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

The Path of Daggers (The Wheel of Time #8) Page 78

Abruptly a vertical slash of silver appeared at the far end of the room, bright against the tapestries hanging between the heavy gilded mirrors, and a crystalline chime rang loud. Her eyebrows rose in surprise. Someone remembered the courtesies of a more civilized Age, it seemed. Standing, she forced the plain band of gold down against the ruby ring on her smallest finger and embraced saidar through it before channeling the web that would sound an answering chime for whoever wanted to open a gateway. The angreal did not offer much, yet anyone who thought they knew her strength would find a shock.

The gateway opened, and two women in nearly identical redandblack silk dresses stepped through warily. At least, Moghedien moved cautiously, dark eyes flickering in search of traps, hands smoothing her wide skirts; the gateway winked out after a moment, but she held on to saidar. A sensible precaution, though Moghedien had always been a great one for precautions. Graendal did not let go of the Source, either. Moghedien’s companion, a short young woman with long silver hair and vivid blue eyes, stared about her coldly, hardly more than glancing in Graendal’s direction. By her demeanor, she might have been a Prime Counselor forced to endure the company of common laborers and intent on ignoring their existence. A foolish girl, to imitate the Spider. Red and black did not suit her coloring, and she should have made better use of such an impressive bosom.

“This is Cyndane, Graendal,” Moghedien said. “We are... working together.” She did not smile when she named the haughty young woman, but Graendal did. A pretty name for a more than pretty girl, but what twist of fate had led some mother of this time to give her daughter a name that meant “Last Chance”? Cyndane’s face remained cold and smooth, but her eyes flared. A beautiful doll carved from ice, with hidden fires. It seemed she knew the meaning and did not like it.

“What brings you and your friend, Moghedien?” Graendal asked. The Spider was the very last she had expected to come out from the shadows. “Have no fear of speaking in front of my servants.” She gestured, and the pair by the door sank to their knees, pressed their faces to the floor. They would not quite fall dead by her simple command, but close.

“What interest can you find in them when you destroy anything that might make them interesting?” Cyndane demanded, striding arrogantly across the floor. She held herself very straight, striving for every hair of height. “Do you know that Sammael is dead?”

Graendal kept her own face smooth, with a little effort. She had supposed this girl some Friend of the Dark whom Moghedien had picked up to run errands, perhaps a noble who thought her title counted, but now that she was close... The girl was stronger in the One Power than she herself! Even in her own Age, that had been uncommon among men, and very rare indeed among women. On the instant, on instinct, she changed her intention to deny any contact with Sammael.

“I suspected,” she replied, directing a false smile over the young woman’s head at Moghedien. How much did she know? Where had the Spider found a girl so much stronger than she, and why was she traveling with her? Moghedien had always been jealous of anyone with more strength. Or more of anything. “He used to visit me, importuning my help in one mad plan or another. I never rejected him outright; you know Sammael is — was a dangerous man to reject. He appeared every few days without fail, and when he stopped, I assumed something dire had happened to him. Who is this girl, Moghedien? A remarkable find.”

The young woman stepped closer, staring up at her with eyes like blue fire. “She told you my name. That is all you need know.” The girl knew she spoke to one of the Chosen, and yet her tone remained frost. Even given her strength, this was no simple Friend of the Dark. Unless she was insane. “Have you paid attention to the weather, Graendal?”

Abruptly, Graendal realized that Moghedien was letting the girl do all the talking. Hanging back until a weakness became apparent. And Graendal had been letting her! “I do not suppose you came to tell me of Sammael’s death, Moghedien,” she said sharply. “Or to talk about weather. You know I seldom go outside.” Nature was unruly, lacking order. There were not even windows in this room, nor in most that she used. “What do you want?” The darkhaired woman was edging sideways along the wall; the glow of the One Power still surrounded her. Graendal stepped casually so that both remained in her sight.

“You make a mistake, Graendal.” A chilly smile barely curved Cyndane’s full lips; she was enjoying this. “I lead between us. Moghedien is in a bad odor with Moridin for her recent mistakes.”

Wrapping her arms around herself, Moghedien shot the silverhaired little woman a scowl as good as any spoken confirmation. Suddenly Cyndane’s big eyes opened even wider, and she gasped, shuddering.

Moghedien’s glare turned malicious. “You lead for the moment,” she sneered. “Your place in his eyes is not far better than mine.” And then she gave a start and shivered, biting her lip.

Was she being toyed with, Graendal wondered. The pure hatred for each other on the two women’s faces seemed unfeigned. Either way, she would see how they enjoyed being played. Unconsciously rubbing her hands together, rubbing the angreal on her finger, she moved to a chair without taking her eyes from the pair. The sweetness of saidar flowing into her was a comfort. Not that she needed comfort, but there was something odd here. The high straight back, thickly carved and gilded, made the chair seem a throne, though it was no different from any other in the room. Such things affected even the most sophisticated on levels they never knew consciously.

She sat leaning back with her leg’s crossed, one foot kicking idly, the picture of a woman at her ease, and made her voice bored. “Since you lead, child, tell me, when this man who calls himself Death is in his skin, who is he? What is he?”

“Moridin is Nae’blis.” The girl’s voice was calm and cold and arrogant. “The Great Lord has decided it is time for you to serve the Nae’blis, too.”

Graendal jerked upright. “This is preposterous.” She could not keep the anger from her voice. “A man I’ve never heard of has been named the Great Lord’s Regent on Earth?” She did not mind when others tried to manipulate her — she always found a way to turn their schemes against them — but Moghedien must take her for a halfwit! She had no doubt that Moghedien was directing this obnoxious girl, whatever they claimed, whatever looks they stabbed at each other. “I serve the Great Lord and myself, no other! I think the two of you should go, now, and play your little game elsewhere. Demandred might be diverted by it. Or Semirhage? Be careful how you channel in leaving; I have set a few inverted webs, and you would not w