Lord of Chaos (The Wheel of Time 6)

The beads worked in Sarene’s tiny dark braids made clicking noises as she shook her head. “It is not the proof of a Green, Galina. It is not even the proof of an Aes Sedai. I have heard the tales that some Aiel women can channel, these Wise Women. It could be some poor wretch who was put out of the Tower for failing the test as Accepted.”

Galina smiled, a sliver of teeth in night-eyed sternness. “I think it is proof of Moiraine. I have heard she had a trick of eavesdropping, and I do not believe this story of her so conveniently dead, with no corpse seen and no one able to tell details.”

That bothered Sarene as well. Partly because she had liked Moiraine — they had been friends as novices and Accepted, though Moiraine was a year ahead, and that friendship had continued over their few meetings in the years since — and partly because it was too vague and too convenient, Moiraine dying, vanishing really, when an arrest warrant hung over her. Moiraine might well be capable of faking her own death under those circumstances. “So you believe we have both Moiraine and a Green sister whose name we do not know to deal with? It is still only the speculation

, Galina.”

Galina’s smile did not change, but her eyes glittered. She was too hard for logic — she believed what she believed whatever the evidence — yet Sarene had always believed great fires roared somewhere in Galina’s depths. “What I believe,” Galina said, “is that Moiraine is the so-called Green. What better way to hide from arrests than to die and reappear as someone else of another Ajah? I have even heard that this Green is short; we all know Moiraine is far from a tall woman.” Erian had sat up stony straight, her brown eyes large smoldering coals of outrage. “When we lay hands on this Green sister,” Galina told her, “I propose that we give her into your charge for the journey back to the Tower.” Erian nodded sharply, but the heat did not fade from her eyes.

Sarene felt stunned. Moiraine? Claim another Ajah than her own? Surely not. Sarene had never married — it was illogical to believe two people could remain compatible for a lifetime — but the only thing she could compare that to was sleeping with another woman’s husband. But it was the charge that stunned her, not the possibility that it might be true. She was about to point out that there were many short women in the world, and that shortness was relative, when Coiren spoke in that billowing voice.

“Sarene, you must take your turn again. We must be prepared, whatever happens.”

“I do not like it,” Erian said firmly. “It does be like preparing for failure.”

“It is only logical,” Sarene told her. “Dividing time into the smallest possible increments, it is impossible to say with any true certainty what will happen between one and the next. Since chasing al’Thor to Caemlyn might mean we would arrive to find that he has come here, we remain here with as much certainty as we can have that he will eventually return, yet that could be tomorrow or a month from now. Any single event in any hour of that wait, or any combination of events, could leave us with no alternative. Thus, preparation is logical.”

“Very nicely explained,” Erian said dryly. She had no head for logic; sometimes Sarene thought that beautiful women did not, though there was no logic in the connection that she could see.

“We have as much time as we need,” Coiren pronounced. When she was not making a speech, she made pronouncements. “Beldeine arrived today and took a room near the river, but Mayam is not due for two days. We must take care, and that gives us time.”

“I still do not like preparing for failure,” Erian murmured into her teacup.

“I will not take it amiss,” Galina said, “if we find time to take Moiraine to justice. We have waited this long; there is not that much hurry with al’Thor.”

Sarene sighed. They did very well at the things they did, but she could not understand it; there was barely a logical bone in one of them.

Retiring upstairs to her chambers, she seated herself in front of the cold fireplace and began to channel. Could this Rand al’Thor really have rediscovered how to Travel? It surpassed belief, yet it was the only explanation. What sort of man was he? That she would discover when she met him, not before. Filled with saidar nearly to the point where sweetness became pain, she began running through novice exercises. They were as good as anything. Preparation was only logical.

Chapter 26

Connecting Lines

* * *

Thunder rolled across the low, brown grassland hills in a continuous peal, though the sky held not a cloud, only the burning sun, still with a way to climb. On a hilltop, Rand held the reins and the Dragon Scepter on the pommel of his saddle and waited. The thunder swelled. It was hard not to look over his shoulder constantly, south toward Alanna. She had bruised her heel this morning and scraped her hand, and she was in a temper. How and what for, he had no notion; he had no real notion how he could be so sure. The thunder crested.

The Saldaean horsemen appeared over the next rise, three abreast at a dead gallop in a long snake that kept coming, down the slope into the broad sweep between the hills. Nine thousand men made a very long snake. At the foot of the slope they divided, the center column coming on while the others peeled off to right and left, each column dividing again and again until they rode by hundreds, swooping past one another. Riders began standing on their saddles, sometimes on feet, sometimes on hands. Others swung impossibly low to slap the ground on first one side of their galloping mounts, then the other. Men left their saddles entirely to crawl underneath speeding horses, or dropped to the ground to run a pace beside the animal before leaping back into the saddle, then dropping on the other side to repeat the performance.

Rand lifted his reins and heeled Jeade’en. As the dapple moved, so did the Aiel surrounding him. This morning the men were Mountain Dancers, Hama N’dore, more than half wearing the headband of siswai’aman. Caldin, graying and leathery, had tried to get Rand to let him bring more than twenty, what with so many armed wetlanders about; none of the Aiel wasted any time with disparaging looks for Rand’s sword. Nandera spent more time watching the two hundred-odd women who trailed after them on horses; she seemed to find more threat in the Saldaean ladies and officers’ wives than in the soldiers, and having met some of the Saldaean women, Rand was not ready to argue. Sulin would probably have agreed. It occurred to him that he had not seen Sulin in . . . Not since returning from Shadar Logoth. Eight days. He wondered if he had done something to offend her.

This was no time to worry about Sulin or ji’e’toh. He circled around the valley until he reached the hilltop over which the Saldaeans had first appeared to him. Bashere himself rode about down there examining first one group as they went through their paces, then another; almost coincidentally, he just happened to do this standing up on his saddle.

For an instant Rand seized saidin, and released it a heartbeat later. With his vision enhanced, it had not been difficult to see the two white stones lying near the foot of the slope, right where Bashere had placed them personally last night, four paces apart. With luck, no one had seen him. With luck, no one would ask too many questions about this morning. Below, some men were riding two horses now, a foot on each saddle, still at a dead gallop. Others had a man on their shoulders, sometimes in a handstand.

He looked around at the sound of a horse walking toward him. Deira ni Ghaline t’Bashere rode through the Aiel with seeming unconcern; armed only with a small knife at her silver belt, in a riding dress of gray silk embroidered in silver down the sleeves and on the high neck, she appeared to be daring them to attack her. As tall as many of the Maidens, nearly a hand taller than her husband, she was a big woman. Not stout, nor even plump; simply big. She had wings of white in her black hair, and her dark tilted eyes were fixed on Rand. He suspected she was a beautiful woman when his presence did not turn her face to granite.

“Is my husband . . . amusing you?” She never gave Rand a title, never used his name.

He looked at the other Saldaean women. They watched him like a troop of cavalry ready to charge, faces also granite, tilted eyes icy. All they awaited was Deira’s command. He could well believe the stories of Saldaean women taking up fallen husbands’ swords and leading their men back into battle. Being pleasant had gotten him exactly nowhere with Bashere’s wife; Bashere himself only shrugged and said she was a difficult woman at times, all the while grinning with what could only be pride.

“Tell Lord Bashere I am pleased,” he said. Turning Jeade’en, he started back toward Caemlyn. The Saldaean women’s eyes seemed to press against his back.

Lews Therin was giggling; that was the only word for it. Never prod at a woman unless you must. She will kill you faster than a man and for less reason, even if she weeps over it after.

Are you really there? Rand demanded. Is there more to you than a voice? Only that soft, mad laughter answered.

He stewed over Lews Therin all the way back to Caemlyn, and even after they had ridden past one of the long markets of tile roofs lining the approaches to the gates and into the New City. He worried over going mad — not just the fact of it, though that was bad enough; if he went insane, how could he do what he had to do? — but he had seen no sign of it. But then, if his mind did crack, would he know it? He had never seen a madman. All he had to go by was Lews Therin maundering in his head. Did all men go mad alike? Would he end like that, laughing and weeping over things no one else saw or knew? He knew he had a chance to live, if a seemingly impossible one. If you would live, you must die; that was one of three things he knew must be true, told to him inside a ter’angreal where the answers were always true if apparently never easy to understand. But to live like that . . . He was not sure he would not rather die.