The spit had stopped. Hastily she started it turning once more. No one seemed to have noticed, though. They were all still doing their best not to look at the Amyrlin.
“And what do you mean to do about this . . . so-obvious trap?” the Amyrlin said softly, still staring over the kitchen, away from Nynaeve. “Do you mean to fall into this one, too?”
Nynaeve’s face reddened. “I know this trap for a trap. Mother. And the best way to catch whoever set a trap is to spring it and wait for him—or her—to come.” It sounded weaker than it had when she had said it to Egwene and Elayne, after what the Amyrlin had just told her, but she still meant it.
“Perhaps so, child. Perhaps it is the way to find them. If they do not come and find you held tightly in their net.” She gave a vexed sigh. “I will put gold in your room for the journey. And I will let it be whispered about that I have sent you out to a farm to hoe cabbages. Will Elayne be going with you?”
Nynaeve forgot herself enough to stare at the Amyrlin, then hurriedly put her eyes back on her hands. Her knuckles were white on the spit handle. “You scheming old. . . . Why all the pretense, if you knew? Your sly plots have had us squirming nearly as much as the Black Ajah has. Why?” The Amyrlin’s face had tightened, enough to make her force a more respectful tone. “If I may ask, Mother.”
The Amyrlin snorted. “Putting Morgase back on the proper path whether she wants to go or not will be hard enough without her thinking I’ve sent her daughter to sea in a leaky skiff. This way I can say straight out that it was none of my doing. It may be a bit hard on Elayne, when she finally has to face her mother, but I have three hounds, now, not two. I told you I’d have a hundred if I could.” She adjusted her stole on her shoulders. “This has gone on long enough. If I stay this close to you, it may be noticed. Have you anything more to tell me? Or to ask? Make it quick, Daughter.”
“What is Callandor, Mother?” Nynaeve asked.
This time it was the Amyrlin who forgot herself, half turning toward Nynaeve before jerking herself back. “They cannot be allowed to have that.” Her whisper was barely audible, as if meant for her own ears alone. “They cannot possibly take it, but. . . .” She took a deep breath, and her soft words firmed enough to be clear to Nynaeve, if to no one two paces further away. “No more than a dozen women in the Tower know what Callandor is, and perhaps as many outside. The High Lords of Tear know, but they never speak of it except when a Lord of the Land is told on being raised. The Sword That Cannot Be Touched is a sa’angreal, girl. Only two more powerful were ever made, and thank the Light, neither of those was ever used. With Callandor in your hands, child, you could level a city at one blow. If you die keeping that out of the Black Ajah’s hands—you, and Egwene, and Elayne, all three—you’ll have done a service to the whole world, and cheap at the price.”
“How could they take it?” Nynaeve asked. “I thought only the Dragon Reborn could touch Callandor.”
The Amyrlin gave her a sideways look sharp enough to carve the roasts on the spit. “They could be after something else,” she said after a moment. “They stole ter’angreal here. The Stone of Tear holds nearly as many ter’angreal as the Tower.”
“I thought the High Lords hated anything to do with the One Power,” Nynaeve whispered incredulously.
“Oh, they do hate it, child. Hate it, and fear it. When they find a Tairen girl who can channel, they bundle her onto a ship for Tar Valon before the day is done, with hardly time to speak goodbyes to her family.” The Amyrlin’s murmur was bitter with memory. “Yet they hold one of the most powerful focuses of the Power the world has ever seen, inside their precious Stone. It is my belief that is why they have collected so many ter’angreal—and indeed, anything to do with the Power—over the years, as if by doing so they can diminish the existence of the thing they cannot rid themselves of, the thing that reminds them of their own doom every time they enter the Heart of the Stone. Their fortress that has broken a hundred armies will fall as one of the signs the Dragon is Reborn. Not even the only sign; just one. How that must rankle their proud hearts. Their downfall will not even be the one great sign of the world’s change. They cannot even ignore it
by staying out of the Heart. That is where Lords of the Land are raised to High Lords, and where they must perform what they call the Rite of the Guarding four times a year, claiming that they guard the whole world against the Dragon by holding Callandor. It must bite at their souls like a bellyful of live silverpike, and no more than they deserve.” She gave herself a shake, as if realizing she had said far more than she had intended. “Is that all, child?”
“Yes, Mother,” Nynaeve said. Light, it always comes back to Rand, doesn’t it? Always back to the Dragon Reborn. It was still an effort to think of him that way. “That’s all.”
The Amyrlin shifted her stole again, frowning at the frenzied scurry in the kitchen. “I’ll have to set this aright. I needed to speak to you without delay, but Laras is a good woman, and she manages the kitchen and the larders well.”
Nynaeve sniffed, and addressed her hands on the spit handle. “Laras is a sour lump of lard, and too handy with that spoon by half.” She thought she had muttered it under her breath, but she heard the Amyrlin chuckle wryly.
“You are a fine judge of character, child. You must have done well as the Wisdom of your village. It was Laras who went to Sheriam and demanded to know how long you three are to be kept to the dirtiest and hardest work, without a turn at lighter. She said she would not be a party to breaking any woman’s health or spirit, no matter what I said. A fine judge of character, child.”
Laras came back into the kitchen doorway then, hesitating to enter her own domain. The Amyrlin went to meet her, smiles replacing her frowns and stares.
“It all looks very well to me, Laras.” The Amyrlin’s words came loud enough for the entire kitchen to hear. “I see nothing out of place, and everything as it should be. You are to be commended. I think I will make Mistress of the Kitchens a formal title.”
The stout woman’s face fluttered from uneasiness to shock to beaming pleasure. By the time the Amyrlin swept out of the kitchen, Laras was all smiles. Her frown returned, though, as she looked from the Amyrlin’s departing back to her workers. The kitchen seemed to leap into motion. Laras’ grim stare settled on Nynaeve.
Turning the spit again, Nynaeve tried smiling at the big woman.
Laras’ frown deepened, and she began tapping her spoon on her thigh, apparently forgetting that for once it had been used for its intended purpose. It left smears of soup on the white of her apron.
I will smile at her if if kills me, Nynaeve thought, though she had to grit her teeth to do it.
Egwene and Elayne appeared, twisting their faces and scrubbing their mouths with their sleeves. At a stare from Laras, they dashed to the spit and resumed their labors.
“Soap,” Elayne muttered thickly, “tastes horrid!”
Egwene trembled as she spooned juice from the dripping pan over the roasts. “Nynaeve, if you tell me the Amyrlin told us to stay here, I will scream. I might run away for real.”
“We leave after the washing up is done,” she told them, “just as quickly as we can fetch our belongings from our rooms.” She wished she could share the eagerness that flashed in their eyes. Light send we aren’t walking into a trap we can’t get out of. Light send it so.
CHAPTER
30
The First Toss