A Crown of Swords (The Wheel of Time 7)

“In the Two Rivers, Lan, when somebody gives another a ring, they are betrothed.” That was a lie, and she half-expected him to jump to his feet in outrage, but he only blinked warily. Besides, she had read about the notion in a story. “We have been betrothed long enough. We are going to be married today.”

“I used to pray for that,” he said softly, then shook his head. “You know why it can’t be, Nynaeve. And even if it could, Myrelle — ”

Despite all her promises to keep her temper, to be gentle, she embraced saidar and stuffed a gag of Air into his mouth before he could confess what she did not want to hear. So long as he did not confess, she could pretend nothing had happened. When she got hold of Myrelle, though! Opals pressed hard into her palm, and her hand leaped from her braid as if burned. She occupied her fingers with brushing his hair again while he glared at her indignantly above his gaping mouth. “A small lesson for you in the difference between wives and other women,” she said lightly. Such a struggle. “I would appreciate it very much if you did not mention Myrelle’s name again in my presence. Do you understand?”

He nodded, and she released the flow, but as soon as he had worked his jaw a moment, he said, “Naming no names, Nynaeve, you know she’s aware of everything I feel, through the bond. If we were man and wife . . . ”

She thought her face might burst into flame. She had never thought of that! Bloody Myrelle! “Is there any way to make sure she knows it is me?” she said finally, and her cheeks nearly did flash to fire. Especially when he fell back against the cabin wall laughing in astonishment.

“Light, Nynaeve, you are a hawk! Light! I haven’t laughed since . . . ” His mirth faded, the coldness that had dimmed in his eyes for an instant returning. “I do wish it could be, Nynaeve, but — “

“It can and will,” she broke in. Men always seemed to get the upper hand if you let them talk too long. She plumped herself down on his knees. They were not married yet, true, but he was softer than the unpadded benches on this boat. She shifted a bit to make herself more comfortable. Well, no harder than the benches, anyway. “You might as well reconcile yourself, Lan Mandragoran. My heart belongs to you, and you’ve admitted yours belongs to me. You belong to me, and I will not let you go. You will be my Warder, and my husband, and for a very long time. I will not let you die. Do you understand that? I can be as stubborn as I have to be.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said, and her eyes narrowed. His tone sounded awfully . . . dry.

“As long as you do now,” she said firmly. Twisting her neck, she peered through the piercework in the hull behind him, then craned around to peer through the carving at the front of the cabin. Long stone docks thrusting out from the stone quay passed by; all she could see ahead were more docks, and the city gleaming white in the afternoon sun. “Where are we going?” she muttered.

“I told them to put us ashore as soon as I had you aboard,” Lan said. “It seemed best to get off the river as fast as possible.”

“You . . .?” She clamped her teeth shut. He had not known where she was headed or why; he had done the best he could with what he did know. And he had saved her life. “I can’t go back to the city yet, Lan.” Clearing her throat, she changed her tone. However gentle she had to be with him, that much syrup would make her sick up all over again. “I have to go to the Sea Folk ships, to Windrunner.” Much better; light, but not too light, and firm.

“Nynaeve, I was right behind your boat. I saw what happened. You were fifty paces ahead of me, and then fifty paces behind, sinking. It had to be balefire.” He did not need to say more; she said it for him, and with more knowledge than he had.

“Moghedien,” she breath

ed. Oh, it could have been another of the Forsaken, or one of the Black Ajah perhaps, but she knew. Well, she had beaten Moghedien not once, but twice. She could do so a third time, if necessary. Her face must not have shared her confidence.

“Don’t be afraid,” Lan said, touching her cheek. “Don’t ever be afraid while I’m near. If you have to face Moghedien, I’ll make sure you are angry enough to channel. I seem to have some talent in that direction.”

“You’ll never make me angry again,” she began, and stopped, staring at him wide-eyed. “I’m not angry,” she said slowly.

“Not now, but when you need to be — “

“I’m not angry,” she laughed. She kicked her feet in delight, and pounded her fists on his chest, laughing. Saidar filled her, not just with life and joy, but this time, with awe. With feathery flows of Air, she stroked his cheeks. “I am not angry, Lan,” she whispered.

“Your block is gone.” He grinned, sharing her delight, but the grin put no warmth into his eyes.

I will take care of you, Lan Mandragoran, she promised silently. I will not let you die. Leaning on his chest, she thought of kissing him, and even . . . You are not Calle Coplin, she told herself firmly.

A sudden, horrible thought struck her. All the more horrible because it had not come earlier. “The boatmen?” she said quietly. “My bodyguards?” Wordlessly, he shook his head, and she sighed. Bodyguards. Light, they had needed her protection, not the other way around. Four more deaths to lay at Moghedien’s feet. Four on top of thousands, but these were personal, as far she was concerned. Well, she was not about to settle Moghedien this moment.

Getting to her feet, she began seeing what she could do about her clothes. “Lan, will you turn the boatmen around? Tell them to row for all they have.” As it was, she would not see the palace again before nightfall. “And find out if one of them has such a thing as a comb.” She could not face Nesta like this.

He picked up his coat and sword and gave her a bow. “As you command, Aes Sedai.”

Pursing her lips, she watched the door close behind him. Laughing at her, was he? She would wager someone on Windrunner could perform a marriage. And from what she had seen of the Sea Folk, she would wager Lan Mandragoran would find himself promising to do as he was told. They would see who laughed then.

Lurching and rolling, the boat began to swing around, and her stomach lurched with it.

“Oh, Light!” she groaned, sinking onto the bench. Why could she not have lost that along with her block? Holding saidar, aware of every touch of the air on her skin, only made it worse. Letting go did not help. She was not going to sick up again. She was going to make Lan hers once and for all. This was going to be a wonderful day yet. If only she could stop feeling that storm on the way.

The sun sat luridly just above the rooftops by the time Elayne rapped on the door with her knuckles. Revelers danced and cavorted in the street behind her, filling the air with laughter and song and the scent of perfume. Idly, she wished she had had a chance really to enjoy the festival. A costume like Birgitte’s might have been fun. Or even one like that she had seen on the Lady Riselle, one of Tylin’s attendants, first thing this morning. As long as she could have kept her mask on. She rapped again, harder.

The gray-haired, square-jawed maid opened the door, fury suddenly painting her face when Elayne lowered her green mask. “You! What are you doing back —?” Fury turned to ghastly paleness as Merilille removed her mask, and Adeleas and the others did the same. The woman jerked with each ageless face revealed, and even with Sareitha’s. By that time, maybe she saw what she expected to see.

With a sudden cry, the maid tried to push the door shut, but Birgitte darted past Elayne, her feathered shoulder knocking it back open. The servant staggered a few steps, then gathered herself, but whether to run or shout, Birgitte was there before time, gripping her arm just below the shoulder.

“Easy,” Birgitte said firmly. “We don’t want any fuss or shouting, now do we?” It did seem she was only holding the woman’s arm, almost supporting her, but the maid stood very straight indeed and very still. Staring wide-eyed at her captor’s plume-crested mask, she shook her head slowly.