“You’re in charge of the washwomen,” Bryne said.
The large woman nodded firmly, her red curls bouncing. “Indeed I am, General.” She turned to the Aes Sedai, curtsying. “Lady Tagren, I did warn you. Light burn me, but I did. I’m right sorry.”
The woman called Tagren bowed her head. Were those tears on her cheeks? Was that even possible? What was going on?
“My Lady,” Bryne said, squatting down beside her. “Are you Aes Sedai? If you are, and you command me to leave, I will do so without question.”
A good way to approach it. If she really was Aes Sedai, she couldn’t lie.
“I’m not Aes Sedai,” the woman whispered.
Bryne looked up at Gawyn, frowning. What did it mean if she said that? An Aes Sedai couldn’t lie. So. . . .
The woman softly said, “My name is Shemerin. I was Aes Sedai, once. But no more. Not since. . . .” She looked down again. “Please. Just leave me to work in my shame.”
“I will,” Bryne said. Then he hesitated. “But I’ll need you to talk to some sisters from the camp first. They’d have my ears if I don’t bring you in to speak with them.”
The woman, Shemerin, sighed but stood up.
“Come on,” Bryne said to Gawyn. “I have no doubt that they’ll also want to talk to you. Best to get this over with quickly.”
CHAPTER 25
In Darkness
Sheriam peeked into her dark tent, hesitant, but saw nothing inside. Allowing herself a smile of satisfaction, she stepped in and drew the flaps closed. Things were going quite well, for once.
Of course, she still checked her tent before she entered, searching for the one who had sometimes lurked inside. The one whom she’d never been able to sense, yet always felt as though she should. Yes, Sheriam still checked, and probably would for months yet—but there was no need, now. No phantom waited to punish her.
The square little tent was large enough to stand up in, with a cot along one side and a trunk along the other. There was just room for a desk, but it would so crowd the space that she’d barely be able to move. Besides, there was a perfectly acceptable desk nearby, in Egwene’s unused tent.
There had been talk of giving that tent to someone else—most sisters had to share, though more tents were being brought in each week. However, the Amyrlin’s tent was a symbol. As long as there was hope of Egwene’s return, her tent should wait for her. It was kept neat by the inconsolable Chesa, whom Sheriam still caught crying about her mistress’s captivity. Well, so long as Egwene was away, that tent was functionally Sheriam’s for all but sleeping. After all, an Amyrlin’s Keeper was expected to look after her affairs.
Sheriam smiled again, sitting down on her cot. Not long ago, her life had been a perpetual cycle of frustration and pain. Now that was over. Bless Romanda. Whatever else Sheriam thought of the fool woman, Romanda had been the one to chase Halima—and Sheriam’s punishments—out of the camp.
Pain would come again. There was always agony and punishment involved in the service she gave. But she had learned to take the times of peace and cherish them.
At times, she wished she’d kept her mouth closed, not asked questions. But she had, and here she was. Her allegiances had brought her power, as promised. But nobody had warned her of the pain. Not infrequently she wished she’d chosen the Brown and hidden herself away in a library somewhere, never to see others. But now she was where she was. There was no use wondering about what could have happened.
She sighed, then removed her dress and changed her shift. She did so in the dark; candles and oil were both rationed, and with the rebels’ funds drying up, she’d need to hide away what she had for later use.
She climbed onto the cot, pulling up the blanket. She wasn’t so naive as to feel guilty about the things she’d done. Every sister in the White Tower tried to get ahead; that’s what life was about! There wasn’t an Aes Sedai who wouldn’t stab her sisters in the back if she thought it would give her advantage. Sheriam’s friends were just a little more . . . practiced at it.
But why had the end of days had to come now of all times? Others in her association spoke of the glory and great honor of being alive at this time, but Sheriam didn’t agree. She’d joined to rise in White Tower politics, to have the power to punish those who spited her. She’d never wanted to participate in some final reckoning with the Dragon Reborn, and she’d certainly never desired to have anything to do with the Chosen!
But nothing could be done now. Best to enjoy the peace of being free of both the beatings and Egwene’s self-righteous pratings. Yes indeed. . . .
There was a woman with great strength in the Power standing outside her tent.
Sheriam snapped her eyes open. She could sense other women who could channel, just like any other sister. Bloody ashes! she thought nervously, squeezing her eyes shut. Not again!
The tent flaps rippled. Sheriam opened her eyes to find a jet-black figure standing above her cot; slivers of moonlight passing through the fluttering tent flaps were just enough to outline the figure’s form. It was clothed in an unnatural darkness, ribbons of black cloth fluttering behind it, the face obscured by a deep blackness. Sheriam gasped and threw herself from the cot, making obeisance on the canvas tent bottom. There was barely room enough for her to kneel. She cringed, expecting the pain to come upon her again.
“Ah . . .” a rasping voice said. “Very good. You are obedient. I am pleased.”
It wasn’t Halima. Sheriam had never been able to sense Halima, who it appeared had been channeling saidin all along. Also, Halima had never come in such a . . . dramatic way.
Such strength! It seemed likely that this was one of the Chosen. Either that, or at least a very powerful servant of the Great Lord, far above Sheriam. That worried her to the bone, and she trembled as she bowed. “I live to serve, Great Mistress,” Sheriam said quickly. “I, who am blessed to bow before you, to live during these times, to—”
“Stop your babbling,” the voice growled. “You are well placed in this camp, I understand?”
“Yes, Great Mistress,” Sheriam said. “I am the Keeper of the Chronicles.”
The figure sniffed. “Keeper to a ragged bunch of would-be Aes Sedai rebels. But that is no matter. I have need of you.”
“I live to serve, Great Mistress,” Sheriam repeated, growing more worried. What did this creature want of her?
“Egwene al’Vere. She must be deposed.”
“What?” Sheriam asked, startled. A switch of Air cracked against her back, and it burned. Fool! Did she want to get herself killed? “My apologies, Great Mistress,” she said quickly. “Forgive my outburst. But it was by orders from one of the Chosen that I helped raise her as Amyrlin in the first place!”
“Yes, but she has proven to have been a . . . poor choice. We needed a child, not a woman with merely the face of a child. She must be removed. You will make certain this group of foolish rebels stops supporting her. And end those blasted meetings in Tel’aran’rhiod. How is it so many of you get there?”
“We have ter’angreal,” Sheriam said, hesitantly. “Several in the shape of an amber plaque, several others in the shape of an iron disc. Then a handful of rings.”
“Ah, sleepweavers,” the figure said. “Yes, those could be useful. How many?”
Sheriam hesitated. Her first instinct was to lie or hedge—this seemed like information she could hold over the figure. But lying to one of the Chosen? A poor choice. “We had twenty,” Sheriam said truthfully. “But one was with the woman Leane, who was captured. That leaves us with nineteen.” Just enough for Egwene’s meetings in the World of Dreams—one for each of the Sitters and one for Sheriam herself.
“Yes,” the figure hissed, shrouded in darkness. “Useful indeed. Steal the sleepweavers, then give them to me. This rabble has no business treading where the Chosen walk.”
“I. . . .” Steal the ter’angreal? How was she going to manage that? “I live to serve, Great Mistress.”
“Yes you do
. Do these things for me, and you will find yourself greatly rewarded. Fail me. . . .” The figure contemplated for a moment. “You have three days. Each of the sleepweavers you fail to acquire in that time will cost you a finger or a toe.” With that, the Chosen opened a gateway right in the middle of the room, then vanished through it. Sheriam caught a glimpse of the familiar tiled hallways of the White Tower on the other side.
Steal the sleepweavers! All nineteen of them? In three days? Darkness above! Sheriam thought. I should have lied about the number we had! Why didn’t I lie?
She remained kneeling, breathing in and out, for a long time, thinking about her predicament. Her period of peace was at an end, it appeared.
It had been brief.
“She will be tried, of course,” Seaine said. The soft-spoken White sat on a chair provided for her by the two Reds guarding Egwene’s cell.
The cell door was open, and Egwene sat on a stool inside—also provided by the Reds. Those two guards, plump Cariandre and stern Patrinda, watched carefully from the hallway, both holding the Source and maintaining Egwene’s shield. They looked as if they expected her to dart away, scrambling for freedom.
Egwene ignored them. Her two days of imprisonment had not been pleasant, but she would suffer them with dignity. Even if they locked her away in a tiny room with a door that wouldn’t let in light. Even if they refused to let her change from the bloodied novice dress. Even if they beat her each day for how she had treated Elaida. Egwene would not bow.
The Reds reluctantly allowed her visitors, as stipulated by Tower law. Egwene was surprised she had visitors, but Seaine wasn’t the only one who had come to her. Several had been Sitters. Curious. Nevertheless, Egwene was starved for news. How was the Tower reacting to Egwene’s imprisonment? Were the rifts between the Ajahs still deep and wide, or had her work started to bridge them?
“Elaida broke Tower law quite explicitly,” Seaine explained. “And it was witnessed by five Sitters of five different Ajahs. She has tried to forestall a trial, but was unsuccessful. However, there were some who listened to her argument.”
“Which was?” Egwene asked.
“That you are a Darkfriend,” Seaine said. “And, because of it, she expelled you from the Tower, and then beat you.”
Egwene felt a chill. If Elaida was able to get enough support for that argument. . . .
“It will not stand,” Seaine said, consolingly. “This is not some backward village, where the Dragon’s Fang scrawled on someone’s door is enough to convict.”
Egwene raised an eyebrow. She’d been raised in “some backward village,” and they’d had enough sense to look for more than rumors in convicting someone, no matter what the crime. But she said nothing.
“Proving that accusation is difficult by Tower standards,” Seaine said. “And so I suspect that she will not try to prove it in trial—partially because doing so would require her to let you speak for yourself, and I suspect that she’ll want to keep you hidden.”
“Yes,” Egwene said, eyeing the Reds lounging nearby. “You are probably right. But if she can’t prove I’m a Darkfriend and she couldn’t stop this from going to trial . . .”
“It is not an offense worthy of deposing her,” Seaine said. “The maximum punishment is formal censure from the Hall and penance for a month. She would retain the shawl.”
But would lose a great deal of credibility, Egwene thought. It was encouraging. But how to make certain that Elaida didn’t just hide her away? She had to keep the pressure on Elaida—Light-cursed difficult while locked away in her tiny cell each day! It had been only a short time so far, but already the lost opportunities grated on her.
“You will attend the trial?” Egwene asked.
“Of course,” Seaine said, even-tempered, as Egwene had come to expect from the White. Some Whites were all coolness and logic. Seaine was much warmer than that, but was still very reserved. “I am a Sitter, Egwene.”
“I assume that you’re still seeing the effects of the Dark One’s stirring?” Egwene shivered and glanced at her cell floor, remembering what had happened to Leane. Her own cell was far more austere than Leane’s, perhaps because of the accusations of her being a Darkfriend.
“Yes.” Seaine’s voice grew softer. “They seem to be getting worse. Servants dying. Food spoiling. Entire sections of the Tower rearranging at random. The second kitchen moved to the sixth level last night, moving an entire section of the Yellow Ajah quarters into the basement. It’s like what happened with the Browns earlier, and that one still hasn’t been worked out.”
Egwene nodded. With the way the rooms had shifted, those few novices whose rooms hadn’t moved suddenly now had assigned accommodations on the twenty-first and twenty-second levels, where Brown Ajah quarters had been. The Browns were, reluctantly, all moving down to the wing. Would it be a permanent change? Always before, the sisters had lived in the Tower proper, the novices and Accepted living in the wing.
“You have to bring these things up, Seaine,” Egwene said softly. “Keep reminding the sisters that the Dark One stirs and that the Last Battle approaches. Keep their attention on working together, not dividing.”
Behind Seaine, one of the Red sisters checked the candle on the table. The time allotted for Egwene to receive visitors was ending. She’d soon be locked away again; she could smell the dusty, unchanged straw behind her.
“You must work hard, Seaine,” Egwene said, rising as the Reds approached. “Do what I cannot. Ask the others to do so as well.”
“I will try,” Seaine said. She stood and watched as the Reds took Egwene’s stool, then gestured her back into the cell. The ceiling was too low for her to stand without stooping.
Egwene moved reluctantly, bending down. “The Last Battle comes, Seaine. Remember.”
The White nodded, and the door shut, locking Egwene into darkness. Egwene sat down. She felt so blind! What would happen at the trial? Even if Elaida was punished, what would be done with Egwene?
Elaida would try to have her executed. And she still had grounds, as Egwene had—by the White Tower’s definition—impersonated the Amyrlin Seat.
I must stay firm, Egwene told herself in the darkness. I warmed this pot myself, and now I must boil in it, if that is what will protect the Tower. They knew she continued to resist. That was all she could give them.
CHAPTER 26
A Crack in the Stone
Aviendha surveyed the manor grounds, swarming with people preparing to depart. Bashere’s men and women were well trained for wetlanders, and they worked efficiently to stow their tents and prepare their gear. However, compared to the Aiel, the other wetlanders—those who weren’t actual soldiers—were a mess. Camp women skittered this way and that, as if sure they would leave some task undone or some item unpacked. The messenger boys ran with their friends, trying to look busy so that they wouldn’t have to do anything. The civilians’ tents and equipment were only slowly being packed and stowed, and they would need horses, wagons and teams of drivers to get them all where they needed to go.
Aviendha shook her head. The Aiel brought only what they could carry, and their war band included only spears and Wise Ones. And when more than just spears were required for an extended campaign, all workers and craftspeople knew how to prepare themselves for departure with speed and efficiency. There was honor in that. Honor which demanded that each person be able to care for themselves and their own, not slowing the clan down.
She shook her head, turning back to her task. The only ones who truly lacked honor on a day like this were those who did not work. She dipped a finger into the pail of water on the ground in front of her, then raised her hand and let it hover over a second pail. A drop of water dripped free. She moved her hand and did it again.
It was the type of punishment in which no wetlander could have seen significance. They would have thought it easy work, sitting on the ground, leaning with her back against the wooden logs of the manor house. Moving her hand back and forth, emptying on
e pail and filling the other, one drop at a time. To them it would have been barely a punishment at all.
That was because wetlanders were often lazy. They would rather drip water into pails than carry rocks. Carrying rocks, however, involved activity—and activity was good for the mind and the body. Moving water was meaningless. Useless. It didn’t allow her to stretch her legs or work her muscles. And she did it while the rest of the camp gathered tents for the march. That made the punishment ten times as shameful! She earned toh for every moment she did not help, and there was not a thing she could do about it.
Except move water. Drip, by drip, by drip.
It made her angry. Then that anger made her ashamed. The Wise Ones never let their emotions dominate them in such a way. She had to remain patient and try to understand why she was being punished.
Even trying to approach the problem made her want to scream. How many times could she go over the same conclusions in her mind? Perhaps she was too dense to sort it out. Perhaps she didn’t deserve to be a Wise One.
She stuck her hand back in the bucket, then moved another drop of water. She didn’t like what these punishments were doing to her. She was a warrior, even if she no longer carried the spear. She did not fear punishment, nor did she fear pain. But, more and more, she did fear that she would lose heart and become as useless as one who sandstared.
She wanted to become a Wise One, wanted it desperately. She was surprised to find that, for she’d never thought that she could desire anything with as much passion as she’d long ago wanted the spears. Yet as she had studied the Wise Ones during these last months, and her respect for them had grown, she had accepted herself as their equal, to help shepherd the Aiel in this most dangerous of days.
The Last Battle would be a test unlike any her people had ever known. Amys and the others were working to protect the Aiel, and Aviendha sat and moved drops of water!
“Are you all right?” a voice asked.
The Gathering Storm Page 46