Authors: Robert Jordan
“Did you have a good talk with Faile?”
“It didn’t last long. Her father came and got her, and she was too busy flinging arms around his neck to notice me. I went for a little walk after.”
“You didn’t like her?” he said, and Min’s eyes widened, her lashes making them look even larger. Women never expected a man to see or understand anything they did not want him to.
“It isn’t that I dislike her exactly,” she said drawing the words out. “It’s just. . . . Well, she wants what she wants when she wants it, and she will not take no for an answer. I pity poor Perrin, married to her. Do you know what she wanted with me? To make sure I had no designs on her precious husband. You may not have noticed—men never see these things—” She cut off, looking up at him suspiciously through those long lashes. He had showed he could see some things, after all. Once she was satisfied he did not mean to laugh, or bring it up, she went on. “I could see at a glance he’s besotted with her, the poor fool. And she with him, for all the good it will do him. I don’t think he would even look twice at another woman, but she doesn’t believe it, not if the other woman looks first anyway. He’s found his falcon, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she kills him when the hawk appears.” Her breath caught, and she glanced up at him again then busied herself drinking from the goblet.
She would tell him what she meant if he asked. He remembered her as saying nothing of her viewings unless they concerned him, but if that was so, she had changed for some reason. She would view anyone he asked now, and tell him everything she saw. Yet doing so made her uncomfortable.
Shut up!
he shouted at Lews Therin.
Go away! You’re dead!
It had no effect; it often did not, now. That voice went on mumbling, maybe about being betrayed by friends, maybe about betraying them.
“Did you see anything that concerns me?” he asked.
With a grateful grin, Min settled companionably against his chest—well, she probably meant it to be companionable; or then again; very likely not—and began talking between sips of punch. “When you two were together, I saw those fireflies and the darkness stronger than ever. Um. I like melon punch. But with the two of you in the same room, the fireflies were
holding their own instead of being eaten faster than they can swarm, the way they do when you’re alone. And something else I saw when you were together. Twice he’s going to have to be there, or you. . . .” She peered into her goblet so he could not see her face. “If he’s not, something bad will happen to you.” Her voice sounded small and frightened. “Very bad.”
Much as he would have liked to know more—like when and where and what—she would have told him already had she known. “Then I’ll just have to keep him around,” he said, as cheerfully as he could. He did not like for Min to be frightened.
“I don’t know that that will be enough,” she mumbled into her punch. “It
will
happen if he is not there, but nothing I saw said it won’t because he is. It will be very bad, Rand. Just thinking of that viewing makes me. . . .”
He turned her face up, and was surprised to see tears leaking from her eyes. “Min, I didn’t know these viewings could hurt you,” he said gently. “I am sorry.”
“A fat lot you know, sheepherder,” she muttered. Plucking a lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve, she dabbed at her eyes. “It was just dust. You don’t make Sulin dust in here often enough.” The handkerchief went back with a flourish. “I should go back to The Crown of Roses. I just had to tell you what I saw about Perrin.”
“Min, be careful. Maybe you shouldn’t come so often. I can’t think Merana would be easy on you if she discovered what you are doing.”
Her grin looked very much her old self, and her eyes looked amused even if they did still shine from the tears. “You let me worry about me, sheepherder. They think I am gawking at the sights of Caemlyn like every other country simpleton. If I didn’t come every day, would you know they are meeting with the nobles?” She had glimpsed that by chance on her way to the Palace yesterday, Merana appearing for an instant at the window of a palace Min had learned belonged to Lord Pelivar. There was as much chance that Pelivar and his guests were the only ones as there was that Merana had gone to clear Pelivar’s drains.
“You be careful,” he told her firmly. “I don’t want you hurt, Min.”
For a moment she studied him silently, then rose up enough to kiss him lightly on the lips. At least. . . . Well, it was light, but this was a daily ritual when she left, and he thought maybe those kisses were getting a little less light every day.
Despite all his promises to himself, he said, “I wish you wouldn’t do that.” Letting her sit on his knee was one thing, but kisses were carrying the joke too far.
“No tears yet, farmboy,” she smiled. “No stammer.” Ruffling his hair as if he were ten, she walked to the door, but as she sometimes did, she moved in a gracefully swaying fashion that might not have produced tears and stammer but certainly did make him stare however hard he tried not to. His eyes whipped to her face as she turned around. “Why, sheepherder, your face is flushed. I thought the heat never touched you now. Never mind. I wanted to tell you, I will be careful. I’ll see you tomorrow. Be sure to put on clean stockings.”
Rand let out a long breath once the door was firmly shut behind her. Clean stockings? He put on clean every day! There were only two choices. He could keep pretending she was having no effect until she quit, or he could resign himself to stammering. Or maybe to begging; she might stop if he begged, but then she would have that to tease him with, and Min did like teasing. The only other option—keeping their time together short, being cold and distant—was out of the question. She was a friend; he could as well have been cold toward. . . . Aviendha and Elayne were the names that came to mind, and they did not fit. Toward Mat or Perrin. The only thing he did not understand was why he still felt so comfortable around her. He should not, with her taunting him in this way, but he did.
Lews Therin’s maundering had grown louder from the moment the Aes Sedai were mentioned, and now he said quite clearly,
If they are plotting with the nobles, I have to do something about them.
Go away
, Rand commanded.
Nine are too dangerous, even untrained. Too dangerous. Can’t allow them. No. Oh, no.
Go away, Lews Therin!
I am not dead!
the voice howled.
I deserve death, but I am alive! Alive! Alive!
You are dead!
Rand shouted back in his head.
You are dead, Lews Therin!
The voice dwindled, still howling
Alive!
when it faded from hearing.
Shaking, Rand got up and refilled his goblet, draining the punch in one long swallow. Sweat dripped from his face, and his shirt clung to him. Finding the concentration again was an effort. Lews Therin was growing more persistent. One thing was certain. If Merana was plotting with the nobles, especially the nobles ready to declare rebellion if he did not produce Elayne soon enough to satisfy them, then he did have to do something. Unfortunately, he had no idea what.
Kill them
, Lews Therin whispered.
Nine are too dangerous, but if I kill
some, if I chase them away . . . kill them . . . make them fear me . . . I will not die again . . .
I deserve death, but I want to live.
. . . He began to weep, but the whispered rambling continued.
Rand filled his goblet again and tried not to listen.
When the Origan Gate into the Inner City came into sight, Demira Eriff slowed. A number of men in the crowded street eyed her admiringly as they squeezed past, and for perhaps the thousandth time she made a note to stop wearing dresses from her native Arad Doman, and for the thousandth time promptly forgot it. Dresses were hardly important—she had been having the same six duplicated for years—and if a man who did not realize she was Aes Sedai became too impudent, it was always a simple matter to let him know who he was being saucy to. That got them out of her hair quickly enough, usually as fast as they could run.
Right then all she was interested in was the Origan Gate, a great white marble arch in the gleaming white wall, the stream of people, carts and wagons passing through it watched by a dozen Aielmen she suspected were not so desultory as they appeared at first glance. They might recognize an Aes Sedai on sight. Surprising people did sometimes. Besides, she had been followed from The Crown of Roses; those coats and breeches made to fade into rock and brush stood out on a city street. So even had she wanted to enter the Inner City, even had she been willing to risk Merana’s wrath by entering without first asking al’Thor’s permission, she would not have. How that did gall, Aes Sedai being required to ask a man’s
permission.
All she wanted was a sight of one Milam Harnder, Second Librarian in the Royal Palace, and her agent for nearly thirty years.
The library in the Palace here could not compare with that in the White Tower, or the Royal Library in Cairhien, or the Terhana Library in Bandar Eban, but she might as well wish to fly as for access to one of those. Still, if her message had reached Milam, he would have begun searching for the books she wanted. The Palace library might well have some information about the Seals on the Dark One’s prison, perhaps even cataloged sources, though that might be too much to hope. Most libraries had volumes lying in corners that should have been recorded long ago yet somehow had remained forgotten for a hundred years, or five hundred, sometimes even more. Most libraries held treasures even the librarians did not suspect.
She waited patiently, letting the crowd flow by her, attending only to
the people coming out of the gate, but she did not see Milam’s bald head and round face. At last she sighed. Plainly he had not received her message; if he had, he would have made whatever excuse was necessary to be there at the appointed time. She was going to have to wait on her turn to accompany Merana to the Palace and hope young al’Thor would give her permission—permission again!—to search in the library.
Turning away from the gate, her eyes chanced to meet those of a tall, lean-faced fellow in a carter’s vest who was gazing at her much too admiringly. When their eyes met, he winked!
She was not going to put up with that all the way back to the inn.
I really must remember to have some plain dresses made
, she thought, wondering why she had never done it before. Luckily, she had been in Caemlyn before, some years ago, and Stevan would be waiting at The Crown of Roses, a beacon she could use to guide her if it came to that. She slipped into the narrow shaded gap between a cutler’s shop and a tavern.
The narrow alleyways of Caemlyn had been muddy the last time she was in them, but even dry, the deeper she went, the more unfortunate the smell. The walls were blank, with never a window and seldom a cramped door or narrow gate, and those with the look of not having been open in a long time. Scrawny cats peered at her silently from atop barrels and back walls, and stray dogs with knobby ribs laid back their ears, sometimes growling before they skulked off down a crossing run, as alleys were called here. She felt no worry about being scratched or bitten. Cats seemed to sense something about Aes Sedai; she had never heard of an Aes Sedai being scratched by even the most feral cat. Dogs were hostile, true, almost as if they thought Aes Sedai
were
cats, but they almost always slinked away after a little show.
There were far more dogs and cats in the runs than she remembered, and gaunter, but many fewer people. She had not seen anyone at all before she rounded a corner to find five or six Aielmen coming toward her, laughing and talking among themselves. They seemed startled to see her.
“Pardon, Aes Sedai,” one of them muttered, and they all pressed against the side of the run, though there was plenty of room.
Wondering if they were the same who had followed her—one of those faces looked familiar, that of a squat fellow with villainous eyes—she nodded and murmured thanks as she started past.
The spear going into her side was such a shock she did not even cry out. Frantically she reached for
saidar
, but something else pierced her side, and she was down in the dust. That remembered face was thrust into hers,
black eyes mocking, growling something she ignored as she tried to reach
saidar
, tried to. . . . Darkness closed in.
When Perrin and Faile finally left the interminable interview with her parents, that odd serving woman, Sulin, was waiting for them in the hallway. Sweat drenched Perrin, making dark patches on his coat, and he felt as if he had run ten miles while being pummeled every stride. Faile had a smile on her face and a spring in her step; she looked radiant, beautiful, and as proud of herself as when she brought the Watch Hill men just as the Trollocs were about to overrun Emond’s Field. Sulin curtsied every time one of them looked at her, nearly falling over every single time; that leathery face with its scar down her cheek was fixed in an obsequious smile that seemed ready to shatter at a breath. Passing Maidens flashed handtalk at one another, and Sulin curtsied to them as well, though grinding her teeth loud enough for Perrin to hear clearly. Even Faile began to eye her warily.
Once the woman led them to their rooms, a sitting room and a bedchamber with a canopied bed big enough for ten and a long marble balcony overlooking a fountained courtyard, she insisted on explaining or showing them everything, even what they could see. Their horses had been stabled and curried. Their saddlebags were unpacked and hung in the wardrobe with Perrin’s axe belt, most of the scant contents laid in the drawers of a chest-on-chest in a precise array. Perrin’s axe was propped beside the gray marble fireplace as though to chop kindling. One of the two silver pitchers glistening with condensation held cool tea flavored with mint, the other plum punch. Two gilt-framed mirrors on the wall were pointed out and touched, one over a table where Faile’s ivory comb and brush were laid, and a great stand-mirror with carved uprights that a blind man could not have missed.