The Seanchan at the other end of the room started forward as Ingtar moved, but then they were falling back, too, before Mat’s thrusting dagger even more than from the axe Perrin swung with wordless snarls.
In the space of heartbeats, Rand stood alone, facing Turak, who held his blade upright before him. His moment of shock was gone. His eyes were sharp on Rand’s face; the black and swollen body of one of his soldiers might as well not have existed. It did not seem to exist for the two servants, either, any more than Rand and his sword existed, or the sounds of fighting, fading now from the rooms to either side out into the house. The servants had begun calmly folding Turak’s robe as soon as the High Lord took his sword, and had not looked up even for the dead soldier’s shrieks; now they knelt beside the door and watched with impassive eyes.
“I suspected it might come to you and me.” Turak spun his blade easily, a full circle one way, then the other, his long-nailed fingers moving delicately on the hilt. His fingernails did not seem to hamper him at all. “You are young. Let us see what is required to earn the heron on this side of the ocean.”
Suddenly Rand saw. Standing tall on Turak’s blade was a heron. With the little training he had, he was face-to-face with a real blademaster. Hastily he tossed the fleece-lined cloak aside, ridding himself of weight and encumbrance. Turak waited.
Rand desperately wanted to seek the void. It was plain he would need every shred of ability he could muster, and even then his chances of leaving the room alive would be small. He had to leave alive. Egwene was almost close enough for him to shout to her, and he had to free her, somehow. But saidin waited in the void. The thought made his heart leap with eagerness at the same time that it turned his stomach. But just as close as Egwene were those other women. Damane. If he touched saidin, and if he could not stop himself channeling, they would know, Verin had told him. Know and wonder. So many, so close. He might survive Turak only to die facing damane, and he could not die before Egwene was free. Rand raised his blade.
Turak glided toward him on silent feet. Blade rang on blade like hammer on anvil.
From the first it was clear to Rand that the man was testing him, pushing only hard enough to see what he could do, then pushing a little harder, then just a little harder still. It was quick wrists and quick feet that kept Rand alive as much as skill. Without the void, he was always half a heartbeat behind. The tip of Turak’s heavy sword made a stinging trench just under his left eye. A flap of coat sleeve hung away from his shoulder, the darker for being wet. Under a neat slash beneath his right arm, precise as a tailor’s cut, he could feel warm dampness spreading down his ribs.
There was disappointment on the High Lord’s face. He stepped back with a gesture of disgust. “Where did you find that blade, boy? Or do they here truly award the heron to those no more skilled than you? No matter. Make your peace. It is time to die.” He came on again.
The void enveloped Rand. Saidin flowed toward him, glowing with the promise of the One Power, but he ignored it. It was no more difficult than ignoring a barbed thorn twisting in his flesh. He refused to be filled with the Power, refused to be one with the male half of the True Source. He was one with the sword in his hands, one with the floor beneath his feet, one with the walls. One with Turak.
He recognized the forms the High Lord used; they were a little different from what he had been taught, but not enough. The Swallow Takes Flight met Parting the Silk. Moon on the Water met The Wood Grouse Dances. Ribbon in the Air met Stones Falling From the Cliff. They moved about the room as in a dance, and their music was steel against steel.
Disappointment and disgust faded from Turak’s dark eyes, replaced by surprise, then concentration. Sweat appeared on the High Lord’s face as he pressed Rand harder. Lightning of Three Prongs met Leaf on the Breeze.
Rand’s thoughts floated outside the void, apart from himself, hardly noticed. It was not enough. He faced a blade-master, and with the void and every ounce of his skill he was barely managing to hold his own. Barely. He had to end it before Turak finally did. Saidin? No! Sometimes it is necessary to Sheathe the Sword in your own flesh. But that would not help Egwene, either. He had to end it now. Now.
Turak’s eyes widened as Rand glided forward. So far he had only defended; now he attacked, all out. The Boar Rushes Down the Mountain. Every movement of his blade was an attempt to reach the High Lord; now all Turak could do was retreat and defend, down the length of the room, almost to the door.
In an instant, while Turak still tried to face the Boar, Rand charged. The River Undercuts the Bank. He dropped to one knee, blade slashing across. He did not need Turak’s gasp, or the feel of resistance to his cut to know. He heard two thumps and turned his head, knowing what he would see. He looked down the length of his blade, wet and red, to where the High Lord lay, sword tumbled from his limp hand, a dark dampness staining the birds woven in the carpet under his body. Turak’s eyes were still open, but already filmed with death.
The void shook. He had faced Trollocs before, faced Shadowspawn. Never before had he confronted a human being with a sword except in practice or bluff. I just killed a man. The void shook, and saidin tried to fill him.
Desperately he clawed free, breathing hard as he looked around. He gave a start when he saw the two servants still kneeling beside the door. He had forgotten them, and now he did not know what to do about them. Neither man appeared armed, yet all they had to do was shout. . . .
They never looked at him, or at each other. Instead, they stared silently at the High Lord’s body. They produced daggers from under their robes, and he tightened his grip on the sword, but each man placed the point to his own breast. “From birth to death,” they intoned in unison, “I serve the Blood.” And plunged the daggers into their own hearts. They folded forward almost peacefully, heads to the floor as if bowing deeply to their lord.
Rand stared at them in disbelief. Mad, he thought. Maybe I will go mad, but they already were.
He was getting to his feet shakily when Ingtar and the others came running back. They all bore nicks and cuts; the leather of Ingtar’s coat was stained in more than one place. Mat still had the Horn and his dagger, its blade darker than the ruby in its hilt. Perrin’s axe was red, too, and he looked as if he might be sick at any moment.
“You dealt with them?” Ingtar said, looking at the bodies. “Then we’re done, if no alarm is given. Those fools never cried for help, not once.”
“I will see if the guards heard anything,” Hurin said, and darted for the window.
Mat shook his head. “Rand, these people are crazy. I know I’ve said that before, but these people really are. Those servants. . . .” Rand held his breath, wondering if they had all killed themselves. Mat said, “Whenever they saw us fighting, they fell on their knees, put their faces to the floor, and wrapped their arms around their heads. They never moved, or cried out; never tried to help the soldiers, or give an alarm. They’re still there, as far as I know.”
“I would not count on them staying on their knees,” Ingtar said dryly. “We are leaving now, as fast as we can run.”
“You go,” Rand said. “Egwene—”
“You fool!” Ingtar snapped. “We have what we came for. The Horn of Valere. The hope of salvation. What can one girl count, even if you love her, alongside the Horn, and what it stands for?”
“The Dark One can have the Horn for all I care! What does finding the Horn count if I abandon Egwene to this? If I did that, the Horn couldn’t save me. The Creator couldn’t save me. I would damn myself.”
Ingtar stared at him, his face unreadable. “You mean that exactly, don’t you?”
“Something’s happening out here,” Hurin said urgently. “A man just came running up, and they’re all milling like fish in a bucket. Wait. The officer is coming inside!”
“Go!” Ingtar said. He tried to take the Horn, but Mat was already running. Rand hesitated, but Ingtar grabbed his arm and pulled him into the hall. The others were streaming after M
at; Perrin only gave Rand one pained look before he went. “You cannot save the girl if you stand here and die!”
He ran with them. Part of him hated himself for running, but another part whispered, I’ll come back. I’ll free her somehow.
By the time they reached the bottom of the narrow, winding staircase, he could hear a man’s deep voice raised in the front part of the house, angrily demanding that someone stand up and speak. A serving girl in her nearly transparent robe knelt at the bottom of the stairs, and a gray-haired woman all in white wool, with a long floury apron, knelt by the kitchen door. They were both exactly as Mat had described, faces to the floor and arms wrapped around their heads, and they did not stir a hair as Rand and the others hurried by. He was relieved to see the motions of breathing.
They crossed the garden at a dead run, climbing over the back wall rapidly. Ingtar cursed when Mat tossed the Horn of Valere ahead of him, and tried again to take it when he dropped outside, but Mat snatched it up with a quick, “It isn’t even scratched,” and scampered up the alley.
More shouts rose from the house they had just left; a woman screamed, and someone began tolling a gong.
I will come back for her. Somehow. Rand sped after the others as fast as he could.
CHAPTER 46
To Come Out of the Shadow
Nynaeve and the others heard distant shouts as they approached the buildings where the damane were housed. The crowds were beginning to pick up, and there was a nervousness to the people in the street, an extra quickness to their step, an extra wariness in the way they glanced past Nynaeve, in her lightning-paneled dress, and the woman she held by a silver leash.
Shifting her bundle nervously, Elayne peered toward the noise of shouts, one street over, where the golden hawk clutching lightning rippled in the wind. “What is happening?”
“Nothing to do with us,” Nynaeve said firmly.
“You hope,” Min added. “And so do I.” She increased her pace, hurrying up the steps ahead of the others, and disappeared inside the tall stone house.
Nynaeve shortened her grip on the leash. “Remember, Seta, you want us to make it through this safely as much as we do.”
“I do,” the Seanchan woman said fervently. She kept her chin on her chest, to hide her face. “I will cause you no trouble, I swear.”
As they turned up the gray stone steps, a sul’dam and a damane appeared at the head of the stairs, coming down as they went up. After one glance to make sure the woman in the collar was not Egwene, Nynaeve did not look at them again. She used the a’dam to keep Seta close by her side, so if the damane sensed the ability to channel in one of them, she would think it was Seta. She felt sweat trickling down her spine, though, until she realized they were paying her no more attention than she gave them. All they saw was a dress with lightning panels and a gray dress, the women wearing them linked by the silver length of an a’dam. Just another Leash Holder with a Leashed One, and a local girl hurrying along behind with a bundle belonging to the sul’dam.
Nynaeve pushed open the door, and they went in.
Whatever the excitement beneath Turak’s banner, it did not extend here, not yet. There were only women moving about in the entry hall, all easily placed by their dress. Three gray-dressed damane, with sul’dam wearing the bracelets. Two women in dresses paneled with forked lightning stood talking, and three crossed the hall alone. Four dressed like Min, in plain dark woolens, hurried on their way with trays.
Min stood waiting down the entry hall when they went in; she glanced at them once, then started deeper into the house. Nynaeve guided Seta down the hall after Min, with Elayne scurrying along in their wake. No one gave them a second glance, it seemed to Nynaeve, but she thought the trickle of sweat down her backbone might become a river soon. She kept Seta moving quickly so no one would have a chance for a good look—or worse, a question. With her eyes fixed on her toes, Seta needed so little urging that Nynaeve thought she would have been running if not for the physical restraint of the leash.
Near the back of the house, Min took a narrow stairs that spiraled upwards. Nynaeve pushed Seta up it ahead of her, all the way to the fourth floor. The ceilings were low, there, the halls empty and silent except for the soft sounds of weeping. Weeping seemed to fit the air of the chilly halls.
“This place . . .” Elayne began, then shook her head. “It feels. . . .”
“Yes, it does,” Nynaeve said grimly. She glared at Seta, who kept her face down. A pallor of fear made the Seanchan woman’s skin paler than it was normally.
Wordlessly, Min opened a door and went in, and they followed. The room beyond had been divided into smaller rooms by roughly made wooden walls, with a narrow hallway running to a window. Nynaeve crowded after Min as she hurried to the last door on the right and pushed in.
A slender, dark-haired girl in gray sat at a small table with her head resting on folded arms, but even before she looked up, Nynaeve knew it was Egwene. A ribbon of shining metal ran from the silver collar around Egwene’s neck to a bracelet hanging on a peg on the wall. Her eyes widened at the sight of them, her mouth working silently. As Elayne closed the door, Egwene gave a sudden giggle, and pressed her hands to her mouth to stifle it. The tiny room was more than crowded with all of them in it.
“I know I’m not dreaming,” she said in a quivering voice, “because if I was dreaming, you’d be Rand and Galad on tall stallions. I have been dreaming. I thought Rand was here. I couldn’t see him, but I thought. . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“If you’d rather wait for them . . .” Min said dryly.
“Oh, no. No, you are all beautiful, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Where did you come from? How did you do it? That dress, Nynaeve, and the a’dam, and who is. . . .” She gave an abrupt squeak. “That’s Seta. How . . . ?” Her voice hardened so that Nynaeve barely recognized it. “I’d like to put her in a pot of boiling water.” Seta had her eyes squeezed shut, and her hands clutched her skirts; she was trembling.
“What have they done to you?” Elayne exclaimed. “What could they do to make you want something like that?”
Egwene never took her eyes off the Seanchan woman. “I’d like to make her feel it. That’s what she did to me, made me feel like I was neck deep in. . . .” She shuddered. “You do not know what it is like wearing one of these, Elayne. You don’t know what they can do to you. I can never decide whether Seta is worse than Renna, but they’re all hateful.”
“I think I know,” Nynaeve said quietly. She could feel the sweat soaking Seta’s skin, the cold tremors that shook her limbs. The yellow-haired Seanchan was terrified. It was all she could do not to make Seta’s terrors come true then and there.
“Can you take this off of me?” Egwene asked, touching the collar. “You must be able to if you could put that one on—”
Nynaeve channeled, a pinpoint trickle. The collar on Egwene’s neck provided anger enough, and if it had not, Seta’s fear, the knowledge of how deserved it truly was, and her own knowledge of what she wanted to do to the woman, would have done it. The collar sprang open and fell away from Egwene’s throat. With an expression of wonder, Egwene touched her neck.
“Put on my dress and coat,” Nynaeve told her. Elayne was already unbundling the clothes on the bed. “We will walk out of here, and no one will even notice you.” She considered holding her contact with saidar—she was certainly angry enough, and it felt so wonderful—but, reluctantly, she let it go. This was the one place in Falme where there was no chance of a sul’dam and damane coming to investigate if they sensed someone channeling, but they would certainly do so if a damane saw a woman she thought was a sul’dam with the glow of channeling around her. “I don’t know why you aren’t gone already. Alone here, even if you could not figure out how to get that thing off you, you could have just picked it up and run.”
As Min and Elayne hurriedly helped her change into Nynaeve’s old dress, Egwene explained about moving the bracelet from where a sul’dam left it, an
d how channeling made her sick unless a sul’dam wore the bracelet. Just that morning she had discovered how the collar could be opened without the Power—and found that touching the catch with the intention of opening it made her hand knot into uselessness. She could touch it as much as she wanted so long as she did not think of undoing the catch; the merest hint of that, though, and. . . .
Nynaeve felt sick herself. The bracelet on her wrist made her sick. It was too horrible. She wanted it off her wrist before she learned more about a’dam, before she perhaps learned something that would make her feel soiled forever for having worn it.
Unfastening the silver cuff, she pulled it loose, snapped it closed, and hung it on one of the pegs. “Don’t think that means you can shout for help now.” She shook a fist under Seta’s nose. “I can still make you wish you were never born if you open your mouth, and I do not need that bloody . . . thing.”
“You—you do not mean to leave me here with it,” Seta said in a whisper. “You cannot. Tie me. Gag me so I cannot give an alarm. Please!”
Egwene gave a mirthless laugh. “Leave it on her. She won’t call for help even without a gag. You had better hope whoever finds you will remove the a’dam and keep your little secret, Seta. Your dirty secret, isn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?” Elayne said.
“I have thought about it a great deal,” Egwene said. “Thinking was all I could do when they left me alone up here. Sul’dam claim they develop an affinity after a few years. Most of them can tell when a woman is channeling whether they’re leashed to her or not. I wasn’t sure, but Seta proves it.”
“Proves what?” Elayne demanded, and then her eyes widened in sudden realization, but Egwene went on.
“Nynaeve, a’dam only work on women who can channel. Don’t you see? Sul’dam can channel the same as damane.” Seta groaned through her teeth, shaking her head in violent denial. “A sul’dam would die before admitting she could channel, even if she knew, and they never train the ability, so they cannot do anything with it, but they can channel.”
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