Graendal froze as an alarm went off in her ears, the sound of crashing waves beating against one another. Aran’gar continued her pleasures; she couldn’t hear the sound. The weave was very specific, placed where her servants could trip it to give her warning.
Graendal climbed to her feet, strolling around the side of the room, giving no indication of urgency. At the door, she sent a few of her pets in to help distract Aran’gar. Best to discover the scope of the problem before involving her.
Graendal walked down a hallway hung with golden chandeliers and ornamented with mirrors. She was halfway down a stairwell when Garumand—the captain of her palace guard—came bustling up. He was Saldaean, a distant cousin of the Queen, and wore a thick mustache on his lean, handsome face. Compulsion had made him utterly loyal, of course.
“Great Lady,” he said, panting. “A man has been captured approaching the palace. My men recognize him as a minor lord from Bandar Eban, a member of House Ramshalan.”
Graendal frowned, then waved for Garumand to follow as she made her way to one of her audience chambers—a small, windowless room decorated in crimson. She wove a ward against eavesdropping, then sent Garumand to bring the intruder.
Soon, he returned with some guards and a Domani man dressed in bright greens and blues, a beauty mark shaped like a bell on his cheek. His neat, short beard was tied with tiny bells, and they jingled as the guards shoved him forward. He brushed off his arms, glaring at the soldiers, and straightened his ruffled shirt. “Am I to understand that I have been delivered to—”
He cut off with a choking sound as Graendal wrapped him in weaves of Air and dug into his mind. He stuttered, eyes growing unfocused.
“I am Piqor Ramshalan,” he said in a monotone. “I have been sent by the Dragon Reborn to seek an alliance with the merchant family residing in this fortification. As I am smarter and more clever than al’Thor, he needs me to build alliances for him. He is particularly afraid of those living in this palace, which I find ridiculous, since it is distant and unimportant.
“Obviously, the Dragon Reborn is a weak man. I believe that by gaining his confidence, I can be chosen as the next King of Arad Doman. I wish for you to make an alliance with me, not with him, and will promise you favors once I am king. I d—”
Graendal waved a hand and he cut off in midword. She folded her arms, hairs bristling as she shivered.
The Dragon Reborn had found her.
He had sent a distraction for her.
He thought he could manipulate her.
She instantly wove a gateway to one of her most secure hiding places. Cool air wafted in from an area of the world where it was morning, not early evening. Best to be careful. Best to flee. And yet…
She hesitated. He must know pain…he must know frustration…he must know anguish. Bring these to him. You will be rewarded.
Aran’gar had fled from her place among Aes Sedai, foolishly allowing herself to be sensed channeling saidin. She still bore punishment for her failure. If Graendal left now—discarding a chance to twist al’Thor about himself—would she be similarly punished?
“What is this?” Aran’gar’s voice asked outside. “Let me through, you fools. Graendal? What are you doing?”
Graendal hissed softly, then closed the gateway and composed herself. She nodded for Aran’gar to be allowed into the room. The lithe woman stepped up to the doorway, eyeing—and assessing—Ramshalan. Graendal shouldn’t have sent the pets to her; the move had likely made her suspicious.
“Al’Thor has found me,” Graendal said curtly. “He sent this one to make an ‘alliance’ with me, but did not tell him who I was. Al’Thor likely wants me to think that this man stumbled upon me accidentally.”
Aran’gar pursed her lips. “So you’ll flee? Run from the center of excitement again?”
“This, from you?”
“I was surrounded by enemies. Flight was my only option.” It sounded like a practiced line.
Words like those were a challenge. Aran’gar would serve her. Perhaps…“Does that Aes Sedai of yours know Compulsion?”
Aran’gar shrugged. “She’s been trained in it. She’s passably skilled.”
“Fetch her.”
Aran’gar raised an eyebrow, but nodded in deference, disappearing to run the errand herself—probably to gain time to think. Graendal sent a servant for one of her dove cages. They arrived with the bird before Aran’gar was back, and Graendal carefully wove the True Power—once again thrilling in the rush of holding it—and crafted a complex weave of Spirit. Could she remember how to do this? It had been so long.
She overlaid the weave on the bird’s mind. Her vision seemed to snap. In a moment, she could see two images in front of her—the world as she saw it and a shadowed version of what the bird saw. If she focused, she could turn her attention to one or the other.
It made her mind hurt. The vision of a bird was entirely different from that of a human being: She could see a much larger field, and the colors were so vivid as to be nearly blinding, but the view was blurry, and she had trouble judging distance.
She tucked the bird’s sight into the back of her head. A dove would be unobtrusive, but using one was more difficult than a raven or a rat, the Great Lord’s own favored eyes. The weave worked better on those than it did other animals. Though, most vermin that watched for the Great Lord had to report back before he knew what they’d seen. Why that was, she was not certain—the intricacies of the True Power’s special weaves never had made much sense to her. Not as much as they had to Aginor, at least.
Aran’gar returned with her Aes Sedai, who was looking increasingly timid these days. She curtsied low to Graendal, then remained in a subservient posture. Graendal carefully removed her Compulsion from Ramshalan, leaving him dazed and disoriented.
“What is it you wish me to do, Great One?” Delana asked, glancing at Aran’gar and then back at Graendal.
“Compulsion,” Graendal said. “As intricate and as complex as you can make it.”
“What do you wish it to do, Great Lady?”
“Leave him able to act like himself,” Graendal said. “But remove all memory of events here. Replace them with a memory of talking to a merchant family and securing their alliance. Add a few other random requirements on him, whatever occurs to you.”
Delana frowned, but she had learned not to question the Chosen. Graendal folded her arms and tapped one finger as she watched the Aes Sedai work. She felt increasingly nervous. Al’Thor knew where she was. Would he attack? No, he wouldn’t harm women. That particular failing was an important one. It meant she had time to respond. Didn’t she?
How had he managed to trace her to this palace? She had covered herself perfectly. The only minions she’d let out of her sight were under Compulsion so heavy that it would kill them to remove it. Could it be that the Aes Sedai he kept with him—Nynaeve, the woman gifted in Healing—had been able to undermine and read Graendal’s weaves?
Graendal needed time, and she needed to discover what al’Thor knew. If Nynaeve al’Meara had the skill needed to read Compulsions, that was dangerous. Graendal needed to lay him a false trail, delay him—hence her requirement that Delana create a thick Compulsion with strange provisions in it.
Bring him agony. Graendal could do that.
“You next,” she said to Aran’gar once Delana had finished. “Something convoluted. I want al’Thor and his Aes Sedai to find the touch of a man on the mind.” That would confuse them further.
Aran’gar shrugged, but focused as if laying down a thick and complex Compulsion on the unfortunate Ramshalan’s mind. He was somewhat pretty. Did al’Thor assume she’d want him for one of her pets? Did he even remember enough of being Lews Therin to know that about her? Her reports on how much of his old life he remembered were contradictory, but he seemed to be recalling more and more. That was what worried her. Lews Therin could have tracked her to this palace, perhaps. She’d never expected that al’Thor would be able to do the same.
Aran’gar finished.
“Now,” Graendal said, releasing her weaves of Air and speaking to Ramshalan, “return and tell the Dragon Reborn of your success here.”
Ramshalan blinked, shaking his head. “I…Yes, my Lady. Yes, I believe the ties we made today will be extremely beneficial to both of us.” He smiled. Weak-minded fool. “Perhaps we should dine and drink to our success, Lady Basene? It has been a wearying trip to see you, and I—”
“Go,” Graendal said coldly.
“Very well. You will be rewarded when I am king!”
Her guards led him away, and he began whistling with a self-satisfied air. Graendal sat down and closed her eyes; several of her soldiers stepped over to guard her, their boots soft on the thick rug.
She looked through the dove’s eyes, accustoming herself to its strange way of seeing. At her order, a servant picked it up and carried it to a window in the hallway outside the room. The bird hopped onto the windowsill. Graendal gave it a soft nudge to go forward; she wasn’t practiced enough to take control completely. Flying was far more difficult than it looked.
The dove flapped out of the window. The sun was lowering behind the mountains, outlining them in angry red and orange, and the lake below fell into a deep, shadowy blue-black. The view was thrilling but nauseating as the dove soared up into the air and landed on one of the towers.
Ramshalan eventually walked out of the gates below. Graendal nudged the dove and it leaped off the tower, plunging toward the ground. Graendal gritted her teeth at the stomach-churning descent, the palace stoneworks becoming a blur. The dove leveled out and flapped after Ramshalan. He seemed to be grumbling to himself, though she could make out only rudimentary sounds through the dove’s unfamiliar earholes.
She followed him for some time through the darkening woods. An owl would have been better, but she didn’t have one captive. She chided herself for that. The dove flew from branch to branch. The forest floor was a messy tangle of underbrush and fallen pine needles. She found that distinctly unpleasant.
There was light up ahead. It was faint, but the dove’s eyes could easily pick out light and shadow, motion and stillness. She nudged it to investigate, leaving Ramshalan.
The light was coming from a gateway in the middle of a clear patch, spilling forth a warm glow. There were figures standing before it. One of them was al’Thor.
Graendal felt instant panic. He was here. Looking down over the ridge, toward her. Darkness within! She hadn’t known for certain if he’d be here in person, or if Ramshalan would travel through a gateway to give his report. What game was al’Thor playing? She landed her dove on a branch. Aran’gar was complaining and asking Graendal what she was seeing. She’d seen the dove, and would know what Graendal was up to.
Graendal concentrated harder. The Dragon Reborn, the man who had once been Lews Therin Telamon. He knew where she was. He had once hated her deeply; how much did he remember? Did he recall her murder of Yanet?
Al’Thor’s tame Aiel brought Ramshalan forward, and Nynaeve inspected him. Yes, that Nynaeve did seem to be able to read Compulsion. She knew what to look for, at least. She would have to die; al’Thor relied upon her; her death would bring him pain. And after her, al’Thor’s dark-haired lover.
Graendal nudged the dove down onto a lower branch. What would al’Thor do? Graendal’s instincts said he wouldn’t dare move, not until he unraveled her plot. He acted the same now as he had during her Age; he liked to plan, to spend time building to a crescendo of an assault.
She frowned. What was he saying? She strained, trying to make sense of the sounds. Cursed bird’s earholes—the voices sounded like croaks. Callandor? Why was he talking about Callandor? And a box…
Something burst alight in his hand. The access key. Graendal gasped. He’d brought that with him? It was nearly as bad as balefire.
Suddenly she understood. She’d been played.
Cold, terrified, she released the dove and snapped her eyes open. She was still sitting in the small, windowless room, Aran’gar leaning beside the doorway with arms folded.
Al’Thor had sent Ramshalan in, expecting him to be captured, expecting him to have Compulsion placed on him. Ramshalan’s only purpose was to give al’Thor confirmation that Graendal was in the tower.
Light! How clever he’s become.
She released the True Power and embraced less-wonderful saidar. Quickly! She was so unsettled that her embrace nearly failed. She was sweating.
Go. She had to go.
She opened a new gateway. Aran’gar turned, staring through the walls in the direction of al’Thor. “So much power! What is he doing?”
Aran’gar. She and Delana had made the weaves of Compulsion.
Al’Thor must think Graendal dead. If he destroyed the place and those Compulsions remained, al’Thor would know that he’d missed and that Graendal lived.
Graendal formed two shields and slammed them into place, one for Aran’gar, one for Delana. The women gasped. Graendal tied off the weaves and bound the two in Air.
“Graendal?” Aran’gar said, voice panicked. “What are you—”
It was coming. Graendal leaped for the gateway, rolling through it, tumbling and ripping her dress on a branch. A blinding light rose behind her. She struggled to dismiss the gateway, and caught one glimpse of the horrified Aran’gar before everything behind was consumed in beautiful, pure whiteness.
The gateway vanished, leaving Graendal in darkness.
She lay, heart beating at a terrible speed, nearly blinded by the glare. She’d made the quickest gateway she could, one that led only a short distance away. She lay in the dirty underbrush atop a ridge behind the palace.
A wave of wrongness washed over her, a warping in the air, the Pattern itself rippling. A balescream, it was called—a moment when creation itself howled in pain.
She breathed in and out, trembling. But she had to see. She had to know. She rose to her feet, left ankle twisted. She hobbled to the treeline and looked down.
Natrin’s Barrow—the entire palace—was gone. Burned out of the Pattern. She couldn’t see al’Thor on his distant ridge, but she knew where he was.
“You,” she growled. “You have become far more dangerous than I assumed.”
Hundreds of beautiful men and women, the finest she’d gathered, gone. Her stronghold, dozens of items of Power, her greatest ally among the Chosen. Gone. This was a disaster.
No, she thought. I live. She’d anticipated him, if only by a few moments. Now he would think she was dead.
She was suddenly the safest she’d been since escaping the Great Lord’s prison. Except, of course, that she’d just caused the death of one of the Chosen. The Great Lord would not be pleased.
She limped away from the ridge, already planning her next move. This would have to be handled very, very carefully.
Galad Damodred, Lord Captain Commander of the Children of the Light, yanked his booted foot free of the ankle-deep mud with a slurping sound.
Bitemes buzzed in the muggy air. The stench of mud and stagnant water threatened to gag him with each breath as he led his horse to drier ground on the path. Behind him trudged a long, twisting column four men wide, each one as muddied, sweaty and weary as he was.
They were on the border of Ghealdan and Altara, in a swampy wetland where the oaks and spicewoods had given way to laurels and spidery cypress, their gnarled roots spread like spindly fingers. The stinking air was hot—despite the shade and cloud cover—and thick. It was like breathing in a foul soup. Galad steamed beneath his breastplate and mail, his conical helmet hanging from his saddle, his skin itching from the grime and salty sweat.
Miserable though it was, this route was the best way. Asunawa would not anticipate it. Galad wiped his brow with the back of his hand and tried to walk with head high for the benefit of those who followed him. Seven thousand men, Children who had chosen him rather than the Seanchan invaders.
Dull green moss hung from the branches, droopi
ng like shreds of flesh from rotting corpses. Here and there the sickly grays and greens were relieved by a bright burst of tiny pink or violet flowers clustering around trickling streams. Their sudden color was unexpected, as if someone had sprinkled drops of paint on the ground.
It was strange to find beauty in this place. Could he find the Light in his own situation as well? He feared it would not be so easy.
He tugged Stout forward. He could hear worried conversations from behind, punctuated by the occasional curse. This place, with its stench and biting insects, would try the best of men. Those who followed Galad were unnerved by the place the world was becoming. A world where the sky was constantly clouded black, where good men died to strange twistings of the Pattern, and where Valda—the Lord Captain Commander before Galad—had turned out to be a murderer and a rapist.
Galad shook his head. The Last Battle would soon come.
A clinking of chain mail announced someone moving up the line. Galad glanced over his shoulder as Dain Bornhald arrived, saluted, and fell into place beside him. “Damodred,” Dain said softly, their boots squishing in mud, “perhaps we should turn back.”
“Backward leads only to the past,” Galad said, scanning the pathway ahead. “I have thought about this much, Child Bornhald. This sky, the wasting of the land, the way the dead walk…There is no longer time to find allies and fight against the Seanchan. We must march to the Last Battle.”
“But this swamp,” Bornhald said, glancing to the side as a large serpent slid through the underbrush. “Our maps say we should have been out of it by now.”
“Then surely we are near the edge.”
“Perhaps,” Dain said, a trail of sweat running from his brow down the side of his lean face, which twitched. Fortunately, he’d run out of brandy a few days back. “Unless the map is in error.”
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