“I don’t like it at all.”
“Your approval is not required.” She eyed him. “You will have to trust me.”
“I do trust you,” he said.
“All I ask is that you show it for once.”
Gawyn gritted his teeth. Then he bowed to her and left the study, trying—and failing—to keep the door from shutting too hard when he pulled it closed. Silviana gave him a disapproving look as he passed her.
From there, he headed for the training grounds despite his discomfort with them. He needed a workout with the sword.
Egwene let out a long sigh, sitting back, closing her eyes. Why was it so hard to keep her feelings in check when dealing with Gawyn? She never felt as poor an Aes Sedai as she did when speaking with him.
So many emotions swirled within her, like different kinds of wine spilling and mixing together: rage at his stubbornness, burning desire for his arms, confusion at her own inability to place one of those before the other.
Gawyn had a way of boring through her skin and into her heart. That passion of his was entrancing. She worried that if she bonded him, it would infect her. Was that how it worked? What did it feel like to be bonded, to sense another’s emotions?
She wanted that with him, the connection that others had. And it was important that she have people she could rely upon to contradict her, in private. People who knew her as Egwene, rather than the Amyrlin.
But Gawyn was too loose, too untrusting, yet.
She looked over her letter to the new King of Tear, explaining that Rand was threatening to break the seals. Her plan to stop him would depend on her gathering support from people he trusted. She had conflicting reports about Darlin Sisnera. Some said he was one of Rand’s greatest supporters, while others claimed he was one of Rand’s greatest detractors.
She set the letter aside for the moment, then wrote some thoughts on how to approach the Hall on the Warder issue. Gawyn made an excellent argument, though he went too far and assumed too much. Making a plea for women who had no Warders to choose one, explaining all of the advantages and pointing out how it could save lives and help defeat the Shadow…that would be appropriate.
She poured herself some mint tea from the pot on the side of her desk. Oddly, it hadn’t been spoiling as often lately, and this cup tasted quite good. She hadn’t told Gawyn of the other reason she’d asked him to leave her door at nights. She had trouble sleeping, knowing he was out there, only a few feet away. She worried she’d slip and go to him.
Silviana’s strap had never been able to break her will, but Gawyn Trakand…he was coming dangerously close to doing so.
Graendal anticipated the messenger’s arrival. Even here, in her most secret of hiding places, his arrival was not unexpected. The Chosen could not hide from the Great Lord.
The hiding place was not a palace, a fine lodge or an ancient fortress. It was a cavern on an island nobody cared about, in an area of the Aryth Ocean that nobody ever visited. So far as she knew, there was nothing of note or interest anywhere near.
The accommodations were downright dreadful. Six of her lesser pets cared for the place, which was merely three chambers. She’d covered over the entrance with stone, and the only way in or out was by gateway. Fresh water came from a natural spring, food from stores she’d brought in previously, and air through cracks. It was dank, and it was lowly.
In other words, it was precisely the sort of place where nobody would expect to find her. Everyone knew that Graendal could not stand a lack of luxury. That was true. But the best part about being predictable was that it allowed you to do the unexpected.
Unfortunately, none of that applied to the Great Lord. Graendal watched the open gateway before her as she relaxed on a chaise of yellow and blue silk. The messenger was a man with flat features and deeply tanned skin, wearing black and red. He didn’t need to speak—his presence was the message. One of her pets—a beautiful, black-haired woman with large brown eyes who had once been a Tairen high lady—stared at the gateway. She looked frightened. Graendal felt much the same way.
She closed the wood-bound copy of Alight in the Snow in her hands and stood up, wearing a dress of thin black silk with ribbons of streith running down it. She stepped through the gateway, careful to project an air of confidence.
Moridin stood inside his black stone palace. The room had no furniture; only the hearth, with a fire burning. Great Lord! A fire, on such a warm day? She maintained her composure, and did not begin to sweat.
He turned toward her, the black flecks of saa swimming across his eyes. “You know why I have summoned you.” Not a question.
“I do.”
“Aran’gar is dead, lost to us—and after the Great Lord transmigrated her soul the last time. One might think you are making a habit of this sort of thing, Graendal.”
“I live to serve, Nae’blis,” she said. Confidence! She had to seem confident.
He hesitated just briefly. Good. “Surely you do not imply that Aran’gar had turned traitor.”
“What?” Graendal said. “No, of course not.”
“Then how is what you did a service?”
Graendal pasted a look of concerned confusion on her face. “Why, I was following the command I was given. Am I not here to receive an accolade?”
“Far from it,” Moridin said dryly. “Your feigned confusion will not work on me, woman.”
“It is not feigned,” Graendal said, preparing her lie. “While I did not expect the Great Lord to be pleased to lose one of the Chosen, the gain was obviously worth the cost.”
“What gain?” Moridin snarled. “You allowed yourself to be caught unaware, and foolishly lost the life of one of the Chosen! We should have been able to rely on you, of all people, to avoid stumbling over al’Thor.”
He didn’t know that she’d bound Aran’gar and left her to die; he thought this was a mistake. Good. “Caught unaware?” she said, sounding mortified. “I never…Moridin, how could you think that I’d let him find me by accident!”
“You did this intentionally?”
“Of course,” Graendal said. “I practically had to lead him by the hand to Natrin’s Barrow. Lews Therin never was good at seeing facts directly in front of his nose. Moridin, don’t you see? How will Lews Therin react to what he has done? Destroying an entire fortress, a miniature city of its own, with hundreds of occupants? Killing innocents to reach his goal? Will that sit easily within him?”
Moridin hesitated. No, he had not considered that. She smiled inwardly. To him, al’Thor’s actions would have made perfect sense. They were the most logical, and therefore most sensible, means of accomplishing a goal.
But al’Thor himself…his mind was full of daydreams about honor and virtue. This event would not sit easily within him, and speaking of him as Lews Therin to Moridin would reinforce that. These actions would tear at al’Thor, rip at his soul, lash his heart raw and bleeding. He would have nightmares, wear his guilt on his shoulders like the yoke of a heavily laden cart.
She could vaguely remember what it had been like, taking those first few steps toward the Shadow. Had she ever felt that foolish pain? Yes, unfortunately. Not all of the Chosen had. Semirhage had been corrupt to the bone from the start. But others of them had taken different paths to the Shadow, including Ishamael.
She could see the memories, so distant, in Moridin’s eyes. Once, she’d not been sure who this man was, but now she was. The face was different, but the soul the same. Yes, he knew exactly what al’Thor was feeling.
“You told me to hurt him,” Graendal said. “You told me to bring him anguish. This was the best way. Aran’gar helped me, though she did not flee when I suggested. That one always has confronted her problems too aggressively. But I’m certain the Great Lord can find other tools. We took a risk, and it was not without cost. But the gain…Beyond that, Lews Therin now thinks I am dead. That is a large advantage.”
She smiled. Not too much pleasure. Merely a little satisfaction. Moridin scowled,
then hesitated, glancing to the side. At nothing. “I am to leave you without punishment, for now,” he finally said, though he didn’t sound pleased about it.
Had that been a communication directly from the Great Lord? As far as she knew, all Chosen in this Age had to go to him in Shayol Ghul to receive their orders. Or at least suffer a visit from that horrid creature Shaidar Haran. Now the Great Lord appeared to be speaking to the Nae’blis directly. Interesting. And worrisome.
It meant the end was very near. There would not be much time left for posturing. She would see herself Nae’blis and rule this world as her own once the Last Battle was done.
“I think,” Graendal said, “that I should—”
“You are to stay away from al’Thor,” Moridin said. “You are not to be punished, but I don’t see reason to praise you either. Yes, al’Thor may be hurt, but you still bungled your plan, costing us a useful tool.”
“Of course,” Graendal said smoothly, “I will serve as it pleases the Great Lord. I was not going to suggest that I move against al’Thor anyway. He thinks me dead, and so best to let him remain in his ignorance while I work elsewhere, for now.”
“Elsewhere?”
Graendal needed a victory, a decisive one. She sifted through the different plans she’d devised, selecting the most likely to succeed. She couldn’t move against al’Thor? Very well. She would bring to the Great Lord something he’d long desired.
“Perrin Aybara,” Graendal said. She felt exposed, having to reveal her intentions to Moridin. She preferred to keep her plots to herself. However, she doubted she’d be able to escape this meeting without telling him. “I will bring you his head.”
Moridin turned toward the fire, clasping his hands behind his back. He watched the flames.
With a shock, she felt sweat trickle down her brow. What? She was able to avoid heat and cold. What was wrong? She maintained her focus…it just didn’t work. Not here. Not near him.
That unsettled her deeply.
“He’s important,” Graendal said. “The prophecies—”
“I know the prophecies,” Moridin said softly. He did not turn. “How would you do it?”
“My spies have located his army,” Graendal said. “I have already set some plans in motion regarding him, just in case. I retain the group of Shadowspawn given me to cause chaos, and I have a trap prepared. It will break al’Thor, ruin him, if he loses Aybara.”
“It will do more than that,” Moridin said softly. “But you will never manage it. His men have gateways. He will escape you.”
“I—”
“He will escape you,” Moridin said softly.
The sweat trickled down her cheek, then to her chin. She wiped it casually, but her brow continued to bead.
“Come,” Moridin said, striding from the hearth and toward the hallway outside.
Graendal followed, curious but afraid. Moridin led her to a nearby door, set in the same black stone walls. He pushed it open.
Graendal followed him inside. The narrow room was lined with shelves. And on them were dozens—perhaps hundreds—of objects of Power. Darkness within! she thought. Where did he get so many?
Moridin walked to the end of the room, where he picked through objects on a shelf. Graendal entered, awed. “Is that a shocklance?” she asked, pointing to a long thin bit of metal. “Three binding rods? A rema’kar? Those pieces of a sho—”
“It is unimportant,” he said, selecting an item.
“If I could just—”
“You are close to losing favor, Graendal,” he said, turning and holding a long, spikelike piece of metal, silvery and topped with a large metal head set with golden inlay. “I have found only two of these. The other is being put to good use. You may use this one.”
“A dreamspike?” she said, eyes opening wide. How badly she’d wanted to have one of these! “You found two?”
He tapped the top of the dreamspike and it vanished from his hand. “You will know where to find it?”
“Yes,” she said, growing hungry. This was an object of great Power. Useful in so many different ways.
Moridin stepped forward, seizing her eyes with his own. “Graendal,” he said softly, dangerously. “I know the key for this one. It will not be used against me, or others of the Chosen. The Great Lord will know if you do. I do not wish your apparent habit to be indulged further, not until Aybara is dead.”
“I…yes, of course.” She felt cold, suddenly. How could she feel cold here? And while still sweating?
“Aybara can walk the World of Dreams,” Moridin said. “I will lend you another tool, the man with two souls. But he is mine, just as that spike is mine. Just as you are mine. Do you understand?”
She nodded. She couldn’t help herself. The room seemed to be growing darker. That voice of his…it sounded, just faintly, like that of the Great Lord.
“Let me tell you this, however,” Moridin said, reaching forward with his right hand, cupping her chin. “If you do succeed, the Great Lord will be pleased. Very pleased. That which has been granted you in sparseness will be heaped upon you in glory.”
She licked her dry lips. In front of her, Moridin’s expression grew distant.
“Moridin?” she asked hesitantly.
He ignored her, releasing her chin and walking to the end of the room. From a table, he picked up a thick tome wrapped in pale tan skin. He flipped to a certain page and studied it for a moment. Then he waved for her to approach.
She did so, careful. When she read what was on the page, she found herself stunned.
Darkness within! “What is this book?” she finally managed to force out. “Where did these prophecies come from?”
“They have long been known to me,” Moridin said softly, still studying the book. “But not to many others, not even the Chosen. The women and men who spoke these were isolated and held alone. The Light must never know of these words. We know of their prophecies, but they will never know all of ours.”
“But this…” she said, rereading the passage. “This says Aybara will die!”
“There can be many interpretations of any prophecy,” Moridin said. “But yes. This Foretelling promises that Aybara will die by our hand. You will bring me the head of this wolf, Graendal. And when you do, anything you ask shall be yours.” He slapped the book closed. “But mark me. Fail, and you will lose what you have gained. And much more.”
He opened a portal for her with a wave of the hand; her faint ability to touch the True Power—that hadn’t been removed from her—allowed her to see twisted weaves stab the air and rend it, ripping a hole in the fabric of the Pattern. The air shimmered there. It would lead back to her hidden cavern, she knew.
She went through without a word. She didn’t trust her voice to speak without shaking.
Chapter 6
Questioning Intentions
Morgase Trakand, once Queen of Andor, served tea. She moved from person to person in the large pavilion Perrin had taken from Malden. It had sides that could be rolled up and no tent floor.
Large though the tent was, there was barely enough room for all who had wanted to attend the meeting. Perrin and Faile were there, of course, sitting on the ground. Next to them sat golden-eyed Elyas and Tam al’Thor, the simple farmer with the broad shoulders and the calm manners. Was this man really the father of the Dragon Reborn? Of course, Morgase had seen Rand al’Thor once, and the boy hadn’t looked much more than a farmer himself.
Beside Tam sat Perrin’s dusty secretary, Sebban Balwer. How much did Perrin know of his past? Jur Grady was there also, wearing his black coat with a silver sword pin on the collar. His leathery farmer’s face was hollow-eyed and still pale from the sickness he’d suffered recently. Neald—the other Asha’man—was not there. He hadn’t yet recovered from his snakebites.
All three Aes Sedai were there. Seonid and Masuri sat with the Wise Ones, and Annoura sat beside Berelain, occasionally shooting glances at the six Wise Ones. Gallenne sat on Berelain’s other side. Ac
ross from them sat Alliandre and Arganda.
The officers made Morgase think of Gareth Bryne. She hadn’t seen him in a long while, not since she’d exiled him for reasons she still couldn’t quite explain. Very little about that time in her life made sense to her now. Had she really been so infatuated with a man that she’d banished Aemlyn and Ellorien?
Anyway, those days were gone. Now Morgase picked her way carefully through the room and saw that people’s cups were kept full.
“Your work took longer than I’d expected,” Perrin said.
“You gave us a duty to attend to, Perrin Aybara,” Nevarin replied. “We accomplished it. It took us as much time as needed to do it correctly. Surely you don’t imply that we did otherwise.” The sandy-haired Wise One sat directly in front of Seonid and Masuri.
“Give over, Nevarin,” Perrin grunted as he unrolled a map before him on the ground; it had been drawn by Balwer using instructions from the Ghealdanin. “I wasn’t questioning you. I was asking if there were any problems in the burning.”
“The village is gone,” Nevarin said. “And every plant we found with a hint of Blight has been burned to ash. As well we did. You wetlanders would have much trouble dealing with something as deadly as the Blight.”
“I think,” Faile said, “that you would be surprised.”
Morgase glanced at Faile, who locked eyes with the Wise One. Faile sat like a queen, once again dressed to her station in a fine dress of green and violet, pleated down the sides and divided for riding. Oddly, Faile’s sense of leadership seemed to have been enhanced by her time spent with the Shaido.
Morgase and Faile had quickly gone back to being mistress and servant. In fact, Morgase’s life here was strikingly similar to what it had been in the Shaido camp. True, some things were different; Morgase wasn’t likely to be strapped here, for instance. That didn’t change the fact that—for a time—she and the other four women had been equals. No longer.
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