“Keep your voice down,” he said, low and hard. “Remember where you are.” Elayne flushed a deep red, but whether in anger or embarrassment, Nynaeve could not say.
Abruptly she realized that he had been speaking as quietly as they, and carefully, too. He had not mentioned the Tower once, or Aes Sedai.
“Is Egwene with you?” he went on.
“No,” she replied, and he sighed deeply.
“I had hoped . . . Gawyn was nearly unhinged with worry when she disappeared. He cares for her, too. Will you tell me where she is?”
Nynaeve took note of that “too.” The man had become a Whitecloak, yet he “cared for” a woman who wanted to be Aes Sedai. Men were so strange they were hardly human sometimes.
“We will not,” Elayne said firmly, the crimson receding from her cheeks. “Is Gawyn here, too? I will not believe he has become a—” She had the wit to lower her voice further, but she still said, “A Whitecloak!”
“He remains in the north, Elayne.” Nynaeve supposed that he meant Tar Valon, but surely Gawyn had gone from there. Surely he could not support Elaida. “You cannot know what has happened there, Elayne,” he continued. “All the corruption and vileness in that place bubbled to the top, as it had to. The woman who sent you away has been deposed.” He looked around and dropped his voice to a momentary whisper, despite no one being close enough to overhear. “Stilled and executed.” Taking a deep breath, he made a disgusted sound. “It was never a place for you. Or for Egwene. I have not been long with the Children, but I am certain my captain will give me leave to escort my sister home. That is where you should be, with Mother. Tell me where Egwene is, and I will see that she is brought to Caemlyn, too. You will both be safe there.”
Nynaeve’s face felt numb. Stilled. And executed. Not an accidental death, or illness. That she had considered the possibility did not make the fact less shocking. Rand had to be the reason. If there had ever been any small hope that the Tower might not oppose him, it was gone. Elayne showed no expression at all, her eyes staring at the distance.
“I see my news shocks you,” he said in a low voice. “I do not know how deeply that woman meshed you in her plot, but you are free of her now. Let me see you safely to Caemlyn. No one need know you had any more contact with her than the other girls who went there to learn. Either of you.”
Nynaeve showed him her teeth, in what she hoped looked like a smile. It was nice to be included, finally. She could have smacked him. If only he were not so good-looking.
“I will think on it,” Elayne said slowly. “What you say makes sense, but you must give me time to think. I must think.”
Nynaeve stared at her. It made sense? The girl was blathering.
“I can give you a little time,” he said, “but I do not have much if I am to ask leave. We may be ordered—”
Suddenly there was a square-faced, black-haired Whitecloak clapping Galad on the shoulder and grinning widely. Older, he wore the same two knots of rank on his cloak. “Well, young Galad, you can’t keep all the pretty women for yourself. Every girl in town sighs when you walk by, and most of their mothers as well. Introduce me.”
Galad scraped back his bench to stand. “I . . . thought I knew them when they came downstairs, Trom. But whatever charm you think I possess, it does not work on this lady. She does not like me, and I think she will not like any friend of mine. If you practice the sword with me this afternoon, perhaps you can attract one or two.”
“Never with you around,” Trom grumped good-naturedly. “And I’d sooner let the farrier pound my head with his hammer than practice against you.” But he let Galad start him for the door with only a regretful look at the two women. As they left, Galad shot a glance back at the table, full of frustration and indecision.
No sooner were they out of sight than Elayne stood. “Nana, I need you upstairs.” Mistress Jharen materialized at her side, inquiring if she had enjoyed her repast, and Elayne said, “I require my driver and footman immediately. Nana will settle the bill.” She was moving for the stairs before she finished speaking.
Nynaeve stared after her, then dug out her purse and paid the woman, making assurances that everything had been to her mistress’s liking and trying not to wince at the price. Once rid of the woman, she hurried upstairs. Elayne was stuffing their things into the chests any which way, including the sweaty shifts they had hung on the ends of the beds to dry.
“Elayne, what’s the matter?”
“We must leave immediately, Nynaeve. At once.” She did not look up until the last article was crammed in. “Right this minute, wherever he is, Galad is puzzling over something he may never have faced before. Two things that are right, but opposite. To his mind it is right to tie me to a pack horse if necessary and haul me to Mother, to salve her worries and save me from becoming Aes Sedai, whatever I want. And it is also right to turn us in, to the Whitecloaks or the army or both. That is the law in Amadicia, and Whitecloak law, too. Aes Sedai are outlawed here, and so is any woman who has ever trained in the Tower. Mother met Ailron once to sign a trade treaty, and they had to do it in Altara because Mother could not legally enter Amadicia. I embraced saidar the moment I saw him, and I won’t let it go until we are far from him.”
“Surely you exaggerate, Elayne. He is your brother.”
“He is not my brother!” Elayne drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We had the same father,” she said in a calmer voice, “but he is not my brother. I will not have him. Nynaeve, I’ve told you time and again, but you will not take it in. Galad does what is right. Always. He never lies. Did you hear what he said to that Trom fellow? He didn’t say he did not know who we are. Every word he said was the truth. He does what is right, no matter who is hurt by it, even himself. Or me. He used to tell on Gawyn and me for everything, and on himself, too. If he decides the wrong way, we will have Whitecloaks lying in ambush for us before we reach the edge of the village.”
A tap sounded at the door, and Nynaeve’s breath caught in her throat. Surely Galad would not really . . . Elayne’s face was set, ready to fight.
Hesitantly, Nynaeve cracked the door. It was Thom, and Juilin with that fool hat in his hand. “My Lady wants us?” Thom asked, with a touch of servility for anyone who might overhear.
Able to breathe again, not caring who was listening, she snatched the door the rest of the way open. “Get in here, you two!” She was growing tired of them looking at one
another every time she spoke.
Before she had the door shut again, Elayne said, “Thom, we must leave right away.” The determined look had left her face, and anxiety filled her voice. “Galad is here. You must remember what a monster he was as a child. Well, he is no better grown, and he is a Whitecloak besides. He could—” The words seemed to catch in her throat. She stared at Thom, mouth working soundlessly, but no more wide-eyed than he stared at her.
He sat down heavily on one of the chests, never taking his eyes from Elayne’s. “I—” Clearing his throat roughly, he went on. “I thought I saw him, watching the inn. A Whitecloak. But he looked the man the boy would grow into. I suppose it shouldn’t be a surprise he grew into a Whitecloak at that.”
Nynaeve went to the window; Elayne and Thom hardly seemed to notice her passage between them. Traffic was beginning to pick up in the street, farmers and farm carts and villagers mingling with Whitecloaks and soldiers. Across the way, one Whitecloak was sitting on an upended barrel, that perfect face unmistakable.