It meant the end was very near. There would not be much time left for posturing. She would see herself Nae’blis and rule this world as her own once the Last Battle was done.
“I think,” Graendal said, “that I should—”
“You are to stay away from al’Thor,” Moridin said. “You are not to be punished, but I don’t see reason to praise you either. Yes, al’Thor may be hurt, but you still bungled your plan, costing us a useful tool.”
“Of course,” Graendal said smoothly, “I will serve as it pleases the Great Lord. I was not going to suggest that I move against al’Thor anyway. He thinks me dead, and so best to let him remain in his ignorance while I work elsewhere, for now.”
“Elsewhere?”
Graendal needed a victory, a decisive one. She sifted through the different plans she’d devised, selecting the most likely to succeed. She couldn’t move against al’Thor? Very well. She would bring to the Great Lord something he’d long desired.
“Perrin Aybara,” Graendal said. She felt exposed, having to reveal her intentions to Moridin. She preferred to keep her plots to herself. However, she doubted she’d be able to escape this meeting without telling him. “I will bring you his head.”
Moridin turned toward the fire, clasping his hands behind his back. He watched the flames.
With a shock, she felt sweat trickle down her brow. What? She was able to avoid heat and cold. What was wrong? She maintained her focus…it just didn’t work. Not here. Not near him.
That unsettled her deeply.
“He’s important,” Graendal said. “The prophecies—”
“I know the prophecies,” Moridin said softly. He did not turn. “How would you do it?”
“My spies have located his army,” Graendal said. “I have already set some plans in motion regarding him, just in case. I retain the group of Shadowspawn given me to cause chaos, and I have a trap prepared. It will break al’Thor, ruin him, if he loses Aybara.”
“It will do more than that,” Moridin said softly. “But you will never manage it. His men have gateways. He will escape you.”
“I—”
“He will escape you,” Moridin said softly.
The sweat trickled down her cheek, then to her chin. She wiped it casually, but her brow continued to bead.
“Come,” Moridin said, striding from the hearth and toward the hallway outside.
Graendal followed, curious but afraid. Moridin led her to a nearby door, set in the same black stone walls. He pushed it open.
Graendal followed him inside. The narrow room was lined with shelves. And on them were dozens—perhaps hundreds—of objects of Power. Darkness within! she thought. Where did he get so many?
Moridin walked to the end of the room, where he picked through objects on a shelf. Graendal entered, awed. “Is that a shocklance?” she asked, pointing to a long thin bit of metal. “Three binding rods? A rema’kar? Those pieces of a sho—”
“It is unimportant,” he said, selecting an item.
“If I could just—”
“You are close to losing favor, Graendal,” he said, turning and holding a long, spikelike piece of metal, silvery and topped with a large metal head set with golden inlay. “I have found only two of these. The other is being put to good use. You may use this one.”
“A dreamspike?” she said, eyes opening wide. How badly she’d wanted to have one of these! “You found two?”
He tapped the top of the dreamspike and it vanished from his hand. “You will know where to find it?”
“Yes,” she said, growing hungry. This was an object of great Power. Useful in so many different ways.
Moridin stepped forward, seizing her eyes with his own. “Graendal,” he said softly, dangerously. “I know the key for this one. It will not be used against me, or others of the Chosen. The Great Lord will know if you do. I do not wish your apparent habit to be indulged further, not until Aybara is dead.”
“I…yes, of course.” She felt cold, suddenly. How could she feel cold here? And while still sweating?
“Aybara can walk the World of Dreams,” Moridin said. “I will lend you another tool, the man with two souls. But he is mine, just as that spike is mine. Just as you are mine. Do you understand?”
She nodded. She couldn’t help herself. The room seemed to be growing darker. That voice of his…it sounded, just faintly, like that of the Great Lord.
“Let me tell you this, however,” Moridin said, reaching forward with his right hand, cupping her chin. “If you do succeed, the Great Lord will be pleased. Very pleased. That which has been granted you in sparseness will be heaped upon you in glory.”
She licked her dry lips. In front of her, Moridin’s expression grew distant.
“Moridin?” she asked hesitantly.
He ignored her, releasing her chin and walking to the end of the room. From a table, he picked up a thick tome wrapped in pale tan skin. He flipped to a certain page and studied it for a moment. Then he waved for her to approach.
She did so, careful. When she read what was on the page, she found herself stunned.
Darkness within! “What is this book?” she finally managed to force out. “Where did these prophecies come from?”
“They have long been known to me,” Moridin said softly, still studying the book. “But not to many others, not even the Chosen. The women and men who spoke these were isolated and held alone. The Light must never know of these words. We know of their prophecies, but they will never know all of ours.”
“But this…” she said, rereading the passage. “This says Aybara will die!”
“There can be many interpretations of any prophecy,” Moridin said. “But yes. This Foretelling promises that Aybara will die by our hand. You will bring me the head of this wolf, Graendal. And when you do, anything you ask shall be yours.” He slapped the book closed. “But mark me. Fail, and you will lose what you have gained. And much more.”
He opened a portal for her with a wave of the hand; her faint ability to touch the True Power—that hadn’t been removed from her—allowed her to see twisted weaves stab the air and rend it, ripping a hole in the fabric of the Pattern. The air shimmered there. It would lead back to her hidden cavern, she knew.
She went through without a word. She didn’t trust her voice to speak without shaking.
Chapter 6
Questioning Intentions
Morgase Trakand, once Queen of Andor, served tea. She moved from person to person in the large pavilion Perrin had taken from Malden. It had sides that could be rolled up and no tent floor.
Large though the tent was, there was barely enough room for all who had wanted to attend the meeting. Perrin and Faile were there, of course, sitting on the ground. Next to them sat golden-eyed Elyas and Tam al’Thor, the simple farmer with the broad shoulders and the calm manners. Was this man really the father of the Dragon Reborn? Of course, Morgase had seen Rand al’Thor once, and the boy hadn’t looked much more than a farmer himself.
Beside Tam sat Perrin’s dusty secretary, Sebban Balwer. How much did Perrin know of his past? Jur Grady was there also, wearing his black coat with a silver sword pin on the collar. His leathery farmer’s face was hollow-eyed and still pale from the sickness he’d suffered recently. Neald—the other Asha’man—was not there. He hadn’t yet recovered from his snakebites.
All three Aes Sedai were there. Seonid and Masuri sat with the Wise Ones, and Annoura sat beside Berelain, occasionally shooting glances at the six Wise Ones. Gallenne sat on Berelain’s other side. Across from them sat Alliandre and Arganda.
The officers made Morgase think of Gareth Bryne. She hadn’t seen him in a long while, not since she’d exiled him for reasons she still couldn’t quite explain. Very little about that time in her life made sense to her now. Had she really been so infatuated with a man that she’d banished Aemlyn and Ellorien?
Anyway, those days were gone. Now Morgase picked her way carefully through the room and saw that people’s cups were kept full.
“Your work took longer than I’d expected,” Perrin said.
“You gave us a duty to attend to, Perrin Aybara,” Nevarin replied. “We accomplished it. It took us as much time as needed to do it correctly. Surely you don’t imply that we did otherwise.” The sandy-haired Wise One sat directly in front of Seonid and Masuri.
“Give over, Nevarin,” Perrin grunted as he unrolled a map before him on the ground; it had been drawn by Balwer using instructions from the Ghealdanin. “I wasn’t questioning you. I was asking if there were any problems in the burning.”
“The village is gone,” Nevarin said. “And every plant we found with a hint of Blight has been burned to ash. As well we did. You wetlanders would have much trouble dealing with something as deadly as the Blight.”
“I think,” Faile said, “that you would be surprised.”
Morgase glanced at Faile, who locked eyes with the Wise One. Faile sat like a queen, once again dressed to her station in a fine dress of green and violet, pleated down the sides and divided for riding. Oddly, Faile’s sense of leadership seemed to have been enhanced by her time spent with the Shaido.
Morgase and Faile had quickly gone back to being mistress and servant. In fact, Morgase’s life here was strikingly similar to what it had been in the Shaido camp. True, some things were different; Morgase wasn’t likely to be strapped here, for instance. That didn’t change the fact that—for a time—she and the other four women had been equals. No longer.
Morgase stopped beside Lord Gallenne and refilled his cup, using the same skills she’d cultivated in attending Sevanna. At times, being a servant seemed to require more stealth than being a scout. She wasn’t to be seen, wasn’t to distract. Had her own servants acted this way around her?
“Well,” Arganda said, “if anyone is wondering where we’ve gone, the smoke from that fire is an easy indicator.”
“We’re far too many people to think of hiding,” Seonid said. Recently, she and Masuri had begun being allowed to speak without reprimand from the Wise Ones, though the Green did still glance at the Aiel women before speaking. It galled Morgase to see that. Sisters of the Tower, made apprentices to a bunch of wilders? It was said to have been done at Rand al’Thor’s order, but how would any man—even the Dragon Reborn—be capable of such a thing?
It discomforted her that the two Aes Sedai no longer seemed to resist their station. A person’s situation in life could change her dramatically. Gaebril, then Valda, had taught Morgase that lesson. The Aiel captivity had been merely another step in the process.
Each of these experiences had moved her farther away from the Queen she had been. Now she didn’t long for fine things or her throne. She just wanted some stability. That, it seemed, was a commodity more precious than gold.
“It doesn’t matter,” Perrin said, tapping the map. “So, we’re decided? We chase after Gill and the others on foot for now, sending scouts by gateway to find them, if possible. Hopefully, we’ll catch them before they reach Lugard. How long to the city would you say, Arganda?”