The next morning, a column rode north from the Aes Sedai camp well before dawn, near silent except for the creak of saddles and the crunch of hooves breaking through the snow’s crisp crust. Occasionally a horse snorted, or metal jingled and was quickly muffled. The moon was already down, the sky glistening with stars, but the pale blanket lying over everything below lightened the darkness. When the first glimmers of day appeared in the east, they had been riding a good hour or more. Which was not to say they had traveled far. Over some open stretches, Egwene could let Daishar go at a slow canter that sprayed white like splashing water, but for the most part, the horses walked, and not quickly, through sparse forest where the snow made deep drifts below and clung to branches overhead. Oak and pine, sourgum and leatherleaf and trees she did not recognize all looked even more bedraggled than they had in the heat and drought. Today was the Feast of Abram, but there would be no prizes baked in honeycakes. The Light send some people found surprises in the day, though.
The sun rose and climbed, a pale golden ball that gave no warmth. Every breath still bit the throat and produced a puff of mist. A sharp wind blew, not hard, but cutting, and to the west dark clouds rolled north on their way to Andor. She felt a touch of pity for whoever would know the burden of those clouds. And relief that they were heading away. Waiting another day would have been maddening. She had been unable to sleep at all, for fidgety restlessness, not headaches. Restlessness, and tendrils of fear that had crept in like cold air under the edges of the tent. She was not tired, though. She felt like a compressed spring, a tight-wound clock, full of energy that wanted desperately to find release. Light, everything could still go horribly wrong.
It was an impressive column, behind the standard of the White Tower, the white Flame of Tar Valon centered on a spiral of seven colors, one for each Ajah. Sewn secretly in Salidar, it had lain in the bottom of a chest ever since, with the keys in the keeping of the Hall. She did not think they would have produced it except for this morning’s need for pomp. A thousand heavy cavalry in plate-and-mail provided a close escort, a panoply of lances, swords, maces and axes seldom seen south of the Borderlands. Their commander was a one-eyed Shienaran with a vividly painted eyepatch, a man she had met once, what seemed an Age ago. Uno Nomesta glared at the trees through the steel bars of his helmet’s faceguard as if he expected every last one to hide an ambush, and his men seemed nearly as watchful, erect in their saddles.
Almost out of sight ahead through the trees rode a knot of men who wore helmets, breast- and back-plates, but no other armor. Their cloaks whipped about freely; a gauntleted hand for the reins and a hand for the short bow they each carried left nothing to grasp at warmth. There were more farther on, and beyond sight to left and right and behind, another thousand altogether, to scout and screen. Gareth Bryne did not expect trickery from the Andorans, but he had been wrong before, so he said, and the Murandians were another matter. And then there was the possibility of assassins in Elaida’s pay, or even Darkfriends. The Light alone knew when a Darkfriend might decide to kill, or why. For that matter, though the Shaido were supposedly far away, no one ever seemed to know they were there until the killing began. Even bandits might have tried their hand with too small a party. Lord Bryne was not a man to take chances unnecessarily, and Egwene was very glad. Today, she wanted as many witnesses as possible.
She herself rode ahead of the banner, with Sheriam and Siuan and Bryne. The others appeared caught in their own thoughts. Lord Bryne sat his saddle easily, the mist of his even breath forming a light frost on his faceguard, yet Egwene could see him calmly marking terrain in his mind. In case he had to fight over it. Siuan rode so stiffly that she would be sore long before reaching their destination, but she stared north as though she could already see the lake, and sometimes she nodded to herself, or shook her head. She would not have done that unless she was uneasy. Sheriam knew no more of what was to come than the Sitters did, yet she appeared even more nervous than Siuan, shifting constantly in her saddle and grimacing. Anger shone in her green eyes, too, for some reason.
Close behind the banner came the entire Hall of the Tower in double column, wearing embroidered silks and rich velvets and furs and cloaks with the Flame large on the back. Women who seldom wore more ornaments than the Great Serpent ring were decked today in the finest gems the camp’s jewelry caskets could supply. Their Warders made a more splendid display simply by wearing their color-shifting cloaks; parts of the men seemed to vanish as the disquieting cloaks swirled in the stiff breeze. Servants followed, two or three for every sister, on the best horses that could be found for them. They might have passed for lesser nobility themselves if a number had not been leading pack animals; every chest in the camp had been ransacked to outfit them in bright colors.
Perhaps because she was one of the Sitters without a Warder, Delana had brought Halima along, on a spirited white mare. The two rode almost knee-to-knee. Sometimes Delana would lean toward Halima to speak privately, though Halima appeared too excited to listen. Supposedly, Halima was Delana’s secretary, but everyone believed it a case of charity, or possibly friendship, however unlikely, between the dignified, pale-haired sister and the hot-natured, raven-haired country woman. Egwene had seen Halima’s hand, and it had the unformed look of a child’s just learning her letters. Today, she was in garments as fine as any sister’s, with gems that easily equaled Delana’s, who must have been their source. Whenever a gust opened her velvet cloak, she displayed a shocking amount of bosom, and she always laughed and took her time about gathering it around her again, refusing to admit that she felt the cold any more than the sisters did.
For once, Egwene was glad of all the gifts of clothing she had been given, allowing her to surpass the Sitters. Her green-and-blue silk was slashed with white and worked with seed pearls. Pearls even decorated the backs of her gloves. At the last minute a cloak lined with ermine had been provided by Romanda, and a necklace and earrings of emeralds and white opals by Lelaine. The moonstones in her hair came from Janya. The Amyrlin had to be resplendent today. Even Siuan appeared ready for a ball, in blue velvets and cream lace, with a wide band of pearls at her throat and more laced through her hair.
Romanda and Lelaine led the Sitters, riding so closely behind the soldier bearing the banner that he glanced over his shoulder nervously and sometimes edged his horse nearer the riders ahead of him. Egwene managed not to look back more than once or twice, yet she could feel their eyes pressing between her shoulder blades. Each thought her tied in a neat bundle, but each had to be wondering whose cords had done the binding. Oh, Light, this could not go wrong. Not now.
Other than the column, little moved in all that snow-covered landscape. A broad-winged hawk wheeled overhead against the cold blue sky for a time before winging eastward. Twice Egwene saw black-tailed foxes trotting in the distance, still in their summer fur, and once, a large deer with tall forked antlers ghosted away and vanished amid the trees. A hare, starting up right under Bela’s hooves and bounding off, made the shaggy mare toss her head, and Siuan yelped and grabbed at the reins as if she expected Bela to bolt. Of course, Bela only gave a reproachful snort and plodded onward. Egwene’s tall roan gelding shied more, and the hare had not gone near him.
Siuan began grumbling under her breath after the hare scampered away, and it took quite some time before she eased Bela’s reins. Being on a horse always made her grumpy—she traveled in one of the wagons whenever possible—but she was seldom this bad. There was no need to look further than Lord Bryne, or her fierce glances at him, to know why.
If he noticed Siuan’s looks, he gave no sign. The only one not in fine array, he looked as he always did, plain and slightly battered. A rock that had weathered storms and would outlast more to come. For some reason, Egwene was glad he had resisted their efforts to dress him in finer garb. They truly did need to make an impression, yet she thought he made an excellent one as he was.
“It’s a fine morning to be in the saddle,” Sheriam said after a time. “Nothing like a good ride in the snow to clear the head.” Her voice was not low, and she cut her eyes at the still-muttering Siuan with a tiny smile.
Siuan did not say anything—she hardly could do that in front of so many eyes—but she did give Sheriam a hard look that promised sharp words for later. The fire-haired woman twisted away abruptly with very close to a wince. Wing, her dappled gray mare, pranced a few steps, and Sheriam settled her down with almost too firm a hand. She had shown little gratitude to the woman who had named her Mistress of Novices, and like most in that position, she found reasons to blame Siuan. It was the only flaw Egwene had found in her since the swearing. Well, she had protested that, as Keeper, she should not have to take orders from Siuan the way the others who had sworn did, but Egwene had seen right away where that would lead. This was not the first time Sheriam had tried to plant a barb. Siuan insisted on handling Sheriam herself, and her pride was too fragile for Egwene to deny the request unless matters got out of hand.
Egwene wished there were some way to make more speed. Siuan went back to her grumbling, and Sheriam was obviously thinking of something else to say that would not quite bring a rebuke. All that muttering and cutting of eyes began to find their way under Egwene’s skin. After a while, even Bryne’s levelheaded poise began to wear. She found herself thinking of things she might say that would shake his aplomb. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—she did not believe anything could. But if she had to wait much longer, she thought she might burst from sheer impatience.
The sun climbed toward midday, the painfully slow miles passed behind, and at last one of the riders ahead turned and raised his hand. With a hasty apology to Egwene, Bryne galloped forward. It was really more of a lumber through the snow for his sturdy bay gelding, Traveler, but he caught up to the outriders, exchanged a few words, then sent them on through the trees and waited for Egwene and the others to reach him.
As he fell in beside her once more, Romanda and Lelaine joined them. The two Sitters barely acknowledged Egwene’s presence, fixing Bryne with the cool serenity that had shaken so many men facing Aes Sedai. Except that now and then, each glanced sideways at the other in a considering way. They hardly seemed to realize what they were doing. Egwene hoped they were half as nervous as she; she would be satisfied with that.
Coolly serene stares washed over Bryne like rain over that rock. He made slight bows to the Sitters, but he spoke to Egwene. “They’ve already arrived, Mother.” That had been expected. “They brought almost as many men as we did, but they’re all on the north side of the lake. I’ve put scouts out to make sure nobody tries circling around, but in truth, I don’t expect it.”
“Let us hope you’re right,” Romanda told him sharply, and Lelaine added in a much colder tone, “Your judgment has not been all it should be, of late, Lord Bryne.” A frigid, cutting tone.
“As you say, Aes Sedai.” He made another slight bow without really turning from Egwene. Like Siuan, he was tied to her openly now, at least so far as the Hall was concerned. If only they did not know how tightly. If only she could be sure how tightly. “One thing more, Mother,” he went on. “Talmanes is there at the lake, too. There are about a hundred of the Band on the east side. Not enough to cause trouble even if he wanted to, and small chance he would, I think.”
Egwene merely nodded. Not enough to cause trouble? Talmanes alone might be enough! She tasted bile. It—could—not—go—wrong—now!
“Talmanes!” Lelaine exclaimed, serenity shattering. She must have been as much on edge as Egwene. “How did he find out? If you’ve included Dragonsworn in your scheming, Lord Bryne, you truly will learn what going too far means!”
Right on top of her, Romanda growled, “This is disgraceful! You say you’ve only learned of his presence now? If that’s so, your reputation is puffed up like a boil!” Aes Sedai calm was a thin layer for some today, it seemed.
They continued in that vein, but Bryne rode on, only murmuring the occasional “As you say, Aes Sedai,” when he had to say something. He had received worse in Egwene’s hearing this morning, and reacted no more. It was Siuan who finally snorted, and then blushed crimson when the Sitters looked at her in surprise. Egwene almost shook her head. Siuan was very definitely in love. And she very definitely needed talking to! For some reason, Bryne smiled, but that might just have been because he was no longer the object of the Sitters’ attention.
Trees gave way to another open space, larger than most, and there was no more time for frivolous thoughts.
Aside from a wide rim of tall brown reeds and cattails poking through the snow, nothing named this a lake. It could have been a big meadow, flat and very roughly oval in shape. Some distance from the treeline, on the frozen lake, stood a large blue canopy on tall poles, with a small crowd of people milling about it and dozens of horses held by servants behind. The breeze ruffled a bright thicket of pennants and banners, and carried muffled shouts that could only have been orders. More servants darted about hastily. Apparently, they had not been there long enough to finish their preparations.
Perhaps a mile away the trees began again, and the feeble sunlight glinted off metal there. Quite a lot of metal, stretching the length of the far shore. To the east, almost as close as the pavilion, the hundred men of the Band made no effort at concealment, standing beside their mounts just short of where the cattails began. A few of them pointed when the flag of Tar Valon appeared. The people at the pavilion stopped to look.
Egwene did not pause before riding out onto the snow-covered ice. She did imagine herself a rosebud opening to the sun, though, that old novice exercise. She did not actually embrace saidar, but the calm that came was very welcome.
Siuan and Sheriam followed, and the Sitters with their Warders, and the servants. Lord Bryne and the bannerman were the only two soldiers who went. Shouts rising behind her told of Uno putting his armored horsemen into position along the shoreline. The more lightly armored men were arrayed to either side, those not off guarding against treachery. One reason the lake had been chosen was that the ice was thick enough to hold a fair number of horses, but not hundreds, much less thousands. That cut down on the chance of chicanery. Of course, a pavilion beyond bowshot was not beyond the range of the One Power, not if it could be seen. Except that the worst man in the world knew himself safe from that unless he threatened a sister. Egwene exhaled sharply, and began acquiring calm all over again.
A proper greeting for the Amyrlin Seat should have had servants rushing forward with warm drinks and cloths wrapped around hot bricks, and the lords and ladies themselves to take reins and offer a kiss in token of Abram. Any visitor of rank at all would have had the servants, but no one stirred from the pavilion. Bryne himself dismounted and came to hold Daishar’s bridle, and the same lanky young man who had come with fresh charcoal the day before ran to hold Egwene’s stirrup. His nose still dripped, but in a red velvet coat only a little too large for him and a bright blue cloak, he outshone any of the nobles who stood staring from under the canopy. They appeared to be in stout woolens for the most part, with not much embroidery and very little silk or lace. Likely they had had to scramble to find suitable clothes once the snows began, and them already on the march. Though the simple truth was that the young man might have outshone a Tinker.
Carpets had been laid to floor the pavilion, and braziers lit, though the breeze carried away heat and smoke alike. Chairs stood in two facing lines for the delegations, eight in each. They had not expected so many sisters. Some of the waiting nobles exchanged looks of consternation, and a number of their servants actually wrung their hands, wondering what to do. They need not have.
The chairs were a mismatched miscellany, but they were all alike in size, and none was noticeably more worn or battered than another. None had noticeably more or less gilded carving. The lanky young man and a number of others trotted in and under the frowns of the nobles, without so much as a by-your-leave, carried those meant for Aes Sedai out into the snow, then rushed to help with unloading the packhorses. Still, no one spoke a word.
Quickly, seats were set up sufficient for the entire Hall, and Egwene. Only simple benches, though polished till they gleamed, but each stood on a wide box covered with cloth in the color of the Sitter’s Ajah, in a long row as wide as the canopy. The box placed in front, for Egwene’s bench, was striped like her stole. There had been a great flurry of activity in the night, beginning with finding beeswax for polish and good cloth of the right colors.
When Egwene and the Sitters took their places, they sat a foot higher than anyone else. She had had her doubts about that, but the lack of any word of welcome had settled those. The meanest farmer would have offered a cup and a kiss to a vagabond on the Feast of Abram. They were not supplicants, and they were not equals. They were Aes Sedai.
Warders stood behind their Aes Sedai, and Siuan and Sheriam flanked Egwene. The sisters ostentatiously flung back cloaks and tucked gloves away to emphasize that the cold did not touch them, a sharp contrast to the nobles clutching their own cloaks close. Outside, the Flame of Tar Valon lifted in the stiffening breeze. Only Halima, lounging beside Delana’s chair on the edge of the gray-covered box, at all spoiled the grand image, and her big green eyes stared at the Andorans and Murandians so challengingly that she did not spoil it much.
There were a few stares when Egwene took the seat in front, but only a few. No one really looked surprised. I suppose they’ve heard all about the girl Amyrlin, she thought dryly. Well, there had been queens younger, including queens of Andor and Murandy. Calmly, she nodded, and Sheriam gestured to the line of chairs. No matter who had arrived first or provided the pavilion, there was no doubt who had called this meeting. Who was in charge.
Her action was not well received, of course. There was a moment of silent hesitation while the nobles cast their minds about for some way to regain an equal footing, and no few grimaces as they realized it could not be done. Grim-faced, eight of them sat down, four men and four women, with much angry gathering of cloaks and adjusting of skirts. Those of lesser rank stood behind the chairs, and clearly there was little love lost between Andoran and Murandian. For that matter, the Murandians, men and women alike, muttered and jostled one another for precedence as fiercely as they did their “allies” from the north. The Aes Sedai received a good many dark looks as well, and a few folk spared scowls for Bryne, who stood off to one side with his helmet under his arm. He was well known on both sides of the border, and respected even by most of those who would have liked to see him dead. At least, that had been the case before he turned up leading the Aes Sedai’s army. He ignored their acid glares as he had the Sitters’ acid tongues.
Another man did not join with either party. A pale man, less than a hand taller than Egwene, in a dark coat and breastplate, he wore the front of his head shaved, and there was a long red scarf tied around his left arm. His deep gray cloak had a large red hand worked on the breast. Talmanes stood opposite Bryne, leaning against one of the pavilion’s poles with an arrogant casualness, and watched without revealing a hint of his thoughts. Egwene wished she knew what he was doing there. She wished she knew what he had said before she arrived. In any case, she had to speak with him. If it could be managed without a hundred ears listening.
A lean, weathered man in a red cloak, sitting in the middle of the row of chairs, leaned forward and opened his mouth, but Sheriam forestalled him in a clear, carrying voice.
“Mother, may I present to you, of Andor, Arathelle Renshar, High Seat of House Renshar. Pelivar Coelan, High Seat of House Coelan. Aemlyn Carand, High Seat of House Carand, and her husband, Culhan Carand.” They acknowledged their names sourly, with bare nods and no more. Pelivar was the lean man; he was losing his dark hair from the front. Sheriam went on without pause; it was a good thing Bryne had been able to supply the names of those who had been chosen to speak. “May I present, of Murandy, Donel do Morny a’Lordeine. Cian do Mehon a’Macansa. Paitr do Fearna a’Conn. Segan do Avharin a’Roos.” The Murandians seemed to feel the lack of titles even more than the Andorans. Donel, wearing more lace than most of the women, twisted his curled mustaches fiercely, and Paitr appeared to be trying to yank his loose. Segan pursed full lips and her dark eyes caught fire, while Cian, a stocky, graying woman, snorted quite loudly. Sheriam took no notice. “You are beneath the eyes of the Watcher of the Seals. You are before the Flame of Tar Valon. You may present your supplications to the Amyrlin Seat.”
Well. They did not like that, not in the least. Egwene had thought them sour before, but now they looked stuffed full of green persimmons. Perhaps they had believed they could pretend she was not the Amyrlin at all. They would learn. Of course, first she had to teach the Hall.
“There are ancient ties between Andor and the White Tower,” she said, loudly and firmly. “Sisters have always expected welcome in Andor or Murandy. Why then do you bring an army against Aes Sedai? You meddle where thrones and nations fear to step. Thrones have fallen, meddling in the affairs of Aes Sedai.”
That sounded suitably threatening, whether or not Myrelle and the others had managed to prepare her way. With luck, they were well on their way back to the camp, with no one the wiser. Unless one of these nobles spoke the wrong name. That would lose her an advantage against the Hall, but alongside everything else, it was a straw beside a hayloft.
Pelivar exchanged looks with the woman seated beside him, and she stood. Creases in her face could not disguise the fact that Arathelle had been a beautiful, fine-boned woman when young; now, gray threaded thickly through her hair, and her gaze struck as hard as any Warder’s. Her red-gloved hands gripped the edges of her cloak at her sides, but plainly not in worry. Mouth compressed to a thin line, she scanned the line of Sitters, and only then spoke. Past Egwene, to the sisters behind her. Gritting her teeth, Egwene put on an attentive expression.
“We are here precisely because we do not want to become entangled in the White Tower’s affairs.” Arathelle’s voice held tones of authority, unsurprising in the High Seat of a powerful House. There was no hint of the diffidence that might have been expected, even from a powerful High Seat, facing so many sisters, not to mention the Amyrlin Seat. “If all we’ve heard is true, then at best, allowing you to pass through Andor unhindered may seem like giving aid, or even alliance, in the eyes of the White Tower. Failure to oppose you might mean learning what the grape learns in the winepress.” Several of the Murandians turned their scowls on her. No one in Murandy had tried to hinder the sisters’ passage. Very likely, no one had considered the possibilities beyond the day they passed onto another’s lands.
Arathelle continued as if she had not noticed, but Egwene doubted that. “At worst . . . We have heard . . . reports . . . of Aes Sedai making their way into Andor in secret, and Tower Guards. Rumors might be a better word, but they come from many places. None of us would like to see a battle between Aes Sedai in Andor.”
“The Light preserve and protect us!” Donel burst out, red-faced. Paitr nodded encouragement, sliding to the edge of his seat, and Cian looked ready to jump in herself. “No one wants to see it here, either!” Donel spat. “Not between Aes Sedai! For sure, we’ve heard what happened out east! And those sisters —!”
Egwene breathed a little more easily when Arathelle stepped on him firmly. “If you please, Lord Donel. You will have your turn to speak.” She turned back to Egwene—to the Sitters once more, really—without waiting on his reply, leaving him spluttering and the other three Murandians glowering. She herself looked quite undisturbed, simply a woman laying out the facts. Laying them out, and meaning that they should be seen as she saw them.
“As I was saying. That is the worst we fear, if the tales are true. And also if they are not. Aes Sedai may be gathering secretly in Andor, with Tower Guards. Aes Sedai with an army are ready to enter Andor. Often enough the White Tower has seemed to aim at one target, only for the rest of us to learn later it was aiming at another all along. I can hardly imagine even the White Tower going this far, but if ever there was a target you might twist yourselves into a knot for, it’s the Black Tower.” Arathelle shivered slightly, and Egwene did not think it was the cold. “A battle between Aes Sedai might ruin the land for miles around. That battle might ruin half of Andor.”
Pelivar sprang to his feet. “The plain of it is, you must go another way.” His voice was surprisingly high, but no less firm than Arathelle’s. “If I must die to defend my lands and my people, then better here than where my lands and people die, too.”
He subsided at Arathelle’s soothing gesture, sinking back into his chair. Hard-eyed, he did not look mollified. Aemlyn, a plump woman wrapped in dark wool, nodded agreement with him, as did her square-faced husband.
Donel stared at Pelivar as though he had never had this thought either, and he was not the only one. Some of the standing Murandians began to argue out loud until others quieted them. Sometimes with a shaken fist. Whatever had possessed these people to join forces with the Andorans?
Egwene drew breath. A rosebud, opening to the sun. They had not acknowledged her as the Amyrlin Seat—Arathelle had come as close to ignoring her as was possible without pushing her aside!—yet they had given her everything else she could have wished for. Calm. Now was when Lelaine and Romanda would be expecting her to name one of them to handle the negotiations. She hoped their stomachs were tied in knots with wondering which of them it would be. There would be no negotiations. There could be none.
“Elaida,” she said levelly, eyeing Arathelle and the seated nobles in turn, “is a usurper who has violated what lies at the very heart of the White Tower. I am the Amyrlin Seat.” She was surprised at how stately she managed to sound, how cool. But not as surprised as she once would have been. The Light help her, she was the Amyrlin Seat. “We go to Tar Valon to remove Elaida and try her, but that is the White Tower’s business, and none of yours except to know the truth. This so-called Black Tower also is our business; men who can channel have always been the White Tower’s affair. We will deal with them as we choose, when the time is ripe, but I assure you, that time is not now. More important matters must take precedence.”
She heard movement among the Sitters behind her. An actual shifting on benches and the crisp swishing of divided skirts being adjusted. At least some must be severely agitated. Well, several had suggested that the Black Tower might be dealt with in passing. Not one believed there could be more than a dozen or so men there at most, no matter what they heard; after all, it simply was not possible that hundreds of men would want to channel. Then again, it might have been the realization that Egwene was not going to name either Romanda or Lelaine.
Arathelle frowned, perhaps catching a hint of something in the air. Pelivar moved, on the point of rising again, and Donel drew himself up querulously. There was nothing for it but to press on. There never had been.
“I understand your concerns,” she continued in the same formal tone, “and I will address them.” What was that strange call to arms the Band used? Yes. It was time to toss the dice. “I give you this assurance as the Amyrlin Seat. For one month we will stay here, resting, and then we will leave Murandy, but we will not cross the border into Andor. Murandy will be troubled by us no more after that, and Andor will not be troubled at all. I’m certain,” she added, “the Murandian lords and ladies here will be happy to supply our wants in exchange for good silver. We will pay fair prices.” There was no point mollifying the Andorans if it meant Murandians raiding the horses and supply trains.
The Murandians, looking around uneasily, appeared decidedly torn in any case. There was coin to be made, and a great deal of it supplying an army so large, but on the other hand, who could haggle successfully with whatever an army so large offered? Donel actually seemed ready to sick up, while Cian seemed to be doing sums in her head. Mutters rose among the onlookers. More than mutters; nearly loud enough for Egwene.
She wanted to look over her shoulder. The silence from the Sitters was deafening. Siuan was staring straight ahead and gripping her skirts as if to keep herself looking forward by main force. At least she had known what was coming. Sheriam, who had not, eyed the Andorans and Murandians regally, calmly, as though she had expected every word.
Egwene needed to make them forget the girl they saw before them, and hear a woman with the reins of power firmly in hand. If they were not in her hands now, they would be! She firmed her voice. “Mark me well. I have made my decision; it is for you to accept it. Or face what surely will come from your failure.” As she fell silent, the wind gusted to a brief howl, rattling the canopy, tugging at garments. Egwene straightened her hair calmly. Some of the watching nobles shivered and twitched their cloaks around them, and she hoped their shivers came from more than the weather.
Arathelle exchanged looks with Pelivar and Aemlyn, and all three studied the Sitters before slowly nodding. They believed she was merely mouthing words the Sitters had put on her tongue! Even so, Egwene very nearly sighed with relief.
“It will be as you say,” the hard-eyed noblewoman said. Again, to the Sitters. “We do not doubt the word of Aes Sedai, of course, but you will understand if we also remain. Sometimes, what you hear isn’t what you think you heard. Not that that’s the case here, I’m sure. But we will stay while you do.” Donel truly looked ready to empty himself. Very likely his lands lay nearby. Andoran armies in Murandy had seldom been known to pay for anything.
Egwene stood, and she could hear the rustle of the Sitters rising behind her. “It is agreed, then. We must all depart soon, if we are to return to our own beds before dark, but we should spare a few moments. Getting to know one another a little better now might avoid misunderstandings later.” And talk might give her a chance to reach Talmanes. “Oh. One other thing you should all be aware of. The novice book is now open to any woman, whatever her age, if she tests true.” Arathelle blinked. Siuan did not, yet Egwene thought she heard a faint grunt. This was not part of what they had discussed, but there would never be a better time. “Come. I’m sure you would all like to speak with the Sitters. Let formality go.”
Without waiting for Sheriam to offer a hand, she stepped down. She almost felt like laughing. Last night she had been afraid she might never reach her goal, but she was halfway there, almost halfway, and it had not been nearly as difficult as she had feared. Of course, the other half remained.