Robert Jordan - The Wheel of Time 08 - The Path of Daggers

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THE PATH OF DAGGERS Copyright © 1998 by Robert Jordan
For Harriet
My light, my life, my heart, forever
Who would sup with the mighty must climb the path of daggers.
—Anonymous notation found inked in the margin of a manuscript history (believed to date to the time of Arthur
Hawkwing) of the last days of the Tovan Conclaves
On the heights, all paths are paved with daggers. —Old Seanchan saying
Prologue: Deceptive Appearances
Ethenielle had seen mountains lower than these misnamed Black Hills, great lopsided heaps of half-buried boulders,
webbed with steep twisting passes. A number of those passes would have given a goat pause. You could travel three
days through drought-withered forests and brown-grassed meadows without seeing a single sign of human habitation,
then suddenly find yourself within half a day of seven or eight tiny villages, all ignorant of the world. The Black Hills
were a rugged place for farmers, away from the trade routes, and harsher now than usual. A gaunt leopard that should
have vanished at the sight of men watched from a steep slope, not forty paces away, as she rode past with her armored
escort. Westward, vultures wheeled patient circles like an omen. Not a cloud marred the blood-red sun, yet there were
clouds of a sort. When the warm wind blew, it raised walls of dust.
With fifty of her best men at her heels, Ethenielle rode unconcernedly, and unhurriedly. Unlike her near-legendary
ancestor Surasa, she had no illusion that the weather would heed her wishes just because she held the Throne of the
Clouds, while as for haste. . . . Their carefully coded, closely guarded letters had agreed on the order of march, and that
had been determined by each person's need to travel without attracting notice. Not an easy task. Some had thought it
impossible.
Frowning, she considered the luck that had let her come this far without having to kill anyone, avoiding those flyspeck
villages even when it meant days added to the journey. The few Ogier stedding presented no problem— Ogier paid
little heed to what happened among humans, most times, and less than usual of late, it seemed— but the villages. . . .
They were too small to hold eyes-and-ears for the White Tower, or for this fellow who claimed to be the Dragon
Reborn— perhaps he was; she could not decide which way would be worse— too small, yet peddlers did pass through,
eventually. Peddlers carried as much gossip as trade goods, and they spoke to people who spoke to other people, rumor
flowing like an ever-branching river, through the Black-Hills and into the world outside. With a few words, a single
shepherd who had escaped notice could light a signal fire seen five hundred leagues off. The sort of signal fire that set
woods and grasslands aflame. And cities, maybe. Nations.
"Did I make the right choice, Serailla?" Vexed at herself, Ethenielle grimaced. She might not be a girl any longer, but
her few gray hairs hardly counted her old enough to let her mindless tongue flap in the breeze. The decision was made.
It had been on her mind, though. Light's truth, she was not so unconcerned as she wanted to be.
Ethenielle's First Councilor heeled her dun mare closer to the Queen's sleek black gelding. Round face placid, dark
eyes considering, Lady Serailla could have been a farmwife suddenly stuck into a noblewoman's riding dress, but the
mind behind those plain, sweaty features was as sharp as any Aes Sedai's. "The other choices only carried different
risks, not lesser," she said smoothly. Stout yet as graceful in her saddle as she was at dancing, Serailla was always
smooth. Not oily, or false; just completely unflappable. "Whatever the truth, Majesty, the White Tower appears to be
paralyzed as well as shattered. You could have sat watching the Blight while the world crumbled behind you. You
could have if you were someone else."
The simple need to act. Was that what had brought her here? Well, if the White Tower would not or could not do what
had to be done, then someone must. What good to guard the Blight if the world did crumble behind her?
Ethenielle looked to the slender man riding at her other side, white streaks at his temples giving him a supercilious air,
the ornately sheathed Sword of Kirukan resting in the crook of one arm. It was called the Sword of Kirukan, at any
rate, and the fabled warrior Queen of Aramaelle might have carried it. The blade was ancient, some said
Power-wrought. The two-handed hilt lay toward her as tradition demanded, though she herself was not about to try
using a sword like some fire-brained Saldaean. A queen was supposed to think, lead, and command, which no one
could manage while trying to do what any soldier in her army could do better. "And you, Swordbearer?" she said. "Do
you .have any qualms at this late hour?"
Lord Baldhere twisted in his gold-worked saddle to glance back at the banners carried by horsemen behind them, cased
in tooled leather and embroidered velvet. "I don't like hiding who I am, Majesty," he said fussily, straightening around.
"The world will know us soon enough, and what we've done. Or tried to do. We'll end dead or in the histories or both,
so they might as well know what names to write." Baldhere had a biting tongue, and he affected to care more for music
and his clothes than anything else—that well-cut blue coat was the third he had worn already today—but as with
Serailla, appearances deceived. The Sword-bearer to the Throne of the Clouds bore responsibilities much heavier than
that sword in its jeweled scabbard. Since the death of her husband some twenty years ago, Baldhere had commanded
the armies of Kandor for her in the field, and most of her soldiers would have followed him to Shayol Ghul itself. He
was not counted among the great captains, but he knew when to fight and when not, as well as how to win.
"The meeting place must be just ahead," Serailla said suddenly, just as Ethenielle saw the scout Baldhere had sent
forward, a sly fellow named Lomas who wore a foxhead crest on his helmet, rein in atop the peak of the pass ahead.
With his lance slanted, he made the arm gesture for "assembly point in sight."
Baldhere swung his heavy-shouldered gelding and bellowed a command for the escort to halt—he could bellow, when
he had a mind to—then spurred the bay to catch up to her and Serailla. It was to be a meeting between long-standing
allies, but as they rode past Lomas, Baldhere gave the lean-faced man a curt order to "Watch and relay"; should
anything go wrong, Lomas would signal the escort forward to bring their queen out.
Ethenielle sighed faintly when Serailla nodded approval at the command. Allies of long standing, yet the times bred
suspicion like flies on a midden. What they were about stirred the heap and set the flies swirling. Too many rulers to
the south had died or vanished in the last year for her to feel any comfort in wearing a crown. Too many lands had been
smashed as thoroughly as an army of Trollocs could have achieved. Whoever he was, this al'Thor fellow had much to
answer for. Much.
Beyond Lomas the pass opened into a shallow bowl almost too small to be named a valley, with trees too widely
spaced to be called a thicket. Leatherleaf and blue fir and three-needle pine held to some green along with a few oaks,
but the rest were sheathed in brown if not bare-branched. To the south, however, lay what had made this spot a good
choice for meeting. A slender spire like a column of gleaming golden lace lay slanting and partly buried in the bare
hillside, a good seventy paces of it showing above the treetops. Every child in the Black Hills old enough to run off
leading strings knew of it, but there was not a village inside four days' travel, nor would anyone come within ten miles
willingly. The stories of this place spoke of mad visions, of the dead walking, and death at touching the spire.
Ethenielle did not consider herself fanciful, yet she shivered slightly. Nianh said the spire was a fragment from the Age
of Legends, and harmless. With luck, the Aes Sedai had no reason to recall that conversation of years ago. A pity the
dead could not be made to walk, here. Legend said Kirukan had beheaded a false Dragon with her own hands, and
borne two sons by another man who could channel. Or maybe the same one. She might have known how to go about
their purpose and survive.
As expected, the first pair of those Ethenielle had come to meet was waiting, each with two attendants. Paitar
Nachiman had many more creases in his long face than the stunningly handsome older man she had admired as a girl,
not to mention too little hair and most of that gray. Fortunately he had relinquished the Arafellin fashion for braids and
wore his hair cut short. But he sat his saddle straight-backed, his shoulders needed no padding in that embroidered
green silk coat, and she knew he still could wield the sword at his hip with vigor and skill. Easar Togita, square-faced
and his scalp shaved except for a white topknot, his plain coat the color of old bronze, was a head shorter than the King
of Arafel, and slighter, yet he made Paitar look almost soft. Easar of Shienar did not scowl— if anything, a touch of
sadness seemed permanent in his eyes— but he might have been made from the same metal as the long sword on his
back. She trusted both men— and hoped their familial connections helped secure that trust. Alliances by marriage had
always bound the Borderlands together as much as their war against the Blight did, and she had a daughter wed to
Easar's third son and a son to Paitar's favorite granddaughter, as well as a brother and two sisters married into their
Houses.
Their companions appeared as different as their kings. As always, Ishigari Terasian looked just risen from a stupor after
a drunken feast, as fat a man as she had ever seen in a saddle; his fine red coat was rumpled, his eyes bleary, his cheeks
unshaven. By contrast, Kyril Shianri, tall and lean, and nearly as elegant as Baldhere despite the dust and sweat on his
face, with silver bells on his boot tops and gloves as well as fastened to his braids; he wore his usual expression of
dissatisfaction and had a way of always peering coolly down his prominent nose at anyone but Paitar. Shianri really
was a fool in many ways—Arafellin kings rarely made much pretense of listening to councilors, relying instead on
their queens— but he was more than he appeared at a glance. Agelmar Jagad could have been a larger version of Easar,
a simple, plainly garbed man of steel and stone with more weapons hung about him than Baldhere carried, sudden
death waiting to be unleashed, while Alesune Chulin was as slim as Serailla was stout, as pretty as Serailla was plain,
and as fiery as Serailla was calm. Alesune seemed born to her fine, blue silks. It was well to remember that judging
Serailla by her surface was a mistake, too. "Peace and the Light favor you, Ethenielle of Kandor," Easar said gruffly as
Ethenielle reined in before them, and at the same time Paitar intoned, "The Light embrace you, Ethenielle of Kandor."
Paitar still had a voice to make women's hearts beat raster. And a wife who knew he was hers to his bootsoles;
Ethenielle doubted that Menuki had ever had a jealous moment in her life, or cause for one.
She made her own greetings just as short, ending with a direct "I hope you've come this far without detection."
Easar snorted and leaned on his cantle, eyeing her grimly. A hard man, but eleven years widowed and still mourning.
He had written poetry for his wife. There was always more than the surface. "If we've been seen, Ethenielle," he
grumbled, "then we might as well turn back now."
"You speak of turning back already?" Between his tone and a flip of his tasseled reins, Shianri managed to combine
disdain with barely enough civility to forestall a challenge. Even so, Agelmar studied him coldly, shifting in his saddle
slightly, a man recalling where each of his weapons was placed. Old allies in many battles along the Blight, but those
new suspicions swirled.
Alesune made her mount dance, a gray mare as tall as a war-horse. The thin white streaks in her long black hair
suddenly seemed crests on a helmet, and her eyes made it easy to forget that Shienaran women neither trained with
weapons nor fought duels. Her title was simply shatayan of the royal household, yet whoever believed any shatayan's
influence stopped at ordering the cooks and maids and victualers made a grave error. "Foolhardiness is not courage,
Lord Shianri. We leave the Blight all but unguarded, and if we fail, maybe even if we succeed, some of us could find
our heads on spikes. Perhaps all of us will. The White Tower may well see to it if this al'Thor does not."
"The Blight seems almost asleep," Terasian muttered, whiskers rasping as he rubbed his fleshy chin. "I've never seen it
so quiet."
"The Shadow never sleeps," Jagad put in quietly, and Terasian nodded as if that, too, was something to consider.
Agelmar was the best general of them all, one of the best to be found anywhere, but Terasian's place at Paitar's right
hand had not come because he was a good drinking companion.
"What I've left behind can guard the Blight short of the Trolloc Wars coming again," Ethenielle said in a firm voice. "I
trust you've all done as well. It hardly matters, though. Does anyone believe we truly can turn back now?" She made
that last question dry, expecting no answer, but she received one.
"Turn back?" a young woman's high voice demanded behind her. Tenobia of Saldaea galloped into the gathering,
drawing her white gelding up so that he reared flamboyantly. Thick lines of pearls marched down the dark gray sleeves
of her narrow-skirted riding habit, while red-and-gold embroidery swirled thickly to emphasize the narrowness of her
waist and the roundness of her bosom. Tall for a woman, she managed to be pretty if not beautiful despite a nose that
was overbold at best. Large tilted eyes of a dark deep blue certainly helped, but so did a confidence in herself so strong
that she seemed to glow with it. As expected, the Queen of Saldaea was accompanied only by Kalyan Ramsin, one of
her numerous uncles, a scarred and grizzled man with the face of an eagle and thick mustaches that curved down
around his mouth. Tenobia Kazadi tolerated the counsel of soldiers, but no one else. "I will not turn back," she went on
fiercely, "whatever the rest of you do. I sent my dear Uncle Davram to bring me the head of the false Dragon Mazrim
Taim, and now he and Taim both follow this al'Thor, if I can believe half what I hear. I have close to fifty thousand
men behind me, and whatever you decide, I will not turn back until my uncle and al'Thor learn exactly who rules
Saldaea."
Ethenielle exchanged glances with Serailla and Baldhere while Paitar and Easar began telling Tenobia that they also
meant to keep on. Serailla gave her head the smallest shake, made the slightest shrug. Baldhere rolled his eyes openly.
Ethenielle had not exactly hoped Tenobia might decide at the last to stay away, but the girl would surely make
difficulties.
Saldaeans were a strange lot— Ethenielle had often wondered how her sister Einone managed so well married to yet
another of Tenobia's uncles— yet Tenobia carried that strangeness to extremes. You expected showiness from any
Saldaean, but Tenobia took delight in shocking Domani and making Altarans seem drab. Saldaean tempers were
legendary; hers was wildfire in a high wind, and you could never tell what would provide the spark. Ethenielle did not
even want to think of the difficulty in getting the woman to listen to reason when she did not want to; only Davram
Bashere had ever been able to do that. And then there was the question of marriage.
Tenobia was still young, though years past the age she should have wed— marriage was a duty for any member of a
ruling House, the more so for a ruler; alliances had to be made, an heir provided— yet Ethenielle had never considered
the girl for any of her own sons. Tenobia's requirements for a husband were on a level with everything else about her.
He must be able to face and slay a dozen Myrddraal at once. While playing the harp and composing poetry. He must be
able to confound scholars while riding a horse down a sheer cliff. Or perhaps up it. Of course he would have to defer to
her— she was a queen, after all— except that sometimes Tenobia would expect him to ignore whatever she said and
toss her over his shoulder. The girl wanted exactly that! And the Light help him if he chose to toss when she wanted
deference, or to defer when she wanted the other. She never said any of this right out, but any woman with wits who
had heard her talk about men could piece it together in short order. Tenobia would die a maiden. Which meant her
uncle Davram would succeed, if she left him alive after this, or else Davram's heir.
A word caught Ethenielle's ear and jerked her upright in her saddle. She should have been paying attention; too much
was at stake. "Aes Sedai?" she said sharply. "What about Aes Sedai?" Save for Paitar's, their White Tower advisors had
all left at news of the troubles in the Tower, her own Nianh and Easar's Aisling vanishing without a trace. If Aes Sedai
had gained a hint of their plans. . . . Well, Aes Sedai always had plans of their own. Always. She would dislike
discovering that she was putting her hands into two hornet nests, not just one.
Paitar shrugged, looking a trifle embarrassed. That was no small trick for him; he, like Serailla, let nothing upset him.
"You hardly expected me to leave Coladara behind, Ethenielle," he said in soothing tones, "even if I could have kept
the preparations from her." She had not; his favorite sister was Aes Sedai, and Kiruna had given him a deep fondness
for the Tower. Ethenielle had not expected it, but she had hoped. "Coladara had visitors," he continued. "Seven of
them. Bringing them along seemed prudent, under the circumstances. Fortunately, they require little convincing. None,
in truth."
"The Light illumine and preserve our souls," Ethenielle breathed, and heard near echos from Serailla and Baldhere.
"Eight sisters, Paitar? Eight?" The White Tower surely knew every move they intended, now.
"And I have five more," Tenobia put in as if announcing she had a new pair of slippers. "They found me just before I
left Saldaea. By chance, I'm sure; they appeared as surprised as I was. Once they learned what I was doing—I still don't
know how they did, but they did— once they learned, I was sure they'd go scurrying to find Memara." Her brows
furrowed in a momentary glare. Elaida had miscalculated badly in sending a sister to try bullying Tenobia. "Instead,"
she finished, "Illeisien and the rest were more intent on secrecy than I."
"Even so," Ethenielle insisted. "Thirteen sisters. All that is needed is for one of them to find some way to send a
message. A few lines. A soldier or a maid intimidated. Does any of you think you can stop them?"
"The dice are out of the cup," Paitar said simply. What was done, was done. Arafellin were almost as odd as Saldaeans,
in Ethenielle's book.
"Further south," Easar added, "it may be well to have thirteen Aes Sedai with us." That brought a silence while the
implications hung in the air. No one wanted to voice them. This was far different from facing the Blight.
Tenobia gave a sudden, shocking laugh. Her gelding tried to dance, but she settled him. "I mean to press south as fast
as I can, but I invite you all to dine with me in my camp tonight. You can speak with Illeisien and her friends, and see
whether your judgment matches mine. Perhaps tomorrow night we can all gather in Paitar's camp and question his
Coladara's friends." The suggestion was so sensible, so obviously necessary, that it brought instant agreement. And
then Tenobia added, as if an afterthought, "My uncle Kalyan would be honored if you allowed him to sit beside you
tonight, Ethenielle. He admires you greatly."
Ethenielle glanced toward Kalyan Ramsin— the fellow had sat his horse silently behind Tenobia, never speaking,
hardly seeming to breathe— she merely glanced at him, and for an instant that grizzled eagle unhooded his eyes. For an
instant, she saw something she had not seen since her Brys died, a man looking not at a queen, but at a woman. The
shock of it was a blow taking her breath. Tenobia's eyes darted from her uncle to Ethenielle, her tiny smile quite
satisfied.
Outrage flared in Ethenielle. That smile made it all clear as spring water, if Kalyan's eyes had not. This chit of a girl
thought to marry off this fellow to her? This child presumed to . . . ? Suddenly, ruefulness replaced fury. She herself
had been younger when she arranged her widowed sister Nazelle's wedding. A matter of state, yet Nazelle had come to
love Lord Ismic despite all her protests in the beginning. Ethenielle had been arranging others' marriages for so long
that she had never considered that her own would make a very strong tie. She looked at Kalyan again, a longer look.
His leathery face was all proper respect once more, yet she saw his eyes as they had been. Any consort she chose would
have to be a hard man, but she had always demanded a chance of love for her children's marriages, if not her siblings,
and she would do no less for herself.
"Instead of wasting daylight on chatter," she said, more breathless than she could have wished, "let us do what we came
for." The Light sear her soul, she was a woman grown, not a girl meeting a prospective suitor for the first time. "Well?"
she demanded. This time, her tone was suitably firm.
All of their agreements had been made in those careful letters, and all of their plans would have to be modified as they
moved south and circumstances changed. This meeting had only one real purpose, a simple and ancient ceremony of
the Borderlands that had been recorded only seven times in all the years since the Breaking. A simple ceremony that
would commit them beyond anything words could do, however strong. The rulers moved their horses closer while the
others drew back.
Ethenielle hissed as her belt knife slashed across her left palm. Tenobia laughed at cutting hers. Paitar and Easar might
as well have been plucking splinters. Four hands reached out and met, gripped, heart's blood mingling, dripping to the
ground, soaking into the stony dirt. "We are one, to the death," Easar said, and they all spoke with him. "We are one, to
the death." By blood and soil, they were committed. Now they had to find Rand al'Thor. And do what needed to be
done. Whatever the price.
***
Once she was sure that Turanna could sit up on the cushion unaided, Verin rose and left the slumped White sister
sipping water. Trying to sip, anyway. Turanna's teeth chattered on the silver cup, which was no surprise. The tent's
entryway stood low enough that Verin had to duck in order to put her head out. Weariness augered into her back when
she bent. She had no fear of the woman shivering behind her in a coarse black woolen robe. Verin held the shield on
her tight, and she doubted Turanna possessed enough strength in her legs at the moment to contemplate leaping on her
from behind, even if such an incredible thought occurred to her. Whites just did not think that way. For that matter, in
Turanna's condition, it was doubtful she would be able to channel a hair for several hours yet, even if she were not
shielded.
The Aiel camp covered the hills that hid Cairhien, low earth-colored tents filling the space between the few trees left
standing this close to the city. Faint clouds of dust hung in the air, but neither dust nor heat nor the glare of an angry
sun bothered the Aiel at all. Bustle and purpose filled the camp to equal any city. Within her sight were men butchering
game and patching tents, sharpening knives and making the soft boots they all wore, women cooking over open fires,
baking, working small looms, looking after some of the few children in the camp. Everywhere white-robed gai'shain
darted about carrying burdens, or stood beating rugs, or tended packhorses and mules. No hawkers or shopkeepers. Or
carts and carriages, of course. A city? It was more like a thousand villages gathered in one spot, though men greatly
outnumbered women and, except for the blacksmiths making their anvils ring, nearly every man not in white carried
weapons. Most of the women did, as well.
The numbers certainly equaled one of the great cities', more than enough to envelope a few Aes Sedai prisoners
completely, yet Verin saw a black-robed woman plodding away not fifty paces off, struggling to pull a waist-high pile
of rocks behind her on a cowhide. The deep cowl hid her face, but no one in the camp except the captive sisters wore
those black robes. A Wise One strolled along close to the hide, glowing with the Power as she shielded the prisoner,
while a pair of Maidens flanked the sister, using switches to urge her on whenever she faltered. Verin wondered
whether she had been meant to see. That very morning she had passed a wild-eyed Coiren Saeldain, sweat streaming
down her face, with a Wise One and two tall Aielmen for escort and a large basket heaped with sand bending her back
as she staggered up a slope. Yesterday it had been Sarene Nemdahl. They had set her moving handfuls of water from
one hide bucket to another beside it, switched her to move faster, then switched her for every drop spilled when the
water spilled because they were switching her to move faster. Sarene had stolen a moment to ask Verin why, though
not as if she expected any answer. Verin certainly had not been able to supply one before the Maidens drove Sarene
back to her useless labor.
She suppressed a sigh. For one thing, she could not truly like seeing sisters treated so, whatever the reasons or need,
and for another, it was obvious that a fair number of the Wise Ones wanted. . . . What? For her to know that being Aes
Sedai counted for nothing here? Ridiculous. That had been made abundantly clear days ago. Perhaps that she could be
put into a black robe, too? For the time she thought she was safe from that, at least, but the Wise Ones hid a number of
secrets she had yet to puzzle out, the smallest of them how their hierarchy worked. Very much the smallest, yet life and
a whole skin lay wrapped inside that one. Women who gave commands sometimes took them from the very women
they had been commanding earlier, and then later it was turned about again, all without rhyme or reason that she could
see. No one ever ordered Sorilea, though, and in that might lie safety. Of a sort.
She could not help a surge of satisfaction. Early this morning in the Sun Palace, Sorilea had demanded to know what
shamed wetlanders most. Kiruna and the other sisters did not understand; they made no real efforts to see what was
happening out here, perhaps fearing what they might learn, fearing the strains knowledge might put on their oaths.
They still struggled to justify taking the path fate had pushed them down, but Verin already had reasons for the path she
followed, and purpose. She also had a list in her pouch, ready to hand to Sorilea when they were alone. No need to let
the others know. Some of the captives she had never met, but she thought that for most women, that list summed up the
weaknesses Sorilea was seeking. Life was going to grow much more difficult for the women in black. And her own
efforts would be aided no end, with luck.
Two great hulking Aielmen, each an axe handle wide across the shoulders, sat right outside the tent, seemingly
absorbed in a game of cat's cradle, but they had looked around immediately when her head appeared through the
tentflaps. Coram had risen like a serpent uncoiling for all of his size, and Mendan waited only to tuck the string away.
Had she been standing straight, her head barely would have reached the chest of either. She could have turned them
both upside down and paddled them, of course. Had she dared. She had been tempted from time to time. They were her
assigned guides, her protection against misunderstandings in the camp. And doubtless they reported everything she said
or did. In some ways she would have preferred to have Tomas with her, but only some. Keeping secrets from your
Warder was far more difficult than keeping them from strangers.
"Please tell Colinda that I'm done with Turanna Norill," she told Coram, "and ask her to send Katerine Alruddin to me."
She wanted to deal first with the sisters who had no Warders. He nodded once before trotting off without speaking.
These Aielmen were not much for civility.
Mendan settled into a crouch, watching her with startlingly blue eyes. One of them stayed with her no matter what she
said. A strip of red cloth was tied around Mendan's temples and marked with the ancient symbol of Aes Sedai. Like the
other men who wore that, like the Maidens, he seemed to be waiting for her to make a mistake. Well, they were not the
first, and a great way from the most dangerous. Seventy-one years had passed since she had last made a serious
mistake.
She gave Mendan a deliberately vague smile and started to pull back into the tent, when suddenly something caught her
eye and held her like a vise. If the Aielman had tried to cut her throat right then, she might not have noticed.
Not far from where she stood stooped over in the mouth of the tent, nine or ten women knelt in a row, rolling the
grindstones on flat stone handmills much like those on any isolated farms. Other women brought grain in baskets and
took away the coarse flour. The nine or ten women knelt in dark skirts and pale blouses, folded scarves holding their
hair back. One, noticeably shorter than the rest, the only one with hair that did not hang to her waist or below, wore not
even a single necklace or bracelet. She glanced up, the resentment on her sun-pinkened face sharpening as she met
Verin's gaze. Only for an instant, though, before she cringed hurriedly to her task.
Verin jerked back into the tent, her stomach roiling queasily. Irgain was Green Ajah. Or rather, had been Green, before
Rand al'Thor stilled her. Being shielded dulled and fuzzed the bond to your Warder, but being stilled snapped it as
surely as death. One of Irgain's two apparently had fallen over dead from the shock, and the other had died trying to kill
thousands of Aiel without making any effort to escape. Very likely Irgain wished she also were dead. Stilled. Verin
pressed both hands to her middle. She would not sick up. She had seen worse than a stilled woman. Much worse.
"There's no hope, is there?" Turanna muttered in a thick voice. She wept silently, staring into the silver cup in her
trembling hands at something distant and horrifying. "No hope." "There is always a way if you only look for it," Verin
said, absently patting the woman's shoulder. "You must always look." Her thoughts raced, and none touched Turanna.
Irgain's stilling made her belly feel full of rancid grease, the Light knew. But what was the woman doing grinding
grain? And dressed like the Aiel women! Had she been put to work just there so Verin could see? Foolish question;
even with a ta'veren as strong as Rand al'Thor only a few miles away, there was some limit to the number of
coincidences she would accept. Had she miscalculated? At worst, it could not be a large error. Only, small mistakes
sometimes proved as fatal as large. How long could she hold out if Sorilea decided to break her? A distressingly short
time, she suspected. In some ways, Sorilea was as hard as anyone she had ever met. And not a thing she could say that
would stop it. A worry for another day. There was no point getting ahead of herself.
Kneeling, she put a little effort into comforting Turanna, but not too much. Soothing words that sounded as hollow to
her as they did to Turanna, judging by the bleakness in her eyes. Nothing could change Turanna's circumstances except
Turanna, and that had to come from within herself. The White sister just wept harder, making no sound as her
shoulders shook, tears streaming down her face. The entry of two Wise Ones and a pair of young Aielmen who could
not straighten up inside the tent was something of a relief. For Verin, anyway. She rose and curtsied smoothly, but none
of them had any interest in her.
Daviena was a green-eyed woman with yellow-red hair, Losaine gray-eyed with dark hair that only showed glints of
red in the sun, both head-and-shoulders taller than she, both wearing the expressions of women given a grimy task they
wished on someone else. Neither could channel strongly enough to have any certainty of holding Turanna by herself,
but they linked as though they had been forming circles all their lives, the light of saidar around one seeming to blend
with that around the other despite the fact that they stood apart. Verin forced her face into a smile to keep from
frowning. Where bad they learned that? She would have wagered all she possessed that they had not known how only a
few days ago.
Everything went quickly then, and smoothly. As the crouching men lifted Turanna to her feet by the arms, she let the
silver cup fall. Empty, luckily for her. She did not struggle, which was just as well, considering that either could have
carried her off under one arm like a sack of grain, but her mouth hung open, emitting a wordless keening. The Aiel paid
no heed. Daviena, focusing the circle, assumed the shield, and Verin let go of the Source completely. None of them
trusted her enough to let her hold saidar without a known reason, no matter what oaths she had sworn. Neither appeared
to notice, but they surely would have had she held on. The men hauled Turanna away, her bare feet dragging across the
layered carpets that floored the tent, and the Wise Ones followed them out. And that was that. What could be done with
Turanna had been done.
Letting out a long breath, Verin sagged onto one of the bright, tasseled cushions. A fine golden ropework tray sat on
the carpets next to her. Filling one of the mismatched silver cups from a pewter pitcher, she drank deeply. This was
thirsty work, and tiring. Hours of daylight remained, yet she felt as if she had carried a heavy chest twenty miles. Over
hills. The cup went back onto the tray, and she pulled the small, leather-bound notebook from behind her belt. It always
took a little time for them to fetch those she asked for. A few moments to peruse her notes— and make some— would
not be amiss.
There was no need for notes about the captives, but the sudden appearance of Cadsuane Melaidhrin, three days ago
now, gave cause for concern. What was Cadsuane after? The woman's companions could be dismissed, but Cadsuane
herself was a legend, and even the believable parts of the legend made her very dangerous indeed. Dangerous and
unpredictable. She took a pen from the small wooden writing case she always carried, reached toward the stoppered ink
bottle in its scabbard. And another Wise One entered the tent.
Verin scrambled to her feet so quickly that she dropped her notebook. Aeron could not channel at all, yet Verin made a
much deeper curtsy for the graying woman than she had for Daviena and Losaine. At the bottom of her dip, she let go
of her skirts to reach for her book, but Aeron's fingers reached it first. Verin straightened, calmly watching the taller
woman thumb through the pages.
Sky blue eyes met hers. A winter sky. "Some pretty drawings and a great deal about plants and flowers," Aeron said
coldly. "I see nothing concerning the questions you were sent to ask." She thrust the book at Verin more than handed it
to her.
"Thank you, Wise One," Verin said meekly, tucking the book back safely behind her belt. She even added another
curtsy for good measure, just as deep as the first. "I have the habit of noting down what I see." One day she would have
to write out the cipher she used in her notebooks— a lifetime's worth of them filled cupboards and chests in her rooms
above the White Tower library— one day, but she hoped not soon. "As for the . . . um . . . prisoners, so far they all say
variations of the same thing. The Car'a'carn was to be housed in the Tower until the Last Battle. His . . . um . . .
mistreatment . . . began because of an escape attempt. But you know that already, of course. Never fear, though; I'm
sure I will learn more." All true, if not all of the truth; she had seen too many sisters die to risk sending others to the
grave without a very good reason. The trouble was deciding what might cause that risk. The manner of young al'Thor's
kidnapping, by an embassy supposedly treating with him, enraged the Aiel to the point of murder, yet what she called
his "mistreatment" barely angered them at all as far as she could tell.
Gold and ivory bracelets clattered softly as Aeron adjusted her dark shawl. She peered down as though trying to read
Verin's thoughts. Aeron seemed to stand high among the Wise Ones, and while Verin occasionally had seen a smile
crease those dark-tanned cheeks, a warm and easy smile, it was never directed at an Aes Sedai. We never suspected
that you would be the ones to fail, she had told Verin somewhat murkily. There had been nothing unclear in the rest of
it, however. Aes Sedai have no honor. Give me one hair of suspicion, and I will strap you till you cannot stand, with
my own hands. Give me two hairs, and I will stake you out for the vultures and the ants. Verin blinked up at her, trying
to appear open. And meek; she must not forget meek. Docile, and compliant. She did not feel fear. In her time she had
faced harder stares, from women— and men— without so much as Aeron's slim compunction about ending her life.
But a good deal of effort had gone into being sent to ask those questions. She could not afford to waste it now. If only
these Aiel let more show on their faces.
Abruptly she became aware that they were no longer alone in the tent. Two flaxen-haired Maidens had entered with a
black-robed woman a hand shorter than either. They were half-holding her upright. At one side stood Tialin, a lanky
redhead wearing a grim expression behind the light of saidar, shielding the black-robed prisoner. The sister's hair hung
in sweat-soaked ringlets to her shoulders and strands that clung to her face, which bore so much dirt that Verin did not
recognize her at first. High cheekbones, but not very high, a nose with just the hint of a hook to it, and the slightest tilt
to the brown eyes. . . . Beldeine. Beldeine Nyram. She had instructed the girl in a few novice classes.
"If I may ask," she said carefully, "why was she brought? I asked for another." Beldeine had no Warder despite being
Green— she had been raised to the shawl barely three years ago, and Greens were often especially choosy about their
first— but if they started bringing whoever they selected, the next might have two or three Warders. She thought she
could deal with two more today, but not if either had even one Warder. And she doubted they would give her a second
chance at any of them.
"Katerine Alruddin escaped last night," Tialin nearly spat, and Verin gasped.
"You let her escape?' she burst out without thinking. Tiredness gave no excuse, but the words spilled from her tongue
before she could stop them. "How could you be so foolish? She's Red! And neither a coward nor weak in the Power!
The Car'a'carn could be in danger! Why were we not told of this when it happened?"
"It was not discovered until this morning," one of the Maidens growled. Her eyes could have been polished sapphires.
"A Wise One and two Cor Darei were poisoned, and the gai’shain who brought them drink was found with his throat
cut."
Aeron arched an eyebrow at the Maiden coldly. "Did she speak to you, Carahuin?" Both Maidens suddenly became
engrossed in the task of keeping Beldeine on her feet. Aeron merely glanced at Tialin, but the red-haired Wise One
lowered her gaze. Verin was the next recipient of those attentions. "Your concern for Rand al'Thor does you . . .
honor," Aeron said grudgingly. "He will be guarded. You have no need to know more. Or so much." Abruptly her tone
hardened. "But apprentices do not use that tone with Wise Ones, Verin Mathwin Aes Sedai" The last words were a
sneer.
Smothering a sigh, Verin all but fell into another deep curtsy, a part of her wishing she were even as slim as she had
been on arriving in the White Tower. She was not really constructed for all this bending and bobbing. "Forgive me,
Wise One," she said humbly. Escaped! The circumstances made everything plain, to her if not to the Aiel.
"Apprehension must have loosened my wits." A pity she had no way to make sure Katerine met with a fatal accident. "I
will do my best to remember in the future." Not so much as the flicker of an eyelash told whether Aeron accepted that.
"May I assume her shield, Wise One?"
Aeron nodded without looking at Tialin, and Verin quickly embraced the Source, taking up the shield Tialin released. It
never ceased to amaze her that women who could not channel gave orders so freely to women who could. Tialin was
not much weaker in the Power than Verin, yet she watched Aeron nearly as warily as the Maidens did, and when the
Maidens hurried out of the tent at a gesture of Aeron's hand, leaving Beldeine wavering where she stood, Tialin was
only a step behind. Aeron did not go, however, not immediately. "You will not speak of Katerine Alruddin to the
Car'a'carn," she said. "He has enough to occupy his thoughts without giving him trifles to worry over."
"I will say nothing to him about her," Verin agreed quickly. Trifles? A Red with Katerine's strength was no trifle.
Perhaps a note. It needed thought.
"Be certain to hold your tongue, Verin Mathwin, or you will use it to howl."
There seemed nothing to say to that, so Verin concentrated on meekness and docility, making yet another curtsy. Her
knees wanted to groan.
Once Aeron departed, Verin allowed herself a sigh of relief. She had been afraid Aeron intended to remain. Gaining
permission to be alone with the prisoners had required nearly as much effort as getting Sorilea and Amys to decide they
needed to be questioned, and by someone intimate with the White Tower. If they ever learned they had been guided to
that decision. ... It was a worry for another day. She seemed to be piling up a great many of those.
"There's enough water to wash your face and hands, at least," she told Beldeine mildly. "And if you wish, I will Heal
you." Every sister she had interviewed had carried at least a few welts. The Aiel did not beat the prisoners except for
spilling water or balking at a task— the haughtiest words of defiance earned only scornful laughter, if that— but the
black-robed women were herded like animals, a tap of the switch for go or turn or stop, and a harder tap if they did not
obey quickly enough. Healing made other things easier, too.
Filthy, sweaty, wavering like a reed in the wind, Beldeine curled her lip. "I would rather bleed to death than be Healed
by you!" she spat. "Maybe I should have expected to see you groveling to these wilders, these savages, but I never
thought you would stoop to revealing Tower secrets! That ranks with treason, Verin! With rebellion!" She grunted
contemptuously. "I suppose if you didn't shy at that, you'll stop at nothing! What else have you and the others taught
them besides linking?"
Verin clicked her tongue irritably, not bothering to set the young woman straight. Her neck ached from looking up at
Aiel— for that matter, even Beldeine stood a hand or more taller than she— her knees ached from curtsying, and
entirely too many women who should know better had flung blind contempt and foolish pride at her today. Who should
know better than an Aes Sedai that a sister had to wear many faces in the world? You could not always overawe
people, or bludgeon them, either. Besides, far better to behave as a novice than be punished like one, especially when it
earned you only pain and humiliation. Even Kiruna had to see the sense of that eventually.
"Sit down before you fall down," she said, suiting her own words. "Let me guess what you've been doing today. By all
that dirt, I'd say digging a hole. With your bare hands, or did they let you use a spoon? When they decide it's finished,
they will just make you fill it again, you know. Now, let me see. Every part I can see of you is grubby, but that robe is
clean, so I expect they had you digging in your skin. Are you sure you don't want Healing? Sunburn can be painful."
She filled another cup with water and wafted it across the tent on a flow of Air to hover in front of Beldeine. "Your
throat must be parched."
The young Green stared unsteadily at the cup for a moment; then suddenly her legs gave way and she collapsed onto a
cushion with a bitter laugh. "They . . . water me frequently." She laughed again, though Verin could not see the joke.
"As much as I want, so long as I swallow it all." Studying Verin angrily, she paused, then went on in a tight voice.
"That dress looks very nice on you. They burned mine; I saw them. They stole everything except this." She touched the
golden Great Serpent around her left forefinger, a bright golden gleam among the dirt. "I suppose they couldn't find
quite enough nerve for that. I know what they're trying to do, Verin, and it won't work. Not with me, not with any of
us!"
She was still on her guard. Verin set the cup down on the flowered carpet beside Beldeine, then took up her own and
sipped before speaking. "Oh? What are they trying to do?"
This time, the other woman's laugh was brittle as well as harsh. "Break us, and you know it! Make us swear oaths to
al'Thor, the way you did. Oh, Verin, how could you? Swearing fealty! And worse, to a man, to him! Even if you could
bring yourself to rebel against the Amyrlin Seat, against the White Tower . . ." She made the two sound much the same.
". . . how could you do that!"
For a moment Verin wondered whether things would be better if the women now held in the Aiel camp had been
caught up as she had been, a woodchip in the millrace of Rand al'Thor's ta'veren swirl, words pouring from her mouth
before they had time to form in her brain. Not words she could never have said on her own— that was not how ta'veren
affected you— but words she might possibly have said one time in a thousand under those circumstances, one time in
ten thousand. No, the arguments had been long and hot over whether oaths given in that way had to be kept; and the
arguments over how to keep them still continued. Much better as it was. Absently she fingered a hard shape inside her
belt pouch, a small brooch, a translucent stone carved into what appeared to be a lily with too many petals. She never
wore it, but it had not been out of her reach in nearly fifty years.
"You are da'tsang, Beldeine. You must have heard that." She did not need Beldeine's curt nod; telling the despised one
was part of Aiel law, like pronouncing sentence. That much she knew, if very little more. "Your clothes, and anything
else that would burn, were put to the fire because no Aiel would own anything that once belonged to a da'tsang. The
rest was hacked to pieces or hammered into scrap, even the jewelry you had with you, and buried under a pit dug for a
jakes."
"My. . . ? My horse?" Beldeine asked anxiously.
"They didn't kill the horses, but I don't know where yours is." Being ridden by someone in the city, probably, or
perhaps given to an Asha'man. Telling her that might do more harm than good. Verin seemed to recall that Beldeine
was one of those young women who had very deep feelings for horses. "They let you keep the ring to remind you of
who you were, and increase your shame. I don't know whether they would let you swear to Master al'Thor if you
begged. It would take something incredible on your part, I think."
"I won't! Never!" The words rang hollow, though, and Beldeine's shoulders slumped. She was shaken, but not
sufficiently.
Verin put on a warm smile. A fellow had once told her that her smile made him think of his dear mother. She hoped he
had not been lying about that, at least. He had tried to slide a dagger between her ribs a little later, and her smile had
been the last thing he ever saw. "I can't think of the reason you would. No, I fear what you have to look forward to is
useless labor. That's shaming, to them. Bone shaming. Of course, if they realize you don't see it that way. . . . Oh, my.
I'll wager you didn't like digging without any clothes on, even with Maidens for guards, but think of, say, standing in a
tent full of men that way?" Beldeine flinched. Verin prattled on; she had developed prattling to something of a Talent.
"They'd only make you stand there, of course. Da'tsang aren't allowed to do anything useful unless there's great need,
and an Aielman would as soon put his arm around a rotting carcass as. ... Well, that's not a pleasant thought, is it? In
any case, that's what you have to look forward to. I know you'll resist as long as you can, though I'm not sure what
there is to resist. They won't try to get information out of you, or anything that people usually do with prisoners. But
they won't let you go, not ever, until they're sure the shame is so deep in you there's nothing else left. Not if it takes the
rest of your life."
Beldeine's lips moved soundlessly, but she might as well have spoken the words. The rest of my life. Shifting
uncomfortably on her cushion, she grimaced. Sunburn or welts or simply the ache of unaccustomed work. "We will be
rescued," she said finally. "The Amyrlin won't leave us. ... We'll be rescued, or we'll— We will be rescued!" Snatching
up the silver cup from beside her, she tilted her head back to gulp until it was empty, then thrust it out for more. Verin
floated the pewter pitcher over and set it down so the young woman could pour for herself.
"Or you'll escape?" Verin said, and Beldeine's dirty hands jerked, splashing water down the sides of the cup. "Really,
now. You have as much chance of that as you do of rescue. You're surrounded by an army of Aiel. And apparently
al'Thor can call up a few hundred of those Asha'man whenever he wants, to hunt you down." The other woman
shivered at that, and Verin nearly did. That little mess should have been stopped as soon as it started. "No, I fear you
must make your own way, somehow. Deal with things as they are. You are quite alone in this. I know they don't let you
speak to the others. Quite alone," she sighed. Wide eyes stared at her as they might have at a red adder.
"There's no need to make it worse than it must be. Let me Heal you."
She barely waited for the other woman's pitiful nod before moving to kneel beside her and place hands on Beldeine's
head. The young woman was almost as ready as she could be. Opening herself to more of saidar, Verin wove the flows
of Healing, and the Green gasped and quivered. The half- filled cup dropped from her hands, and a flailing arm
knocked the pitcher onto its side. Now she was as ready as she could be.
In the moments of confusion that gripped anyone after being Healed, while Beldeine still blinked and tried to come
back to herself, Verin opened herself further, opened herself through the carved-flower angreal in her pouch. Not a
very powerful angreal, but enough, and she needed every bit of the extra Power it gave her for this. The flows she
began weaving bore no resemblance to Healing. Spirit predominated by far, but there was Wind and Water, Fire and
Earth, the last of some difficulty for her, and even the skeins of Spirit had to be divided again and again, placed with an
intricacy to boggle a weaver of fine carpets. Even if a Wise One poked her head into the tent, with the smallest of luck
she would not possess the rare Talent needed to realize what Verin was doing. There would still be difficulties, perhaps
painful difficulties one way and another, but she could live with anything short of true discovery.
"What . . . ?" Beldeine said drowsily. Her head would have lolled except for Verin's grip, and her eyelids were
half-closed. "What are you . . . ? What is happening?"
"Nothing that will harm you," Verin told her reassuringly. The woman might die inside the year, or in ten, as a result of
this, but the weave itself would not harm her. "I promise you, this is safe enough to use on an infant." Of course, that
depended on what you did with it.
She needed to lay the flows in place thread by thread, but talking seemed to help rather than hinder. And too long a
silence might rouse suspicion, if her twin guardians were listening. Her eyes darted frequently to the dangling
doorflaps. She wanted some answers she had no intention of sharing, answers none of the women she questioned were
likely to give freely even if they knew them. One of the smaller effects of this weave was to loosen the tongue and open
the mind as well as any herb ever could, an effect that came on quickly.
Dropping her voice almost to a whisper, she continued. "The al'Thor boy seems to think he has supporters of some kind
inside the White Tower, Beldeine. In secret, of course; they must be." Even a man with his ear pressed to the fabric of
the tent should be able to hear only that they were talking. "Tell me anything you know about them."
"Supporters?" Beldeine murmured, attempting a frown that seemed beyond her ability. She stirred, though it hardly
deserved the word agitation, feeble and uncoordinated. "For him? Among the sisters? It can't be. Except for those of
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THEPATHOFDAGGERSCopyright©1998byRobertJordanForHarrietMylight,mylife,myheart,foreverWhowouldsupwiththemightymustclimbthepathofdaggers.—Anonymousnotationfoundinkedinthemarginofamanuscripthistory(believedtodatetothetimeofArthurHawkwing)ofthelastdaysoftheTovanConclavesOntheheights,allpathsarepavedwithd...

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