Seated cross-legged in a heavily gilded, high-backed chair, Min tried to lose herself in the leather-bound copy of Herid Fel’s Reason and Unreason lying open on her knees. It was not easy. Oh, the book itself was mesmerizing; Master Fel’s writings always swept her into worlds of thought she had not dreamed of while working in stables. She very much regretted the sweet old man’s death. She hoped to find a clue in his books to why he had been killed. Her dark ringlets swung as she shook her head and tried to apply herself.
The book was fascinating, but the room was oppressive. Rand’s small throne room in the Sun Palace was thick with gilt from the wide cornices to the tall mirrors on the walls replacing those Rand had smashed, from the two rows of chairs like the one she sat in to the dais at the head of the rows and the Dragon Throne atop the dais. That was a monstrosity, in the style of Tear as imagined by Cairhienin craftsmen, resting on the backs of a pair of Dragons with two more Dragons for the arms and others climbing the back, all with large sunstones for eyes, the whole glittering with gilt and red enamel. A huge golden, wavy-rayed Rising Sun set in the polished stone floor only added to the sense of heaviness. At least the fires blazing in two great fireplaces, tall enough for her to walk into, gave a pleasing warmth, especially with snow spilling down outside. And these were Rand’s rooms; the comfort of that alone outweighed any amount of oppression. An irritating thought. This was Rand’s room if he ever deigned to return. A very irritating thought. Being in love with a man seemed to consist largely of a great many irritating admissions to yourself!
Shifting in a vain attempt to make the hard chair comfortable, she tried to read, but her eyes kept swinging to the tall doors, each climbed by its own line of gilded Rising Suns. She hoped to see Rand walk in; she feared to see Sorilea, or Cadsuane. Unconsciously, she adjusted her pale blue coat, fingering the tiny snow-flowers embroidered on the lapels. More twined around the sleeves, and the legs of breeches made as snug as she could manage to wriggle herself into. Not that great a change from what she had always worn. Not really. So far, she had avoided dresses, however much embroidery she wore, but she very much feared that Sorilea meant to stuff her into a dress if the Wise One had to peel her out of what she was wearing with her own hands.
The woman knew all about her and Rand. All about. She felt her cheeks heating. Sorilea seemed to be trying to decide whether Min Farshaw was a suitable . . . lover . . . for Rand al’Thor. That word made her feel foolishly giddy; she was not a fluff-brained girl! That word made her want to look over her shoulder guiltily for the aunts who had raised her. No, she thought wryly, you’re not fluff-brained. Fluff has its wits about it compared to you!
Or maybe Sorilea wanted to know whether Rand was suitable for Min; it seemed that way, at times. The Wise Ones accepted Min as one of them, or very nearly, but these past weeks, Sorilea had wrung her out like a laundress’s mangle. The leather-faced, white-haired Wise One wanted to know every scrap about Min, and every shred about Rand. She wanted the dust from the bottoms of his pockets! Twice Min had tried balking at the incessant interrogation, and twice Sorilea had produced a switch! That terrible old woman simply bundled her over the side of the nearest table, and afterward told her that maybe that would loosen another scrap in her head. None of the other Wise Ones gave the slightest commiseration, either! Light, the things you had to put up with for a man! And she could not have him for herself alone, at that!
Cadsuane was a different proposition altogether. The immensely dignified Aes Sedai, as gray-haired as Sorilea was white, did not seem to care two figs for Min or Rand either one, but she spent a great deal of time in the Sun Palace. Avoiding her entirely was impossible; she seemed to wander wherever she wanted. And when Cadsuane looked at Min, however briefly, Min could not help seeing a woman who could teach bulls to dance and bears to sing. She kept expecting the woman to point at her and announce that it was time Min Farshaw learned to balance a ball on her nose. Sooner or later, Rand had to face Cadsuane again, and the thought tied Min’s stomach in knots.
She made herself bend back over her book. One of the doors swung open, and Rand strolled in with the Dragon Scepter nestled in the crook his arm. He wore a golden crown, a broad circlet of laurel leaves—that must be this Crown of Swords everyone was talking about—snug breeches that showed his legs to advantage, and a gold-worked green silk coat that fit him beautifully. He was beautiful.
Marking her place with the note Master Fel had written saying she was “too pretty,” she carefully closed the book and carefully set it on the floor beside her chair. Then she folded her arms and waited. Had she been standing, she would have tapped her foot, but she would not have the man thinking she was springing up just because he finally appeared.
For a moment he stood smiling at her, and tugging his ear-lobe for some reason—he seemed to be humming!—then abruptly he swung round to frown at the doors. “The Maidens out there didn’t tell me you were in here. They hardly said a word at all. Light, they looked ready to veil at the sight of me.”
“Maybe they are upset,” she said calmly. “Maybe they wondered where you were. The way I did. Maybe they wondered whether you were hurt, or sick, or cold.” The way I did, she thought bitterly. The man looked confused!
“I wrote to you,” he said slowly, and she sniffed.
“Twice! With Asha’man to deliver your letters, you wrote twice, Rand al’Thor. If you call it writing!”
He staggered as if she had slapped him—no; as if she had kicked him in the belly!—and blinked. She took a firm hold on herself and settled against the chairback. Give a man sympathy at the wrong moment, and you never regained the ground lost. A part of her wanted to throw her arms around him, comfort him, draw out all his pains, soothe all his hurts. He had so many, and refused to admit a one. She was not going to spring up and rush to him, gushing to know what was wrong or . . . Light, he had to be all right.
Something took her gently beneath the elbows and lifted her out of the chair. Blue boots dangling, she floated toward him through the air. The Dragon Scepter floated away from him. So, he thought he could smile, did he? He thought a pretty smile could turn her around? She opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind. A very sharp piece! Folding his arms around her, he kissed her.
When she could breathe again, she peered up at him through her lashes. “The first time . . . ” She swallowed to clear her voice. “First, Jahar Narishma stalked in trying to stare inside everybody’s skull the way he does, and vanished after handing me a scrap of parchment. Let me see. It said, ‘I have claimed the crown of Illian. Trust no one until I return. Rand.’ A little short of a proper love letter, I’d say.”
He kissed her again.
This time, getting her breath back took longer. This was not going as she had expected at all. On the other hand, it was not going very badly. “The second time, Jonan Adley delivered a bit of paper that said, ‘I will return when I finish here. Trust no one. Rand.’ Adley walked in on me in my bath,” she added, “and he wasn’t shy about getting an eyeful.” Rand always tried to pretend he was not jealous—as if there were a man in the world who was not—but she had noticed his scowls at men who looked at her. And his very considerable ardor was more heated afterward, too. She wondered what this kiss would be like. Maybe she should suggest retiring to the bedchamber? No, she would not be that forward no matter—
Rand set her down, his face suddenly bleak. “Adley’s dead,” he said. Suddenly the crown flew from his head, spinning the length of the room as though hurled. Just when she thought it would crash into the back of the Dragon Throne, perhaps smash through it, the wide ring of gold stopped short and settled slowly onto the throne’s seat.
Min’s breath caught as she looked up at him. Blood glistened in the dark red curls above his left ear. Pulling a lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve, she reached for his temple, but he caught her wrist.
“I killed him,” he said quietly.
She shivered at the sound of his voice. Quiet, the way the grave was quiet. Perhaps the bedchamber was a very good idea. No matter how forward it was. Making herself smile—and blushing when she realized how easy it was to smile, thinking of that huge bed—she gripped the front of his shirt, preparing to rip shirt and coat from his back right then and there.
Someone knocked at the doors.
Min’s hands sprang away from Rand’s shirt. She sprang away, too. Who could it be, she wondered irritably. The Maidens either announced visitors when Rand was there, or simply sent them in.
“Come,” he said loudly, giving her a rueful smile. And she blushed again at that.
Dobraine put his head in at the door, then entered and shut the door behind him when he saw them standing together. The Cairhienin lord was a small man, little taller than she, with the front of his head shaved and the rest of his mostly gray hair falling to his shoulders. Stripes of blue and white decorated the front of his nearly black coat to below his waist. Even before gaining Rand’s favor he had been a power in the land. Now, he ruled here, at least until Elayne could claim the Sun Throne. “My Lord Dragon,” he murmured, bowing. “My Lady Ta’veren.”
“A joke,” Min muttered, when Rand quirked an eyebrow at her.
“Perhaps,” Dobraine said, shrugging slightly, “yet half the noblewomen in the city now wear bright colors in imitation of the Lady Min. Breeches that display their legs, and many in coats that do not even cover their . . . ” He coughed discreetly, realizing that Min’s coat did not cover her hips completely.
She thought about telling him he had very pretty legs, even if they were decidedly knobby, then quickly thought better. Rand’s jealousy might be a wonderful flame if they were alone, but she did not want him striking out at Dobraine. He was capable of that, she feared. Besides, she thought it really was a slip; Lord Dobraine Taborwin was not the sort to make even slightly rough jokes.
“So you’re changing the world, too, Min.” Grinning, Rand tapped the tip of her nose with a finger. He tapped her nose! Like a child he was amused with! Worse, she felt herself grinning back at him like a fool. “In better ways than I am, it appears,” he went on, and that momentary boyish grin faded like mist.
“Is all well in Tear and Illian, my Lord Dragon?” Dobraine inquired.
“In Tear and Illian, all is well,” Rand replied grimly. “What do you have for me, Dobraine? Sit, man. Sit.” He motioned toward the rows of chairs, and took one for himself.
“I have acted on all of your letters,” Dobraine said, seating himself across from Rand, “but there is little good to report, I fear.”
“I’ll get us something to drink,” Min said in a tight voice. Letters? It was not easy to stalk in heeled boots—she had grown accustomed to them, but the things made you sway whatever you did—not easy, yet enough anger made anything possible. She stalked to the small gilded table beneath one of the huge mirrors where a silver pitcher and goblets sat. She busied herself with pouring spiced wine, splashing it out furiously. The servants always brought extra goblets, in case she had visitors, though she seldom did except for Sorilea or a fool lot of noblewomen. The wine was barely warm, but it was more than hot enough for the likes of that pair. She had received two letters, but she would bet Dobraine had had ten! Twenty! Banging pitcher and goblets about, she listened carefully. What had they been up to behind her back with their dozens of letters?
“Toram Riatin appears to have vanished,” Dobraine said, “though rumor, at least, says he still lives, worse luck. Rumors also say that Daved Hanlon and Jeraal Mordeth—Padan Fain, as you call the man—have deserted him. By the way, I have settled Toram’s sister, the Lady Ailil, in generous apartments, with servants who are . . . trustworthy.” By his tone, he clearly meant trustworthy toward himself. The woman would not be able to change her dress without him knowing. “I can understand bringing her here, and Lord Bertome and the others, but why High Lord Weiramon, or High Lady Anaiyella? It goes without saying, of course, that their servants also are trustworthy.”
“How do you know when a woman wants to kill you?” Rand mused.
“When she knows your name?” Dobraine did not sound as if he were joking. Rand tilted his head thoughtfully, then nodded. Nodded! She hoped he was not still hearing voices.
Rand gestured as if brushing away the women who wanted to kill him. A dangerous thing, with her about. She did not want to kill him, certainly, but she would not mind seeing Sorilea go at him with that switch! Breeches did not give much protection.
“Weiramon is a fool who makes too many mistakes,” Rand told Dobraine, who nodded sober agreement. “My mistake for thinking I could use him. He seems happy enough to stay near the Dragon Reborn in any case. What else?” Min handed him a goblet, and he smiled at her despite the wine that slopped over his wrist. Maybe he thought it was an accident.
“Little else and too much,” Dobraine began, then jerked back in his chair to avoid spilling wine as Min shoved the second silver goblet at him. She had not liked her brief stint as a tavernmaid. “My thanks, my Lady Min,” he murmured graciously, but he eyed her askance as he took the goblet. She walked calmly back to fetch her own wine. Calmly.
“I fear that Lady Caraline and the High Lord Darlin are in Lady Arilyn’s palace here in the City,” the Cairhienin lord went on, “under the protection of Cadsuane Sedai. Perhaps protection is not the correct word. I have been refused entry to see them, but I hear that they have attempted to leave the City and been brought back like sacks. In a sack, one story claims. Having met Cadsuane, I can almost believe it.”
“Cadsuane,” Rand murmured, and Min felt a chill. He did not sound afraid, precisely, yet he did sound more than uneasy. “What do you think I should do about Caraline and Darlin, Min?”
Settling into a chair two away from him, Min jerked at suddenly being included. Ruefully, she stared down at the wine soaking through her best cream silk blouse, and her breeches, too. “Caraline will support Elayne for the Sun Throne,” she said glumly. For warm wine, it seemed very cold, and she doubted the stain would ever come out of the blouse. “Not a viewing, but I believe her.” She did not glance toward Dobraine, though he nodded sagely. Everyone knew about her viewings, now. The only result had been a stream of noblewomen who wanted to know their futures, and right sulky, too, when she said she could not tell them. Most would not have been pleased with the little she had seen; nothing dire, but not at all the bright wonders that fortune-tellers at the fair forecast. “As for Darlin, aside from the fact that he’ll marry Caraline, after she’s wrung him out and hung him up to dry, all I can say is that one day he’ll be a king. I saw the crown on his head, a thing with a sword on the front of it, but I don’t know what country it belongs to. And, oh, yes. He’ll die in bed, and she will survive him.”
Dobraine choked on his wine, spluttering and dabbing at his lips with a plain linen handkerchief. Most of those who knew did not believe. Quite satisfied with herself, Min drank the little that remained in her goblet. And then she was choking and gasping, jerking her handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe at her mouth. Light, she would have to give herself the dregs!
Rand simply nodded, peering into his goblet. “So they will live to trouble me,” he murmured. A very soft sound, for words like stone. He was hard as a blade, her sheepherder. “And what do I do about—”
Abruptly he twisted in his chair, toward the doors. One was opening. He had very sharp ears. Min had heard nothing.
Neither of the two Aes Sedai who entered was Cadsuane, and Min felt her shoulders loosen as she tucked her handkerchief away. While Rafela shut the door, Merana curtsied deeply to Rand, though the Gray sister’s hazel eyes took in Min and Dobraine and filed them away, and then the round-faced Rafela was spreading her deep blue skirts wide, too. Neither rose until Rand gestured. They glided to him wearing cool serenity as they did their dresses. Except that the plump Blue sister fingered her shawl briefly as though to remind herself it was there. Min had seen that gesture before, from other sisters who had sworn fealty to Rand. It could not be easy for them. Only the White Tower commanded Aes Sedai, but Rand crooked a finger and they came, pointed and they went. Aes Sedai spoke with kings and queens as equals, perhaps slightly as their betters, yet the Wise Ones called them apprentices and expected them to obey twice as fast as Rand did.
None of that showed on Merana’s smooth face. “My Lord Dragon,” she said respectfully. “We only just learned that you had returned, and we thought you might be eager to learn how matters went with the Atha’an Miere.” She merely glanced at Dobraine, but he rose immediately. Cairhienin were used to people wanting to speak in private.
“Dobraine can stay,” Rand said curtly. Had he hesitated? He did not stand. His eyes like blue ice, he was being the Dragon Reborn for all he was worth. Min had told him these women were his in truth, that all five who had accompanied him to the Sea Folk ship were his, utterly loyal to their oath and therefore obedient to his will, yet he seemed to find trusting any Aes Sedai difficult. She understood, but he was going to have to learn how.
“As you wish,” Merana replied, inclining her head briefly. “Rafela and I have reached a bargain with the Sea Folk. The Bargain, they call it.” The difference was clear to the ear. Hands lying still on gray-slashed green skirts, she drew a deep breath. She needed it. “Harine din Togara Two Winds, Wavemistress of Clan Shodein, speaking for Nesta din Reas Two Moons, Mistress of the Ships to the Atha’an Miere, and thus binding all the Atha’an Miere, has promised such ships as the Dragon Reborn needs, to sail when and where he needs them, for whatever purposes he requires.” Merana did seem to grow a touch pontifical when there were no Wise Ones around; the Wise Ones did not allow it. “In return, Rafela and I, speaking for you, promised that the Dragon Reborn will not change any laws of the Atha’an Miere, as he has done among the . . . ” For a moment, she faltered. “Forgive me. I am used to delivering agreements exactly as made. The word they used was ‘shorebound,’ but what they mean is what you have done in Tear and Cairhien.” A question appeared in her eyes, and was gone. Perhaps she was wondering whether he had done the same in Illian. She had expressed relief that he had changed nothing in her native Andor.
“I suppose I can live with that,” he muttered.
“Secondly,” Rafela took up, folding plump hands at her waist, “you must give the Atha’an Miere land, a square one mile on a side, at every city on navigable water that you control now or come to control.” She sounded less pompous than her companion, but only just. Nor did she sound entirely pleased with what she was saying. She was Tairen, after all, and few ports held a tighter control on their trade than Tear. “Within that area, the laws of the Atha’an Miere are to hold sway above any others. This agreement must also be made by the rulers of those ports so that . . . ” It was her turn to falter, and her dark cheeks turned a trifle gray.
“So the agreement will survive me?” Rand said dryly. He barked a laugh. “I can live with that, too.”
“Every city on water?” Dobraine exclaimed. “Do they mean here, too?” He leaped to his feet and began pacing, spilling more of his wine than Min had. He did not seem to notice. “A mile square? Under the Light alone knows what peculiar laws? I’ve traveled on a Sea Folk ship, and it is peculiar! Bare legs are not in it! And what of the customs duties, and docking fees, and . . . ” Suddenly he rounded on Rand. He scowled at the Aes Sedai, who paid him no mind, but it was to Rand he spoke, in a tone bordering on roughness. “They will ruin Cairhien in a year, my Lord Dragon. They will ruin any port where you allow them to do this.”
Min agreed, silently, but Rand merely waved a hand and laughed again. “They may think so, but I know something of this, Dobraine. They didn’t say who chooses the land, so it doesn’t have to be on the water at all. They’ll have to buy their food from you, and live with your laws when they leave, so they can’t be too arrogant. At worst, you can collect your customs when the goods come out of their . . . sanctuary. For the rest . . . If I can accept it, you can, too.” There was no laughter in his voice now, and Dobraine bowed his head.
Min wondered where he had learned all that. He sounded a king, and one who knew what he was doing. Maybe Elayne had taught him.
“ ‘Secondly’ implies more,” Rand said to the two Aes Sedai.
Merana and Rafela exchanged glances, unconsciously touched skirts and shawls, and then Merana spoke, her voice not at all pompous. In fact, it was much too light. “Thirdly, the Dragon Reborn agrees to keep an ambassador chosen by the Atha’an Miere with him at all times. Harine din Togara has named herself. She will be accompanied by her Windfinder, her Swordmaster and a retinue.”
“What?” Rand roared, springing from the chair.
Rafela rushed in, rushed ahead, as though afraid he might cut her off. “And fourthly, the Dragon Reborn agrees to go promptly to a summons from the Mistress of the Ships, but not more than twice in any three consecutive years.” She finished panting a little, trying to make the last sound like extenuation.
The Dragon Scepter flew from the floor behind Rand, and he snagged it out of the air without looking. His eyes were not ice any more. They were blue fire. “A Sea Folk ambassador clinging to my heels?” he shouted. “Obey summonses?” He shook the carved spearhead at them, the green-and-white tassel flailing. “There are a people out there who want to conquer all of us, and might be able to do it! The Forsaken are out there! The Dark One is waiting! Why didn’t you agree I’d caulk their hulls while you were about it!”
Normally, Min tried to soothe his temper when it flared, but this time she sat forward and glared at the Aes Sedai. She agreed with him fully. They had given away the barn to sell a horse!
Rafela actually swayed before that blast, but Merana drew herself up, her own eyes managing a good imitation of brown fire flecked with gold. “You castigate us?” she snapped in tones as frosty as her eyes were hot. She was Aes Sedai as the child Min had seen them, regal above queens, powerful above powers. “You were present in the beginning, ta’veren, and you twisted them as you wanted them. You could have had them all kneeling to you! But you left! They were not pleased to know they had been dancing for a ta’veren. Somewhere, they learned to weave shields, and before you were well off their ship, Rafela and I were shielded. So we could not take advantage with the Power, they said. More than once, Harine threatened to hang us in the rigging by our toes until we came to our senses, and I for one believe she meant it! Feel lucky that you have the ships you want, Rand al’Thor. Harine would have given you a handful! Feel lucky she didn’t want your new boots and that ghastly throne of yours as well! Oh, by the by, she formally acknowledged you as the Coramoor, may you get a bellyache from it!”
Min stared at her. Rand and Dobraine stared at her, and the Cairhienin’s jaw hung open. Rafela stared, her mouth working soundlessly. For that matter, the fire faded from Merana’s eyes, and they slowly grew wider and wider as if she were just hearing what she had said.
The Dragon Scepter trembled in Rand’s fist. Min had seen his fury swell near to bursting for far less. She prayed for a way to avoid the explosion, and could not see one.
“It seems,” he said finally, “that the words a ta’veren drags out aren’t always the words he wants to hear.” He sounded . . . calm; Min was not about to think, sane. “You’ve done well, Merana. I handed you a dog’s dinner, but you and Rafela have done well.”
The two Aes Sedai swayed, and for a moment, Min thought they might collapse in puddles on the floor from sheer relief.
“At least we managed to keep the details from Cadsuane,” Rafela said, smoothing her skirts unsteadily. “There was no way to stop everyone learning we had made some sort of agreement, but we kept that much from her.”
“Yes,” Merana said breathlessly. “She even waylaid us on the way here. It’s difficult keeping anything from her, but we did. We didn’t think you’d want her to . . . ” She trailed off at the stony look on Rand’s face.
“Cadsuane again,” he said flatly. He frowned at the carved length of spearhead in his hand, then tossed it onto a chair as if he did not trust himself with it. “She’s in the Sun Palace, is she? Min, tell the Maidens outside to carry a message to Cadsuane. She is to attend the Dragon Reborn in all haste.”
“Rand, I don’t think,” Min began uneasily, but Rand cut in. Not harshly, but quite firmly.
“Do it, please, Min. This woman is like a wolf eyeing the sheepfold. I intend to find out what she wants.”
Min took her time getting up, and dragged her feet to the doors. She was not the only one to think this a bad idea. Or at least to want to be elsewhere when the Dragon Reborn faced Cadsuane Melaidhrin. Dobraine passed her on the way to the door, making a hasty bow with barely a pause, and even Merana and Rafela were out of the room before her, though they made it appear they were not hurrying. Inside the room, they did, anyway. When Min put her head into the hallway, the two sisters had caught Dobraine and were scurrying along at little short of a trot.
Strangely, the half-dozen Maidens who had been outside when Min entered earlier had now grown in number until they lined the corridor as far as she could see in both directions, tall hard-faced women in the grays and browns and grays of the cadin’sor, shoufa wrapped around their heads with the long black veil hanging down. A good many carried their spears and bull-hide bucklers as if they expected a battle. Some were playing a finger-game called “knife, paper, stone,” and the rest were watching intently.
Not so intently that they did not see her, though. When she passed Rand’s message, handtalk flashed up and down the rows, then two lanky Maidens went trotting off. The others promptly returned to the game, playing or watching.
Scratching her head in puzzlement, Min went back in. The Maidens often made her nervous, yet they always had a word for her, sometimes respectful, as to a Wise One, sometimes joking, though their humor was odd, to say the least. Never had they ignored her like this.
Rand was in the bedchamber. That simple fact set her heart racing. He had his coat off, his snowy shirt unlaced at neck and cuffs and pulled out of his breeches. Sitting on the foot of the bed, she leaned back against one of the heavy blackwood bedposts and swung her feet up, crossing her ankles. She had not had a chance to watch Rand undress himself, and she intended to enjoy it.
Instead of continuing, though, he stood there looking at her. “What can Cadsuane possibly teach me?” he asked suddenly.
“You, and all the Asha’man,” she replied. That had been her viewing. “I don’t know what, Rand. I only know you have to learn it. All of you do.” It did not seem he intended to progress beyond letting his shirt hang down. Sighing, she went on. “You need her, Rand. You can’t afford to make her angry. You can’t afford to chase her away.” Actually, she did not think fifty Myrddraal and a thousand Trollocs could chase Cadsuane anywhere, but the point was the same.
A far-off look came into Rand’s eyes, and after a moment, he shook his head. “Why should I listen to a madman?” he muttered almost under his breath. Light, did he really believe Lews Therin Telamon spoke in his head? “Let someone know you need them, Min, and they have a hold on you. A leash, to pull you where they want. I won’t put a halter on my own neck for any Aes Sedai. Not for anyone!” Slowly his fists unclenched. “You, I need, Min,” he said simply. “Not for your viewings. I just need you.”
Burn her, but the man could sweep her feet out from under her with a few words!
With a smile as eager as hers, he grasped the bottom of his shirt with both hands and bent to begin hauling it over his head. Lacing her fingers over her stomach, she settled back to watch.
The three Maidens who marched into the room no longer wore the shoufa that had concealed their short hair in the corridor. They were empty-handed, and no longer wore those heavy-blade belt knives, either. That was all Min had time to notice.
Rand’s head and arms were still inside the shirt, and Somara, flaxen-haired and tall even for an Aiel woman, seized the white linen and tangled it, trapping him. Almost in the same movement, she kicked him between the legs. With a strangled groan, he bent further, staggering.
Nesair, fiery-haired and beautiful despite white scars on both sun-dark cheeks, planted a fist in his right side hard enough to make him stumble sideways.
With a cry, Min launched herself from the bed. She did not know what madness was happening here, could not even begin to guess. One of her knives came smoothly from each sleeve, and she threw herself at the Maidens, shouting, “Help! Oh, Rand! Somebody, help!” At least, that was what she tried to shout.
The third Maiden, Nandera, turned like a snake, and Min found a foot planted in her stomach. Breath rushed out of her in a wheeze. Her knives flew from numb hands, and she turned a somersault over the graying Maiden’s foot, landing on her back with a crash that drove out what little air remained in her. Trying to move, trying to breathe—trying to understand!—all she could do was lie there and watch.
The three women were quite thorough. Nesair and Nandera pounded Rand with their fists while Somara held him bent over and caught in his own shirt. Again and again and again they drove studied blows into Rand’s hard belly, into his right side. Min would have laughed hysterically, had she had any breath. They were trying to beat him to death, and they very carefully avoid hitting anywhere near the tender round scar in his left side with the half-healed slash running through it.
She knew very well how hard Rand’s body was, how strong, but no one could stand up to that. Slowly, his knees folded, and when they thumped to the floor tiles, Nandera and Nesair stood back. Each nodded, and Somara released her hold on Rand’s shirt. He fell forward on his face. She could hear him gasping, fighting groans that bubbled up despite his efforts. Kneeling, Somara pulled his shirt down almost tenderly. He lay there with his cheek on the floor, eyes bulging, struggling for breath.
Nesair bent to catch a fistful of his hair and jerk his head up. “We won the right for this,” she growled, “but every Maiden wanted to lay her hands on you. I left my clan for you, Rand al’Thor. I will not have you spit on me!”
Somara moved a hand as if to smooth hair out of his face, then snatched it back. “This is how we treat a first-brother who dishonors us, Rand al’Thor,” she said firmly. “The first time. The next, we will use straps.”
Nandera stood over Rand with fist planted on her hips and a face of stone. “You carry the honor of Far Dareis Mai, son of a Maiden,” she said grimly. “You promised to call us to dance the spears for you, and then you ran to battle and left us behind. You will not do this again.”
She stepped over him to stride out, and the other two followed. Only Somara glanced back, and if sympathy touched her blue eyes, there was none in her voice when she said, “Do not make this necessary again, son of a Maiden.”
Rand had pushed himself up to hands and knees by the time Min managed to crawl to him. “They must be mad,” she croaked. Light, but her middle hurt! “Rhuarc will—!” She did not know what Rhuarc would do. Not enough, whatever it was. “Sorilea.” Sorilea would stake them out in the sun! To start! “When we tell her—”
“We tell no one,” he said. He almost sounded as if he had his breath back, although he was still slightly pop-eyed. How could he do that? “They have the right. They’ve earned the right.”
Min recognized that tone much to well. When a man decided to be stubborn, he would sit bare in a nettle patch and deny to your face that they made his bottom sting! She was almost pleased to hear him groan as she helped him to his feet. Well, as they helped each other. If he was going to be a pure wool-headed idiot, he deserved a few bruises!
He eased himself onto the bed, lying back on the heaped pillows, and she snuggled in beside him. Not what she had been hoping for, but as much as was going to happen, she was sure.
“Not what I was hoping to use this bed for,” he muttered. She was not sure she had been supposed to hear.
She laughed. “I enjoy you holding me just as much as . . . as the other.” Strangely, he smiled at her as if he knew she was lying. Her Aunt Miren claimed that was one of the three lies any man would believe from a woman.
“If I am interrupting,” a woman’s cool voice said from the doorway, “I suppose I could return when it is more convenient.”
Min jerked away from Rand as though burned, but when he pulled her back, she settled against him again. She recognized the Aes Sedai standing in the doorway, a plump little Cairhienin with four thin stripes of color across her full bosom and white slashes in her dark skirts. Daigian Moseneillin was one of the sisters who had come with Cadsuane. And she was almost as overbearing as Cadsuane herself, in Min’s opinion.
“Who might you be when you’re at home?” Rand said lazily. “Whoever you are, didn’t anyone ever teach you to knock?” Min realized that every muscle in the arm holding her was hard as a rock, though.
The moonstone dangling onto Daigian’s forehead on a thin silver chain swung as she slowly shook her head. Plainly, she was not pleased. “Cadsuane Sedai received your request,” she said, even more coolly than before, “and asked me to convey her regrets. She very much wishes to finish the piece of needlepoint she is working on. Perhaps she might be able to see you another day. If she can find time.”
“Is that what she said?” Rand asked dangerously.
Daigian sniffed disdainfully. “I will leave you to resume . . . whatever you were doing.” Min wondered whether she could get away with slapping an Aes Sedai. Daigian eyed her frostily, as if hearing the thought, and turned to glide from the room.
Rand sat up with a muffled oath. “You tell Cadsuane she can go to the Pit of Doom!” he shouted after the retreating sister. “Tell her she can rot!”
“It won’t do, Rand,” Min sighed. This was going to be harder than she had thought. “You need Cadsuane. She doesn’t need you.”
“Doesn’t she?” he said softly, and she shivered. She had only thought his voice was dangerous before.
Rand prepared carefully, dressing in the green coat again, sending Min with messages for the Maidens to carry. At least they would still do that. His ribs ached almost as much on his right side as the wounds did on his left, and his belly felt as he had been beaten with a board. He had promised them. He seized hold of saidin alone in his bedchamber, unwilling to let even Min see him falter again. He could keep her safe, at least, somehow, but how could she feel safe if she saw him about to fall over? He had to be strong, for her sake. He had to be strong, for the world. That bundle of emotions in the back of his head that was Alanna reminded him of the cost of carelessness. Right then, Alanna was sulking. She must have pushed a Wise One too far, because if she was sitting, she was sitting gingerly.
“I still think this is lunacy, Rand al’Thor,” Min said as he placed the Crown of Swords carefully on his head. He did not want those tiny blades to draw blood again now. “Are you listening to me? Well, if you intend to go through with it, I’m going with you. You admitted you need me, and you’ll need me more than ever for this!” She was in full fig, fists on her hips, foot tapping, eyes all but glowing.
“You’re staying here,” he told her firmly. He was still not sure what he intended to do, not fully, and he did not want her to see him stumble. He was very afraid he might stumble. He expected an argument, though.
She frowned at him, and her foot stopped tapping. The angry light in her eyes faded into worry that vanished in a twinkling. “Well, I suppose you’re old enough to cross the stableyard without your hand held, sheepherder. Besides, I am falling behind in my reading.”
Dropping into one of the tall gilded chairs, she folded her legs beneath her and picked up the book she had been reading when he came in. In moments, she seemed totally engrossed in the page before her.
Rand nodded. That was what he wanted; her here, and safe. Still, she did not have to forget him so completely.
There were six Maidens squatting in the hallway outside his door. They stared at him flat-eyed, not speaking, Nandera’s gaze the flattest of all. Though Somara and Nesair came close. He thought Nesair was Shaido; he would have to keep a hard eye on her.
The Asha’man were waiting, too—Lews Therin muttered darkly of killing in Rand’s head—all but Narishma with the Dragon on their collars as well as the Sword. Curtly, he ordered Narishma to stand guard on his apartments, and the man saluted sharply, those dark too-big eyes seeing too much, faintly accusing. Rand did not think the Maidens would take out their displeasure on Min, but he was not taking any chances. Light, he had told Narishma everything about the traps he had woven in the Stone when he sent the man to fetch Callandor. The man was imagining things. Burn him, but that had been a mad risk to take.
Only madmen never trust. Lews Therin sounded amused. And quite mad. The wounds in Rand’s side throbbed; they seemed to resonate with each other in distant pain.
“Show me where to find Cadsuane,” he commanded. Nandera rose smoothly to her feet and started off without a backward glance. He followed, and the others fell in behind him, Dashiva and Flinn, Morr and Hopwil. He gave them hasty instructions as they walked. Flinn, of all people, tried to protest, but Rand bore him down; this was no time for quailing. The grizzled onetime Guardsman was the last Rand had expected it of. Morr or Hopwil, perhaps. If no longer exactly dewy-eyed, they were still young enough to leave their razors dry as many days as wet. But not Flinn. Nandera’s soft boots made no sound; their footsteps reverberated from the high square-vaulted ceiling, chasing away everyone with the shadow of a reason for fear. His wounds pulsed.
Every last person in the Sun Palace knew the Dragon Reborn on sight by now, and they knew who the black-coated men were, too. Black-liveried servants made deep bows or curtsies, and hurried to get out of his sight. Most nobles were almost as quick to put distance between themselves and five men who could channel, going somewhere with purpose on their faces. Ailil watched them pass with an unreadable expression. Anaiyella simpered, of course, but when Rand glanced back, she was staring after him with a face to match Nandera’s. Bertome smiled as he made his leg, a dark smile with neither mirth nor pleasure in it.
Nandera did not speak even when they reached their destination, merely pointed to a closed door with one of her spears, turned on her heel, and strode back the way they had come. The Car’a’carn without a single Maiden to guard him. Did they think four Asha’man enough to keep him safe? Or was her departure another sign of displeasure?
“Do what I told you,” Rand said.
Dashiva gave a jerk as if coming back to himself, then seized the Source. The wide door, carved in vertical lines, swung open with a bang on a flow of Air. The other three took hold of saidin and followed Dashiva in, faces grim.
“The Dragon Reborn,” Dashiva’s voice sounded loud, magnified slightly by the Power, “the King of Illian, the Lord of the Morning, comes to see the woman, Cadsuane Melaidhrin.”
Rand stepped in, standing tall. He did not recognize the other weave Dashiva had created, but the air seemed to hum with menace, a sense of something inexorable approaching, drawing ever nearer.
“I sent for you, Cadsuane,” Rand said. He did not use weaves. His voice was hard and flat enough without aid.
The Green sister he remembered sat beside a small table with an embroidery hoop in her hands, an opened basket on the polished tabletop spilling out skeins of bright thread from some of its many compartments. She was exactly as he remembered. That strong face topped by an iron-gray bun decorated with small dangling golden fish and birds, stars and moons. Those dark eyes, seeming almost black in her fair face. Cool, considering eyes. Lews Therin gave a wail and fled at the sight of her.
“Well,” she said, setting the embroidery hoop on the table, “I must say I’ve seen better without paying. With all I’ve been hearing about you, boy, the least I expected was peals of thunder, trumpets in the heavens, flashing lights in the sky.” Calmly, she regarded the five stone-faced men who could channel, which should have been enough to make any Aes Sedai flinch. Calmly, she regarded the Dragon Reborn. “I hope one of you is at least going to juggle,” she said. “Or eat fire? I’ve always enjoyed watching gleemen eat fire.”
Flinn barked a laugh before catching himself, and even then raked a hand through his fringe of hair and seemed to be struggling with amusement. Morr and Hopwil exchanged looks both puzzled and more than a little outraged. Dashiva smiled unpleasantly, and the weave he was holding grew stronger, until Rand felt as if he wanted to look over his shoulder to see what was rushing toward him.
“It is enough that you know I am who I am,” Rand told her. “Dashiva, all of you, wait outside.”
Dashiva opened his mouth as if to protest. That had not been part of Rand’s instructions, but they were not going to overawe the woman, not this way. The man went, though, muttering to himself. Hopwil and Morr actually stepped out eagerly, with sidelong glances at Cadsuane. Flinn was the only one to make a dignified withdrawal, in spite of his limp. And he still seemed amused!
Rand channeled, and a heavy, leopard-carved chair floated into the air from its place by the wall, spinning end over end in somersaults before settling like a feather in front of Cadsuane. At the same time, a heavy silver pitcher drifted up from a long, draped table across the room, making a loud ping as it was suddenly heated; steam gushed from the top, and it tipped over, whirling round and round like a slow top, as a silver cup darted up to neatly catch the dark pouring.
“Too hot, I think,” Rand said, and the glassed casements leaped from the tall, narrow windows. Snowflakes billowed in on an icy blast, and the cup soared out through one of the windows, soared back again, straight to his hand as he sat himself. Let her see how calm she could stay with a madman staring at her. The dark liquid was tea, too strong after his boiling, and bitter enough to set his teeth on edge. But the warmth was just right. His skin pebbled in the gusts howling into the room and flapping tapestries against the walls, but in the Void, that was far away, someone else’s skin.
“The Laurel Crown is prettier than some,” Cadsuane said with a faint smile. Her hair ornaments swayed whenever the wind rose, and small wisps flailed about her bun, but the only notice she took was to catch her embroidery hoop just before it was blown from the table. “I prefer that name. But you can’t expect me to be impressed by crowns. I’ve paddled the bottoms of two reigning kings and three queens. Not sitting rulers, you understand, once I was done with them, not for a day or so, but it did get their attention. You can see why crowns don’t impress me, though.”
Rand eased his jaw. Grinding his teeth would not help. He widened his eyes, hoping he looked insane instead of simply furious. “Most Aes Sedai avoid the Sun Palace,” he told her. “Except for those who have sworn fealty to me. And those I hold prisoner.” Light, what was he to do with those? As long as the Wise Ones kept them out of his hair, all was well enough.
“The Aiel seem to think I should come and go as I please,” she said absently, eyeing the hoop in her hand as if thinking of taking up her needle again. “A matter of some trifling help I gave some boy or other. Though why anyone but his mother should think him worth it, I can hardly say.”
Rand made another effort not to grind his teeth. The woman had saved his life. Her and Damer Flinn between them, and plenty of others in the bargain, Min among them. But he still owed Cadsuane something for that. Burn her. “I want you to be my advisor. I’m King of Illian now, and kings have Aes Sedai advisors.”
She gave his crown a dismissive glance. “Certainly not. An advisor has to stand and watch her charge make a muddle much too often to suit me. She also has to take orders, something I am particularly bad at. Won’t someone else do? Alanna, perhaps?”
Despite himself, Rand sat up straight. Did she know about the bond? Merana had said it was hard to keep anything from her. No; he could worry later about how much his “faithful” Aes Sedai were telling Cadsuane. Light, he wished Min could be wrong for once. But he would believe himself breathing water, first. “I . . . ” He could not make himself tell her that he needed her. No halter! “What if you didn’t have to swear any oaths?”
“I suppose that might work,” she said doubtfully, peering at her cursed stitchery. Her eyes rose to his. Considering. “You sound . . . uneasy. I don’t like to tell a man he’s afraid even when he has reason to be. Uneasy over a sister you haven’t turned into a tame lapdog snaring you in some fashion? Let me see. I can make you a few promises; perhaps they will set your mind at rest. I expect you to listen, of course—make me waste my breath, and you’ll yelp for it—but I won’t make you do what I want. I won’t tolerate anyone lying to me, certainly—that’s another thing you’ll find decidedly uncomfortable—but I don’t expect you to tell me the deepest yearnings of your heart, either. Oh, yes. Whatever I do, it will be for your own good; not mine, not the good of the White Tower, yours. Now, does that ease your fears? Pardon me. Your unease.”
Wondering whether he was supposed to laugh, Rand stared at her. “Do they teach you how to do that?” he demanded. “Make a promise sound a threat, I mean.”
“Oh, I see. You want rules. Most boys do, whatever they say. Very well. Let me see. I cannot abide incivility. So you will be properly civil to me, to my friends, and my guests. That includes not channeling at them, in case you haven’t guessed, and holding your temper, which I understand is memorable. It also takes in your . . . companions in those black coats. A pity if I had to spank you for something one of them did. Does that suffice? I can make more, if you need them.”
Rand set his cup down beside the chair. The tea had gone cold as well as bitter. Snow was beginning to pile up in drifts beneath the windows. “I’m the one who’s supposed to go mad, Aes Sedai, but you already are.” Rising, he strode for the door.
“I do hope you haven’t tried to use Callandor,“ she said complacently behind him. “I have heard it’s vanished from the Stone. You managed to escape once, but you might not twice.”
He stopped short, looking over his shoulder. The woman was pushing that bloody needle through the cloth stretched on her hoop! The wind gusted, swirling snow around her, and she did not even lift her head. “What do you mean, escape?”
“What?” She did not look up. “Oh. Very few even in the Tower knew what Callandor is before you drew it, but there are surprising things hidden in musty corners of the Tower Library. I went rummaging some years ago, when I first had the suspicion you might be suckling at your mother’s breast. Just before I decided to go back into retirement. Babes are messy things, and I could not see how to find you before you stopped dripping at one end or the other.”
“What do you mean?” he demanded roughly.
Cadsuane looked up then, and with her hair flung about and snow settling on her dress, she looked a queen. “I told you I cannot abide incivility. If you ask for my help again, I expect you to ask politely. And I will expect an apology for your behavior today!”
“What do you mean about Callandor?”
“It is flawed,” she replied curtly, “lacking the buffer that makes other sa’angreal safe to use. And it apparently magnifies the taint, inducing wildness of the mind. So long as a man is using it, anyway. The only safe way for you to use The Sword That Is Not a Sword, the only way to use it without the risk of killing yourself, or trying to do the Light alone knows what insanity, is linked with two women, and one of them guiding the flows.”
Trying not to hunch his shoulders, he strode away from her. So it had been not just the wildness of saidin around Ebou Dar that had killed Adley. He had murdered the man the moment he sent Narishma for the thing.
Cadsuane’s voice pursued him. “Remember, boy. You must ask very nicely, and apologize. I might even agree, if your apology sounds truly sincere.”
Rand barely heard her. He had hoped to use Callandor again, hoped it would be strong enough. Now only one chance remained, and it terrified him. He seemed to hear another woman’s voice, a dead woman’s voice. You could challenge the Creator.