A Crown of Swords (The Wheel of Time 7)

“You have never faced something you could not fight, child,” he said gently, “something so strong your only choice is to flee or be consumed alive. Try to hold judgment on Tylin till you have.” For some reason, Aviendha’s face reddened. Normally, she hid her emotions so well her face was like stone.

“I know,” Elayne said suddenly. “We’ll find proof even Pedron Niall must accept.” She skipped back into the room. No, she danced. “We will disguise ourselves and follow him.”

Suddenly, it was no longer Elayne standing there in a green Ebou Dari gown, but a Domani woman in thin clinging blue. Nynaeve leaped up before she could stop, and her mouth tightened with exasperation at herself. Just because she could not see the weaves at the moment was no reason to be startled by Illusion. She darted a glance at Thom and Juilin. Even Thom’s mouth hung open. Unconsciously she took a firm grip on her braid. Elayne was going to reveal everything! What was the matter with her?

Illusion worked best the closer you stayed to what was there before, in shape and size at least, so bits of the Ebou Dari dress flashed through the Domani garment as Elayne whirled to examine herself in one of the room’s two large mirrors. She laughed and clapped her hands. “Oh, he will never recognize me. Or you, near-sister.” Abruptly a Taraboner woman sat beside Nynaeve’s chair, with brown eyes and yellow braids strung with red beads just the shade of her snug-fitting dress of folded silk. She watched Elayne quizzically. Nynaeve’s hand tightened on her braid. “And we can’t forget you,” Elayne babbled on. “I know just the thing.”

This time, Nynaeve saw the glow around Elayne. She was furious. Seeing the flows being woven about herself did not tell her what image Elayne gave her, of course. It took looking into one of the mirrors to do that. A Sea Folk woman stared back at her, aghast, with a dozen begemmed rings in her ears and twice as many golden medallions dangling from the chain running to her nose ring. Aside from the jewelry, she wore wide trousers of brocaded green silk and not a stitch else, the way women of the Atha’an Miere did out of sight of land. It was just Illusion. She was still decently clothed under the weaving. But . . . Beside her reflection she saw those of Thom and Juilin, both fighting grins.

A strangled squawk erupted from her throat. “Close your eyes!” she shouted at the men and began leaping about, waving her arms, anything to make her dress show through. “Close them, burn you!” Oh. They had. Bristling with indignation, she stopped capering. They were not fighting those grins anymore, though. For that matter, Aviendha was laughing quite openly, rocking to and fro.

Nynaeve gave her skirts a jerk — in the mirror, the Sea Folk woman seemed to pluck at her trousers — and fixed Elayne with a glare. “Stop this, Elayne!” The Domani woman stared back, mouth open and eyes wide with incredulity. Only then did Nynaeve realize how angry she was; the True Source beckoned from just beyond the edge of sight. Embracing saidar she slammed a shield between Elayne and the Source. Or rather, she tried to. Shielding someone who already held the Power was not easy even when you were the stronger. Once, as a girl, she had swung Master Luhhan’s hammer against his anvil as hard as she could, and the shiver of it ran all the way to her toes. This was about twice that. “Love of the Light, Elayne, are you drunk?”

The glow around the Domani woman faded away, and so did the Domani woman. Nynaeve knew the weave was gone from around herself, but she still glanced at the mirror and drew a relieved breath to see Nynaeve al’Meara there in yellow-slashed blue.

“No,” Elayne said slowly. Color burned in her face, but it was not embarrassment, or not entirely. Her chin rose, and her voice frosted. “I am not.”

The door to the corridor banged open, and Birgitte staggered in with a broad smile. Well, perhaps she did not quite stagger, but she was decidedly unsteady. “I did not expect you all to remain awake for me,” she said brightly. “Well, you’ll be interested to hear what I have to say. But first . . . ” With the too steady steps of someone carrying considerable drink inside, she vanished into her room.

Thom stared at her door with a bemused grin, Juilin with an incredulous one. They knew who she was, the truth of it. Elayne just glared down her nose. From Birgitte’s bedchamber came a splashing, as if a pitcher had been upended on the floor. Nynaeve exchanged puzzled looks with Aviendha.

Birgitte reappeared with her face and hair dripping and her coat soaked from shoulders to elbows. “Now my wits are clearer,” she said, settling into one of the ball-footed chairs with a sigh. “That young man has a hollow leg and a hole in the bottom of his foot. He even out-drank Beslan, and I was beginning to think wine was water to that lad.”

“Beslan?” Nynaeve said, her voice rising. “Tylin’s son? What was he doing there?”

“Why did you allow it, Birgitte?” Elayne exclaimed. “Mat Cauthon will corrupt the boy, and his mother will blame us.”

“The boy is the same age as you,” Thom told her in stuffy tones.

A baffled look passed between Nynaeve and Elayne. What was his point? Everyone knew that a man did not achieve his proper wits, such as they were, until ten years later than a woman.

The puzzlement faded from Elayne’s face, replaced by firmness and no little anger as she focused on Birgitte again. Words were going to be said, words both women might regret tomorrow.

“If you and Juilin will leave us now, Thom,” Nynaeve said quickly. It was extremely unlikely they would see the need on their own. “You need your sleep to be fresh first thing in the morning.” They sat there, gaping at her like belled fools, so she made her tone firmer. “Now?”

“This game was done twent

y stones ago,” Thom said, glancing at the board. “What do you say we go down to our own room and start another? I’ll spot you ten stones to place as you will any time during the game.”

“Ten stones?” Juilin yelped, scraping back his chair. “Will you offer me fish broth and milk-bread, as well?”

They argued all the way out, but at the door, each of them glanced back in sullen resentment. She would not put it past them to remain awake all night just because she had sent them to bed.

“Mat won’t corrupt Beslan,” Birgitte said dryly as the door closed behind the men. “I doubt nine feather dancers with a shipload of brandy could corrupt him. They wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Nynaeve was relieved to hear it, though something was odd about the woman’s tone — likely the drink — but Beslan was not at all the issue. She said so, and Elayne added, “No, he isn’t. You got drunk, Birgitte! And I felt it. I still feel tipsy if I don’t concentrate. The bond is not supposed to work that way. Aes Sedai don’t fall over giggling if their Warders drink too much.” Nynaeve threw up her hands.

“Don’t look at me that way,” Birgitte said. “You know more than I do. Aes Sedai and Warders have always been men and women before. Maybe that’s the difference. Maybe we are too alike.” Her grin was skewed slightly. There had not been near enough water in that pitcher. “That might be embarrassing, I suppose.”

“If we could stay with what is important?” Nynaeve said tightly. “Such as Mat?” Elayne had her mourn open for a retort to Birgitte, but she closed it quickly, the red spots in her cheeks most definitely chagrin this time. “Now,” Nynaeve went on. “Will Mat be here in the morning, or is he in the same revolting state as you?”

“He might come,” Birgitte said, taking a cup of mint tea from Aviendha, who of course sat down on the floor. Elayne frowned at her a moment, then, of all things, folded up her legs and sat beside her!

“What do you mean, he might?” Nynaeve demanded. She channeled, and the chair she had been sitting in floated over to her, and if it banged to the floor, she meant it to. Drinking too much, sitting on the floor. What was next? “If he expects us to come to him on hands and knees . . .!”

Birgitte took a sip of the tea with a grateful murmur, and oddly, when she looked at Nynaeve again, she did not seem so intoxicated. “I talked him out of that. I don’t think he was really serious. All he wants now is an apology and thanks.”

Nynaeve’s eyes popped. She had talked him out of that? Apologize? To Matrim Cauthon? “Never,” she growled.