress. Who knows? Maybe one of these inventions will 
turn out to be important. If any work as claimed, give the 
inventor a reward.” 


Dobraine’s leathery, sun-darkened face looked dubious, 
though he almost managed to conceal it. Idrien bowed her head 
in sullen assent, and even curtsied, but plainly she thought 
he was asking to let pigs fly if they could. 


Rand was not certain he disagreed. Then again, maybe one of 
the pigs would grow wings. The wagon had moved. He wanted 
very badly to leave something behind, something to help the 
world survive the new Breaking the Prophecies said he would 
bring. The trouble was, he had no idea what that might be, 
save for the schools themselves. Who knew what a marvel could 
do? Light, he wanted to build something that could last. 


I thought I could build, Lews Therin murmured in his head. 
I was wrong. We are not builders, not you, or I, or the other 
one. We are destroyers. Destroyers. 


Rand shivered, and scrubbed his hands through his hair. The 
other one? At times, the voice sounded sanest when it was the 
most mad. They were watching him, Dobraine very nearly hiding 
uncertainty, Idrien making no effort to. Straightening as if 
nothing was wrong, he drew two slim packets from inside his 
coat. Both carried the Dragon in a long lump of red wax on 
the outside. The belt buckle he was not wearing at the moment 
served for an impressive signet. 


“The top one names you my steward in Cairhein,” he said, 
handing the packets to Dobraine. A third still nestled next 
to his chest, for Gregorin den Lushenos, making him steward in 
Illian. “So there’ll be no trouble with anyone questioning 
your authority while I’m gone.” Dobraine could handle that 
sort of trouble with his armsmen, but best to make sure no one 
could claim ignorance or doubt. Maybe there would be no 
trouble to handle if everyone believed the Dragon Reborn would 
descend on transgressors. “There are orders about things, I 
want done, but aside from those, use your own judgment. When 
the Lady Elayne lays claim to the Sun Throne, throw your full 
support behind her.” Elayne. Oh, Light, Elayne, and 
Aviendha. At least they were safe. Min’s voice sounded 
happier, now; she must have found Master Fel’s books. He was 
going to let her follow him to her death because he was not 
strong enough to stop her. Ilyena, Lews Therin moaned. 
Forgive me, Ilyena! Rand’s voice came out as cold as winter’s 
heart. “You’ll know when to deliver the other. Whether to 
deliver it. Pry him out if need be, and decide by what he 
says. If you decide not, or he refuses, I’ll pick someone 
else. Not you.” 


Perhaps that was brusque, but Dobraine’s expression hardly 
changed. His eyebrows rose slightly at the name written on 
the second packet; that was all. He made a smooth bow. 
Cairheinin usually were smooth. “It shall be as you say. 
Forgive me, but you sound as though you mean to be gone for a 
long while.” 




 Rand shrugged. He trusted the High Lord as far as he 
trusted anyone. Almost as far. “Who can say? The times are 
uncertain. Make sure Headmistress Tarsin has whatever coin 
she needs, and the men starting the school in Camelyn. The 
school in Tear, as well, until matters change there.” 


“As you say,” Dobraine repeated, tucking the packets into 
his coat. His face betrayed no emotion, now. An experienced 
player in the Game of House, was Dobraine. 


For her part, the Headmistress managed to look pleased and 
disgruntled at the same time, and busied herself smoothing her 
dress unnecessarily the way women did when hard-pressed not to 
speak their minds. Complain how she would about dreamers and 
philosophers, she was jealous of the Academy’s well-being. 
She would shed no tears if those others schools vanished and 
their scholars were forced to come to the Academy. Even the 
philosophers. What would she think of one particular order in 
Dobraine’s packet? 


“I’ve found everything I nee,” Min said, coming out from the 
shelves staggering slightly under the weight of the three 
bulging cloth scrips that hung from her. Her plain brown coat 
and breeches were very like what she had worn when he first 
saw her in Baerlon. For some reason, she had grumbled over 
them until anyone who knew her would have thought he was 
asking her to put on a dress. She smiled now, though, with 
delight and a hint of mischief. “I hope those packhorses are 
where we left them, or my Lord Dragon will have to be fitted 
for a packsaddle.” 


Idrien, gasped, scandalized to hear him addressed so, but 
Dobraine merely smiled a little. He had seen Min around Rand 
before. 


Rand got rid of them as quickly as possible then, since they 
had heard and seen as much as he wanted them to—sent them off 
with a final admonition that he had never been there at all. 
Dobraine nodded as if he had expected no less. Idrien looked 
thoughtful as she left. If she let anything slip where a 
servant could hear, or a scholar, it would be all over the 
City in two days. There was not much time in any case. 
Perhaps no one who could tell had been close enough to feel 
him open a gateway here, but anyone looking for signs would be 
sure by now there was a ta’veren in the city. It was not his 
plan to be found yet. 


When the door closed behind them, he studied Min for a 
moment, then took one of the scrips and slung it from his 
shoulder. 


“Only one?” she said. Setting the others on the floor, she 
planted her fists on her hips and scowled. “Sometimes you 
really are a sheepherder. These bags must be a hundred weight 
each.” But she sounded more amused than upset. 


“You should have picked smaller books, “ he told her, 
pulling on riding gloves to hide the Dragons. “Or lighter.” 
He turned toward the window, to fetch the leather scrip, and a 
wave of dizziness hit him. Knees turning to water, he 
stumbled. A shimmering face he could not make out flashed 
through his head. With an effort, he caught himself, forced 
his legs straight. And the whirling sensation vanished. Lews 
Therin panted hoarsely in the shadows. Could the face be his? 
“If you think you’ll make me carry them all that way, think 




again,” Min grumbled. “I’ve seen better pretending from 
stablehands. You could try falling down.” 


“Not this time.” He was ready for what happened when he 
channeled; he could control it to some extent. Usually. Most 
of the time. This dizziness without saidin was new. Maybe he 
had just turned too fast. And maybe pigs did fly. He settled 
the leather scrip’s strap over his free shoulder. The men in 
the stableyard were still busy. Building. “Min--.” 


Her brows lowered immediately. She paused for an instant in 
drawing on her red gloves and began tapping her foot. A 
dangerous sign with any woman, especially one who carried 
knives. “We had this out, Rand bloody Dragon al’Thor! You are 
not leaving me behind!” 


“The thought never crossed my mind,” he lied. He was too 
weak; he could not make himself say the words, to make her 
stay. Too weak, he thought bitterly, and she might well die 
for it, the Light burn me forever! 
It will, Lews Therin promised softly. 
“I just thought you should know what we’ve been doing, and 

what we are going to do,” Rand went on. “I haven’t been very 
forthcoming, I suppose.” Gathering himself, he seized saidin. 
The room seemed to whirl, and he rode the avalanche of fire 
and ice and filth with nausea seething in his belly. He was 
able to stand erect without swaying, though. Barely. And 
just able to weave the flows of a gateway that opened into a 
snowy clearing where two saddled horses were tethered to a low 
branch of an oak. He was glad to see the animals still there. 
The clearing was well away from the nearest road, but there 
were still wanderers who had turned their backs on families 
and farms, trades and crafts, because the Dragon Reborn had 
broken all bonds. The Prophesies said so. On the other hand, 
a good many of those men and women, footsore and half-frozen 
now on top of it, were tired of searching without any notion 
what they were searching for. Even these nondescript mounts 
surely would have vanished with the first man to find them 
unattended. He had gold enough to buy others, but he did not 
think Min would have enjoyed the hour’s walk to the village 
where they had left the packhorses. 


Hurrying through into the clearing, pretending the change 
from floor to knee-deep snow caused his stumble, he only 
waited until she had snatched up her bags of books and 
staggered through after him before releasing the Power. They 
were five hundred miles from Cairhein, and nearer Tar Valon 
than anywhere else of note. Alanna had faded in his head when 
the gateway closed. 


“Forthcoming?” Min said, sounding suspicious. Of all his 
motives, he hoped, or anything but the truth. The dizziness 
and nausea faded slowly. “You have been as open as a mussel, 
Rand, but I am not blind. First we Traveled to Rhuidean, 
where you asked so many questions about this Shara place that 
anyone would think you meant to go there.” Frowning faintly, 
she shook her head as she fastened one of her burdens to the 
saddle of her brown gelding. She grunted with the effort, but 
she was not about to set the other bag of books down in the 
snow. “I never thought the Aiel Waste was like that. That 
city is bigger than Tar Valon, even if it is half ruined. And 
all those fountains, and the lake. I couldn’t even see the 




far side. I thought there wasn’t any water in the Waste. And 
it was as cold as here; I thought the waste was hot!” 


“In summer, you fry during the day, but you still freeze at 
night.” He felt recovered enough to begin shifting his own 
burdens to the gray’s saddle. Almost enough. He did it 
anyway. “If you already know everything, what was I doing 
besides asking questions?” 


“The same as in Tear last night. Making sure every cat and 
blackbird knew you were there. In Tear, it was Chachin you 
asked about. It’s obvious. You are trying to confuse anyone 
who tries to find out where you are and where you’re going 
next.” The second bag of books balancing the first behind her 
saddle, she untied her reins and climbed into the saddle. 
“So, am I blind?” 


“Your eyes belong on an eagle.” He hoped his pursuers saw 
as clearly. Or that whoever directed them did. It would not 
do to have them haring off the Light knew where. “I need to 
lay some more false trails, I think.” 


“Why take the time? I know you have a plan, I know it 
concerns something in that leather scrip—a sa’angreal—and I 
know it’s important. Don’t look so surprised. You barely let 
that bag out of your sight. Why not go ahead and do whatever 
it is your plan, then lay your false trails? And the real 
one, of course. You’re going to turn on them when they least 
expect, you said. You can hardly do that unless they follow 
where you want.” 


“I wish you’d never started reading Herid Fel’s books,” he 
muttered sourly, pulling himself into the gray’s saddle. His 
head spun only a little. “You puzzle out too much. Can I 
keep any secrets at all from you, now?” 


“You never could, woolhead,” she laughed, and then, 
contradicting herself, “What are you planning? Aside from 
killing Dashiva and the rest, I mean. I have a right to know 
if I’m traveling with you.” As if she had not insisted on 
traveling with him. 


“I’m going to cleanse the male half of the source,” he said 
in a flat voice. A momentous announcement. A grand scheme, 
more than grand. Grandiose, most would say. He might have 
said he intended to take an afternoon stroll, for all of Min’s 
reaction. She simply looked at him, hands folded on the 
pommel of her saddle, until he went on. 


“I don’t know how long it will take, and once I start, I 
think everyone within a thousand miles of me who can channel 
will know something is happening. I doubt I’ll be able to 
just stop if Dashiva and the rest, or the Forsaken, suddenly 
appear to see what it is. The Forsaken, I can’t do anything 
about, but with luck, I can finish the others.” Maybe being 
ta’veren would give him the edge he needed so desperately. 


“Depend on luck, and Corlan Dashiva or the Forsaken, either 
one will have you for breakfast,” she said, turning her horse 
out of the clearing. “Maybe I can think of a better way. 
Come on. There’s a warm fire at the inn. I hope you’re going 
to let us have a hot meal before we leave.” 


Rand stared after her incredulously. You would have thought 
five reengage Asha’man, not to mention the Forsaken, were less 
bother than a sore tooth. Booting the gray ahead in a spray 
of snow, he caught up to her and rode in silence. He still 
had a few secrets from her, this sickness that had begun 
affecting him when he channeled, for one. That was the real 
reason he had to deal with Dashiva and the others first. It 
gave him time to get over the sickness. If that was possible. 
If not, he was not sure the two ter’angreal riding behind his 
saddle were going to be any use at all.