She was certain what that meant, at least, or thought she was. It means I’m off hunting the Black Ajah, and I do not know what my dreams mean or how to make the fool ter’angreal do what it should, and I’m frightened, and. . . . And homesick. For an instant she thought how good it would be to have her mother send her up to bed knowing everything would be better in the morning. Only mother can’t solve my problems for me anymore, and father can’t promise to chase away monsters and make me believe it. I have to do it myself now.
How far in the past all that was, now. She did not want it back, not really, but it had been a warm time, and it seemed so long ago. It would be wonderful just to see them again, to hear their voices. When I wear this ring on the finger I choose by right.
She had finally let Nynaeve and Elayne each try sleeping one night with the stone ring—surprised at how reluctant she had been to let it out of her own hands—and they had awakened to speak of what was surely Tel’aran’rhiod, but neither had seen more than a glimpse of the Heart of the Stone, nothing that was of any use.
The thick column of smoke now lay abreast of the Blue Crane. Perhaps five or six miles from the river, she thought. The other was only a smudge on the horizon. It could almost have been a cloud, but she was sure it was not. Small thickets grew tight along the riverbank in some places, and between them the grass came right down to the water except where an undercut bank had fallen in.
Elayne came on deck and joined her at the rail, the wind whipping her dark cloak as well. She wore sturdy wool, too. That had been one argument Nynaeve won. Their clothes. Egwene had maintained that Aes Sedai always wore the best, even when they traveled—she had been thinking of the silks she wore in Tel’aran’rhiod—but Nynaeve pointed out that even with as much gold as the Amyrlin had left in the back of her wardrobe, and it was a fat purse, they still had no idea how much things would cost downriver. The servants said Mat had been right about the civil war in Cairhien, and what it had done to prices. To Egwene’s surprise, Elayne had pointed out that Brown sisters wore wool more often than silk. Elayne had been so eager to be away from the kitchen, Egwene thought, she would have worn rags.
I wonder how Mat is doing? No doubt trying to dice with the captain for whatever ship he’s traveling on.
“Terrible,” Elayne murmured. “It is so terrible.”
“What is?” Egwene said absently. I hope he isn’t showing that paper we gave him around too freely.
Elayne gave her a startled look, and then a frown. “That!” She gestured toward the distant smoke. “How can you ignore it?”
“I can ignore it because I do not want to think of what the people are going through, because I cannot do anything about it, and because we have to reach Tear. Because what we’re hunting is in Tear.” She was surprised at her own vehemence. I can’t do anything about it. And the Black Ajah is in Tear.
The more she thought of it, the more certain she became that they would have to find a way into the Heart of the Stone. Perhaps no one but the High Lords of Tear were allowed into it, but she was becoming convinced that the key to springing the Black Ajah’s trap and thwarting them lay in the Heart of the Stone.
“I know all of that, Egwene, but it does not stop me feeling for the Cairhienin.”
“I have heard lectures about the wars Andor fought with Cairhien,” Egwene said dryly. “Bennae Sedai says you and Cairhien have fought more often than any two nations except Tear and Illian.”
The other woman gave her a sidelong look. Elayne had never gotten used to Egwene’s refusal to admit she was Andoran herself. At least, lines on maps said the Two Rivers was part of Andor, and Elayne believed the maps.
“We have fought wars against them, Egwene, but since the damage they suffered in the Aiel War, Andor has sold them nearly as much grain as Tear has. The trade has stopped, now. With every Cairhienin House fighting every other for the Sun Throne, who would buy the grain, or see it distributed to the people? If the fighting is as bad as what we’ve seen on the banks. . . . Well. You cannot feed a people for twenty years and feel nothing for them when they must be starving.”
“A Gray Man,” Egwene said, and Elayne jumped, trying to look in every direction at once. The glow of saidar surrounded her.
“Where?”
Egwene took a slower look around the decks, but to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. Captain Ellisor still stood in the stern, by the shirtless man holding the long tiller. Another sailor was up in the very bow, scanning the waters ahead for signs of submerged mudbanks, and two more padded about the deck, now and again adjusting a rope to the sails. The rest of the crew were all below. One of the pair stopped to check the lashings on the rowboat tied upside down on the deck; she waited for him to go on before speaking.
“Fool!” she muttered softly. “Me, Elayne, not you, so don’t glower at me like that.” She continued in a whisper. “A Gray Man is after Mat, Elayne. That must be what that dream meant, but I never saw it. I am a fool!”
The glow around Elayne vanished. “Do not be so hard on yourself,” she whispered back. “Perhaps it does mean that, but I did not see it, and neither did Nynaeve.” She paused; red-gold curls swung as she shook her head. “But it doesn’t make sense, Egwene. Why would a Gray Man be after Mat? There is nothing in my letter to my mother that could harm us in the slightest.”
“I do not know why.” Egwene frowned. “There has to be a reason. I am sure that is what that dream means.”
“Even if you are right, Egwene, there is nothing you can do about it.”
“I know that,” Egwene said bitterly. She did not even know whether he was ahead of them or behind. Ahead, she suspected; Mat would have left without any delay. “Either way,” she muttered to herself, “it does no good. I finally know what one of my dreams means, and it doesn’t help a hemstitch worth!”
“But if you know one meaning,” Elayne told her, “perhaps now you will know others. If we sit down and talk them over, perhaps—”
The Blue Crane gave a shuddering lurch, throwing Elayne to the deck and Egwene on top of her. When Egwene struggled to her feet, the shoreline no longer slid by. The vessel had halted, with the bow raised and the deck canted to one side. The sails flapped noisily in the wind.
Chin Ellisor pushed himself to his feet and ran for the bow, leaving the tillerman to rise on his own. “You blind worm of a farmer!” he roared toward the man in the bow, who was clinging to the rail to keep from falling the rest of the way over. “You dirt-grubbing get of a goat! Haven’t you been on the river long enough yet to recognize how the water ruffles over a mudflat?” He seized the man on the rail by the shoulders and pulled him back onto the deck, but only to shove him out of the way so he could peer down over the bow himself. “If you’ve put a hole in my hull, I will use your guts for caulking!”
The other crewmen were clambering to their feet, now, and more came scrambling up from below. They all ran to cluster around the captain.
Nynaeve appeared at the head of the ladder that led down to the passenger cabins, still straightening her skirts. With a sharp tug at her braid, she frowned at the knot of men in the bow, then strode to Egwene and Elayne. “He ran us onto something, did he? After all his talk of knowing the river as well as he knows his wife. The woman probably never receives as much as a smile from him.” She jerked the thick braid again and went forward, pushing her way through the sailors to reach the captain. They were all intent on the water below.
There was no point in joining her. He will have us off faster if he’s left to it. Nynaeve was probably telling him how to do the work. Elayne seemed to feel the same way, from the rueful shake of the head she gave as she watched the captain and crewmen all turn their attention respectfully from whatever was under the bow to Nynaeve.
A ripple of agitation ran through the men, and grew stronger. For a moment the captain’s hands could be seen, waving in protest over the other men’s heads, and then Nynaeve was striding away from them—they made way, bowing now�
��with Ellisor hurrying beside her and mopping his round face with a large red handkerchief. His anxious voice became audible as they drew near.
“. . . a good fifteen miles to the next village on the Andor side, Aes Sedai, and at least five or six miles downriver on the Cairhien side! Andoran soldiers hold it, it is true, but they do not hold the miles from here to there!” He wiped at his face as if he were dripping sweat.
“A sunken ship,” Nynaeve told the the other two women. “The work of river brigands, the captain thinks. He means to try backing off it with the sweeps, but he does not seem to think that will work.”
“We were running fast when we hit, Aes Sedai. I wanted to make good speed for you.” Ellisor rubbed even harder at his face. He was afraid the Aes Sedai would blame him, Egwene realized. “We are stuck hard. But I do not think we are taking water, Aes Sedai. There is no need to worry. Another ship will be along. Two sets of sweeps will surely get us free. There is no need for you to be put ashore, Aes Sedai. I do swear it, by the Light.”
“You were thinking of leaving the ship?” Egwene asked. “Do you think that is wise?”
“Of course, it’s—!” Nynaeve stopped and frowned at her. Egwene returned the frown with a level stare. Nynaeve went on in a calmer tone, if still a tight one. “The captain says it may be an hour before another ship comes along. One with enough sweeps to make a difference. Or a day. Or two, maybe. I do not think we can afford to waste a day or two waiting. We can be in this village—what did you call it, Captain? Jurene?—we can walk to Jurene in two hours or less. If Captain Ellisor frees his vessel as quickly as he hopes, we can reboard then. He says he will stop to see if we are there. If he does not get free, though, we can take ship from Jurene. We may even find a vessel waiting. The captain says traders do stop there, because of the Andoran soldiers.” She drew a deep breath, but her voice grew tighter. “Have I explained my reasoning fully enough? Do you need more?”
“It is clear to me,” Elayne put in quickly before Egwene could speak. “And it sounds a good idea. You think it is a good idea, too, don’t you, Egwene?”
Egwene gave a grudging nod. “I suppose it is.”
“But, Aes Sedai,” Ellisor protested, “at least go to the Andor bank. The war, Aes Sedai. Brigands, and every sort of ruffian, and the soldiers not much better. The very wreck under our bow shows the sort of men they are.”
“We have not seen a living soul on the Cairhien side,” Nynaeve said, “and in any case, we are far from defenseless, Captain. And I will not walk fifteen miles when I can walk six.”
“Of course, Aes Sedai.” Ellisor really was sweating, now. “I did not mean to suggest. . . . Of course you are not defenseless, Aes Sedai. I did not mean to suggest it.” He wiped his face furiously, but it still glistened.
Nynaeve opened her mouth, glanced at Egwene, and seemed to change what she had intended to say. “I am going below for my things,” she told the air halfway between Egwene and Elayne, then turned on Ellisor. “Captain, make your rowboat ready.” He bowed and scurried away even before she turned for the hatch, and was shouting for men to put the boat over the side before she was below.
“If one of you says ‘up,’ ” Elayne murmured, “the other says ‘down.’ If you do not stop it, we may not reach Tear.”
“We will reach Tear,” Egwene said. “And sooner once Nynaeve realizes she is not the Wisdom any longer. We are all”—she did not say Accepted; there were two many men hurrying about—“on the same level, now.” Elayne sighed.
In short order the rowboat had ferried them ashore, and they were standing on the bank with walking staffs in hand, their belongings in bundles on their backs, and hung about them in pouches and scripts. Rolling grassland and scattered copses surrounded them, though the hills were forested a few miles in from the river. The sweeps on the Blue Crane were cutting up froth, but failing to budge the vessel. Egwene turned and started south without another glance. And before Nynaeve could take the lead.
When the others caught up to her, Elayne gave her a reproving look. Nynaeve walked staring straight ahead. Elayne told Nynaeve what Egwene had said about Mat and a Gray Man, but the older woman listened in silence and only said, “He’ll have to look after himself,” without pausing in her stride. After a time, the Daughter-Heir gave up trying to make the other two talk, and they all walked in silence.
Clumps of trees close along the riverbank soon hid the Blue Crane, thick growths of wateroak and willow. They did not go through the copses, small as they were, for anything at all might be hiding in the shadows under their branches. A few low bushes grew scattered between the thickets here close to the river, but they were too sparse to hide a child much less a brigand, and they were widely spaced.
“If we do see brigands,” Egwene announced, “I am going to defend myself. There is no Amyrlin looking over our shoulders here.”
Nynaeve’s mouth thinned. “If need be,” she told the air in front of her, “we can frighten off any brigands the way we did those Whitecloaks. If we can find no other way.”
“I wish you would not talk of brigands,” Elayne said. “I would like to reach this village without—”
A figure in brown and gray rose from behind a bush standing by itself almost in front of them.
CHAPTER
38
Maidens of the Spear
Egwene embraced saidar before the scream was well out of her mouth, and she saw the glow around Elayne, too. For an instant she wondered if Ellisor had heard their screams and would send help; the Blue Crane could not be more than a mile upriver. Then she was dismissing the need for help, already weaving flows of Air and Fire into lightning. She could almost still hear their yelling.
Nynaeve was simply standing there with her arms crossed beneath her breasts and a firm expression on her face, but Egwene was not sure whether that was because she was not angry enough to touch the True Source, or because she had already seen what Egwene was just now seeing. The person facing them was a woman no older than Egwene herself, if somewhat taller.
She did not let go of saidar. Men were sometimes silly enough to think a woman was harmless merely because she was a woman; Egwene had no such illusions. In a corner of her mind she noted that Elayne was no longer surrounded by the glow. The Daughter-Heir must still harbor foolish notions. She was never a Seanchan prisoner.
Egwene did not think many men would be stupid enough to think the woman in front of them was not dangerous, even though her hands were empty and she wore no visible weapon. Blue-green eyes and reddish hair cut short except for a narrow tail that hung to her shoulders; soft, laced knee-boots and close-fitting coat and breeches all in the shades of earth and rock. Such coloring and clothing had been described to her once; this woman was Aiel.
Looking at her, Egwene felt a sudden odd affinity for the woman. She could not understand it. She looks like Rand’s cousin, that’s why. Yet even that feeling—almost of kinship—could not stifle her curiosity. What under the Light are Aiel doing here? They never leave the Waste; not since the Aiel War. She had heard all of her life how deadly Aiel were—these Maidens of the Spear no less than the members of the male warrior societies—but she felt no particular fear and, indeed, some irritation at having been afraid. With saidar feeding the One Power into her, she had no need to fear anyone. Except maybe a fully trained sister, she admitted. But certainly not one woman, even if she is Aiel.
“My name is Aviendha,” the Aiel woman said, “of the Nine Valleys sept of the Taardad Aiel.” Her face was as flat and expressionless as her voice. “I am Far Dareis Mai, a Maiden of the Spear.” She paused a moment, studying them. “You have not the look in your faces, but we saw the rings. In your lands, you have women much like our Wise Ones, the women called Aes Sedai. Are you women of the White Tower, or not?”
For a moment Egwene did feel unease. We? She looked around them carefully, but saw no one behind any bush within twenty paces.
If there were others, they had to be in the next thicket,
more than two hundred paces ahead, or in the last one, twice that distance behind. Too far to threaten. Unless they have bows. But they would have to be good with them. Back home, in the competitions at Bel Tine and Sunday, only the best bowmen shot at any distance much beyond two hundred paces.
But she still felt better knowing she could hurl a lightning bolt at anyone who tried such a shot.
“We are women of the White Tower,” Nynaeve said calmly. She was very obvious in not looking around for other Aiel. Even Elayne was peering about. “Whether you would consider any of us wise is another matter,” Nynaeve went on. “What do you want of us?”
Aviendha smiled. She was really quite lovely, Egwene realized; the grim expression had masked it. “You talk as the Wise Ones do. To the point, and small suffering of fools.” Her smile faded, but her voice remained calm. “One of us lies gravely hurt, perhaps dying. The Wise Ones often heal those who would surely die without them, and I have heard Aes Sedai can do more. Will you aid her?”
Egwene almost shook her head in confusion. A friend of hers is dying? She sounds as if she is asking if we’ll lend her a cup of barley flour!
“I will help her if I can,” Nynaeve said slowly. “I cannot make promises, Aviendha. She may die despite anything I can do.”
“Death comes for us all,” the Aiel said. “We can only choose how to face it when it comes. I will take you to her.”
Two women in Aiel garb stood up no more than ten paces away, one out of a little fold in the ground that Egwene would not have supposed could hide a dog, and the other in grass that reached only halfway to her knees. They lowered their black veils as they stood—that gave her another jolt; she was sure Elayne had told her the Aiel only hid their faces when they might have to do killing—and settled the cloth that had wrapped their heads about their shoulders. One had the same reddish hair as Aviendha, with gray eyes, the other dark blue eyes and hair like fire. Neither was any older than Egwene or Elayne, and both looked ready to use the short spears in their hands.
The Dragon Reborn Page 45