The wheel of time, p.416
The Wheel of Time, page 416
Despite herself, Nynaeve winced. True, they had a list of eleven names, but once they were back in the Tower, almost any Aes Sedai they spoke to might be Black Ajah. Or any women they encountered on the road. For that matter, anyone they met might be a Darkfriend, but that was hardly the same thing, not by a wide degree.
“More than the Black Ajah,” Elayne continued, “I worry about Mo—” Nynaeve put a quick hand on her arm and nodded slightly toward Juilin. Elayne coughed and went on as though that was what had stopped her. “About Mother. She has no reason to like you, Nynaeve. Quite the opposite.”
“She is far away from here.” Nynaeve was glad her voice was steady. They were not talking about Elayne’s mother, but the Forsaken she had defeated. Part of her hoped fervently that Moghedien was far away. Very far.
“But if she was not?”
“She is,” Nynaeve said firmly, but she still hitched her shoulders uncomfortably. A part of her remembered humiliations suffered at Moghedien’s hands and desired nothing more than to face the woman again, to defeat her again, for good this time. Only, what if Moghedien took her by surprise, came at her when she was not angry enough to channel? The same was true of any of the Forsaken, of course, or of any Black sister for that matter, but after her rout in Tanchico, Moghedien had reason to hate her personally. Not pleasant at all to think that one of the Forsaken knew your name and likely wanted your head. That is just rank cowardice, she told herself sharply. You are not a coward, and you will not be! That did not stop the itch between her shoulder blades every time Moghedien came to mind, as if the woman was staring at her back.
“I suppose looking over my shoulder for bandits has made me nervous,” Elayne said casually, patting her face with the towel. “Why, sometimes when I dream of late, I have the feeling that someone is watching me.”
Nynaeve gave a start at what seemed an echo of her own thoughts, but then she realized there had been a slight emphasis on “dream.” Not any dreams, but Tel’aran’rhiod. Another thing the men did not know about. She had had the same sensation, but then there was often a feel of unseen eyes in the World of Dreams. It could be uncomfortable, but they had discussed the sensation before.
She made her voice light. “Well, your mother is not in our dreams, Elayne, or she would probably snatch us both up by an ear.” Moghedien would probably torture them until they begged for death. Or arrange a circle of thirteen Black sisters and thirteen Myrddraal; they could turn you to the Shadow against your will that way, bind you to the Dark One. Maybe Moghedien could even do it by herself. . . . Don’t be ridiculous, woman! If she could have, she would have. You beat her, remember?
“I do hope not,” the other woman replied soberly.
“Do you mean to give me a chance to wash?” Nynaeve asked irritably. Putting the girl at ease was all very well, but she could do with less talk of Moghedien. The Forsaken had to be somewhere distant; she would not have let them come this far peacefully if she knew where they were. Light send that that’s true!
Elayne emptied and refilled the bucket herself. She was a very nice girl usually, when she remembered that she was not in the Royal Palace in Caemlyn. And when she was not acting the fool. That, Nynaeve would take care of when Thom came back.
Once Nynaeve had enjoyed a slow, cooling wash of face and hands, she set about making the camp ready, and put Juilin to breaking dead branches from the trees for a fire. By the time Thom returned with two wicker hampers slung across the gelding’s back, her and Elayne’s blankets were laid out under the wagon and the two men’s under the hanging branches of one of the twenty-foot willows, a good supply of firewood had been stacked, the teakettle stood cooling beside the ashes of a fire in a circle cleared of leaves, and the thick pottery cups had been washed. Juilin was grumbling to himself as he caught water in the tiny stream to refill the water barrels. From the snatches Nynaeve heard, she was glad he kept most of it to an inaudible mutter. From her perch on one of the wagon shafts, Elayne hardly tried to hide her interested attempt to make out what he was saying. Both she and Nynaeve had put on clean dresses on the other side of the wagon, switching colors as it happened.
After fastening hobbles between the gelding’s forelegs, Thom lifted the heavy hampers down easily and began unpacking them. “Mardecin’s not as prosperous as it looks from a distance.” He set a net bag of small apples on the ground, and another of some dark green leafy vegetable. “With no trade into Tarabon, the town is withering.” The rest seemed to be all sacks of dried beans and turnips, plus pepper-cured beef and salt-cured hams. And a gray pottery bottle sealed with wax that Nynaeve was sure held brandy; both men had complained of not having a bit of something with their pipes of an evening. “You can hardly take six steps without seeing a Whitecloak or two. The garrison is about fifty men or so, with barracks over the hill from the town on the far side of the bridge. It was considerably larger, but it seems Pedron Niall is pulling Whitecloaks from everywhere into Amador.” Knuckling his long mustaches, he looked thoughtful for a moment. “I cannot see what he is up to.” Thom was not a man who liked that; usually a few hours in a place was enough for him to begin ferreting out the currents between noble and merchant Houses, the alliances and schemes and counterplots that made up the so-called Game of Houses. “The rumors are all about Niall trying to stop a war between Illian and Altara, or maybe Illian and Murandy. No reason there for him to be gathering in soldiers. I’ll tell you one thing, though. Whatever that lieutenant said, it is a King’s Tax that buys the food being sent into Tarabon, and the people are not happy with it. Not to feed Taraboners.”
“King Ailron and the Lord Captain Commander are not our concern,” Nynaeve said, studying what he had brought. Three salted hams! “We will pass through Amadicia as quickly and unobtrusively as we can. Perhaps Elayne and I will have more luck finding vegetables than you did. Would you care for a walk, Elayne?”
Elayne got up immediately, smoothing her gray skirts and lifting her hat from the wagon. “That would be very nice, after that wagon seat. It might be different if Thom and Juilin let me take a turn riding Skulker more often.” For once she did not give the old gleeman a coquettish look, which was something.
Thom and Juilin exchanged glances, and the Tairen thief-catcher pulled a coin from his coat pocket, but Nynaeve gave him no chance to flip it. “We will be quite all right by ourselves. We could hardly expect trouble of any sort with so many Whitecloaks to keep order.” Planting her hat on her head, she tied the scarf under her chin and gave them a firm look. “Besides, all those things Thom bought need to be put away.” Both men nodded; slowly, reluctantly, but they did it. Sometimes they took their roles as supposed protectors entirely too seriously.
She and Elayne had reached the empty road and were walking down the verge, on the thin grass so as not to kick up dust, before she had it settled in her mind how to bring up what she wanted to say. Before she could speak, though, Elayne said, “You obviously want to talk to me alone, Nynaeve. Is it about Moghedien?”
Nynaeve blinked, and looked at the other woman sideways. It was well to remember that Elayne was no fool. She had only been acting like one. Nynaeve resolved to keep a tight hold on her temper; this was going to be difficult enough without letting it dissolve into a shouting match. “Not that, Elayne.” The girl thought they should add Moghedien to their hunt; she could not seem to realize the difference between one of the Forsaken and, say, Liandrin, or Chesmal. “I thought we should discuss how you’ve been behaving toward Thom.”
“I do not know what you mean,” Elayne said, staring straight ahead toward the town, but sudden spots of color in her cheeks gave her the lie.
“Not only is he old enough to be your father twice over, but—”
“He is not my father!” Elayne snapped. “My father was Taringail Damodred, a Prince of Cairhien and First Prince of the Sword of Andor!” Straightening her hat needlessly, she went on in a milder tone, though not by much. “I am sorry, Nynaeve. I did not mean to shout.”
Temper, Nynaeve reminded herself. “I thought you were in love with Rand,” she said, making her voice gentle. It was not easy. “The messages you have me give to Egwene for him certainly say so. I expect you tell her the same.”
The color in the other woman’s face heightened. “I do love him, but . . . He is very far away, Nynaeve. In the Waste, surrounded by a thousand Maidens of the Spear who jump to do his bidding. I cannot see him, or speak to him, or touch him.” She was whispering by the end.
“You can’t think he’ll turn to a Maiden,” Nynaeve said incredulously. “He is a man, but he isn’t as fickle as that, and besides, one of them would put a spear in him if he looked at her crossways, even if he is this Dawn whatever. Anyway, Egwene says Aviendha is keeping an eye on him for you.”
“I know, but . . . I should have made sure that he knew I love him.” Elayne’s voice was determined. And worried. “I should have told him so.”
Nynaeve had hardly looked at a man before Lan, at least not seriously, but she had seen and learned much as Wisdom; from her observations, there was no quicker way to send a man running for his life, unless he said it first.
“I think Min had a viewing,” Elayne went on. “About me, and about Rand. She always used to joke about having to share him, but I think it wasn’t a joke and she could not bring herself to say what it really was.”
“That is ridiculous.” It certainly was. Though in Tear, Aviendha had told her of a vile Aiel custom. . . . You share Lan with Moiraine, a small voice whispered. That isn’t the same thing at all! she told it briskly. “Are you certain Min had one of her visions?”
“Yes. I wasn’t at first, but the more I think on it, the more sure I become. She joked about it too often to mean anything else.”
Well, whatever Min had seen, Rand was no Aiel. Oh, his blood might be Aiel as the Wise Ones claimed, but he had grown up in the Two Rivers, and she would not stand by and let him take up wicked Aiel ways. She doubted very much that Elayne would, either. “Is that why you’ve been—” She would not say throwing yourself at “—teasing Thom?”
Elayne gave her a sidelong glance, the crimson back in her cheeks. “There are a thousand leagues between us, Nynaeve. Do you think Rand is refraining from looking at other women? ‘A man is a man, on a throne or in a pigsty.’ ” She had a stock of homely sayings from her childhood nurse, a clearheaded woman named Lini whom Nynaeve wished she would meet one day.
“Well, I don’t see why you have to flirt just because you think Rand might.” She refrained from bringing up Thom’s age again. Lan is old enough to be your father, that small voice murmured. I love Lan. If I can only reason out how to get him free of Moiraine. . . . That is not the matter at hand! “Thom is a man with secrets, Elayne. Remember that Moiraine sent him with us. Whatever he is, he is no simple country gleeman.”
“He was a great man,” Elayne said softly. “He could have been greater, except for love.”
With that, Nynaeve’s temper snapped. She rounded on the other woman, seizing her by the shoulders. “The man doesn’t know whether to turn you over his knee or . . . or . . . climb a tree!”
“I know.” Elayne gave a frustrated sigh. “But I do not know what else to do.”
Nynaeve ground her teeth in the effort not to shake her until her skull rattled. “If your mother heard of this, she’d send Lini to haul you back to the nursery!”
“I am not a child any longer, Nynaeve.” Elayne’s voice was strained, and now the flush in her cheeks was not embarrassment. “I am as much a woman as my mother is.”
Nynaeve stalked on toward Mardecin, gripping her braid so hard that her knuckles hurt.
After a few strides, Elayne caught up. “Are we really going to buy vegetables?” Her face was composed, her tone light.
“Did you see what Thom brought back?” Nynaeve said tightly.
Elayne shuddered elaborately. “Three hams. And that awful peppered beef! Do men ever eat anything but meat if it isn’t set before them?”
Nynaeve’s temper faded as they walked on talking about the foibles of the weaker sex—men, of course—and such simple matters as that. Not completely away, of course. She liked Elayne, and enjoyed her company; at times it seemed as if the girl really was Egwene’s sister, as they sometimes called each other. When Elayne was not acting the twitchskirt. Thom could put a stop to it, of course, but the old fool indulged Elayne like a fond father with his favorite daughter, even when he did not know whether to say boo or faint. One way or another, she meant to get to the bottom of it. Not for Rand’s sake, but because Elayne was better than this. It was as if she had contracted a strange fever. Nynaeve intended to cure it.
Granite slabs paved the streets of Mardecin, worn by generations of feet and wagon wheels, and the buildings were all brick or stone. A number of them were empty though, both shops and houses, sometimes with the front door standing open so Nynaeve could see the bare interior. She saw three blacksmith’s shops, two abandoned, and in the third the smith was halfheartedly rubbing his tools with oil and the forges were cold. One slate-roofed inn, with men sitting morosely on benches out front, had a number of broken windows, and at another the adjoining stable had its doors half-off the hinges and a dusty coach squatting in the stableyard, one forlorn hen nesting on the driver’s high seat. Somebody in that one was playing the bittern; “Heron on the Wing,” it sounded like, but the tune was dispirited. The door of a third inn was barred by two splintery planks nailed across it.
People thronged the streets, but they moved lethargically, weighted down by the heat; dull faces said they had no real reason to stir at all, beyond habit. Many women, in large deep bonnets that almost hid their faces, had on dresses worn at the hem, and more than one man had a frayed collar or cuffs on his knee-length coat.
There were indeed Whitecloaks scattered through the streets; if not so many as Thom had made out, still enough. Nynaeve’s breath caught every time she saw a man in a pristine cloak and shining armor look at her. She knew she had not worked with the Power nearly long enough to take on Aes Sedai agelessness, but those men might well try to kill her—a Tar Valon witch, and outlawed in Amadicia—if they even suspected a connection to the White Tower. They strode through the crowds, seemingly oblivious of the apparent poverty around them. People moved out of their way respectfully, receiving perhaps a nod, if that, and often a sternly pious “Walk in the Light.”
Ignoring the Children of the Light as best she could, she set herself to finding fresh vegetables, but by the time the sun reached its peak, a blazing ball of gold that burned through the thin clouds, she and Elayne had wandered both sides of the low bridge and between them had managed to garner one small bunch of honeypeas, some tiny radishes, a few hard pears, and a basket to carry them in. Perhaps Thom really had looked. This time of year, the barrows and stalls should have been full of the summer’s produce, but most of what they saw was heaped potatoes and turnips that had known better days. Thinking of all those empty farms approaching the town, Nynaeve wondered how these people were going to make it through the winter. She walked on.
Hanging upside down beside the door of a thatch-roofed seamstress’s shop was a bunch of what looked almost like broomweed, with tiny yellow flowers, the stalks wrapped their whole length in a white ribbon, then tied with a dangling yellow one. It might have been some woman’s feeble attempt at a festive decoration in the midst of hard times. But she was sure it was not.
Stopping beside an empty shop with a carving knife incised on the sign still hanging over the door, she pretended to search for a stone in her shoe while furtively studying the seamstress’s shop. The door was open, and colorful bolts of cloth stood in the small-paned windows, but no one went in or out.
“Can you not find it, Nynaeve? Take off your shoe.”
Nynaeve’s head jerked; she had almost forgotten that Elayne was there. No one else was paying any attention to them, and no one looked close enough to overhear. She still lowered her voice. “That bunch of broomweed by that shop door. It is a Yellow Ajah signal, an emergency signal from one of the Yellow’s eyes-and-ears.”
She did not have to tell Elayne not to stare; the girl’s eyes barely moved toward the shop. “Are you certain?” she asked quietly. “And how do you know?”
“Of course I am certain. It’s exact; the hanging bit of yellow ribbon is even split in three.” She paused to take a deep breath. Unless she was completely mistaken, that insignificant fistful of weeds held a dire meaning. If she was wrong, she was making a fool of herself, and she did hate to do that. “I spent a good deal of time talking with Yellows in the Tower.” Healing was the main purpose of the Yellows; they did not care much for her herbs, but you did not need herbs when you could Heal with the Power. “One of them told me. She did not think it too great a transgression, since she was sure I’ll choose Yellow. Besides, it has not been used in nearly three hundred years. Elayne, only a few women in each Ajah actually know who the Ajah’s eyes-and-ears are, but a bunch of yellow flowers tied and hung like that tells any Yellow sister that here one is, and with a message urgent enough to risk uncovering herself.”
“How are we going to find out what it is?”
Nynaeve liked that. Not “What are we going to do?” The girl had backbone.
“Follow my lead,” she said, gripping the basket tighter as she straightened. She hoped she remembered everything Shemerin had told her. She hoped Shemerin had told her everything. The plump Yellow could be fluttery for an Aes Sedai.
The interior of the shop was not large, and every scrap of wall was taken up by shelves holding bolts of silk or finely woven wool, spools of piping and binding, and ribbon and lace of every width and description. Dressmaker’s dummies stood about the floor wearing garments ranging from half-made to complete, from something suitable for a dance in embroidered green wool to a pearly gray silk gown that could have done very well at court. At first glance the shop had a look of prosperity and activity, but Nynaeve’s sharp eye caught a hint of dust in one high neck of frothy Solinde lace, and on a large black velvet bow at the waist of another gown.
