“But why?” Nynaeve demanded. “You may have been upset because she sneaked off on her own, but this? How did she manage that anyway, with two of you watching her?” Egeanin's eyes flickered toward Elayne, so quickly Nynaeve was not sure she had really seen it.
Elayne bent to rub the sole of one foot. It must have hurt; there was red in her cheeks. “Nynaeve, the woman has no idea what the lives of the common people are like.” As if she did! “She does seem to have a true concern for justice — I think she does — yet it did not bother her at all that there was enough food in the palace for a year. I mentioned the soup kitchens, and she did not know what I was talking about! A few days working for her supper will do her good.” Stretching her legs under the table, she worked her bare toes. “Oh, that does feel good. Not that she'll have many, I suppose. Not if she is to rally the Panarch's Legion to pry Liandrin and the others out of the palace. A pity, but there it is.”
“Well, she has to,” Nynaeve told her firmly. It was good to sit down, though she could not understand the girl's concern with her feet. They had hardly walked at all today. “And the sooner the better. We need the Panarch, and not in Rendra's kitchen.” She did not think there was any need to worry about Moghedien. That woman had had every opportunity to come into the open, after she had freed herself. That still puzzled her; she must have been careless in tying off the shield. But if Moghedien had been unwilling to face her then, when she must have known Nynaeve was nearly exhausted, she could not think the woman would come after them. Not for something she seemed to think was not worth very much. The same did not apply to Liandrin, however. If Liandrin figured out half of what had happened, she would be hunting them.
“The justice of the DaughterHeir,” Thom murmured, “may yet supersede the justice of the Panarch. There were men streaming in through that door as we left, and I think some had already got in the front. I saw smoke coming out of several windows. By tonight, little more than a firegutted ruin will remain. No need for soldiers to chase the Black Ajah, and thus 'Thera' can have her few days to learn the lesson you want to teach. You will make a fine queen one day, Elayne of Andor.”
Elayne's pleased smile faded as she looked at him. Rising to pad around the table, she rummaged in his coat pockets for a kerchief and began dabbing blood from his forehead despite his protests. “Hold still,” she told him, sounding for all the world like a mother tending an unruly child.
“Could we at least see what we risked our necks for?” he said when it became clear Elayne was going to do exactly as she wished.
Opening her belt pouch, Nynaeve laid the contents out on the table, the blackandwhite disc that helped hold the Dark One's prison shut, the collar and bracelets that sent ripples of sorrow through her before she could lay them down. Everyone gathered close to stare.
Domon fingered the seal. “I did own a thing like this once.”
Nynaeve doubted it. Only seven had been made. Three were broken now, cuendillar or no. Another was in Moiraine's hands. Four surviving. How well could four keep that prison at Shayol Ghul locked? A shivery thought.
Egeanin touched the collar, pushed the bracelets away from the collar. If she felt the emotions trapped in them, she did not show it. Perhaps that sensitivity came only with the ability to channel. “It is not an a'dam,” the Seanchan woman said. “That is made of a silvery metal, and all of one piece.”
Nynaeve wished she had not mentioned a'dam.But she never wore the bracelet of one. And she did let that poor woman she told us about go. Poor woman. She — this Bethamin — was the one who controlled women with an a'dam. Egeanin had showed more mercy than Nynaeve would have. “It is as least as much like an a'dam as you and I are alike, Egeanin.” The woman looked startled, but after a moment she nodded. Not so different. Two women, each doing the best she could.
“Do you mean to keep on pursuing Liandrin?” Juilin seated himself, arms folded on the table, studying the things there. “Whether or not she is chased out of Tanchico, she is still out there. And the others. But these seem too important to leave lying about. I am only a thiefcatcher, but I would say these must be taken to the White Tower for safekeeping.”
“No!” Nynaeve was startled at her own vehemence. So were the others, by the way they stared at her. Slowly she picked up the seal and replaced it in her pouch. “This goes to the Tower. But that...” She did not want to touch the black things again. If those were in the Tower, Aes Sedai might decide to use them just as the Black Ajah had intended to. To control Rand. Would Moiraine? Siuan Sanche? She would not take the chance. “That is too dangerous to risk it ever falling back into the hands of Darkfriends. Elayne, can you destroy them? Melt them. I don't care if they burn through the table. Just destroy them!”
“I see what you mean,” Elayne said with a grimace. Nynaeve doubted she did — Elayne believed in the Tower wholeheartedly — but she believed in Rand, too.
Nynaeve could not see the glow of saidar, of course, but the intent way the girl stared at the vile objects told her she was channeling. The bracelets and necklace lay there. Elayne frowned; her stare became more intent. Abruptly she shook her head. Her hand poised hesitantly for a moment, close to one of the bracelets, before picking it up. And dropped it again, with a gasp. “It feels... It's full of...” Drawing a deep breath, she said, “I did what you asked, Nynaeve. A hammer would be burning a puddle for the Fire I wove into it, but it isn't even warm.”
So Moghedien had not lied. Doubtless she had thought there was no need, that she would surely win. How did the woman get loose? But what to do with the things? She was not going to let them fall into anyone's hands.
“Master Domon, do you know a very deep part of the sea?”
“I do, Mistress al'Meara,” he said slowly.
Gingerly, trying not to feel the emotions, Nynaeve shoved the collar and bracelets across the table to him. “Then drop these into it, where no one can ever fish them out again.”
After a moment, he nodded. “I will.” He stuffed them into his coat pocket hurriedly, clearly disliking to touch something that must have to do with the Power. “In the deepest part of the sea I do know, near the Aile Somera.”
Egeanin was frowning at the floor, no doubt thinking about the Illianer leaving. Nynaeve had not forgotten the woman calling him “a properly setup man.” She herself felt like laughing. It was all but done. As soon as Domon could sail, the hateful collar and bracelets would be gone forever. They could leave for Tar Valon. And then... Then back to Tear, or wherever al'Lan Mandragoran was. Facing Moghedien, realizing how close she had been to being killed or worse, only made her urgency to deal with him greater. A man she had to share with a woman she hated, but if Egeanin could look fondly on a man she once took prisoner — and Domon was certainly eyeing her with interest — and if Elayne could love a man who would go mad, then she could puzzle out some way to enjoy what she could have of Lan.
“Shall we go downstairs and see how 'Thera' is taking to being a servant?” she suggested. Soon for Tar Valon. Soon.
Chapter 56
(Wolf)
Goldeneyes
The common room of the Winespring Inn was silent but for the scratch of Perrin's pen. Silent, and empty but for him and Aram. Latemorning light made small pools beneath the windows. No cooking smells came from the kitchen; there were no fires lit anywhere in the village, and even coals banked in ashes had been doused. No point in giving the gift of fire easy to hand. The Tinker — he sometimes wondered whether it was proper to think of Aram that way any longer, but a man could not stop being what he was, sword or no — stood against the wall by the front door, watching Perrin. What did the man expect? What did he want? Dipping his pen in the small stone ink jar, Perrin set aside the third sheet of paper and began a fourth.
Pushing through the door, bow in hand, Ban al'Seen rubbed an uneasy finger up and down his big nose. “The Aiel are back,” he said quietly, but his feet moved as if he could not make them be still. “Trollocs coming, from north and south. Thousands of them, Lord Perrin.”
“Don't call me that,” Perrin said absently, frowning at the page. He had no way with words. He certainly did not know how to say things in the fancy way women liked. All he could was write what he felt. Dipping the pen again, he added a few lines.
I will not ask your forgiveness for what I did. I do not know if you could give it, but I will not ask. You are more precious to me than life. Never think I have abandoned you. When the sun shines on you, it is my smile. When you hear the breeze stir through the apple blossoms, it is my whisper that I love you. My love is yours forever.
Perrin
For a moment he studied what he had written. It did not say enough, but it would have to do. He did not have the right words any more than he had time.
Carefully blotting the damp ink with sand, he folded the pages together. He very nearly wrote “Faile Bashere” on the outside before making it “Faile Aybara.” He realized he did not even know if a wife took her husband's name in Saldaea; there were places where they did not. Well, she had married him in the Two Rivers; she would have to put up with Two Rivers customs.
He placed the letter in the middle of the mantel over the fireplace— perhaps it would reach her eventually — and adjusted the wide red marriage ribbon behind his collar so it hung down his lapels properly. He was supposed to wear it for seven days, an announcement to everyone who saw him that he was newly wed. “I will try,” he told the letter softly. Faile had tried to tie one in his beard; he wished he had let her.
“Pardon, Lord Perrin?” Ban said, still shifting his feet anxiously. “I didn't hear.” Aram was chewing his lip, his eyes wide and frightened.
“Time to see to the day's work,” Perrin said. Perhaps the letter would reach her. Somehow. He took his bow from the table and slung it on his back. Axe and quiver already hung at his belt. “And don't call me that!”
In front of the inn, the Companions were gathered on their horses, Wil al'Seen with that fool wolfhead banner, the long staff resting on his stirrup iron. How long since Wil had refused to carry the thing? The survivors of those who had joined him the first day jealously guarded the right, now. Wil, with his bow on his back and a sword at his hip, looked proud as an idiot.
As Ban scrambled into his saddle, Perrin heard him say, “The man is as cool as a winter pond. Like ice. Maybe it won't be so bad today.” He barely paid attention. The women were gathered on the Green.
They made a circle five or six deep around the tall pole where the larger red wolfhead flapped out in a breeze. Five or six deep, shoulder to shoulder, with polearms made from scythes and pitchforks, and woodaxes, and even stout kitchen knives and cleavers.
Throat tight, he mounted Stepper and rode toward them. The children were a tight mass inside the circle of women. All the chil