The Shadow Rising (The Wheel of Time 4)

“I don’t understand,” Min said. “You knew the rumors were about Rand. Why are you calling the Hall now? What can you do that you could not before?”

Siuan laughed like a girl. “What I can do now is tell them right out that I have received word from an Aes Sedai that the Stone of Tear has fallen and a man has drawn Callandor. Prophecy fulfilled. Enough of it for my purpose, at least. The Dragon is Reborn. They’ll flinch, they’ll argue, but none can oppose my pronouncement that the Tower must guide this man. At last I can involve myself with him openly. Openly for the most part.”

“Are we doing the right thing, Mother?” Leane said abruptly. “I know … . If he has Callandor, he must be the Dragon Reborn, but he can channel, Mother. A man who can channel. I only saw him once, but even then there was something strange about him. Something more than being ta’veren. Mother, is he so very different from Taim when it comes down to it?”

“The difference is that he is the Dragon Reborn, daughter,” the Amyrlin said quietly. “Taim is a wolf, and maybe rabid. Rand al’Thor is the wolfhound we will use to defeat the Shadow. Keep his name to yourself, Leane. Best not to reveal too much too soon.”

“As you say, Mother,” the Keeper said, but she still sounded uneasy.

“Off with you now. I want the Hall assembled in an hour.” Siuan thoughtfully watched the taller woman go. “There may be more resistance than I would wish,” she said when the door clicked shut.

Min looked at her sharply. “You don’t mean … .”

“Oh, nothing serious, child. Not as long as they don’t know how long I have been involved with the al’Thor boy.” She looked at the slip of paper again, then dropped it onto the table. “I could wish Moiraine had told me more.”

“Why didn’t she say more? And why have we not heard from her before this?”

“More questions with you. That one you must ask Moiraine. She has always gone her own way. Ask Moiraine, child.”

Sahra Covenry worked the hoe in desultory fashion, frowning at the tiny sprouts of threadleaf and hensfoot poking up in the rows of cabbages and beets. It was not that Mistress Elward was a harsh taskmistress—she was no more stern than Sahra’s mother, and certainly easier than Sheriam—but Sahra had not gone to the White Tower to end up back on a farm hoeing vegetables with the sun barely up. Her white novice dresses were packed away; she wore brown wool her mother might have sewn, the skirt tied up to her knees to keep it out of the dirt. It was all so unfair. She had not done anything.

Wriggling her bare toes in the turned soil, she glared at a stubborn hensfoot and channeled, meaning to burn it out of the ground. Sparks flashed around the leafy sprout, and it wilted. Hurriedly she sliced the thing out of the dirt and her mind. If there was any fairness in the world, Lord Galad would come to the farm while out hunting.

Leaning on the hoe, she lost herself in a daydream of Healing Galad’s injuries, received in a fall from his horse—not his fault, of course; he was a wonderful horseman—and him lifting her up in front of him on his saddle, declaring he would be her Warder—she would be Green Ajah, of course—and … .

“Sahra Covenry?”

Sahra jumped at the sharp voice, but it was not Mistress Elward. She curtsied as best she could, with her skirts gathered up. “The day’s greeting, Aes Sedai. Have you come to take me back to the Tower?”

The Aes Sedai moved closer, not caring that her skirts dragged through the dirt of the vegetable patch. Despite the summer warmth of the morning, she wore a cloak, the hood pulled up to shadow her face. “Just before you left the Tower, you took a woman to the Amyrlin Seat. A woman calling herself Elmindreda.”

“Yes, Aes Sedai,” Sahra said, a slight question in her voice. She did not like the way the Aes Sedai had said that, as if she had left the Tower for good.

“Tell me everything that you heard or saw, girl, from the moment you took the woman in charge. Everything.”

“But I heard nothing, Aes Sedai. The Keeper sent me away as soon as—” Pain racked her, digging her toes into the dirt, arching her back; the spasm lasted only moments, but it seemed eternal. Struggling for breath, she realized her cheek was pressed to the ground, and her still trembling fingers dug into the soil. She did not remember falling. She could see Mistress Elward’s laundry basket lying on its side near the stone farmhouse, damp linens spilled out in a heap. Dazed, she thought that that was odd; Moria Elward would never leave her washing lying like that.

“Everything, girl,” the Aes Sedai said coldly. She was standing over Sahra now, making no move to help her. She had hurt her; it was not supposed to be that w

ay. “Every person this Elmindreda spoke to, every word she said, every nuance and expression.”

“She spoke to Lord Gawyn, Aes Sedai,” Sahra sobbed into the earth. “That is all I know, Aes Sedai. All.” She began to weep in earnest, sure that was not enough to satisfy this woman. She was right. She did not stop screaming for a long time, and when the Aes Sedai left there was not a sound around the farmhouse except for the chickens, not even breathing.

CHAPTER 18

Into the Ways

Buttoning up his coat, Perrin paused, looking at the axe, still secured on the wall as he had left it since drawing it out of the door. He did not like the idea of carrying the weapon again, but he untied the belt from the peg and buckled it around his waist anyway. The hammer he tied to his already stuffed saddlebags. Draping saddlebags and blanket roll over his shoulder, he gathered a filled quiver and his unstrung longbow from the corner.

The rising sun poured heat and light through the narrow windows. The rumpled bed was the only proof that anyone had stayed here. Already the room had lost the feel of him; it even seemed to smell empty, despite his own scent on the sheets. He never stayed anywhere long enough to make that feel cling past his readiness to leave. Never long enough to put down roots, make it any kind of home. Well, I’m going home now.

Turning his back on the already unoccupied room, he went out.

Gaul rose easily from where he had been squatting against the wall beneath a tapestry of men on horseback hunting lions. He bore all of his weapons, with two leather water bottles, and a rolled blanket and a small cookpot were strapped beside the worked-leather bow case on his back. He was alone.

“The others?” Perrin asked, and Gaul shook his head.

“Too long away from the Three-fold Land. I warned you of that, Perrin. These lands of yours are too wet; the air is like breathing water. There are too many people, too close together. They have seen more than they want of strange places.”