“We” certainly meant the small coterie of sisters she had gathered around her; Carlinya and Beonin and the rest held as much real sway as most Sitters, if not actually in the Hall. “Elaida was sending out demands for every sister to return to the Tower, so we chose ten sisters to do just that, by the fastest means they could manage. They all should be there long since. Quietly making sure that every sister in the Tower understands the truth of what the Reds did with Logain. Not—” She hesitated, then finished in a rush. “Not even the Hall knows of them.”
Egwene stepped away, rubbing her temples again. Quietly making sure. In the hope that Elaida would be deposed. Not exactly a bad scheme, really; it might even work, eventually. It might take years, too. But then, for most sisters, the longer they could go without truly doing anything, the better. With enough time, they could convince the world that the White Tower had never really broken. It had been broken before, even if only a handful knew it. Maybe, with enough time, they could find a way to adjust everything so it had not, really. “Why keep it from the Hall, Sheriam? Surely you don’t think any of them would betray your plan to Elaida.” Half the sisters eyed the other half askance for fear of Elaida’s sympathizers. Partly for fear of that.
“Mother, a sister who decided that what we do is a mistake would hardly let herself be chosen a Sitter. Any such would have taken herself away long since.” Sheriam had not relaxed, but her voice took on the patient, instructing tone she seemed to think had the greatest effect on Egwene. Usually, though, she was more adroit at changing the subject. “Those suspicions are the worst problem we face for the time being. No one really trusts anyone. If we could only see how to—”
“The Black Ajah,” Siuan cut in quietly. “That’s what chills your blood like a silverpike up your skirts. Who can say for sure who is Black, and who can say what a Black sister might do?”
Sheriam darted another hard look at Siuan, but after a moment the force went out of her. Or rather, one sort of tension replaced another. She glanced at Egwene, then nodded, reluctantly. By the sour twist to her mouth, she would have made another evasion had it not been plain Egwene would not stand for it. Most sisters in the camp believed now, but after more than three thousand years denying the Black Ajah’s existence, it was a queasy belief. Almost no one would open her mouth on that topic, no matter what they believed.
“The question, Mother,” Siuan went on, “is what happens when the Hall does find out.” She seemed to be thinking aloud again. “I can’t see any Sitter accepting the excuse that she couldn’t be told because she might be on Elaida’s side. And as for the possibility she might be Black Ajah. . . . Yes, I think they will be quite upset.”
Sheriam’s face paled slightly. It was a wonder she did not go dead white. “Upset” did not begin to cover it. Yes, Sheriam would face much more than upset if this came out.
Now was the time to drive home her advantage, but another question occurred to Egwene. If Sheriam and her friends had sent—what were they? Not spies. Ferrets, maybe, sent into the walls after rats—if Sheriam had sent ferrets into the White Tower, could . . . ?
A sudden stab of pain through that pocket of sensations in the back of her head sent everything else flying. Had she felt it directly, it would have been numbing. As it was, her eyes bulged in shock. A man who could channel was touching the necklace around Moghedien’s neck; this was one link no man could be brought into. Pain, and something unheard of from Moghedien. Hope. And then it was all gone, the awareness, the emotions. The necklace was off.
“I . . . need some fresh air,” she managed. Sheriam started to rise, and Siuan, but she waved them back down. “No, I want to be alone,” she said hastily. “Siuan, find out everything Sheriam knows about the ferrets. Light, I mean the ten sisters.” They both stared at her, but thank the Light, neither followed as she snatched the lantern from its hook and hurried out.
It would not do for the Amyrlin to be seen running, yet she came close, hoisting her divided skirts as well as she could with her free hand and very nearly trotting. A cloudless sky made the moonlight bright, dappling the tents and wagons with shadows. Most people in the camp were asleep, but low fires still burned here and there. A handful of Warders were about, a few servants. Too many eyes to see if she ran. The last thing she wanted was someone offering help. She realized she was panting, but from alarm, not exertion.
Thrusting her head and the lantern into “Marigan’s” tiny tent, she found it empty. The blankets that made up the pallet on the ground lay in a sprawl, tossed aside by someone in a hurry.
And what if she had still been here? she wondered. With the necklace off, and maybe whoever freed her? Shivering, she withdrew slowly. Moghedien had good reason to dislike her, very personally, and the only sister who could match one of the Forsaken alone, when she could channel at all, was in Ebou Dar. Moghedien could have killed Egwene without anyone noticing; even had a sister felt her channel, there would be nothing remarkable in that. Worse, Moghedien might not have killed her. And no one would have known anything until they found the pair of them gone.
“Mother,” Chesa fussed behind her, “you should not be out in the night air. Night air is bad air. If you wanted Marigan, I could have fetched her.”
Egwene very nearly jumped. She had not been aware of Chesa following her. She studied the people at the nearest fires. They had gathered for companionship, not warmth in this unholy heat, and they were not close, but maybe someone had seen who went into “Marigan’s” tent. She certainly had few visitors. And no men among them. A man might well have been remarked. “I think she has run away, Chesa.”
“Why, that wicked woman!” Chesa exclaimed. “I always said she had a mean mouth and a sneaking eye. Slinking away like a thief after you took her in. She’d be starving by a road, if not for you. No gratitude at all!”
She followed all the way back to the tent where Egwene slept, nattering on about wickedness in general, the thanklessness of “Marigan” in particular, and how that sort should be handled, which seemed to jump between switching them till they settled down and tossing them out before they could run away, tucked around cautions that Egwene check her jewelry to be sure it was all still there.
Egwene barely heard. Her mind spun. It could not have been Logain, could it? He could not have known about Moghedien, much less come back to rescue her. Could he? Those men Rand was gathering, those Asha’man. Rumor in every village carried whispers of Asha’man and the Black Tower. Most of the sisters tried to pretend they were unaffected by dozens of men who could channel gathering in one spot—the worst of the tales had to be inflated; rumor always exaggerated—but Egwene’s toes wanted to curl under with fright whenever she thought of them. An Asha’man could have. . . . But why? How would he have known, any more than Logain?
She was trying to avoid the only reasonable conclusion. Something far worse than Logain come back, or even Asha’man. One of the Forsaken had freed Moghedien. Rahvin was dead by Rand’s hand, according to Nynaeve, and he had killed Ishamael as well, or so it seemed. And Aginor and Balthamel. Moiraine had killed Be’lal. That left only Asmodean, Demandred and Sammael among the men. Sammael was in Illian. No one knew where the others were, or any of the women who survived. Moiraine had done for Lanfear too, or they had done for each other, but all the other women were still alive, so far as anyone knew. Forget the women. It had been a man. Which? Plans had been laid long since in case one of the Forsaken struck at the camp. No one sister here could equal any of the Forsaken by herself, but linked in circles was another matter, and any Forsaken who stepped into their camp would find circles forming on every side of him. Or her. Once they realized who she was. The Forsaken showed no signs of agelessness, for some reason. Maybe it was some effect of being connected to the Dark One. They. . . .
This was dithering. She had to start thinking clearly.
“Chesa?”
“. . . . look like you need your head rubbed for the ache again is what, is what you. . . . Yes, Mother?�
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“Find Siuan and Leane. Tell them to come to me. But don’t let anyone hear you.”
Grinning, Chesa dropped a curtsy and scampered out. She could hardly avoid knowing the currents that swirled around Egwene, yet she found all the plotting and scheming fun. Not that she knew more than surface, and little enough of that. Egwene did not doubt her loyalty, but Chesa’s opinion of what was exciting might change if she learned the depth of those swirls.
Channeling the oil lamps inside the tent alight, Egwene blew out the lantern and set it carefully in a corner. Maybe she had to think clearly, but she still felt as if she was stumbling in the dark.
CHAPTER
9
A Pair of Silverpike
Egwene was sitting in her chair—one of the few real chairs in the camp, with a little plain carving like a farmer’s best armchair, roomy and comfortable enough that she felt only a touch of guilt about taking up valuable wagon space for it—she was sitting there trying to pull her thoughts together when Siuan swept aside the entry flaps and ducked into the tent. Siuan was not happy.
“Why in the Light did you run off?” Her voice had not changed with her face, and she chided with the best even when she did it in respectful tones. Barely respectful. Her blue eyes remained the same, too; they could have done for a saddlemaker’s awls. “Sheriam brushed me aside like a fly.” That surprisingly delicate mouth twisted bitterly. “She was gone almost as soon as you were. Don’t you realize she handed herself to you? She certainly does. Her, and Anaiya and Morvrin and the lot of them. You can be sure they’ll spend tonight trying to bail water and patch holes. They could manage it. I don’t see how, but they might.”
Almost as the last word left her mouth, Leane entered. A tall, willowy woman, her coppery face was as youthful as Siuan’s, and for the same reason; she also was more than old enough to be Egwene’s mother, in truth. Leane took one look at Siuan and threw up her hands as much as the roof of the tent would allow. “Mother, this is a foolish risk.” Her dark eyes went from dreamy to flashing, but her voice had a languorous quality even when she was irritated. Once, it had been brisk. “If anyone sees Siuan and me together this way—”
“I don’t care if the whole camp learns your squabbling is a fraud,” Egwene broke in sharply, weaving a small barrier against eavesdropping around the three of them. It could be worked through with time, but not without detection, so long as she held the weave instead of tying it off.
She did care, and perhaps she should not have called them both, but her first half-coherent thought had been to summon the two sisters she could count on. No one in the camp so much as suspected. Everyone knew the former Amyrlin and her former Keeper detested one another every bit as much as Siuan detested being tutor to her successor. Should any sister uncover the truth, they might well find themselves doing penance for a long time to come, and not an easy one—Aes Sedai appreciated being made fools of even less than other people; kings had been made to pay for that—but in the meanwhile their supposed animosity resulted in a certain leverage with the other sisters, including Sitters. If they both said the same thing, it must be so. Another incidental effect of being stilled was very useful, one no one else knew about. The Three Oaths no longer held them; they could lie like wool merchants, now.
Schemes and deceptions on every side. The camp was like some fetid swamp where strange growths sprouted unseen in mists. Maybe anywhere Aes Sedai gathered was like that. After three thousand years of plotting, however necessary, it was hardly surprising that scheming had become second nature to most sisters and only a breath away for the rest. The truly horrible thing was that she found herself beginning to enjoy all the machinations. Not for their own sake, but as puzzles, though no twisted bits of iron could intrigue her a quarter so much. What that said about her, she did not want to know. Well, she was Aes Sedai, whatever anyone thought, and she had to take the bad of it with the good.
“Moghedien has escaped,” she went on without pause. “A man removed the a’dam from her. A man who can channel. I think one of them took the necklace away; it wasn’t in her tent, that I saw. There might be some way to find it using the bracelet, but if there is, I don’t know it.”
That took the starch right out of them. Leane’s legs gave way, and she dropped like a sack onto the stool Chesa sometimes used. Siuan sat down on the cot slowly, back very straight, hands very still on her knees. Incongruously, Egwene noticed that her dress had tiny blue flowers embroidered in a wide Tairen maze around the bottom, a band that made the divided skirts seem one when she was still. Another band curved becomingly across the bodice. Concern for her clothes, that they be pretty instead of just suitable, was certainly a small change, looking at it one way—she never took it to extremes—yet in another, it was as drastic as her face. And a puzzle. Siuan resented the changes, and resisted them. Except for this one.
Leane, on the other hand, in true Aes Sedai fashion embraced what had changed. A young woman again—Egwene had overheard a Yellow exclaiming in wonder that both were prime childbearing age, by everything she could find—she might never have been Keeper, never have had any other face. The very image of practicality and efficiency became the ideal of an indolent and alluring Domani woman. Even her riding dress was cut in the style of her native land, and no matter that its silk, so thin it barely seemed opaque, was as impractical as the pale green color for traveling dusty roads. Told that having been stilled had broken all ties and associations, Leane had chosen the Green Ajah over a return to the Blue. Changing Ajahs was not done, but then, no one had been stilled and then Healed before, either. Siuan had gone right back into the Blue, grumbling over the idiotic need to “entreat and appeal for acceptance” as the formal phrase went.
“Oh, Light!” Leane breathed as she thumped onto the stool with considerably less than her usual grace. “We should have turned her over for trial the first day. Nothing we’ve learned from her is worth letting her loose on the world again. Nothing!” It was a measure of her shock; she did not normally go about stating the obvious. Her brain had not grown indolent, whatever her outward demeanor. Languid and seductive Domani women might be on the outside, but they were still known as the sharpest traders anywhere.
“Blood and bloody—! We should have had her watched,” Siuan growled through her teeth.
Egwene’s eyebrows rose. Siuan must be as shaken as Leane. “By who, Siuan? Faolain? Theodrin? They don’t even know you two are of my party.” A party? Five women. And Faolain and Theodrin were hardly eager adherents, especially Faolain. Nynaeve and Elayne could be counted too, of course, and Birgitte certainly, even if she was not Aes Sedai, but they were a long way off. Stealth and cunning were still her major strengths. Plus the fact that no one expected them of her. “How should I have explained to anyone why they were supposed to watch my serving woman? For that matter, what good would it have done? It had to be one of the Forsaken. Do you really think Faolain and Theodrin together could have stopped him? I’m not sure I could have, even linked with Romanda and Lelaine.” They were the next two strongest women in the camp, as strong in the Power as Siuan used to be.
Siuan visibly forced a scowl from her face, but even so, she snorted. She often said that if she could no longer be Amyrlin, then she would teach Egwene how to be the best Amyrlin ever, yet the transition from lion on a hill to mouse underfoot was difficult. Egwene allowed her no little latitude because of that.
“I want the two of you to ask about among those near the tent Moghedien was sleeping in. Someone must have seen the man. He had to come afoot. Anybody opening a gateway inside a space that little risked cutting her in two, however small he wove it.”
Siuan snorted, louder than the first time. “Why bother?” she growled. “Do you mean to go chasing after like some fool hero in a gleeman’s fool story and bring her back? Maybe tie up all the Forsaken at one go? Win the Last Battle while you’re at it? Even if we get a description head to toe, nobody knows one Forsaken from another. Nobody here, anyway. It�
�s the most bloody useless barrel of fish guts I ever—!”
“Siuan!” Egwene said sharply, sitting up straighter. Latitude was one thing, but there were limits. She did not put up with this even from Romanda.
Color bloomed slowly in Siuan’s cheeks. Struggling to master herself, she kneaded her skirts and avoided Egwene’s eyes. “Forgive me, Mother,” she said finally. She almost sounded as if she meant it.
“It has been a difficult day for her, Mother,” Leane put in with an impish smile. She was very good at those, though she generally used them to set some man’s heart racing. Not promiscuously, of course; she possessed discrimination and discretion in ample supply. “But then, most are. If she could only learn not to throw things at Gareth Bryne every time she gets angry—”
“Enough!” Egwene snapped. Leane was only trying to take a little of the pressure from Siuan, but she was in no mood for it. “I want to know anything I can learn about whoever freed Moghedien, even if it’s just whether he was short or tall. Any scrap that makes him less a shadow creeping in the dark. If that’s not more than I have a right to ask.” Leane sat quite still, staring at the flowers in the carpet in front of her toes.
The redness spread to cover nearly Siuan’s whole face; with her fair skin, it made her look like a sunset. “I . . . humbly beg your pardon, Mother.” This time, she did sound penitent. Her difficulty meeting Egwene’s gaze was obvious. “Sometimes it’s hard to. . . . No, no excuses. I humbly beg pardon.”
Egwene fingered her stole, letting the moment set itself as she looked at Siuan without blinking. That was something Siuan herself had taught her, but after a bit she shifted uneasily on the cot. When you knew you were in the wrong, silence pricked, and the pricks drove home that you were wrong. Silence was a very useful tool in a number of situations. “Since I can’t recall what I should forgive,” she said at last, quietly, “there seems to be no need. But, Siuan. . . . Don’t let it happen again.”
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