Jordan,Robert - Wheel of Time 09 - Winter's Heart

WINTER’S HEART

The seals that hold back the night shall weaken,

And in the heart of winter shall winter’s heart be born

Amid the wailing of lamentation and the gnashing of teeth,

For winter’s heart shall ride a black horse,

And the name of it is Death.

--from The Karaethon Cycle:

The Prophecies of the Dragon

Prologue: Snow

Three lanterns cast a flickering light, more than enough to

illuminate the small room with its stark white walls and

ceiling, but Seaine kept her eyes fixed on the heavy wooden

door. Illogical, she knew; foolish in a Sitter for the White.

The weave of saidar she had pushed around the jamb brought her

occasional whispers of distant footsteps in the warren of

hallways outside, whispers that faded away almost as soon as

heard. A simple thing learned from a friend in her long-ago

novice days, but she would have warning long before anyone

came near. Few people came down as deep as the second

basement, anyway.

Her weave picked up the far-off chittering of rats. Light!

How long since there had been rats in Tar Valon, in the Tower

itself? Were any of them spies for the Dark One? She wet her

lips uneasily. Logic counted for nothing in this. True. If

illogical. She wanted to laugh. With an effort she crept back

from the brink of hysteria. Think of something besides rats.

Something besides...A muffled squeal rose in the room behind

her, faltered into muted whimpering. She tried to stop up her

ears. Concentrate!

In a way, she and her companions had been led to this room

because the heads of the Ajahs seemed to be meeting in secret.

She herself had glimpsed Ferane Neheran whispering in a

secluded nook of the library with Jesse Bilal, who stood very

high among the Browns if not at the very top. She thought she

stood on firmer ground with Suana Dragand, of the Yellows.

She thought so. But why had Ferane gone walking with Suana in

a secluded part of the Tower grounds, both swathed in plain

cloaks? Sitters of different Ajahs still talked to one

another openly, if coldly. The others had seem similar

things; they would not give names from their own Ajahs, of

course, but two had mentioned Ferane. A troubling puzzle.

The Tower was a seething swamp these days, every Ajah at every

other Ajah's throat, yet the heads met in corners. NO one

outside an Ajah knew for certain who within it led, but

apparently the leaders knew each other. What could they be up

to? What? It was unfortunate that she could not simply ask

Ferane, but even had Ferane been tolerant of anyone's

questions, she did not dare. Not now.

Concentrate as she would, Seaine could not keep her mind on

the question. She knew she was staring at the door and

worrying at puzzles she could not solve just to avoid looking

over her shoulder. Toward the source of those stifled

whimpers and snuffling groans.

As if thinking of the sounds compelled her, she looked back

slowly to her companions, her breath growing more uneven as

her head moved by inches. Snow was falling heavily on Tar

Valon, far overhead, but the room seemed unaccountably hot.

She made herself see!

Brown-fringed shawl looped on her elbows, Saerin stood with

her feet planted apart, fingering the hilt of the curved

Altaran dagger thrust behind her belt. Cold anger darkened

her olive complexion enough to make the scar along her jaw

stand out in a pale line. Pevara appeared calmer, at first

glance, yet one hand gripped her red-embroidered skirts

tightly and the other held the smooth white cylinder of the

Oath Rod like a foot-long club she was ready to use. She

might be ready; Pevara was far tougher than her plumb exterior

suggested, and determined enough to make Saerin seem a

shirker.

On the other side of the chair of remorse, tiny Yukiri had

her arms rapped tightly around herself; the long silvery-grey

fringe on her shawl trembled with her shivers. Licking her

lips, Yukiri cast a worried glance at the woman standing

beside her. Doesine, looking more like a pretty boy than a

Yellow sister of considerable repute, displayed no reaction to

what they were doing. She was the one actually manipulating

the weaves that stretched into the Chair, and she stared at

the ter'angreal, focusing so hard on her work that

perspiration beaded on her pale forehead. They were all

Sitters, including the tall woman writhing on the Chair.

Sweat drenched Talene, matting her golden hair, soaking her

linen shift till it clung to her. The rest of her clothes

made a jumbled pile in the corner. Her closed eyelids

fluttered, and she let out a constant stream of strangled

moans and mewling, half-uttered pleas. Seaine felt ill, but

could not drag her eyes away. Talene was a friend. Had been

a friend.

Despite its name, the ter’angreal looked nothing like a

chair, just a large rectangular block of marbled gray. No one

knew what it was made of, but the material was hard as steel

everywhere except the slanted top. The statuesque Green sank

a little into that, and somehow it molded itself to her no

matter how she twisted. Doesine’s weavings flowed into the

only break anywhere in the Chair, a palm-sized rectangular

hole in one side with tiny notches spaced unevenly around it.

Criminals caught in Tar Valon were brought down here to

experience the Chair of Remorse, to experience carefully

selected consequences of their crimes. On release, they

invariably fled the island. There was very little crime in

Tar Valon. Queasily, Seaine wondered whether this was

anything like the use the Chair had been put to in the Age of

Legends.

“What is she…seeing?” Her question came out a whisper in

spite of herself. Talene would be more than seeing; to her,

it all would seem real. Thank the light she had no Warder,

almost unheard of for a Green. She had claimed a Sitter had

no need for one. Different reasons came to mind, now.

“She is bloody being flogged by bloody Trollocs,” Doesine

said hoarsely. Touches of her native Cairhien had appeared in

her voice, something that seldom happened except under stress.

“When they are done…. She can see the Trolloc’s cook kettle

boiling over the fire, and a Myrddraal watching her. She must

know it will be one or the other next. Burn me, if she

doesn’t break this time….”

Doesine brushed perspiration from her forehead irritably and

drew a ragged breath. “Stop joggling my elbow. It has been a

long while since I did this.”

“Three times under,” Yukiri muttered. “The toughest

strongarm is broken by his own guilt, if nothing else, after

two! What if she’s innocent? Light, this is like stealing

sheep with the shepherd watching!” Even shaking, she managed

to appear regal, but she always sounded like what she had

been, a village woman. She glared around at the rest of them

in a sickly fashion. “The law forbids using the Chair on

initiates. We’ll all be unchaired! And if being thrown out

of the hall isn’t enough, we’ll probably be exiled. And

birched before we go, just to drop salt in our tea! Burn me,

if we’re wrong, we could all be stilled!”

Seaine shuddered. They would escape that last, if their

suspicions proved right. No, not suspicions, certainties.

They had to be right! But even if they were, Yukiri was

correct about the rest. Tower law seldom allowed for

necessity, or any supposed higher good. If they were right,

though, the price was worth paying. Please, the Light send

they were right!

“Are you blind and deaf?” Pevara snapped, shaking the Oath

Rod at Yukiri. “She refused to reswear the Oath against

speaking an untrue word, and it had to be more than stupid

Green Ajah pride after we’d all done as much already. When I

shielded her, she tried to stab me! Does that shout

innocence? Does it? For all she knew, we just meant to talk

at her until our tongues dried up! What reason would she have

to expect more?”

“Thank you both,” Saerin put in dryly, “for stating the

obvious. It’s too late to go back, Yukiri, so we might as

well go forward. And if I were you, Pevara, I wouldn’t be

shouting at one of the four women in the whole Tower I knew I

could trust.”

Yukiri flushed and shifted her shawl, and Pevara looked a

trifle abashed. A trifle. They might all be Sitters, but

Saerin had most definitely taken charge. Seaine was unsure

how she felt about that. A few hours ago, she and Pevara had

been two old friends alone on a dangerous quest, equals

reaching decisions together; now they had allies. She should

be grateful for more companions. They were not in the Hall,

though, and they could not claim Sitter’s rights on this.

Tower hierarchies had taken over, all the subtle and not-so-

subtle distinctions as to who stood where with respect to

whom. In truth, Saerin had been both novice and Accepted

twice as long as most of them, but forty years as a Sitter,

longer than anyone else in the Hall, counted for a great deal.

Seaine would be lucky if Saerin asked her opinion, much less

her advice, before deciding anything at all. Foolish, yet the

knowledge pricked like a thorn in her foot.

“The Trollocs are dragging her toward the kettle,” Doesine

said suddenly, her voice grating. A thin keening escaped

thorough Talene’s clenched teeth; she shook so hard she seemed

to vibrate. “I—I do not know if I can…can flaming make

myself….”

“Bring her awake,” Saerin commanded without so much as

glancing at anyone else to see what they thought. “Stop

sulking, Yukiri, and be ready.”

The Gray gave her a proud, furious stare, but when Doesine

let her weaves fade and Talene’s blue eyes fluttered open, the

glow of saidar surrounded Yukiri and she shielded the woman

lying on the Chair without uttering a word. Saerin was in

charge, and everyone knew it, and that was that. A very sharp

thorn.

A shield hardly seemed necessary. Her face a mask of

terror, Talene trembled and panted as though she had run ten

miles at top speed. She still sank into the soft surface, but

without Doesine channeling, it no longer formed itself to her.

Talene stared at the ceiling with bulging eyes, then squeezed

them shut, but they popped right open again. Whatever

memories lay behind her eyelids were nothing she wanted to

face.

Covering the two strides to the Chair, Pevara thrust the

Oath Rod at the distraught woman. “Forswear all oaths that

bind you and retake the Three Oaths, Talene,” she said

harshly. Talene recoiled from the Rod as from a poisonous

serpent, then jerked the other way as Saerin bent over her.

“Next time, Talene, it’s the cookpot for you. Or the

Myrddraal’s tender attentions.” Saerin’s face was implacable,

but her tone made it seem soft by comparison. “No waking up

before. And if that doesn’t do, there’ll be another time, and

another, as many as it takes if we must stay down here until

summer.” Doesine opened her mouth in protest before giving

over with a grimace. Only she among them knew how to operate

the Chair, but in this group, she stood as low as Seaine.

Talene continued to stare up at Saerin. Tears filled her

big eyes, and she began to weep, great shuddering, hopeless

sobs. Blindly, she reached out, groping until Pevara stuck

the Oath Rod into her hand. Embracing the Source, Pevara

channeled a thread of Spirit to the Rod. Talene gripped the

wrist-thick rod so hard that her knuckles turned white, yet

she just lay there sobbing.

Saerin straightened. “I fear it’s time to put her back to

sleep, Doesine.”

Talene’s tears redoubled, but she mumbled through them.

“I—forswear—all oaths—that bind me.” With the last word, she

began to howl.

Seaine jumped, then swallowed hard. She personally knew the

pain of removing a single oath and had speculated on the agony

of removing more than one at once, but now the reality was in

front of her. Talene screamed till there was no breath left

in her, then pulled in air only to scream again, until Seaine

half expected people to come running down from the Tower

itself. The tall Green convulsed, flinging her arms and legs

about, then suddenly arched up till only her heels and head

touched the gray surface, every muscle clenched, her whole

body spasming wildly.

As abruptly as the seizure had begun Talene collapsed

bonelessly and lay there weeping like a lost child. The Oath

Rod rolled from her limp hand down the sloping gray surface.

Yukiri murmured something with the sound of a fervent prayer.

Doesine kept whispering “Light!” over and over in a shaken

voice. “Light! Light!”

Pevara scooped up the Rod and closed Talene’s fingers around

it again. There was no mercy in Seaine’s friend, not in this

matter. “Now swear the Three Oaths,” she spat.

For an instant, it seemed Talene might refuse, but slowly

she repeated to oaths that made them all Aes Sedai and held

them together. To speak no word that was not true. Never to

make a weapon for one man to kill another. Never to use to

One Power as a weapon, except in defense of her life, or that

of her Warder or another sister. At the end, she began

weeping in silence, shaking without a sound. Perhaps it was

the oaths tightening down on her. They were uncomfortable

when fresh. Perhaps.

Then Pevara told the other oath required of her. Talene

flinched, but muttered the words in tones of hopelessness. “I

vow to obey all five of you absolutely.” Otherwise, she only

stared straight ahead dully, tears trailing down her cheeks.

“Answer me truthfully,” Saerin told her. “Are you of the

Black Ajah?”

“I am.” The words creaked, as if Talene’s throat were

rusty.

The simple words froze Seaine in a way she had never

expected. She had set out to hunt the Black Ajah, after all,

and believed in her quarry as many sisters did not. She had

laid hands on another sister, on a Sitter, had helped bundle

Talene along deserted basement hallways wrapped in flows of

Air, had broken a dozen Tower laws, committed serious crimes,

all to hear an answer she had been nearly certain of before

the question was asked. Now she had heard. The Black Ajah

really did exist. She was staring at a Black sister, a

Darkfriend who wore the shawl. And believing turned out to be

a pale shadow of confronting. Only her jaw clenched near to

cramping kept her teeth from chattering. She struggled to

compose herself, to think rationally. But nightmares were

awake and walking the Tower.

Someone exhaled heavily, and Seaine realized she was not the

only one who found her world turned upside down. Yukiri gave

herself a shake, then fixed her eyes on Talene as though

determined to hold the shield on her by willpower if need be.

Doesine was licking her lips, and smoothing her dark golden

skirts uncertainly. Only Saerin and Pevara appeared at ease.

“So,” Saerin said softly. Perhaps “faintly” was a better

word. “So. Black Ajah.” She drew a deep breath, and her

tone became brisk. “There’s no more need for that, Yukiri.

Talene, you won’t try to escape, or resist in any way. You

won’t so much as touch the Source without permission from one

of us. Though I suppose someone else will take this forward

once we hand you over. Yukiri?” The shield on Talene

dissipated, but the glow remained around Yukiri, as if she did

not trust the effect of the Rod on a Black sister.

Pevara frowned. “Before we give her to Elaida, Saerin, I

want to dig out as much as we can. Names, places, anything.

Everything she knows!” Darkfriends had killed Pevara’s entire

family, and Seaine was sure she would go into exile ready to

hunt down every last Black sister personally.

Still huddled on the Chair, Talene made a sound, half bitter

laugh, half weeping. “when you do that, we are all dead.

Dead! Elaida is Black Ajah!”

“That’s impossible!” Seaine burst out. “Elaida gave me the

order herself.”

“She must be,” Doesine half whispered. “Talene’s sworn the

oaths again; she just named her!” Yukiri nodded vehemently.

“Use your heads,” Pevara growled, shaking her own in

disgust. “You know as well as I do if you believe a lie, you

can say it for truth.”

“And that is truth,” Saerin said firmly. “What proof do you

have, Talene? Have you seen Elaida at your….meetings?” She

gripped her knife hilt so hard that her knuckles paled.

Saerin had had to fight harder than most for the shawl, for

the right to remain in the Tower at all. To her, the Tower

was more than home, more important than her own life. If

Talene gave the wrong answer, Elaida might not live to face

trial.

“They don’t have meetings,” Talene muttered sullenly.

“Except the Supreme Council, I suppose. But she must be.

They know every report she receives, even the secret ones,

every word spoken to her. They know every decision she makes

before it’s announced. Days before; sometimes weeks. How

else, unless she tells them?” Sitting up with an effort, she

tried to fix them each in turn with an intent stare. It only

made her eyes seem to dart anxiously. “We have to run’ we

have to find a place to hide. I’ll help you—tell you

everything I know!—but they’ll kill us unless we run.”

Strange, Seaine thought, how quickly Talene had made her

former cronies “they” and tried to identify herself with the

rest of them. No. She was avoiding the real problem, and

avoidance was witless. Had Elaida really set her to dig out

the Black Ajah? She had never once actually mentioned the

name. Could she have meant something else? Elaida had always

jumped down the throat of anyone who even mentioned the Black.

Nearly any sister would do the same yet….

“Elaida’s proven herself a fool,” Saerin said, “and more

than once I’ve regretted standing for her, but I’ll not

believe she’s Black, not without more than that.” Tight-

lipped, Pevara jerked an agreeing nod. As a Red, she would

want much more.

“That’s as may be, Saerin,” Yukiri said, “but we cannot hold

Talene long before the Greens start asking where she is. Not

to mention the …the Black. We’d better decide what to do

fast, or we’ll still be digging at the bottom of the well when

the rains hit.” Talene gave Saerin a feeble smile that was

probably meant to be ingratiating. It faded under the Brown

Sitter’s frown.

“We don’t dare tell Elaida anything until we can cripple

the Black at one blow,” Saerin said finally. “Don’t argue,

Pevara; it’s sense.” Pevara threw up her hands and put on a

stubborn expression, but she closed her mouth. “if Talene is

right,” Saerin went on, “the Black knows about Seaine or soon

will, so we must ensure her safety, as much s we can. That

won’t be easy, with only five of us. We can’t trust anyone

until we are certain of them! At least w have Talene, and who

knows what we’ll learn before she’s wrung out?” Talene

attempted to look willing to be wrung out, but no one was

paying her any mind. Seaine’s throat had gone dry.

“We might not be entirely alone,” Pevara said reluctantly.

“Seaine, tell them your little scheme with Zerah and her

friends.”

“Scheme?” Saerin said. “Who’s Zerah? Seaine? Seaine!”

Seaine gave a start. “What? Oh. Pevara and I uncovered a

small nest of rebels here in the Tower,” she began breathily.

“Then sisters sent to spread dissent.” Saerin was going to

make sure she was safe, was she? Without so much as asking.

She was a Sitter herself; she had been Aes Sedai for almost a

hundred and fifty years. What right had Saerin or anyone to

….? “Pevara and I have begun putting an end to that. We’ve

already made one of them, Zerah Dacan, take the same extra

oath Talene did, and told her to bring Bernaile Gelbarn to my

rooms this afternoon without rousing her suspicions.” Light,

any sister outside this room might be Black. Any sister.

“Then we will use those two to bring another, until they have

all been made to sear obedience. Of course, we’ll ask the

same question we put to Zerah, the same we put to Talene.”

The Black Ajah might already have her name, already know she

had been set hunting them. How could Saerin keep her safe?

“Those who give the wrong answer can be questioned, and those

who give the right can repay for a little of their treachery

by hunting the Black under our direction.” Light, how?

When she was done, the others discussed the matter at some

length, which could only mean that Saerin was unsure what

decision she would make. Yukiri insisted on giving Zerah and

her confederates over to the law immediately—if it could be

done without exposing their own situation with Talene. Pevara

argued for using the rebels, though halfheartedly; the dissent

they had been spreading centered around vile tales concerning

the Red Ajah and false Dragons. Doesine seemed to be

suggesting that they kidnap every sister in the Tower and

force them all to take the added oath, but the other three

paid little attention to her.

Seaine took no part in the discussion. Her reaction to

their predicament was the only possible one, she thought.

Tottering to the nearest corner, she vomited noisily.

Elayne tried not to grind her teeth. Outside, another

blizzard pelted Caemlyn, darkening the midday sky enough that

the lamps along the sitting room’s paneled walls were all lit.

Fierce gusts rattled the casements set into the tall arched

windows. Flashes of lightning lit the clear glass panes, and

thunder boomed hollowly overhead. Thunder snow, the worse

kind of winter storm, the most violent. The room was not

precisely cold, but….Spreading her fingers in front of the

logs crackling in the broad marble fireplace, she could still

feel a chill rising through the carpets layered over the floor

tiles, and through her thickest velvet slippers, too. The

wide black fox collar and cuffs on her red-and-white gown were

pretty, but she was not sure they added any more to its warmth

than the pearls on the sleeves. Refusing to let the cold

touch her did not mean she was unaware.

Where was Nynaeve? And Vandene? Her thoughts snarled like

the weather. They should be here already! Light! I wish I

could learn to go without sleep, and they take their sweet

time! No, that was unfair. Her formal claim for the Lion

Throne was only a few days old, and for her, everything else

had to take second place for the time being. Nynaeve and

Vandene had other priorities; other responsibilities, as they

saw them. Nynaeve was up to her neck planning with Reanne and

the rest of the Knitting Circle how to spirit Kinswomen out of

Seanchan-controlled lands before they were discovered and

collared. The Kin were very good at staying low, but the

Seanchan would not just pass them by for wilders the way Aes

Sedai always had. Supposedly, Vandene was still shaken by her

sister’s murder, barely eating and hardly able to give advice

of any sort. The barely eating part was true, but finding the

killer consumed her. Supposedly walking the halls in grief at

odd hours, she was secretly hunting the Darkfriend among them.

Three days earlier, just the thought of that could make Elayne

shiver; now, it was one danger among many. More intimate than

most, true, but only most.

They were doing important tasks, approved and encouraged by

Egwene, but she still wished they would hurry, selfish though

it might be. Vandene had a wealth of good advice, the

advantage of long experience and study, and Nynaeve’s years of

dealing with the Village Council and the Women’s Circle back

in Emond’s Field gave her a keen eye for practical politics,

however much she denied it. Burn me, I have a hundred

problems, some right here in the Palace, and I need them! If

she had her way, Nynaeve al’Meara was going to be the Aes

Sedai advisor to the next Queen of Andor. She needed all the

help she could find—help she could trust.

Smoothing her face, she turned away from the blazing hearth.

Thirteen tall armchairs, carved simply but with a fine hand,

made a horseshoe arc in front of the fireplace.

Paradoxically, the place of honor, where the Queen would sit

if receiving here, stood farthest from the fire’s heat. Such

was it was. Her back began to warm immediately, and her front

to cool. Outside, snow fell, thunder crashed and lightning

flared. Inside her head, too. Calm. A ruler had as much

need of calm as any Aes Sedai.

“It must be the mercenaries,” she said, not quite managing

to keep regret out of her voice. Armsmen from her estates

surely would begin arriving inside a month—once they learned

she was alive—but the men Birgitte was recruiting would

require half a year or more before they were fit to ride and

handle a sword at the same time. “And Hunters for the Horn,

if any will sign and swear.” There were plenty of both

trapped in Caemlyn by the weather. Too many of both, most

people said, carousing, brawling, troubling women who wanted

no part of their attentions. At least she would be putting

them to good use, to stop trouble instead of beginning it.

She wished she did not think she was still trying to convince

herself of that. “Expensive, but the coffers will cover it.”

For the time, they would. She had better start receiving

revenues from her estates soon.

Wonder of wonders, the two women standing before her reacted

in much the same fashion.

Dyelin gave an irritated grunt. A large, round silver pin

worked with Taravin’s Owl and Oak was fastened at the high

neck of her dark green dress, her only jewelry. A show of

pride in her House, perhaps too much pride; the High Seat of

House Taravin was a proud woman altogether. Gray streaked her

golden hair and fine lines webbed the corners of her eyes, yet

her face was strong, her faze level and sharp. Her mind was a

razor. Or maybe a sword. A plain spoken woman, or so it

seemed, who did not hide her opinions.

“Mercenaries know the work,” she said dismissively, “but

they are hard to control, Elayne. When you need a feather

touch, they’re liable to be a hammer, and when you need a

hammer, they’re liable to be elsewhere, and stealing to boot.

They are loyal to gold, and only as long as the gold lasts.

If they don’t betray for more gold first. I’m sure this once

Lady Birgitte will agree with me.”

Arms folded tightly beneath her breasts and heeled boots

planted wide, Birgitte grimaced, as always when anyone used

her new title. Elayne had granted her an estate as soon as

they reached Caemlyn, where it could be registered. In

private, Birgitte grumbled incessantly over that, and the

other change in her life. Her sky-blue trousers were cut the

same as those she usually wore, billowing and gathered at the

ankles, but her short red coat had a high white collar, and

wide white cuffs banded with gold. She was the Lady Birgitte

Trahelion and the Captain General of the Queen’s Guard, and

she could mutter and whine all she wanted, so long as she kept

it private.

“I do,” she growled unwillingly, and gave Dyelin a not-quite-

sidelong glare. The Warder bond carried what Elayne had been

sensing all morning. Frustration, irritation, determination.

Some of that might have been a reflection of herself, though.

They mirrored one another in surprising ways since the

bonding, emotionally and otherwise. Why, her courses had

shifted by more than a week to match the other woman’s!

Birgitte’s reluctance to take the second-best argument was

clearly almost as great as her reluctance to agree. “Hunters

aren’t much bloody better, Elayne,” she muttered. “they took

the Hunter’s Oath to find adventure, and a place in the

histories if they can. Not to settle down keeping the law.

Half are supercilious prigs, looking down their flaming noses

at everyone else; the rest don’t just take necessary chances,

they look for chances to take. And one whisper of a rumor of

the Horn of Valere, and you’ll be lucky if only two in three

vanish overnight.”

Dyelin smiled a thin smile, as though she had won a point.

Oil and water were not in it compared to those two; each

managed well enough with nearly anyone else, but for some

reason they could argue over the color of charcoal. Could and

would. “Besides, Hunters and mercenaries alike, nearly all

are foreigners. That will sit poorly with high and low alike.

Very poorly. The last thing you want is to start a

rebellion.” Lightning flared, briefly lighting the casements,

and a particularly loud peal of thunder punctuated her words.

In a thousand years, seven Queens of Andor had been toppled by

open rebellion, and the two who survived probably wished they

had not.

Elayne stifled a sigh. One of the small inlaid tables along

the walls held a heavy silver ropework try with cups and a

tall pitcher of hot spiced wine. Lukewarm spiced wine, now.

She channeled briefly, Fire, and a thin wisp of steam rose

from the pitcher. Reheating gave the spices a slight

bitterness, but the warmth of the worked silver cup in her

hands was worth it. With an effort she resisted the desire

to heat the air in the room with the Power and released the

Source; the warmth would not have lasted unless she maintained

the weaves, anyway. She had conquered her unwillingness to

let go every time she took in saidar—well, to some extent—yet

of late, the desire to draw more grew every time. Every

sister had to face that dangerous desire. A gesture brought

the others to pour their own wine.

“You know the situation,” she told them. “Only a fool could

think it anything but dire, and you’re neither of you fools.”

The Guards were a shell, a handful of acceptable men and a

double handful of strongarms and toughs better suited to

throwing drunks out of taverns, or being thrown out

themselves. And with the Saldaeans gone and the Aiel leaving,

crime was blooming like weeds in spring. She would have

thought the snow would damp it down, but every day brought

robbery, arson, and worse. Every day, the situation grew

worse. “At this rate, we’ll see riots in a few weeks. Maybe

sooner. If I can’t keep order in Caemlyn itself, the people

will turn against me.” If she could not keep order in the

capital, she might as well announce to the world she was unfit

to rule. “ I don’t like it but it has to be done, so it will

be.” Both opened their mouths, ready to argue further, but

she gave them no chance. She made her voice firm. “It will

be done.”

Birgitte’s waist-long golden braid swung as she shook her

head, yet grudging acceptance filtered through the bond. She

took a decidedly odd view of their relationship as Aes Sedai

and Warder, but she had learned to recognize when Elayne would

not be pressed. After a fashion she had learned. There was

the estate and title. And commanding the Guards. And a few

other small matters.

Dyelin bent her neck a fraction, and perhaps her knees; it

might have been a curtsy, yet her face was stone. It was well

to remember that many who did not want Elayne Trakand on the

Lion Throne wanted Dyelin Taravin instead. The woman had been

nothing but helpful, but it was early days yet, and sometimes

a niggling voice whispered in the back of Elayne’s head. Was

Dyelin simply waiting for her to bungle badly before stepping

in to “save” Andor? Someone sufficiently prudent,

sufficiently devious, might try that route, and might even

succeed.

Elayne raised a hand to rub her temple but made it into

adjusting her hair. So much suspicion, so little trust. The

Game of Houses had infected Andor since she left for Tar

Valon. She was grateful for her months among Aes Sedai for

more than learning the power. Daes Dae’mar was breath and

bread, to most sisters. Grateful for Thom’s teaching, too.

Without both, she might not have survived her return as long

Jordan, Robert - Wheel of Time 09 - Winter's Heart

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