How could the woman be saying this? Her normal cringing anxiety had been shed like a snake skin. They could have been two equals discussing something of casual interest. No, worse. Moghedien’s attitude said it was of casual interest to her, but dire to Nynaeve. Nynaeve wished she had the bracelet. It would have been a comfort. Moghedien’s emotions could not possibly be as cool and calm as her face, and her voice.
Nynaeve’s breath caught. The bracelet. That was it. The bracelet was not in the room. A ball of ice formed in the pit of her stomach; the sweat suddenly seemed to roll more heavily down her face. Logically, whether the bracelet was there or not made no difference. Elayne had it on — Please, Light, don’t let her have taken it off! — and the other half of the a’dam was firmly around Moghedien’s neck. Only, logic had nothing to do with it. Nynaeve had never been alone with the woman without the bracelet there. Or rather, the only times she had had ended in near total disaster. Moghedien had not been wearing the a’dam then, but that made no difference either. She was one of the Forsaken, they were alone, and Nynaeve had no way to control her. She gripped her skirts to keep from gripping her belt knife.
Moghedien’s smile deepened, as if she had read her thoughts. “In this, you can be sure I have your best interests at heart. This,” her hand hovered near the necklace for a moment, carefully not touching it, “will hold me in Caemlyn as well as here. Slavery there is better than death here. But don’t take too long to decide. If these so-called Aes Sedai resolve to return to the Tower, what better gift to take the new Amyrlin Seat than you, a woman so close to Rand al’Thor? And Elayne. If he feels for her half what she does for him, holding her will tie a cord to him he’ll never be able to cut.”
Nynaeve stood, forcing her knees straight. “You can make the beds and clean the room, now. I expect to find it spotless when I return.”
“How much time do you have?” Moghedien said before she reached the door. The woman could have been asking whether the water was hot for tea. “A few more days at most before they send their answer back to Tar Valon? A few hours? How will they balance Rand al’Thor, and even Elaida’s supposed crimes, against making their precious White Tower whole again?”
“Pay special attention to the chamber pots,” Nynaeve said without turning around. “I want them clean this time.” She left before Moghedien could say anything else, shutting the door behind her firmly.
She leaned back against the rough wooden planks, breathing deeply in the cramped windowless hallway. Dipping into her belt pouch, she plucked out a small sack and popped two frilly goosemint leaves into her mouth. Goosemint took time to soothe a burning belly, but she chewed and swallowed as though haste could make it work faster. The last few moments had been one blow after another as Moghedien shattered one thing after another that she had known. Even with all her distrust, she had believed the woman cowed. False. Oh, Light, false. She had been sure Moghedien knew almost as little about Elayne and Rand as the Aes Sedai did. False. And for her to suggest going to him . . . They had talked too freely in front of her. What else had they let slip, and what use could Moghedien make of it?
Another Accepted entered the dim hall from the small house’s front room, and Nynaeve straightened, tucking the goosemint away and smoothing her dress. Every room but the front one had been made into sleeping quarters, and Accepted and servants filled them, three or four to a room not much larger than the one behind her and sometimes two to a bed. The other Accepted was a slight woman, almost wispy, with gray eyes and a quick grin. An Illianer, Emara did not like Siuan or Leane, which Nynaeve found easy to understand, and thought they should be sent away — decently, as she put it — the way stilled women always had been, but aside from that she was pleasant, not even resenting Elayne and Nynaeve’s “extra space” or “Marigan” doing their chores. No few did.
“I hear you do be copying for Janya and Delana,” she said in her high-pitched voice, brushing past toward her own room. “Take my advice, and write as fast you can. Janya does care more for getting all her words down than for a few smudges.”
Nynaeve glared at Emara’s back. Write slow for Delana. Write fast for Janya. A fine lot of counsel that added up to. In any case, she could not make herself worry about blotting copy now. Or even about Moghedien, until she had a chance to talk it over with Elayne.
Shaking her head and muttering under her breath, she stalked outside. Maybe she had been taking things for granted, letting things slip, but it was time to give herself a good shake and stop it. She knew who she had to find.
In the last few days a quiet had settled over Salidar, although the streets were just as crowded. For one thing, the forges outside the village were silent. Everyone had been told to guard their tongues while Tarna was there, about the embassy on its way to Caemlyn, about Logain, who was safely tucked away in one of the soldiers’ camps, even about the soldiers themselves, and why they had been gathered. It left most fearful of saying anything at all above a whisper. The low buzz of talk had an anxious note.
Everyone was affected. Servants who normally hurried now moved hesitantly, casting fearful glances over their shoulders. Even Aes Sedai seemed wary beneath their calm, eyeing each other in a calculating manner. There were few soldiers in the streets now, as though Tarna had not seen her fill the first day and come to her own conclusions. The wrong answer to the Hall would put nooses around all their necks; even rulers and nobles who wanted to stand aside from the Tower troubles would likely hang any soldiers they laid hands on, just to keep the notion of rebellion from spreading. Feeling the uncertainty, those few wore carefully blank faces or anxious frowns. Except for Gareth Bryne, waiting patiently in front of the Little Tower. He had been there every day, from before the Sitters arrived until they left. She thought he wanted to make sure they remembered him, and what he was doing for them. The one time she had seen the Sitters coming out, they had not appeared pleased to see him.
Only the Warders seemed no different for the Red sister’s arrival. The Warders and the children. Nynaeve gave a start when three small girls burst up in front of her like quail, ribbons in their hair, sweaty, dusty and laughing as they ran. The children did not know what Salidar waited for, and likely would not understand if they did know. Each Warder would follow his Aes Sedai, whatever she decided and wherever she went, and never turn a hair.
Most of the muted talk seemed to be about the weather. That and tales from elsewhere about strange happenings, two-headed calves talking and men smothered by swarms of flies, all the children in a village disappearing in the middle of the night and people struck dead by something unseen in broad daylight. Anyone who could think clearly knew that the drought and unseasonable heat were the Dark One’s hand touching the world, but even most Aes Sedai doubted Elayne and Nynaeve’s claims that the other happenings were as real, that bubbles of evil were rising from the Dark One’s prison as the seals weakened, rising and drifting along the Pattern till they burst. Most people could not think clearly. Some blamed it all on Rand. Some said the Creator was displeased that the world had not gathered behind the Dragon Reborn, or displeased that the Aes Sedai had not captured and gentled him, or displeased that Aes Sedai were opposing a seated Amyrlin. Nynaeve had heard people say the weather would come right as soon as the Tower was whole again. She pushed through the crowd.
“. . . swear it’s true!” murmured a cook all flour to her elbows. “There’s a Whitecloak army massed the other side the Eldar, just waiting word from Elaida to attack.” Aside from the weather and two-headed calves, tales of Whitecloaks outnumbered every other sort, but Whitecloaks waiting orders from Elaida? The heat had melted the woman’s brains!
“The Light stand witness, it’s true,” a grizzled carter muttered to a frowning woman whose well-cut wool dress marked her an Aes Sedai’s maid. “Elaida’s dead. The Red’s come to summon Sheriam to be the new Amyrlin.” The woman nodded, accepting every word of it.
“I say Elaida’s a fine Amyrlin,” one rough-coated man-said, shift
ing a bundle of fagots on his shoulder. “As fine as any.” He did not murmur to his companion. He spoke loudly, trying hard not to look around to see who had heard him.
Nynaeve’s mouth twisted sourly. He wanted to be overheard. How had Elaida discovered Salidar so quickly? Tarna must have left Tar Valon soon after Aes Sedai began gathering in the village. Siuan had pointed out darkly that a goodly number of Blue sisters were still missing — the original message to gather in Salidar had been aimed at Blues — and Alviarin was accomplished at applying the question. A stomach-turning thought, but not as wrenching as the most common explanation: secret supporters of Elaida here in Salidar. Everybody looked sideways at everybody else, and the woodsman was not the first Nynaeve had heard say much the same, in the same manner. Aes Sedai might not say it, but Nynaeve suspected some wanted to. It all stirred Salidar into a stew, and not a tasty one. It made what she was doing even more right.
Finding who she sought took time. She needed groups of children playing, and there were not many children in Salidar. Sure enough, Birgitte was watching five boys scramble about the street throwing a small bag of pebbles at each other, all laughing uproariously whenever one of them was hit, including the one hit. It made no more sense than most boys’ games. Or men’s.
Birgitte was not alone, of course. She seldom was unless she made an effort to be. Areina stood at her shoulder, dabbing at the perspiration streaming down her face and trying not to show boredom with the children. A year or two younger than Nynaeve, Areina wore her dark hair in a braid patterned after Birgitte’s golden one, though still little below her shoulders; Birgitte’s hung properly to the waist. Her clothes copied Birgitte, too, a waist-length coat of pale gray, and voluminous bronze-colored trousers, gathered at the ankle above short boots with raised heels, as did the bow she carried and the quiver at her waist. Nynaeve did not think Areina had ever held a bow before meeting Birgitte. She ignored the woman.
“I need to talk to you,” she told Birgitte. “Alone.”
Areina glanced at her, blue eyes close to contempt. “I’d think you’d be wearing your shawl this fine day, Nynaeve. Oh, my. You seem to be sweating like a horse. Why is that?”
Nynaeve’s face tightened. She had befriended the woman before Birgitte had, but the friendship melted on reaching Salidar. Learning that Nynaeve was not full Aes Sedai brought something more than disappointment. Only a request from Birgitte had held Areina back from informing the Aes Sedai that she had masqueraded as one. Besides, Areina had taken the oaths as a Hunter for the Horn, and Birgitte was certainly a better model for that life than Nynaeve. To think she had once pitied the woman her bruises!
“From your face,” Birgitte said with a sweaty grin, “either you’re ready to strangle somebody — probably Areina here — or else your dress fell off in the middle of a pack of soldiers and you weren’t wearing a shift.” Areina snorted a laugh, but she looked shocked. Why she should, Nynaeve did not know; the woman had had plenty of time to become used to Birgitte’s so-called sense of humor, more suited as it was to some unshaven man with his nose in a mug and his belly full of ale.
Nynaeve studied the boys’ play for a minute to give her irritation a chance to die down. Worse than useless to let herself get angry when she had a favor to ask.
Seve and Jaril were among the boys dodging and tossing the bag. The Yellows had been right about them; time was what they had needed. After close to two months in Salidar with other children and no fear, they laughed and shouted as loudly as the rest.
A sudden thought hit her like a hammer. “Marigan” still looked after them, if grudgingly, saw that they were bathed and fed, but now that they were talking again, at any time they might tell that the woman was not their mother. Perhaps they already had. That might not cause questions, but then again it might, and questions could bring the house of twigs they had built tumbling down on their heads. The ball of ice reappeared in the pit of Nynaeve’s belly. Why had she not thought of this before?
She gave a start as Birgitte touched her arm. “What is wrong, Nynaeve? You look as though your best friend died and cursed you with her last breath.”
Areina was striding away, stiff-backed, casting one look over her shoulder at them. The woman could watch Birgitte drink and flirt with men without turning a hair, and even try to emulate her, yet she bristled every time Birgitte wanted to be alone with Elayne or Nynaeve. Men were no threat; only women could be friends in Areina’s book, but only she could be Birgitte’s friend. The idea of having two friends seemed foreign to her. Well, enough and be done with her.
“Could you get horses for us?” Nynaeve tried to steady her voice. That was not what she had come to ask, but Seve and Jaril made it an excellent question. “How long will it take?”
Birgitte drew her out of the street, to the mouth of a narrow alley between two weathered houses, and looked around carefully before answering. No one was close enough to overhear, or pay them any mind. “A day or two. Uno was just telling me — ”
“Not Uno! We will leave him out of this. Just you, me, Elayne and Marigan. Unless Thom and Juilin return in time. And Areina, I suppose, if you insist.”
“Areina’s a fool some ways,” Birgitte said slowly, “but life will wring that out of her, or wring her out. You know I’d never insist on her going along if you and Elayne don’t want her.”
Nynaeve kept silent. The woman was behaving as if she was the jealous one! It was none of her affair if Birgitte wanted to take up with somebody as fickle as Areina.
Rubbing a knuckle across her lips, Birgitte frowned. “Thom and Juilin are good men, but the best way to avoid trouble is to make sure no one wants to trouble you. A dozen or so Shienarans in armor — or out — would go a long way toward that. I don’t understand you and Uno. He is tough, and he’d follow you and Elayne into the Pit of Doom.” A sudden grin bloomed on her face. “Besides, he’s a well-set-up fellow.”
“We do not need anyone to hold our hands,” Nynaeve told her stiffly. Well set up? That painted eyepatch flashed queasily across her mind, and the scars. The woman had the strangest taste in men. “We can handle anything that comes our way. I’d think we’ve already proved that, if it needed proof.”
“I know we can, Nynaeve, but we’ll draw trouble like flies to a midden. Altara’s at a slow boil. Every day brings another tale of Dragonsworn, and I’ll wager my best silk dress against one of your old shifts that half of them are really just brigands who’ll see four women alone as easy meat. We will have to prove we’re not every second day. Murandy’s worse, I hear, full of Dragonsworn and bandits and refugees from Cairhien, afraid the Dragon Reborn will fall on them any day. I assume you don’t mean to cross over into Amadicia. I assume it’s Caemlyn.” Her intricate braid swung slightly as she tilted her head and raised a questioning eyebrow. “Does Elayne agree with you about Uno?”
“She will,” Nynaeve muttered.
“I see. Well, when she does, I will procure as many horses as we need. But I want her to tell me why we should not take Uno.”
The unyielding finality of her tone heated Nynaeve’s face angrily. If she did ask Elayne ever so sweetly to tell Birgitte that Uno was to stay here, they might well find him waiting down the road, and Birgitte all amazement over how he knew they were going and which way. The woman might be Elayne’s Warder, but sometimes Nynaeve wondered which of them was really in charge. When she found Lan — when, not if! — she intended to make him swear oaths fit to curl his hair that he would abide by her decisions.
She drew deep calming breaths. No point arguing with a stone wall. She might as well get on to the reason she had hunted up Birgitte in the first place.
Casually she took a step deeper into the narrow alley, making the other woman follow. Brown stubble remained underfoot from the brush that had been cleared out of it. Trying to appear offhanded, she studied the press in the street. Still no one giving them more than a glance. She lowered her voice anyway. “We need to know what Tarna is telling the Hall, a
nd what they’re telling her. Elayne and I have tried to find out, but they ward the meetings against eavesdropping. Only with the Power, though. They’re so caught up that someone can listen in that way, they seem to have forgotten about pressing an ear to a door. If someone were to —”
Birgitte cut her off in a flat voice. “No.”
“At least consider it. Elayne or I are ten times as likely to be caught as you.” She thought of adding that Elayne was rather clever, but the other woman sniffed.
“I said no! You’ve been many things since I’ve known you, Nynaeve, but never silly. Light, they’ll announce it to everyone in a day or two.”
“We need to know now,” Nynaeve hissed, swallowing. “You man-brained idiot.” Silly? Of course she had never been silly! She must not be angry. If she could convince Elayne to go, they might not be here in a day or two. Best not to open that bag of snakes again.
Shuddering — a touch ostentatiously, Nynaeve thought — Birgitte leaned on her bow. “I was caught spying on Aes Sedai once. They tossed me out on my ear three days later, and I left Shaemal as fast as I could reach a horse. I will not go through that to gain you a day you don’t need.”
Nynaeve remained calm. She made an effort to maintain a smooth face, to not grind her teeth, to not yank her braid. She was calm. “I never heard any story about you spying on Aes Sedai.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wanted them back. The core of Birgitte’s secret was that she was the Birgitte in the stories. Nothing that made that connection was ever to be mentioned.
For a moment Birgitte’s face was stone, hiding everything inside. It was enough to make Nynaeve shiver; there was too much pain wrapped in the other woman’s secret. Finally stone became flesh once more, and Birgitte sighed. “Time changes things. I hardly recognize half those tales myself, and the other half not at all. We’ll not speak of it again.” That was very plainly not a suggestion.
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