Cadsuane smiled noncommittally. As if she would let another handle the questioning! This woman's secrets were too valuable to risk, even in the hands of allies. "Well, you are welcome to ask," she said, "but I doubt al'Thor will listen. You know how the fool boy can be when it comes to hurting women."
Bair sighed. It was odd to think of this grandmotherly lady engaging in "delicate Aiel questioning."
"Yes," She said. "You are right, I suspect. Rand al'Thor is twice as stubborn as any clan chief I've known. And twice as arrogant too. To presume that women cannot bear pain as well as men!"
Cadsuane snorted at that. "To be honest, I considered having this one strung up and whipped, al'Thor's prohibitions be blackened! But I don't think it would work. Phaw! We'll need to find something other than pain to break this one."
Sorilea was still regarding Semirhage. "I would speak with her."
Cadsuane made a motion, dismissing the weaves that kept Semirhage from hearing, seeing or speaking. The woman blinked—just once—to clear her vision, then turned to Sorilea and Bair. "Ah," she said. "Aiel. You were such good servants, once. Tell me, how strongly does it bite, knowing how you betrayed your oaths? Your ancestors would cry for punishment if they knew how many deaths lay at the hands of their descendants."
Sorilea gave no reaction. Cadsuane knew some tidbits of what al'Thor had revealed about the Aiel, things that had been said at second or third hand. Al'Thor claimed that the Aiel had once followed the Way of the Leaf, sworn not to do harm, before betraying their oaths. Cadsuane had been interested to learn of these rumors, and she was more interested to hear Semirhage corroborating them.
"She seems so much more human than I had anticipated," Sorilea said to Bair. "Her expressions, her tone, her accent, while strange, are easy to understand. I had not expected that."
Semirhage's eyes narrowed for just a moment at that comment. Odd. That was a stronger reaction than virtually any of the punishments had produced. The flashes of light and sound prompted only slight involuntary twitches. This comment of Sorilea's, however, seemed to affect Semirhage on an emotional level. Would the Wise Ones actually succeed so easily where Cadsuane had long failed?
"I think this is what we need to remember," Bair said. "A woman is just a woman, no matter how old, no matter what secrets she remembers. Flesh can be cut, blood can be spilled, bones can be broken."
"In truth, I feel almost disappointed, Cadsuane Melaidhrin," Sorilea said, shaking a white-haired head. "This monster has very small fangs."
Semirhage reacted no further. Her control was back, her face serene, her eyes imperious. "I have heard some little of you new, oathless Aiel and your interpretations of honor. I will very much enjoy investigating how much pain and suffering it will require before members of your clans will shame themselves. Tell me, how far do you think I would have to push before one of you would kill a blacksmith and dine on his flesh?"
She knew more than "some little" if she understood the near-sacred nature of blacksmiths among the Aiel. Sorilea stiffened at the comment, but let it go. She rewove the ward against listening, then paused, and placed the globes of light in front of Semirhage's eyes as well. Yes, she was weak in the Power, but she was a very quick learner.
"Is it wise to keep her like this?" Sorilea asked, her tone implying that of any other she would have made a demand. For Cadsuane, she softened her words, and it almost brought a smile to Cadsuane's lips. They were like two aged hawks, Sorilea and she, accustomed to roosting and reigning, now forced to nest in neighboring trees. Deference did not come easily to either one of them.
"If I were to choose," Sorilea continued, "I think that I would have her throat slit and her corpse laid out on the dust to dry. Keeping her alive is like keeping a snapwood blacklance as a pet."
"Phaw!" Cadsuane said, grimacing. "You're right about the danger, but killing her now would be worse. Al'Thor cannot—or will not—give me an accurate count of the number of Forsaken he has slain, but he implies that at least half of them still live. They'll be there to fight at the Last Battle, and each weave we learn from Semirhage is one fewer they can use to surprise us."
Sorilea did not seem convinced, but she pressed the issue no further. "And the item?" she asked. "May I see it?"
Cadsuane almost snapped a no. But . . . Sorilea had taught Cadsuane Traveling, an incredibly powerful tool. That had been an offering, a hand extended. Cadsuane needed to work with these women, Sorilea most of all. Al'Thor was a bigger project than one woman could handle.
"Come with me," Cadsuane said, leaving the wooden room. The Wise Ones followed. Outside, Cadsuane instructed the sisters—Daigian and Sarene—to make certain that Semirhage was kept awake, eyes open. It was unlikely to work, but it was the best strategy Cadsuane had at the moment.
Though . . . she did also have Semirhage's momentary look, that hint of anger, displayed at Sorilea's comment. When you could control a person's anger, you could control their other emotions as well. That was why she had focused so hard on teaching al'Thor to rein in his temper.
Control and anger. What was it that Sorilea had said to get the reaction? That Semirhage seemed disappointingly human. It was as if Sorilea had come expecting one of the Forsaken to be as twisted as a Myrddraal or Draghkar. And why not? The Forsaken had been figures of legend for three thousand years, looming shadows of darkness and mystery. It could be disappointing to discover that they were, in many ways, the most human of the Dark One's followers: petty, destructive and argumentative. At least, that was how al'Thor claimed they acted. He was so strangely familiar with them.
Semirhage saw herself as more than human, though. That poise, that control of her surroundings, was a source of strength for her.
Cadsuane shook her head. Too many problems and far too little time.
The wooden hallway itself was another reminder of the al'Thor boy's foolishness; Cadsuane could still smell smoke, strong enough to be unpleasant. The gaping hole in the front of the manor—draped only with a cloth—let in chill air during the spring nights. They should have moved, but he claimed that he would not be chased away.
Al'Thor seemed almost eager for the Last Battle. Or perhaps just resigned. To get there he felt he had to force his way through the petty squabbles of people like a midnight traveler pushing through banks of snow to arrive at the inn. The problem was, al'Thor wasn't ready for the Last Battle. Cadsuane could feel it in the way he spoke, the way he acted. The way he regarded the world with that dark, nearly dazed expression. If the man he was now faced the Dark One to decide the fate of the world, Cadsuane feared for all people.
Cadsuane and the two Wise Ones reached her chamber in the manor, a sturdy undamaged room with a good view of the trampled green and camp out front. She made few demands in the way of decoration: a stout bed, a lockable trunk, a mirror and stand. She was too old and impatient to bother with anything else.
The trunk was a decoy; she kept some gold and other relatively worthless items in it. Her most precious possessions she either wore—in the form of her ter'angreal ornaments—or kept locked in a dingy-looking document box that sat on her mirror stand. Of worn oak, the stain uneven, the box had enough dings and dents to look used—but wasn't so shabby as to be out of place with her other things. As Sorilea closed the door behind the three of them, Cadsuane disarmed the box's traps.
It was strange to her how few Aes Sedai learned to innovate with the One Power. They memorized time-tested and traditional weaves, but gave barely a thought for what else they could do. True, experimenting with the One Power could be disastrous, but many simple extrapolations could be made without danger. Her weave for this box was one such. Until recently, she'd used a standard weave of Fire, Spirit and Air to destroy any documents in the box if an intruder opened it. Effective, if a bit unimaginative.
Her new weave was much more versatile. It didn't destroy the items in the box—Cadsuane wasn't certain if they could be destroyed. Instead, the weaves—inverted to be invisible—sprang out in twisting threads of Air and captured anyone in the room when the box was opened. Then another weave set out a large sound, imitating a hundred trumpets playing while lights flashed in the air to give the alarm. The weaves would also go off if anyone opened the box, moved it, or barely touched it with the most delicate thread of the One Power.
Cadsuane flipped up the lid. The extreme precaution was necessary. For inside this box were two items that presented very serious danger.