He rounded them. A man sat in the chair on the left. Tall and youthful, he had a square face and ancient blue eyes that reflected the hearth-fire, turning his irises almost purple. The other chair was empty. Rand walked to it and sat down, calming his heart and watching the dancing flames. He had seen this man before in visions, not unlike the ones that appeared when he thought of Mat or Perrin.
The colors did not appear on this thought of his friends. That was odd, but somehow not unexpected. The visions he'd seen of the man in the other chair were different from the ones involving Perrin and Mat. They were more visceral, somehow, more real. At times during those visions, Rand had felt almost as if he could reach out and touch this man. He'd been afraid of what would happen if he did.
He had met the man only once. At Shadar Logoth. The stranger had saved Rand's life, and Rand had often wondered who he had been. Now, in this place, Rand finally knew.
"You are dead," Rand whispered. "I killed you."
The man didn't look from the fire as he laughed. It was a rough, low-throated laugh that held little true mirth. Once, Rand had known this man only as Ba'alzamon—a name for the Dark One—and had foolishly thought that in killing him, he had defeated the Shadow for good.
"I watched you die," Rand said. "I stabbed you through the chest with Callandor. Isha—"
"That is not my name," the man interrupted, still watching the flames. "I am known as Moridin, now."
ol 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.
Sorilea walked over, looking in at the contents. One was a figurine of a wise, bearded man holding aloft a sphere, about a foot tall. The other was a a black metallic collar and two bracelets: an a'dam made for a man. With this ter'angreal, a woman could turn a man who could channel into her slave, controlling his ability to touch the One Power. Perhaps controlling him completely. They had not tested the collar. Al'Thor had forbidden it.
Sorilea hissed quietly, ignoring the statue and focusing on the bracelets and collar. "This thing is evil."
"Yes," Cadsuane said. Rarely would she have called a simple object "evil," but this one was. "Nynaeve al'Meara claims some familiarity with this thing. Though I have not been able to press out of the girl how she knows these things, she claims to know that there was only one male a'dam, and that she'd arranged for its disposal in the ocean. She also admits, however, that she didn't see it destroyed personally. It may have been used as a pattern by the Seanchan."
"This is unsettling to see," Sorilea said. "If one of the Shadowsouled, or even one of the Seanchan, captured him with this. . . ."
"Light protect us all," Bair whispered.
"And the people who have these are the same people with whom al'Thor wishes to make peace?" Sorilea shook her head. "Creation of these abominations alone should warrant a blood feud. I heard that there were others like it. What of those?"
"Stored elsewhere," Cadsuane said, shutting the lid. "Along with the female a'dam we took. Some acquaintances of mine—Aes Sedai who have retired from the world—are testing them trying to discover their weakness." They also had Callandor. Cadsuane was loath to let it out of her sight, but she felt that the sword still held secrets that could be teased out.
"I keep this one here because I intend to find a way to test it on a man," she said. "That would be the best way to discover its weaknesses. Al'Thor won't allow any of his Asha'man to be leashed by it, however. Not for the shortest time."
This made Bair uncomfortable. "A little like testing a spear's strength by stabbing it into someone," she muttered.
Sorilea, however, nodded in agreement. She understood.
One of the first things Cadsuane had done after capturing those female a'dam was put one on and practice ways to escape from it. She'd done so under carefully controlled circumstances, of course, with women she trusted to help her escape. They'd eventually had to do that. Cadsuane had been able to discover no way out on her own.
But if your enemy was planning to do something to you, you had to discover how to counter it. Even if that meant leashing yourself. Al'Thor couldn't see this. When she asked, he simply muttered about "that bloody box" and being beaten.
"We have to do something about that man," Sorilea said, meeting Cadsuane's eyes. "He has grown worse since we last met."