Knife of Dreams by Robert Jordan
Graendal's gown turned a darker gray, regrettably obscuring the view. It was real streith. Aran'gar had found a pair of stasis-boxes herself, but filled with the most appalling rubbish for the most part. "Has it occurred to you that this room must have ears? The zomaran were here when I arrived."
"Graendal." She purred the name. "If Moridin is listening, he'll assume I'm trying to get into your bed. He knows I never made alliances with anyone." In truth, she had made several, but her allies always seemed to suffer fatal misfortunes once their usefulness ended, and they took all knowledge of the affiliations to their graves. Those who found graves.
The streith went black as midnight in Larcheen, and spots of color appeared on Graendal's creamy cheeks. Her eyes became blue ice. But her words were at odds with her face, and her gown faded to near transparency as she spoke, slowly, sounding thoughtful. "An intriguing notion. One I've never before considered. I might do so now. Perhaps. You will have to . . . convince me, though." Good. The other woman was as quick-witted as ever. It was a reminder that she must be careful. She meant to use Graendal and dispose of her, not be caught in one of her traps.
"I am very good at convincing beautiful women." She stretched out a hand to caress Graendal's cheek. Now was not too soon to begin convincing the others. Besides, something more than an alliance might come of it. She had always fancied Graendal. She no longer really remembered having been a man. In her memories, she wore the body she did now, which did make for a few oddities, yet that body's influence had not changed everything. Her appetites had not altered, only broadened. She would like very much to have that streith gown. And anything else useful that Graendal might possess, of course, but she dreamed of wearing that dress sometimes. The only reason she was not wearing one now was that she would not have the other woman thinking she had imitated her.
The streith remained barely opaque, but Graendal stepped away from the caress looking past Aran'gar, who turned to find Mesaana approaching, flanked by Demandred and Semirhage. He still appeared angry, and Semirhage coolly amused. Mesaana was still pale, but no longer subdued. No, not subdued at all. She was a hissing coreer, spitting venom.
"Why did you let her go, Aran'gar? You were supposed to be controlling her! Were you so busy playing your little dream-games with her that you forgot to learn what she was thinking? The rebellion will fall apart without her for a figurehead. All my careful planning ruined because you couldn't keep a grasp on one ignorant girl!"
Aran'gar held on to her temper firmly. She could hold it, when she was willing to make the effort. Instead of snarling, she smiled. Could Mesaana actually have based herself inside the White Tower? How wonderful it would be if she could find a way to split that threesome apart. "I listened in on a sitting of the rebels' Hall last night. In the World of Dreams, so they could meet inside the White Tower, with Egwene leading it. She's not the figurehead you believe. I've tried telling you before, but you never listened." That came out too hard. With an effort, and it required effort, she moderated her tone. "Egwene told them all about the situation inside the Tower, the Ajahs at one another's throats. She convinced them it's the Tower that is about to fall apart, and that she might be able to help it along from where she is. Were I you, I'd worry whether the Tower can hold together long enough to keep this conflict going."
"They're determined to hold on?" Mesaana murmured, half under her breath. She nodded. "Good. Good. Then everything is proceeding according to plan. I had been thinking I would need to stage some sort of 'rescue,' but perhaps I can wait until Elaida has broken her. Her return should create even more confusion, then. You need to sow more dissension, Aran'gar. Before I'm done, I want these so-called Aes Sedai hating each other in their blood."
A zomara appeared, bowing gracefully as it offered a tray with three goblets. Mesaana and her companions took the wine without a glance at the creature, and it bowed again before flowing away.
"Dissension was always something she was good at," Semirhage said. Demandred laughed.
Aran'gar forced her anger down. Sipping her own wine—it was quite good, with a heady aroma, if nowhere near the vintages served at the Gardens—she laid her free hand on Graendal's shoulder and toyed with one of those sun-colored curls. The other woman never flinched, and the streith remained a bare mist. Either she was enjoying this, or she had better control of herself than seemed possible. Semirhage's smile grew more amused. She, too, took her pleasures where she found them, though Semirhage's pleasures had never attracted Aran'gar.
"If you're going to fondle one another," Demandred growled, "do it in private."
"Jealous?" Aran'gar murmured, and laughed lightly at his scowl. "Where is the girl kept, Mesaana? She didn't say."
Mesaana's big blue eyes narrowed. They were her best feature, yet only ordinary when she frowned. "Why do you want to know? So you can 'rescue' her yourself? I won't tell you."
Graendal hissed, and Aran'gar realized that her hand had become a fist in that golden hair, bending Graendal's head back. The other woman's face remained tranquil, but her gown was a red mist and rapidly growing darker, more opaque. Aran'gar loosened her grip, holding on lightly. One of the first steps was making your quarry accustomed to your touch. She did nothing to keep the anger from her voice this time, however. Her bared teeth were an undisguised snarl. "I want the girl, Mesaana. Without her, I have much weaker tools to work with."
Mesaana sipped wine calmly before responding. Calmly! "By your own account, you don't need her at all. It has been my plan from the start, Aran'gar. I will adapt it according to need, but it is mine. And I will decide when and where the girl is set free."
"No, Mesaana, I will decide when and where, or whether, she is freed," Moridin announced, striding through the stone arch. So he had set ears in place. He was in unrelieved black this time, a black somehow darker than what Semirhage wore. As usual. Moghedien and Cyndane followed him, both attired in identical red-and-black that suited neither. What hold did he have on them? Moghedien, at least, had never willingly followed anyone. As for that beautiful, bosomy little pale-haired doll Cyndane. . . . Aran'gar had approached her, just to see what might be learned, and the girl had coldly threatened to rip her heart out if Aran'gar touched her again. Hardly the words of someone who submitted easily.
"Sammael appears to have resurfaced," Moridin announced, crossing the floor to take a seat. He was a big man, and he made the ornate high-backed chair seem a throne. Moghedien and Cyndane sat down to either side of him, but interestingly, not until he had. Zomaran in snowy white were there instantly with wine, yet Moridin received his first. Whatever was at work there, the zomaran sensed it.
"That hardly seems possible," Graendal said as they all moved to take chairs. Her gown was dark gray now, concealing everything. "He must be dead." No one moved quickly, though. Moridin was Nae'blis, yet no one except Moghedien and Cyndane was willing to display any hint of subservience. Aran'gar certainly was not.
She took a seat across from Moridin, where she could watch him without seeming to. And Moghedien and Cyndane. Moghedien was so still she would have faded into the chair except for her bright dress. Cyndane was a queen, her face chiseled from ice. Trying to pull down the Nae'blis was dangerous, yet those two might hold the key. If she could figure out how to turn it. Graendal sat down beside her, and the chair was suddenly closer. Aran'gar could have laid her hand on the other woman's wrist but refrained from anything more than a slow smile. It was best to keep her mind centered right then.
"He could never have borne staying hidden this long,” Demandred put in, lounging into his chair between Semirhage and Mesaana, legs crossed as though perfectly at ease. That seemed doubtful. He was another who was unreconciled, she was sure. "Sammael needed to have every eye directed at him."
"Nevertheless, Sammael, or someone disguised as him, gave orders to Myrddraal, and they obeyed, so it was one of the Chosen." Moridin scanned around the chairs as though he could detect who it had been. Black saa trickled across his blue
"Are you going to tell us what these orders were?” Semirhage's tone was cool, and she sipped her wine calmly, watching Moridin over the goblet's rim. She sat very erect, but she always did. She too appeared completely at ease, yet that was unlikely.
Moridin's jaw tightened. "I don't know.'' he said at last, reluctantly. He never liked saying that. "But they sent a hundred Myrddraal and thousands of Trollocs into the Ways."
"That sounds like Sammael," Demandred said thoughtfully, twisting his goblet and studying the swirling wine. "Perhaps I was mistaken." A remarkable admission, coming from him. Or an attempt to hide being the one who had worn Sammael as a disguise. She would like very much to know who had begun playing her own game. Or whether Sammael really was alive.
Moridin grunted sourly. "Pass orders to your Friends of the Dark. Any report of Trollocs or Myrddraal outside the Blight is to be handed to me as soon as you receive it. The Time of Return is coming soon. No one is allowed to go adventuring on their own any longer." He studied them again, each in turn save for Moghedien and Cyndane. With a smile even more languorous than Graendal's, Aran'gar met his gaze. Mesaana shrank back from it.
"As you learned to your sorrow," he told Mesaana, and impossible as it seemed, her face went paler still. She took a long drink from her goblet, her teeth clicking on the crystal. Semirhage and Demandred avoided looking at her.
Aran'gar exchanged looks with Graendal. Something had been done to punish Mesaana's failure to appear at Shadar Logoth, but what? Once, dereliction on that scale would have meant death. They were too few for that, now. Cyndane and Moghedien appeared as curious as she was, so they did not know either.
"We can see the signs as clearly as you, Moridin," Demandred said irritably. "The Time is near. We need to find the rest of the seals on the Great Lord's prison. I've had my followers searching everywhere, but they've found nothing.''
"Ah, yes. The seals. Indeed, they must be found." Moridin's smile was almost complacent. "Only three remain, all in al'Thor's possession, though I doubt he has them with him. They're too susceptible to breaking, now. He will have hidden them. Direct your people to places he has been. Search them yourselves."
"The easiest way is to kidnap Lews Therin." In strong contrast to her ice-maiden appearance, Cyndane's voice was breathy and sultry, a voice made for lying on soft pillows wearing very little. There was considerable heat in those big blue eyes, now. A searing heat. "I can make him tell where the seals are."
"No!" Moridin snapped, fixing her with a steady stare. "You would 'accidentally' kill him. The time and manner of al'Thor's death will be at my choosing. No one else." Strangely, he put his free hand to the breast of his coat, and Cyndane flinched. Moghedien shivered. "No one else," he repeated, in a hard voice.
"No one else," Cyndane said. When he lowered his hand, she exhaled softly then took a swallow of wine. Sweat glistened on her forehead.
Aran'gar found the exchange illuminating. It seemed that once she had disposed of Moridin, she would have Moghedien and the girl on leashes. Very good, indeed.
Moridin straightened himself in his chair, directing that stare at the rest of them. "That goes for all of you. Al'Thor is mine. You will not harm him in any way!" Cyndane bent her head over her goblet, sipping, but the hatred in her eyes was plain. Graendal had said she was not Lanfear, that she was weaker in the One Power, but she surely was fixated on al'Thor, and she called him by the same name Lanfear had always used.
"If you want to kill someone," he went on. "kill these two!" Suddenly the semblances of two young men in rough country clothes stood in the center of the circle, turning so that everyone could get a good look at their faces. One was tall and wide, with yellow eyes, of all things, while the other was not quite slender and wore a cheeky grin. Creations of Tel’aran'rhiod, they moved stiffly and their expressions never altered. "Perrin Aybara and Mat Cauthon are ta'veren, easily found. Find them, and kill them."
Graendal laughed, a mirthless sound. "Finding ta'veren was never as simple as you made out, and now it's harder than ever. The whole Pattern is in flux, full of shifts and spikes."
"Perrin Aybara and Mat Cauthon," Semirhage murmured, inspecting the two shapes. "So that is what they look like. Who knows, Moridin. If you had shared this with us before now, they might already have been dead."
Moridin's fist came down hard on the arm of his chair. "Find them! Make doubly sure that your followers know their faces. Find Aybara and Cauthon and kill them! The Time is coming, and they must be dead!"
Aran'gar took a sip of her wine. She had no objections to killing these two if she happened to come across them, but Moridin was going to be terribly disappointed over Rand al'Thor.
CHAPTER 4 A Deal
Perrin sat Stepper's saddle a little back from the edge of the trees and watched the large meadow where red and blue wildflowers were beginning to poke through the winter-brown grass that the now vanished snows had flattened into a mat. This stand was mainly leatherleaf that kept its broad dark foliage through the winter, but only a few small pale leaves decorated the branches of the sweet-gums among them. The dun stallion stamped a hoof with an impatience Perrin shared, though he let none of it show. The sun stood almost overhead; he had been waiting there nearly an hour. A stiff, steady breeze blew out of the west, down the meadow toward him. That was good.
Every so often his gauntleted hand stroked a nearly straight branch hacked from an oak, thicker than his forearm and more than twice as long, that lay across the saddle in front of him. For half its length he had shaved two sides flat and smooth. The meadow, ringed by huge oaks and leatherleaf, towering pine and shorter sweetgum, was less than six hundred paces wide, though longer than that. The branch should be broad enough. He had planned for every possibility he could imagine. The branch fit more than one.
"My Lady First, you should return to the camp," Gallenne said, not for the first time, rubbing irritably at his red eyepatch. His crimson-plumed helmet hung from the pommel of his saddle, leaving his shoulder-length gray hair uncovered. He had been heard to say, in Berelain's hearing, that most of those gray hairs were presents from her. His black warhorse tried to take a nip at Stepper, and he reined the heavy-chested gelding sharply without taking his attention from Berelain. He had counseled against her coming in the first place. "Grady can take you back and return while the rest of us wait a while longer to see whether the Seanchan are going to show up."
"I will remain, Captain. I will remain." Berelain's tone was firm and calm, yet beneath her usual smell of patience lay an edge of concern. She was not so certain as she made herself sound. She had taken to wearing a light perfume that smelled of flowers. Perrin sometimes found himself trying to puzzle out which flowers, but he was too focused for idle thoughts today.
Vexation spiked in Annoura’s scent, though her ageless Aes Sedai face, framed by dozens of thin braids, remained as smooth as ever. But then, the beak-nosed Gray sister had smelled vexed ever since the rift between her and Berelain. It was her own fault, visiting Masema behind Berelain's back. She also had counseled Berelain to stay behind. Annoura edged her brown mare closer to the First of Mayene, and Berelain moved her white mare just that far away without so much as a glance in her advisor's direction. Vexation spiked again.
Berelain's red silk dress, heavily embroidered in golden scrollwork, displayed more bosom than she had in some time, though a wide necklace of firedrops and opals provided a degree of modesty. A wide matching belt, supporting a jeweled dagger, cinched her waist. The narrow crown of Mayene resting on her black hair, holding a golden hawk in flight above her brows, appeared ordinary beside the belt and necklace. She was a beautiful woman, the more so, it seemed to him, since she had stopped chasing him, though still not a patch on Faile, of course.
"She must come," Arganda muttered. A short stocky man, Alliandre's First Captain had not removed his silvered helmet with its three short white plumes, and he sat his saddle, easing his sword in its scabbard, as though awaiting a charge. His breastplate was silver-plated, too. He would be visible for miles out in the sunlight. "She must!"
"The Prophet says they won't." Aram put in, and not softly, heeling his leggy gray up beside Stepper. The brass wolfhead pommel of his sword stuck up over the shoulder of his green-striped coat. Once, he had seemed too good looking for a man, but now his face grew grimmer every day. There was a haggardness about him, his eyes sunken and his mouth tight. "The Prophet says either that, or it's a trap. He says we shouldn't trust the Seanchan."
Perrin held his silence, but felt his own spike of irritation, as much with himself as with the onetime Tinker. Balwer had informed him that Aram had begun spending time with Masema, yet it had seemed unnecessary to tell the man not to let Masema know everything Perrin was doing. There was no putting the egg back into the shell, but he would know better in the future. A workman should know his tools, and not use them to breaking. The same went for people. As for Masema, no doubt he was afraid they would meet someone who knew he himself was dealing with the Seanchan.