The Shadow Rising twot-4

by Robert Jordan

  It makes no sense, a small voice said in the back of her head. If she's a Black sister I don't know about, why did she not hand us over to Liandrin? She could have. We'd have gone with her like lambs.

  Cold rage would not let her listen. A Black sister had made her dance like a puppet and then told her to forget. Ordered her to forget! And she had! Well, now the woman would find out what it was like to face her ready and forewarned!

  Before she could reach for the True Source, Birgitte was suddenly beside the next column in that short white coat and wide yellow trousers gathered at the ankle. Birgitte, or some woman dreaming she was Birgitte, with golden hair in an elaborate braid. A warning finger pressed against her lips, she pointed at Nynaeve, then urgently toward one of the double-arched doorways behind them. Bright blue eyes compelling, she vanished.

  Nynaeve shook her head. Whoever the woman was, she had no time. Opening herself to saidar, she turned, filled to overflowing with the One Power and righteous wrath. The woman clothed in mist was gone. Gone! Because that golden-haired fool had distracted her! Perhaps that one was still about, waiting for her. Wrapped in the Power, she strode through the doorway the woman had indicated.

  The golden-haired woman was waiting in a brightly carpeted hallway where unlit golden lamps gave off the scent of perfumed oil. She held a silver bow now, and a quiver of silver arrows hung at her waist.

  "Who are you?" Nynaeve demanded furiously. She would give the woman a chance to explain herself. And then teach her a lesson she would not soon forget! "Are you the same fool who shot at me in the Waste, claiming she was Birgitte? I was about to teach a member of the Black Ajah manners when you let her get away!"

  "I am Birgitte," the woman said, leaning on her bow. "At least, that is the name you would know. And the lesson might have been yours, here as surely as in the Three-fold Land. I remember the lives I have lived as if they were books well-read, the longer gone dimmer than the nearer, but I remember well when I fought at Lews Therin's side. I will never forget Moghedien's face, any more than I will forget the face of Asmodean, the man you almost disturbed at Rhuidean."

  Asmodean? Moghedien? That woman was one of the Forsaken? A Forsaken in Tanchico. And one at Rhuidean, in the Waste! Egwene would certainly have said something if she knew. No way to warn her, not for seven days. Anger — and saidar — surged in her. "What are you doing here? I know that you all vanished after the Horn of Valere called you, but you are…" She trailed off, a trifle flustered at what she had been about to say, but the other woman calmly finished for her.

  "Dead? Those of us who are bound to the Wheel are not dead as others are dead. Where better for us to wait until the Wheel weaves us out in new lives than in the World of Dreams?" Birgitte laughed suddenly. "I begin to talk as if I were a philosopher. In almost every life I can remember I was born a simple girl who took up the bow. I am an archer, no more."

  "You're the heroine of a hundred tales," Nynaeve said. "And I saw what your arrows did at Falme. Seanchan channeling did not touch you. Birgitte, we face near a dozen of the Black Ajah. And one of the Forsaken as well, it seems. We could use your help."

  The other woman grimaced, embarrassed and regretful. "I cannot, Nynaeve. I cannot touch the world of flesh unless the Horn calls me again. Or else the Wheel weaves me out. If it did this moment, you would find only an infant mewling at her mother's breast. As for Falme, the Horn had called us; we were not there as you were, in the flesh. That is why the Power could not touch us. Here, all is part of the dream, and the One Power could destroy me as easily as you. More easily. I told you; I am an archer, a sometime soldier, no more." Her complex golden braid swung as she shook her head. "I do not know why I am explaining. I should not even be talking to you."

  "Why not? You've spoken to me before. And Egwene thought she saw you. That was you, wasn't it?" Nynaeve frowned. "How do you know my name? Do you just know things?"

  "I know what I see and hear. I have watched you, and listened, whenever I could find you. You and the other two women, and the young man with his wolves. According to the precepts, we may speak to none who know they are in Tel'aran'rhiod. And yet, evil walks the dream as well as the world of flesh; you who fight it attract me. Even knowing I can do almost nothing, I find myself wanting to help you. But I cannot. It violates the precepts, precepts which have held me for so many turns of the Wheel that in my oldest, faintest memories I know I had already lived a hundred times, or a thousand. Speaking to you violates precepts as strong as law."

  "It does," said a harsh, male voice.

  Nynaeve jumped and almost lashed out with the Power. The man was dark and strongly muscled, with the long hilts of two swords thrusting above his shoulders as he strode the few paces from where he had appeared to Birgitte. With what she had heard from Birgitte, the swords were enough to name him as Gaidal Cain, but where fair, golden-haired Birgitte was as beautiful as in the stories, he was definitely not. In fact, he was perhaps as ugly a man as Nynaeve had ever seen, his face wide and flat, his heavy nose too big, and his mouth a gash, far too broad. Birgitte smiled at him, though; her touch on his cheek held more than fondness. It was a surprise to see he was the shorter. Stocky and muscled as he was, powerful in his movements, he gave the impression of being taller than he was.

  "We have almost always been linked," Birgitte told Nynaeve without taking her eyes from Cain's. "He is usually born well before me — so I know my time approaches again when I cannot find him — and I usually hate him at first sight in the flesh. But we nearly always end lovers or wed. A simple story, but I think we have spun it out in a thousand variations."

  Cain ignored Nynaeve as though she did not exist. "The precepts exist for a reason, Birgitte. Nothing but strife and trouble has ever come from breaking them." His voice was indeed harsh, Nynaeve realized. Not at all like that of the man in the stories.

  "Perhaps I cannot sit by while evil fights," Birgitte said quietly. "Or perhaps I simply hunger for the flesh again. It has been long since we were born last. The Shadow rises again, Gaidal. It rises here. We must fight it. That is the reason we were bound to the Wheel."

  "When the Horn calls us, we will fight. When the Wheel weaves us, we will fight. Not until then!" He glowered at her. "Have you forgotten what Moghedien promised you when we followed Lews Therin? I saw her, Birgitte. She will know you here."

  Birgitte turned to Nynaeve. "I will aid you as I can, but do not expect too much. Tel'aran'rhiod is the whole of my world, and I can do less here than you."

  Nynaeve blinked; the dark, heavy man had not moved that she had seen, but he suddenly stood two paces away, drawing a honing stone along one of his swords with a soft, silky rasp. Plainly, as far as he was concerned, Birgitte was speaking to the air.

  "What can you tell of Moghedien, Birgitte? I must know what I can, to face her."

  Leaning on her bow, Birgitte frowned thoughtfully. "Facing Moghedien is difficult, and not only because she is Forsaken. She hides and takes no risks. She attacks only where she sees weakness, and moves only in shadows. If she fears defeat, she will run; she is not one to fight to the last, even when doing so has the chance of victory. A chance is not enough for Moghedien. But do not take her lightly. She is a serpent coiled in high grass, waiting her own moment to strike, with less compassion than the snake. Especially here do not take her lightly. Lanfear always claimed Tel'aran'rhiod for her own, but Moghedien could do things here far beyond Lanfear, though she has not Lanfear's strength in the world of flesh. I think she would not take the risk of confronting Lanfear."

  Nynaeve shivered, fear warring with the anger that let her contain the Power. Moghedien. Lanfear. This woman spoke so casually of the Forsaken. "Birgitte, what did Moghedien promise you?"

  "She knew what I was, even though I did not. How, I do not know." Birgitte glanced at Cain; he appeared absorbed in his sword, but she lowered her voice anyway. "She promised to make me weep alone for as long as the Wheel turns. She said it as a fact that simply had not happened yet
."

  "And yet you are willing to help."

  "As I can, Nynaeve. Remember that I told you not to expect too much." Once more she looked at the man sharpening his sword. "We will meet again, Nynaeve. If you are careful, and survive." Hefting her silver bow, she went to put an arm around Cain's shoulders and murmur in his ear. Whatever she said, Cain was laughing as they vanished.

  Nynaeve shook her head. Careful. Everybody was telling her to be careful. A legendary hero who said she would help, only there was not much she could do. And one of the Forsaken in Tanchico.

  The thought of Moghedien, of what the woman had done to her, strengthened her anger until the One Power pulsed in her like the sun. Abruptly she was back in the great hall where she had been standing before, almost hoping the woman had returned. But the hall was empty of life except for herself. Fury and the Power roared through her till she thought her skin would crisp and blacken. Moghedien, or any of the Black sisters, could sense her far more easily holding the Power than without, but she held it anyway. She almost wanted them to find her, so she could strike at them. Temaile was very likely still in Tel'aran'rhiod. If she went back up to that bedchamber, she could settle Temaile once and for all. She could settle Temaile — and warn the rest. It was enough to make her growl.

  What had Moghedien been smiling at? Striding out to the case, a wide glass box atop a carved table, she peered in. Six mismatched figurines stood in a circle beneath the glass. A foot-tall nude woman balanced on the toes of one foot, dancing, all flowing lines, and a shepherd less than half as large, playing the pipes with his crook on his shoulder and a sheep at his feet, were as similar as any two. She had no doubt what had attracted the Forsaken's smile, though.

  In the center of the circle a red-lacquered wooden stand held a disc as big as a man's hand, divided into halves by a sinuous line, one side gleaming whiter than snow, the other blacker than pitch. It was made of cuendillar, she knew; she had seen its like, and only seven had ever been made. One of the seals on the Dark One's prison; a focus for one of the locks that held him away from the world in Shayol Ghul. This was perhaps as important a discovery as whatever it was that threatened Rand. This had to be gotten away from the Black Ajah.

  Suddenly she became aware of her reflection. The top of the case was the finest glass, without bubbles, and gave an image as clear as a mirror, if fainter. Dark green folds of silk draped her body so they showed every curve of breast and hip and thigh. Long honey braids full of jade beads framed a face with big brown eyes and a pouting mouth. The glow of saidar did not show, of course. Disguised so she did not even know herself, she walked about carrying a painted sign that screamed Aes Sedai.

  "I can be careful," she muttered. Yet she held on a moment longer. The Power filling her was like life bubbling along her limbs, all the pleasures she had ever known seeping through her flesh. In the end, feeling foolish took enough edge from her anger to allow her to let go. Or maybe it dulled her anger to where she could no longer hold on.

  Whatever the reason, it did not help her search. What she was after had to be somewhere in this huge hall among all these displays. Pulling her eyes away from what looked like the bones of a toothy lizard ten paces long, she closed them. Need. Danger to the Dragon Reborn, to Rand. Need.

  Shift.

  She was standing inside the white silk rope along the walls, the edge of a white stone pedestal touching her dress. What lay on top did not look very dangerous at first glance — a necklace and two bracelets of jointed black metal — but she could come no closer to anything than this. Not without sitting on it, she thought wryly.

  She stretched her hand out to touch it — Pain. Sorrow. Suffering — and jerked it back, gasping, the raw emotions still echoing in her head. Even her faint doubts vanished. This was what the Black Ajah was hunting. And if it still sat on this pedestal in Tel'aran'rhiod, it sat there in the waking world, too. She had beaten them. This white stone pedestal.

  Whirling around, she stared toward the glass case that held the cuendillar seal, located the place she had been standing where she first saw Moghedien. The woman had been looking at this pedestal, at the bracelets and collar. Moghedien had to know. But…

  Everything around her spun and blurred, fading.

  "Wake up, Nynaeve," Elayne muttered, suppressing a yawn as she shook the sleeping woman's shoulders. "It has to be an hour by now. I want some sleep, too. Wake up, or I'll see how you like your head in a bucket of water."

  Nynaeve's eyes popped open, staring up at her. "If she knows what it is, why hasn't she given it to them? If they know who she is, why does she have to look at it in Tel'aran'rhiod! Is she hiding from them, too?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  Braids tossing about as she wriggled up to sit with her back against the head of the bed, Nynaeve jerked her silk shift down. "I will tell you what I am talking about."

  Elayne's mouth fell open as Nynaeve unfolded the tale of what her meeting with Egwene had become. Searching with need. Moghedien. Birgitte and Gaidal Cain. The black metal necklace and bracelets. Asmodean in the Waste. One of the seals on the Dark One's prison in the Panarch's Palace. Elayne sank down weakly onto the side of the mattress long before Nynaeve came to Temaile and the Panarch, thrown in almost as an afterthought. And changing her appearance, masquerading as Rendra. If Nynaeve's face had not been grimly serious, Elayne could have thought it one of Thom's wilder stories.

  Egeanin, sitting up cross-legged in her linen shift, hands on knees, looked close to disbelieving. Elayne hoped Nynaeve did not start a row because she had loosed the woman's wrists.

  Moghedien. That was the most horrifying part. One of the Forsaken in Tanchico. One of the Forsaken weaving the Power around the two of them, making them tell her everything. Elayne could not remember a bit of it. The thought was enough to press both her hands to a suddenly queasy stomach. "I don't know whether Moghedien" — Light, could she really have just walked in and made us…? — "is hiding from Liandrin and the others, Nynaeve. It sounds like what Birgitte" — Light, Birgitte giving her advice! — "said of her."

  "Whatever Moghedien is up to," Nynaeve said in a tight voice, "I mean to pick a bone clean with her." She slumped back against the flower-carved headboard. "In any case, we have to get the seal away from them as well as this necklace and bracelets."

  Elayne shook her head. "How can jewelry be dangerous to Rand? Are you sure? Are they a ter'angreal of some sort? What did they look like exactly?"

  "They looked like a necklace and bracelets," Nynaeve snapped in exasperation. "Two jointed bracelets made of some black metal, and a wide necklace like a black collar…" Her eyes darted to Egeanin, but no faster than Elayne's.

  Unperturbed, the dark-haired woman knelt up to sit on her heels. "I have never heard of an a'dam made for a man, or any like the one you describe. No one tries to control a man who can channel."

  "That is exactly what this is for," Elayne said slowly. Oh, Light, I suppose I was hoping it didn't exist. At least Nynaeve had found it first; at least they had a chance to stop it being used against Rand.

  Nynaeve's eyes narrowed as she took in Egeanin's free hands, but she did not mention them. "Moghedien must be the only one who knows. It makes no sense, otherwise. If we can find a way into the palace, we can take the seal and the… whatever it is. And if we can bring Amathera out as well, Liandrin and her cronies will find the Panarch's Legion and the Civil Watch, and maybe the Whitecloaks, closing in. They'll not all be able to channel their way out of that! The problem is getting inside undetected."

  "I have had a few thoughts on that," Elayne told her, "but I fear the men are going to give us difficulties over it."

  "You leave them to me," Nynaeve snorted. "I—" A thumping clatter rose in the hall, a man shouted; as quickly as it began, silence fell once more. Thom was on watch out there.

  Elayne darted to pull open the door, embracing saidar as she rushed out, but Nynaeve scrambled off the bed right behind her. Egeanin as well.


  Thom was just picking himself up off the floor, a hand to his head. Juilin with his staff and Bayle Domon with his cudgel stood over a man with pale yellow hair lying facedown on the floor, unconscious.

  Elayne hurried to Thom, trying gently to help him up. He gave her a grateful smile, but stubbornly pushed her hands away. "I am quite all right, child." All right? A knot was rising on his temple! "The fellow was walking down the hall, when suddenly he kicked me in the head. After my purse, I suppose." Just like that. Kicked in the head, and he was all right.

  "He would have had it, too," Juilin said, "if I had not come to see if Thom wanted a relief."

  "Did I not decide," Domon muttered. Their hostility seemed less focused for a change.

  It took Elayne only a moment to realize why. Nynaeve and Egeanin were in the hall in their shifts. Juilin was eyeing them both in an approving manner that would have caused trouble if Rendra had seen it, though he was at least trying not to be obvious. Domon made no effort at all to hide his frank appraisal of Egeanin, crossing his arms and pursing his lips in disgusting fashion while looking her up and down.

  The situation dawned on the other women quickly, but their reactions were quite different. Nynaeve, in her thin white silk, gave the thief-catcher a flat stare and strode stiffly into the room, poking a somewhat flushed face back around the side of the doorframe. Egeanin, whose linen shift was considerably longer and thicker than Nynaeve's — Egeanin, who had been cool serenity while being made prisoner, who fought like a Warder — Egeanin went wide-eyed and crimson-faced, gasping in horror. Elayne stared, amazed, as the Seanchan woman gave a mortified shriek and leaped back inside.

  Doors flung open and down the hall heads popped out; they vanished instantly, to the bang of slamming doors, at the sight of a man stretched out on the floor and others standing over him. Heavy dragging noises suggested people blocking themselves in with beds or wardrobes.