The Gathering Storm

Rand leaned forward. "Do you lie to me?" he asked softly.

Her mouth opened, perhaps in shock at his bluntness. The Domani were no Cairhienin—who had a seemingly inborn political craftiness— but they were a subtle people. Particularly the women.

Rand was neither subtle nor crafty. He was a sheepherder turned conqueror, and his heart was that of a Two Rivers man, even if his blood was Aiel. Whatever politicking she was used to playing, it wouldn't work on him. He had no patience for games.

"I . . ." Milisair said, staring at him. "My Lord Dragon. . . ."

What was she hiding? "What did you do with him?" Rand asked, making a guess. "The messenger?"

"He knew nothing of the King's location," Milisair said quickly, the words seeming to spill from her. "My questioners were quite thorough."

"He is dead?"

"I. . . . No, my Lord Dragon."

"Then you will have him brought to me."

She paled further, and glanced to one side, perhaps reflexively seeking escape. "My Lord Dragon," she said hesitantly, bringing her eyes back to him. "Now that you are here, perhaps the King will remain . . . hidden. Perhaps there is no need to seek him out further."

She thinks he's dead too, Rand thought. It has made her take risks.

"There is need to find Alsalam," Rand said, "or at least discover what happened to him. We need to know his fate so that you can choose a new king. That is how it happens, correct?"

"I'm certain you can be crowned quickly, my Lord Dragon," she said smoothly.

"I will not be king here," Rand said. "Bring me the messenger, Milisair, and perhaps you will live to see a new king crowned. You are dismissed."

She hesitated, then curtsied again and withdrew. Rand caught a glimpse of Min standing outside with the Aiel, watching the merchant depart. He caught her eyes, and she looked troubled. Had she seen any viewings about Milisair? He almost called to her, but she vanished, walking away with a quick step. To the side, Alivia watched her go with curiosity. The former damane had stayed aloof recently, as if biding her time, waiting until she could fulfill her destiny in helping Rand die.

He found himself standing. That look in Min's eyes. Was she angry with him? Was she remembering his hand at her neck, his knee pressing her against the floor?

He sat back down. Min could wait. "All right," he said, addressing the Aiel. "Bring me my scribes and stewards, along with Rhuarc, Bael and whatever city worthies haven't fled the city or been killed in riots. We need to go over the grain distribution plans."

The Aiel sent runners and Rand settled back into his chair. He would see the people fed, restore order and gather the Council of Merchants. He would even see that a new king was chosen.

But he would also find out where Alsalam had gone. For there, his instincts said, was the best place to find Graendal. It was his best lead.

If he did find her, he would see that she died by balefire, just like Semirhage. He would do what must be done.

CHAPTER 30

Old Advice

Gawyn remembered very little of his father—the man had never been much of a father, to him at least—but he did have a strong memory of a day in the Caemlyn palace gardens. Gawyn had been standing beside a small pond, pitching pebbles into it. Taringail had walked past down the Rose March, young Galad at his side.

The scene was still vivid in Gawyn's mind. The heavy scent of the roses in full bloom. The silver ripples on the pond, the minnows scattering away from the miniature boulder he'd just tossed at them. He could picture his father well. Tall, handsome, hair with a slight wave to it. Galad had been straight-backed and somber even then. A few months later, Galad would rescue Gawyn from drowning in that very pond.

Gawyn could hear his father speak words that he'd never forgotten. Whatever else one thought of Taringail Damodred, this bit of advice rang true. "There are two groups of people you should never trust," the man had been saying to Galad as they passed. "The first are pretty women. The second are Aes Sedai. Light help you, son, if you ever have to face someone who is both." Light help you, son.

"I simply cannot see disobeying the Amyrlin's express will in this matter," Lelaine said primly, stirring ink in the small jar on her desk. No man trusted beautiful women, for all their fascination with them. But few realized what Taringail had said—that a pretty girl, like a coal that had cooled just enough to no longer look hot, could be far, far more dangerous.

Lelaine wasn't beautiful, but she was pretty, particularly when she smiled. Slender and graceful, without a speck of gray in her dark hair, an almond face with full lips. She looked up at him with eyes that were far too comely to belong to a woman of her craftiness. And she seemed to know. She understood that she was just attractive enough to draw attention, but not stunning enough to make men wary.

She was a woman of the most dangerous type. One who felt real, who made men think they might be able to hold her attention. She wasn't pretty like Egwene, who made you want to spend time with her. This woman's smile made you want to count the knives on your belt and in your boot, just to make sure none of them had found their way into your back while you were distracted.

Gawyn stood beside her writing table, shaded by the straight-topped blue tent. He hadn't been invited to sit, and he had not asked for the privilege. Talking to an Aes Sedai, particularly an important one, required wits and sobriety. He'd rather stand. Perhaps it would keep him more alert.

"Egwene is trying to protect you," Gawyn said, controlling his frustration. "That's why she commanded you to forgo a rescue. She obviously doesn't want you to risk yourselves. She is self-sacrificing to a fault." If she weren't, he added in his mind, she'd never have let you all bully her into pretending to be the Amyrlin Seat.