The Gathering Storm

The woman, Shemerin, sighed but stood up.

"Come on," Bryne said to Gawyn. "I have no doubt that they'll also want to talk to you. Best to get this over with quickly."

CHAPTER 25

In Darkness

Sheriam peeked into her dark tent, hesitant, but saw nothing inside. Allowing herself a smile of satisfaction, she stepped in and drew the flaps closed. Things were going quite well, for once.

Of course, she still checked her tent before she entered, searching for the one who had sometimes lurked inside. The one whom she'd never been able to sense, yet always felt as though she should. Yes, Sheriam still checked, and probably would for months yet—but there was no need, now. No phantom waited to punish her.

The square little tent was large enough to stand up in, with a cot along one side and a trunk along the other. There was just room for a desk, but it would so crowd the space that she'd barely be able to move. Besides, there was a perfectly acceptable desk nearby, in Egwene's unused tent.

There had been talk of giving that tent to someone else—most sisters had to share, though more tents were being brought in each week. However, the Amyrlin's tent was a symbol. As long as there was hope of Egwene's return, her tent should wait for her. It was kept neat by the inconsolable Chesa, whom Sheriam still caught crying about her mistress's captivity. Well, so long as Egwene was away, that tent was functionally Sheriam's for all but sleeping. After all, an Amyrlin's Keeper was expected to look after her affairs.

Sheriam smiled again, sitting down on her cot. Not long ago, her life had been a perpetual cycle of frustration and pain. Now that was over. Bless Romanda. Whatever else Sheriam thought of the fool woman, Ro-manda had been the one to chase Halima—and Sheriam's punishments— out of the camp.

Pain would come again. There was always agony and punishment involved in the service she gave. But she had learned to take the times of peace and cherish them.

At times, she wished she'd kept her mouth closed, not asked questions. But she had, and here she was. Her allegiances had brought her power, as promised. But nobody had warned her of the pain. Not infrequently she wished she'd chosen the Brown and hidden herself away in a library somewhere, never to see others. But now she was where she was. There was no use wondering about what could have happened.

She sighed, then removed her dress and changed her shift. She did so in the dark; candles and oil were both rationed, and with the rebels' funds drying up, she'd need to hide away what she had for later use.

She climbed onto the cot, pulling up the blanket. She wasn't so naive as to feel guilty about the things she'd done. Every sister in the White Tower tried to get ahead; that's what life was about! There wasn't an Aes Sedai who wouldn't stab her sisters in the back if she thought it would give her advantage. Sheriam's friends were just a little more . . . practiced at it.

But why had the end of days had to come now of all times? Others in her association spoke of the glory and great honor of being alive at this time, but Sheriam didn't agree. She'd joined to rise in White Tower politics, to have the power to punish those who spited her. She'd never wanted to participate in some final reckoning with the Dragon Reborn, and she'd certainly never desired to have anything to do with the Chosen!

But nothing could be done now. Best to enjoy the peace of being free of both the beatings and Egwene's self-righteous pratings. Yes indeed. . . .

There was a woman with great strength in the Power standing outside her tent.

Sheriam snapped her eyes open. She could sense other women who could channel, just like any other sister. Bloody ashes! she thought nervously, squeezing her eyes shut. Not again!

The tent flaps rippled. Sheriam opened her eyes to find a jet-black figure standing above her cot; slivers of moonlight passing through the fluttering tent flaps were just enough to outline of the figure's form. It was clothed in an unnatural darkness, ribbons of black cloth fluttering behind it, the face obscured by a deep blackness. Sheriam gasped and threw herself from the cot, making obeisance on the canvas tent bottom. There was barely room enough for her to kneel. She cringed, expecting the pain to come upon her again.

"Ah ..." a rasping voice said. "Very good. You are obedient. I am pleased."

It wasn't Halima. Sheriam had never been able to sense Halima, who it appeared had been channeling saidin all along. Also, Halima had never come in such a ... dramatic way.

Such strength! It seemed likely that this was one of the Chosen. Either that, or at least a very powerful servant of the Great Lord, far above Sheriam. That worried her to the bone, and she trembled as she bowed. "I live to serve, Great Mistress," Sheriam said quickly. "I, who am blessed to bow before you, to live during these times, to—"

"Stop your babbling," the voice growled. "You are well placed in this camp, I understand?"

"Yes, Great Mistress," Sheriam said. "I am the Keeper of the Chronicles."

The figure sniffed. "Keeper to a ragged bunch of would-be Aes Sedai rebels. But that is no matter. I have need of you."

"I live to serve, Great Mistress," Sheriam repeated, growing more worried. What did this creature want of her?

"Egwene al'Vere. She must be deposed."

"What?" Sheriam asked, startled. A switch of Air cracked against her back, and it burned. Fool! Did she want to get herself killed? "My apologies, Great Mistress," she said quickly. "Forgive my outburst. But it was by orders from one of the Chosen that I helped raise her as Amyrlin in the first place!"

"Yes, but she has proven to have been a ... poor choice. We needed a child, not a woman with merely the face of a child. She must be removed. You will make certain this group of foolish rebels stops supporting her. And end those blasted meetings in Tel'aran'rhiod. How is it so many of you get there?"

"We have ter'angreal," Sheriam said, hesitantly. "Several in the shape of an amber plaque, several others in the shape of an iron disc. Then a handful of rings."

"Ah, sleep weavers," the figure said. "Yes, those could be useful. How many?"