Knife of Dreams (The Wheel of Time #11)

Knife of Dreams (The Wheel of Time #11) Page 140

Sighing heavily, he turned to face Rand. “The Daughter of the Nine Moons will meet you in three days at a manor house in northern Altara, near the border of Andor.” He touched the breast of his coat. “I have a map. She’s already near there somewhere, but they say it isn’t in lands they control. When it comes to secrecy, these Seanchan make Aes Sedai look as open as village girls.” Cadsuane snorted.

“You suspect a trap?” Logain eased his sword in its scabbard, perhaps unconsciously.

Bashere made a dismissive gesture, but he eased his sword, too. “I always suspect a trap. It isn’t that. The High Lady Suroth still didn’t want me or Manfor to talk to anyone but her. Not anyone. Our servants were mutes, just as when we went to Ebou Dar with Loial.”

“Mine had had her tongue cut out,” Loial said in tones of disgust, his ears tilting back. His knuckles paled on the haft of his axe. Haman made a shocked sound, his ears going stiff as fence posts.

“Altara just crowned a new King,” Bashere went on, “but everybody in the Tarasin Palace seemed to be walking on eggshells and looking over their shoulders, Seanchan and Altaran alike. Even Suroth looked as though she felt a sword hovering above her neck.”

“Maybe they’re frightened of Tarmon Gai’don,” Rand said. “Or the Dragon Reborn. I’ll have to be careful. Frightened people do stupid things. What are the arrangements, Bashere?”

The Saldaean pulled the map from inside his coat and walked back to Rand unfolding it. “They’re very precise. She will bring six sul’dam and damane, but no other attendants.” Alivia made a noise like an angry cat, and he blinked before going on, no doubt uncertain of a freed damane, to say the least. “You can bring five people who can channel. She’ll assume any man with you can, but you can bring a woman who can’t to make the honors even.” Min was suddenly at Rand’s side, wrapping her arm around his.

“No,” he said firmly. He was not about to take her into a possible trap.

“We’ll talk about it,” she murmured, the bond filling with stubborn resolve.

The most dire words a woman can say short of “I’m going to kill you,” Rand thought. Suddenly he felt a chill. Had it been him? Or Lews Therin? The madman chuckled softly in the back of his head. No matter. In three days, one difficulty would be resolved. One way or another. “What else, Bashere?”

Lifting the damp cloth that lay across her eyes, carefully so she did not catch the bracelet-and-rings angreal in her hair—she wore that and her jeweled ter’angreal every waking moment now—Nynaeve sat up on the edge of her bed. With men needing Healing from dreadful wounds, some missing a hand or an arm, it had seemed petty to ask Healing for a headache, but the willow bark seemed to have worked as well. Only more slowly. One of her rings, set with a pale green stone that now appeared to glow with a faint internal light, seemed to vibrate continually on her finger though it did not really move. The pattern of vibrations was mixed, a reaction to saidar and saidin being channeled outside. For that matter, someone could have been channeling inside. Cadsuane was sure it should be able to indicate direction, but she could not say how. Ha! for Cadsuane and her supposed superior knowledge! She wished she could say that to the woman’s face. It was not that Cadsuane intimidated her—certainly not; she stood above Cadsuane— just that she wanted to maintain some degree of harmony. That was the reason she held her tongue around the woman.

The rooms she shared with Lan were spacious, but also drafty, with no casement fitting its window properly, and over the generations the house had settled enough that the doors had been trimmed so they could close all the way, making more gaps to let every breeze whistle through. The fire on the stone hearth danced as though it were outdoors, crackling and spitting sparks. The carpet, so faded she could no longer really make out the pattern, had more holes burned in it than she could count. The bed with its heavy bedposts and worn canopy was large and sturdy, but the mattress was lumpy, the pillows held more feathers that poked through than they did down, and the blankets seemed almost more darns than original material. But Lan shared the rooms, and that made all the difference. That made them a palace.

He stood at one of the windows where he had been since the attack began, staring down now at the work going on outside. Or perhaps studying the slaughter yard the manor house grounds had become. He was so still, he might have been a statue, a tall man in a well-fitting dark green coat, his shoulders broad enough to make his waist appear slender, with the leather cord of his hadori holding back his shoulder-length hair, black tinged with white at the temples. A hard-faced man, yet beautiful. In her eyes he was, let anyone else say what they would. Only they had best not say it in her hearing. Even Cadsuane. A ring bearing a flawless sapphire was cold on her right hand. It seemed more likely he was feeling anger than hostility. That ring did have a flaw, in her estimation. It was all very well to know someone nearby was feeling angry or hostile, but that did not mean the emotion was directed at you.

“It’s time for me to go back outside and lend a hand again,” she said as she stood.

“Not yet,” he told her without turning from the window. Ring or no ring, his deep voice was calm. And quite firm. “Moiraine used to say a headache was sign she had been channeling too much. That’s dangerous.”

Her hand strayed toward her braid before she could snatch it down again. As if he knew more about channeling than she! Well, in some ways he did. Twenty years as Moiraine’s Warder had taught him as much as a man could know of saidar. “My headache is completely gone. I’m perfectly all right now.”

“Don’t be petulant, my love. There are only a few hours till twilight. Plenty of work will be left tomorrow.” His left hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, relaxed, tightened. Only that hand moved.

Her lips compressed. Petulant? She smoothed her skirt furiously. She was not petulant! He seldom invoked his right to command in private—curse those Sea Folk for ever thinking of such a thing!—but when he did, the man was unbending. Of course, she could go anyway. He would not try to stop her physically. She was certain of that. Fairly certain. Only she did not intend to violate her marriage vows in the slightest way. Even if she did want to kick her beloved husband’s shins.

Kicking her skirts instead, she went to stand beside him at the window and slip her arm through his. His arm was rock hard, though. His muscles were hard, wonderfully so, but this was the hardness of tension, as though he were straining to lift a great weight. How she wished she had his bond, to give her hints of what was troubling him. When she laid hands on Myrelle. . . . No, best not to think of that hussy! Greens! They simply coul