“It’s bad enough now, with them thinking Black sisters are Traveling in to commit murders, but at least that doesn’t make them suspicious of one another. And maybe Mesaana will think that I’m not aware it is her. But there, that’s the secret you begged to know. It’s not a Black sister we hunt, but one of the Forsaken.”
It was daunting to consider—but no more so than the Dragon Reborn walking the land. Light, a Forsaken in the Tower seemed more plausible than Egwene being the Amyrlin Seat! “We’ll deal with it,” he said, sounding far more confident than he felt.
“I have sisters searching the histories of everyone in the Tower,” Egwene said. “And others are watching for suspicious words or actions. We’ll find her. But I don’t see how we can make the women any more secure without inciting an even more dangerous panic.”
“Warders,” Gawyn said firmly.
“I will think on it, Gawyn. For now, there is something I need of you.”
“If it is within my power, Egwene.” He took a step toward her. “You know that.”
“Is that so?” she asked dryly. “Very well. I want you to stop guarding my door at night.”
“What? Egwene, no!”
She shook her head. “You see? Your first reaction is to challenge me.”
“It is the duty of a Warder to offer challenge, in private, where his Aes Sedai is concerned!” Hammar had taught him that.
“You are not my Warder, Gawyn.”
That brought him up short.
“Besides,” Egwene said, “you could do little to stop one of the Forsaken. This battle will be fought by sisters, and I am being very careful with the wards I set. I want my quarters to look inviting. If she tries to attack me, perhaps I can surprise her with an ambush.”
“Use yourself as bait?” Gawyn was barely able to get the words out. “Egwene, this is madness!”
“No. It’s desperation. Gawyn, women I am responsible for are dying. Murdered in the night, in a time when you yourself said we will need every woman.”
For the first time, fatigue showed through her mask, a weariness of tone and a slight slump to her back. She folded her hands in front of her, suddenly seeming worn.
“I have sisters researching everything we can find about Mesaana,” Egwene continued. “She’s not a warrior, Gawyn. She’s an administrator, a planner. If I can confront her, I can defeat her. But we must find her first. Exposing myself is only one of my plans—and you are right, it is dangerous. But my precautions have been extensive.”
“I don’t like it at all.”
“Your approval is not required.” She eyed him. “You will have to trust me.”
“I do trust you,” he said.
“All I ask is that you show it for once.”
Gawyn gritted his teeth. Then he bowed to her and left the study, trying—and failing—to keep the door from shutting too hard when he pulled it closed. Silviana gave him a disapproving look as he passed her.
From there, he headed for the training grounds despite his discomfort with them. He needed a workout with the sword.
Egwene let out a long sigh, sitting back, closing her eyes. Why was it so hard to keep her feelings in check when dealing with Gawyn? She never felt as poor an Aes Sedai as she did when speaking with him.
So many emotions swirled within her, like different kinds of wine spilling and mixing together: rage at his stubbornness, burning desire for his arms, confusion at her own inability to place one of those before the other.
Gawyn had a way of boring through her skin and into her heart. That passion of his was entrancing. She worried that if she bonded him, it would infect her. Was that how it worked? What did it feel like to be bonded, to sense another’s emotions?
She wanted that with him, the connection that others had. And it was important that she have people she could rely upon to contradict her, in private. People who knew her as Egwene, rather than the Amyrlin.
But Gawyn was too loose, too untrusting, yet.
She looked over her letter to the new King of Tear, explaining that Rand was threatening to break the seals. Her plan to stop him would depend on her gathering support from people he trusted. She had conflicting reports about Darlin Sisnera. Some said he was one of Rand’s greatest supporters, while others claimed he was one of Rand’s greatest detractors.
She set the letter aside for the moment, then wrote some thoughts on how to approach the Hall on the Warder issue. Gawyn made an excellent argument, though he went too far and assumed too much. Making a plea for women who had no Warders to choose one, explaining all of the advantages and pointing out how it could save lives and help defeat the Shadow…that would be appropriate.
She poured herself some mint tea from the pot on the side of her desk. Oddly, it hadn’t been spoiling as often lately, and this cup tasted quite good. She hadn’t told Gawyn of the other reason she’d asked him to leave her door at nights. She had trouble sleeping, knowing he was out there, only a few feet away. She worried she’d slip and go to him.
Silviana’s strap had never been able to break her will, but Gawyn Trakand…he was coming dangerously close to doing so.
Graendal anticipated the messenger’s arrival. Even here, in her most secret of hiding places, his arrival was not unexpected. The Chosen could not hide from the Great Lord.
The hiding place was not a palace, a fine lodge or an ancient fortress. It was a cavern on an island nobody cared about, in an area of the Aryth Ocean that nobody ever visited. So far as she knew, there was nothing of note or interest anywhere near.
The accommodations were downright dreadful. Six of her lesser pets cared for the place, which was merely three chambers. She’d covered over the entrance with stone, and the only way in or out was by gateway. Fresh water came from a natural spring, food from stores she’d brought in previously, and air through cracks. It was dank, and it was lowly.
In other words, it was precisely the sort of place where nobody would expect to find her. Everyone knew that Graendal could not stand a lack of luxury. That was true. But the best part about being predictable was that it allowed you to do the unexpected.
Unfortunately, none of that applied to the Great Lord. Graendal watched the open gateway before her as she relaxed on a chaise of yellow and blue silk. The messenger was a man with flat features and deeply tanned skin, wearing black and red. He didn’t need to speak—his presence was the message. One of her pets—a beautiful, black-haired woman with large brown eyes who had once been a Tairen high lady—stared at the gateway. She looked frightened. Graendal felt much the same way.
She closed the wood-bound copy of Alight in the Snow in her hands and stood up, wearing a dress of thin black silk with ribbons of streith running down it. She stepped through the gateway, careful to project an air of confidence.
Moridin stood inside his black stone palace. The room had no furniture; only the hearth, with a fire burning. Great Lord! A fire, on such a warm day? She maintained her composure, and did not begin to sweat.
He turned toward her, the black flecks of saa swimming across his eyes. “You know why I have summoned you.” Not a question.
“I do.”
“Aran’gar is dead, lost to us—and after the Great Lord transmigrated her soul the last time. One might think you are making a habit of this sort of thing, Graendal.”
“I live to serve, Nae’blis,” she said. Confidence! She had to seem confident.
He hesitated just briefly. Good. “Surely you do not imply that Aran’gar had turned traitor.”
“What?” Graendal said. “No, of course not.”
“Then how is what you did a service?”
Graendal pasted a look of concerned confusion on her face. “Why, I was following the command I was given. Am I not here to receive an accolade?”
“Far from it,” Moridin said dryly. “Your feigned confusion will not work on me, woman.”
“It is not feigned,” Graendal said, preparing her lie. “While I did not expect the Great Lord to be pleased to lose one of the Chosen, the gain was obviously worth the cost.”
“What gain?” Moridin snarled. “You allowed yourself to be caught unaware, and foolishly lost the life of one of the Chosen! We should have been able to rely on you, of all people, to avoid stumbling over al’Thor.”
He didn’t know that she’d bound Aran’gar and left her to die; he thought this was a mistake. Good. “Caught unaware?” she said, sounding mortified. “I never…Moridin, how could you think that I’d let him find me by accident!”
“You did this intentionally?”
“Of course,” Graendal said. “I practically had to lead him by the hand to Natrin’s Barrow. Lews Therin never was good at seeing facts directly in front of his nose. Moridin, don’t you see? How will Lews Therin react to what he has done? Destroying an entire fortress, a miniature city of its own, with hundreds of occupants? Killing innocents to reach his goal? Will that sit easily within him?”
Moridin hesitated. No, he had not considered that. She smiled inwardly. To him, al’Thor’s actions would have made perfect sense. They were the most logical, and therefore most sensible, means of accomplishing a goal.
But al’Thor himself…his mind was full of daydreams about honor and virtue. This event would not sit easily within him, and speaking of him as Lews Therin to Moridin would reinforce that. These actions would tear at al’Thor, rip at his soul, lash his heart raw and bleeding. He would have nightmares, wear his guilt on his shoulders like the yoke of a heavily laden cart.
She could vaguely remember what it had been like, taking those first few steps toward the Shadow. Had she ever felt that foolish pain? Yes, unfortunately. Not all of the Chosen had. Semirhage had been corrupt to the bone from the start. But others of them had taken different paths to the Shadow, including Ishamael.
She could see the memories, so distant, in Moridin’s eyes. Once, she’d not been sure who this man was, but now she was. The face was different, but the soul the same. Yes, he knew exactly what al’Thor was feeling.
“You told me to hurt him,” Graendal said. “You told me to bring him anguish. This was the best way. Aran’gar helped me, though she did not flee when I suggested. That one always has confronted her problems too aggressively. But I’m certain the Great Lord can find other tools. We took a risk, and it was not without cost. But the gain…Beyond that, Lews Therin now thinks I am dead. That is a large advantage.”
She smiled. Not too much pleasure. Merely a little satisfaction. Moridin scowled, then hesitated, glancing to the side. At nothing. “I am to leave you without punishment, for now,” he finally said, though he didn’t sound pleased about it.
Had that been a communication directly from the Great Lord? As far as she knew, all Chosen in this Age had to go to him in Shayol Ghul to receive their orders. Or at least suffer a visit from that horrid creature Shaidar Haran. Now the Great Lord appeared to be speaking to the Nae’blis directly. Interesting. And worrisome.