The Path of Daggers (The Wheel of Time #8)

The Path of Daggers (The Wheel of Time #8) Page 168

“The Dragon Reborn is a man, Fedwin,” she said. “And like any man, he’s sulking because he thinks a woman doesn’t want to see him again.”

Goggling, the boy jerked as if she had goosed him. Rand stopped to scowl at her sullenly. All that kept her from laughing was knowing that he was hiding pain as real as any stab wound. That, and the sure knowledge that he would be as hurt if she had done what had been done. Not that she would ever have the chance to rip down his banners, but the point applied. Rand had been stunned at first by the news Taim brought from Caemlyn at dawn, but as soon as the man left, he had stopped looking like a poleaxed bull and started... This!

Standing, she adjusted her pale green coat, folded her arms beneath her breasts, and confronted him directly. “What else can it be?” she asked calmly. Well, she tried for calm, and almost made it. She loved the man, but after a morning of this, she wanted to box his ears soundly. “You haven’t mentioned Mat twice, and you don’t know whether he’s even alive.”

“Mat’s alive,” Rand snarled. “I’d know if he was dead. What do you mean I’m —!” His jaw clenched as if he could not make himself say the word.

“Sulking,” she provided. “Soon, you’ll be pouting. Some women think men are prettier when they pout. I’m not one of them.” Well, enough of that. His face had darkened, and he was not blushing. “Haven’t you twisted yourself into knots to make sure she got the throne of Andor? Which is hers by right, might I add. Didn’t you say you wanted her to have Andor whole, not ripped apart like Cairhien or Tear?”

“I did!” he roared. “And now it’s hers, and she wants me out of it! Good enough, I say! And don’t tell me again to stop shouting! I’m not —!” He realized that he was, and clamped his teeth shut. A low growl came from his throat. Morr set to studying one of his buttons, twisting it back and forth. He had been doing a lot of that this morning.

Min kept her face smooth. She was not going to slap him, and he was too big for her to spank. “Andor is hers, just as you wanted,” she said. Calmly. Almost. “None of the Forsaken are going after her now she’s torn your banners down.” A dangerous light appeared in those bluegray eyes, but she pressed on. “Just as you wanted. And you can’t believe she’s siding with your enemies. Andor will follow the Dragon Reborn, and you know it. So the only reason for you to be in a snit is because you think she doesn’t want to see you. Go to her, you fool!” The next part was the hardest to say. “Before you can say two words, she’ll be kissing you.” Light, she loved Elayne almost as much as she did Rand — maybe as much, in a very different way — but how was a woman to compete with a beautiful goldenhaired queen who had a powerful nation at her beck and call?

“I am not... angry,” Rand said in a tight voice. And started pacing again. Min considered kicking him square in the bottom. Hard.

One of the doors opened to admit leathery whitehaired Sorilea, who brushed Morr aside even as he was looking to see whether Rand wanted her allowed entry. Rand opened his mouth — angrily, whatever he chose to claim — and five women in thick black robes damp with melted snow followed the Wise One into the room, hands folded, eyes down, and deep hoods not quite hiding their faces. Their feet were wrapped in rags.

Min’s scalp prickled. To her eyes, images and auras danced and vanished and were replaced around all six women, just as around Rand. She had been hoping he had forgotten those five were alive. What in the name of the Light was that wicked old woman doing?

Sorilea gestured once in a clatter of gold and ivory bracelets, and the five hastily arranged themselves in a line atop the golden Rising Sun set in the stone floor. Rand strode along that row, stripping back hoods, baring faces that he stared into coldeyed.

Every one of the blackrobed women was unwashed, her hair lank and dirty with sweat. Elza Penfell, a Green sister, met his gaze eagerly, a strangely fervent look on her face. Nesune Bihara, a slender Brown, studied him as intently as he did her. Sarene Nemdahl, so beautiful even in her dirt that you thought her agelessness must be natural, appeared to be holding to her White Ajah coolness by a fingernail. Beldeine Nyram, too new to the shawl to have the ageless features, essayed an uncertain smile that melted under his stare. Erian Boroleos, pale and almost as lovely as Sarene, flinched, then visibly forced herself to look into that frigid gaze. Those last two also were Green, and all five had been among the sisters who kidnapped him on Elaida’s orders. Some had been among those who tortured him while trying to carry him to Tar Valon. Sometimes Rand still woke, sweating and panting, mumbling about being confined, being beaten. Min hoped she did not see murder in his stare.

“These were named da’tsang, Rand al’Thor,” Sorilea said. “I think they feel their shame in the bone, now. Erian Boroleos was the first to ask to be beaten as you were, sunrise and sunset, but now each has done so. That plea has been granted. Each has asked to serve you however she may. The toh for their betrayal cannot be met,” her voice darkened for a moment; to the Aiel, the betrayal of the kidnapping was far worse than what they had done after, “yet they know their shame, and they wish to try. We have decided to leave the choice to you.”

Min frowned. Leave the choice to him? Wise Ones rarely left any choice they could make to anyone else. Sorilea never did. The sinewy Wise One casually shifted her dark shawl on her shoulders and watched Rand as if this was of no importance at all. But she shot one blue ice glance at Min, and suddenly Min was sure that if she said the wrong thing here, that bony old woman would have her hide. It was not a viewing. She just knew Sorilea better than she wanted to, by now.

Determinedly she set to studying what was appearing and vanishing around the women. No easy task when they stood so close together she could not be certain whether a particular image belonged to one woman or the woman next to her. At least the auras were always certain. Light, let her be able to understand at least some of what she saw!

Rand took Sorilea’s announcement coolly, on the surface. He rubbed his hands together slowly, then thoughtfully examined the herons branded on his palms. He examined each of those Aes Sedai faces in turn. Finally, he focused on Erian.

“Why?” he asked her in a mild voice. “I killed two of your Warders. Why?” Min winced. Rand was many things, but seldom mild. And Erian was one of the few who had