The Path of Daggers (The Wheel of Time 8)

There was a long silence, then Therava nodded. “East.” She said the word softly, the softness of silk laid over steel. “But remember that clan chiefs have lived to regret rejecting a Wise One’s advice too often. You may, as well.” The threat on her face was plain as that in her voice, yet Sevanna laughed!

“You remember, Therava! All of you remember! If I am left for the vultures, so will you be! I have made assurance of that.”

The other women exchanged worried glances, all but Therava, and Modarra and Norlea frowned.

Slumped on her knees, whimpering and trying in vain to soothe her skin with her hands, Galina found herself wondering what these threats meant. It was a small thought, worming its way through bitterness and self-pity. Anything she could use against these women would be welcome. If she dared use it. A bitter thought.

Abruptly she realized that the sky was turning dark. Billowing clouds were rolling down from the north, streaked gray and black, obscuring the sun. And beneath the clouds fell flurries of snow, swirling in the air. None reached the ground — few fell as far as the treetops — but Galina gaped. Snow! Had the Great Lord loosened his grip on the world for some reason?

The Wise Ones stared at the sky, too, mouths hanging open as if they had never seen clouds, much less snow.

“What is this, Galina Casban?” Therava demanded. “Speak if you know!” She did not look away from the sky until Galina told her it was snow, and when she did it was to laugh. “I always thought the men who ran down Laman Treekiller lied about snow. This could not hamper a mouse!”

Galina clamped her jaws shut on explaining about snowfalls, aghast that her instinct had been to curry favor. Aghast as well at the small pang of pleasure that keeping the information back gave. I am the Highest of the Red Ajah! she reminded herself. I sit on the Supreme Council of the Black Ajah! They sounded like lies. This was not fair!

“If we are done here,” Sevanna said, “I will take the gai’shain back to the great roof and see her put in white. You can remain and stare at the snow if you wish.” Her tone was so smooth, like butter in the tub, that no one would have thought her at daggers’ points only moments earlier. She looped her shawl over her elbows and adjusted some of her necklaces; nothing in the world concerned her more.

“We will take care of the gai’shain” Therava told her just as smoothly. “Since you speak as the chief, you have a long day and most of the night ahead of you if we are to move tomorrow.” For an instant, Sevanna’s eyes flashed again, but Therava merely snapped her fingers and gestured sharply at Galina before turning to go. “Come with me,” she said. “And stop pouting.”

Head down, Galina scrambled to her feet and scurried after Therava and the other women who could channel. Pouting? She might have been scowling, but never pouting! Her thoughts scrabbled like rats in a cage, finding no hope of escape. There had to be one! There had to be! One thought that surfaced in the middle of that turmoil almost made her begin weeping again. Were gai’shain robes softer than the scratchy black wool she had been forced to wear so far? There had to be a way out! A hasty glance back through the trees showed Sevanna still standing there, glaring after them. Overhead, the clouds swirled, and the falling snow melted like Galina’s hopes.

Chapter 12

New Alliances

* * *

Graendal wished there had been even a simple transcriber among the things she had removed from Illian after Sammael’s death. This Age was frightful usually, primitive and uncomfortable. Still, some of it suited her. In a large bamboo cage at the far end of the room a hundred brightly plumaged birds sang melodiously, almost as beautiful in their multicolored flitting as her two pets in transparent robes who waited on either side of the door, their gazes locked on her, eager to serve her pleasure. If oil lamps did not give the same light as glowbulbs, aided by large mirrors on the walls they produced a certain barbaric splendor with the gilded fish-scale ceiling. It would have been nice to need only speak the words, but actually putting them on paper with her own hand produced a pleasure akin to that she felt in sketching. The script of this Age was quite simple, and learning to duplicate another’s style had been no more difficult.

Signing with a flourish — not her own name, of course — she sanded the thick page, then folded it and se

aled it with one of the signet rings of various sizes that made a decorative line across the writing table. The Hand and Sword of Arad Doman impressed on an irregular circle of blue-and-green wax.

“Take this to Lord Ituralde with all speed,” she said, “and say only what I told you.”

“As fast as horses can carry me, my Lady.” Nazran bowed as he took the letter, one finger stroking thin black mustaches above a winning smile. Square and deeply brown in a well-fitting blue coat, he was handsome; just not sufficiently handsome. “I received this from the Lady Tuva, who died of her wounds after telling me that she was a courier from Alsalam and had been attacked by a Gray Man.”

“Make sure there is human blood on it,” she admonished. She doubted anyone in this time could tell human blood from any other, but she had found too many surprises to take an unnecessary chance. “Enough for realism; not enough to spoil what I wrote.”

His black eyes lingered warmly on her as he bowed again, but as soon as he straightened he hurried to the door, boots thudding on the pale yellow marble floor. He did not notice the servants with their eyes fixed ardently on her, or affected not to notice, though he had once been a friend of the young man. Only a touch of Compulsion had been needed to make Nazran nearly as avid to obey as they, not to mention certain that he might yet taste her charms again. She laughed softly. Well, he believed he had tasted them; just a little prettier, and he might have. Of course, he would have been useless for anything else then. He would ride horses to death reaching Ituralde, and if that message, delivered by Alsalam’s close cousin, supposedly coming from the King himself and with Gray Men trying to stop it, did not satisfy the Great Lord’s command to increase chaos, nothing would, short of balefire. And it would serve her own ends very nicely as well. Her own ends.

Graendal’s hand went to the only ring on the table that was not a signet, a plain golden band too small for any but her little finger. It had been a pleasant surprise to find an angreal attuned to women among Sammael’s possessions. A pleasant surprise to have time to find much of anything useful with al’Thor and those puppies who called themselves Asha’man constantly in and out of Sammael’s chambers in the Great Hall of the Council. They had stripped it bare of what she had not taken. Dangerous puppies, all of them, especially al’Thor. And she had not wanted to risk anyone being able to draw a line from Sammael to her. Yes, she must increase the pace of her own plans, and distance herself from Sammael’s disaster.

Abruptly a vertical slash of silver appeared at the far end of the room, bright against the tapestries hanging between the heavy gilded mirrors, and a crystalline chime rang loud. Her eyebrows rose in surprise. Someone remembered the courtesies of a more civilized Age, it seemed. Standing, she forced the plain band of gold down against the ruby ring on her smallest finger and embraced saidar through it before channeling the web that would sound an answering chime for whoever wanted to open a gateway. The angreal did not offer much, yet anyone who thought they knew her strength would find a shock.

The gateway opened, and two women in nearly identical red-and-black silk dresses stepped through warily. At least, Moghedien moved cautiously, dark eyes flickering in search of traps, hands smoothing her wide skirts; the gateway winked out after a moment, but she held on to saidar. A sensible precaution, though Moghedien had always been a great one for precautions. Graendal did not let go of the Source, either. Moghedien’s companion, a short young woman with long silver hair and vivid blue eyes, stared about her coldly, hardly more than glancing in Graendal’s direction. By her demeanor, she might have been a Prime Counselor forced to endure the company of common laborers and intent on ignoring their existence. A foolish girl, to imitate the Spider. Red and black did not suit her coloring, and she should have made better use of such an impressive bosom.

“This is Cyndane, Graendal,” Moghedien said. “We are . . . working together.” She did not smile when she named the haughty young woman, but Graendal did. A pretty name for a more than pretty girl, but what twist of fate had led some mother of this time to give her daughter a name that meant “Last Chance”? Cyndane’s face remained cold and smooth, but her eyes flared. A beautiful doll carved from ice, with hidden fires. It seemed she knew the meaning and did not like it.

“What brings you and your friend, Moghedien?” Graendal asked. The Spider was the very last she had expected to come out from the shadows. “Have no fear of speaking in front of my servants.” She gestured, and the pair by the door sank to their knees, pressed their faces to the floor. They would not quite fall dead by her simple command, but close.

“What interest can you find in them when you destroy anything that might make them interesting?” Cyndane demanded, striding arrogantly across the floor. She held herself very straight, striving for every hair of height. “Do you know that Sammael is dead?”

Graendal kept her own face smooth, with a little effort. She had supposed this girl some Friend of the Dark whom Moghedien had picked up to run errands, perhaps a noble who thought her title counted, but now that she was close . . . The girl was stronger in the One Power than she herself! Even in her own Age, that had been uncommon among men, and very rare indeed among women. On the instant, on instinct, she changed her intention to deny any contact with Sammael.

“I suspected,” she replied, directing a false smile over the young woman’s head at Moghedien. How much did she know? Where had the Spider found a girl so much stronger than she, and why was she traveling with her? Moghedien had always been jealous of anyone with more strength. Or more of anything. “He used to visit me, importuning my help in one mad plan or another. I never rejected him outright; you know Sammael is — was a dangerous man to reject. He appeared every few days without fail, and when he stopped, I assumed something dire had happened to him. Who is this girl, Moghedien? A remarkable find.”

The young woman stepped closer, staring up at her with eyes like blue fire. “She told you my name. That is all you need know.” The girl knew she spoke to one of the Chosen, and yet her tone remained frost. Even given her strength, this was no simple Friend of the Dark. Unless she was insane. “Have you paid attention to the weather, Graendal?”