A Crown of Swords (34 page)

As though the thought of spies had made her more sensitive, she became aware of being watched by unseen eyes. That sensation was always present in
Tel’aran’rhiod
, and not even the Wise Ones knew why, but although hidden eyes always seemed to be there, actual watchers might be present as well. It was not Romanda or Lelaine on her mind, now.

Trailing her hand against the column, she walked all the way around it slowly, studying the redstone forest as it ran away in deepening shadows. The light surrounding her was not real; anybody in one of those shadows would see the same light around them while shadows hid her. People did appear, men and women, flickering images that rarely lasted more than a few heartbeats. She had no interest in those who touched the World of Dreams in their sleep; anyone might do that by happenstance, but luckily for them, only for moments, seldom long enough to face any of the dangers. The Black Ajah possessed dream
ter’angreal
, too, stolen from the Tower. Worse, Moghedien knew
Tel’aran’rhiod
as well as any dreamwalker. Perhaps better. She could control this place and anyone in it as easily as turning her hand.

For a moment Egwene wished she had spied on Moghedien’s dreams while the woman was prisoner, just once, just enough to be able to distinguish them. But even identifying her dreams would not reveal where she was now. And there had been the possibility of being drawn in against her will. She certainly despised Moghedien enough, and the Forsaken most assuredly hated her without bounds. What happened in there was not real, not even as real as in
Tel’aran’rhiod
, but you remembered it as if it was. A
night in Moghedien’s power would have been a nightmare she likely would have relived every time she went to sleep for the rest of her life. Maybe awake, too.

Another circuit. What was that? A dark, regally beautiful woman in pearl-covered cap and lace-ruffed gown strode from the shadows and vanished. A Tairen woman dreaming, a High Lady or dreaming herself as one. She might be plain and dumpy, a farmwife or a merchant, awake.

Better to have spied on Logain than Moghedien. She still would not know where he was, but she might have some idea of his plans. Of course, being pulled into his dream might not have been much more pleasant than being drawn into Moghedien’s. He hated all Aes Sedai. Arranging his escape had been one of those necessary things; she just hoped the price would not be too high. Forget Logain. Moghedien was the danger, Moghedien who might come after her, even here, especially here, Moghedien who. . . . Suddenly she became aware of how heavily she was moving, and made a vexed sound in her throat, very nearly a groan. The beautiful gown had become a full set of plate-and-mail armor like that of Gareth Bryne’s heavy cavalry. An open-faced helmet rested on her head, with a crest in the shape of the Flame of Tar Valon, by the feel. It was very irritating. She was beyond this sort of lack of control.

Firmly she changed the armor to what she had worn meeting the Wise Ones before. It was just a matter of thought. Full skirt of dark wool and loose white
algode
blouse, just as she had worn while studying with them, complete with a fringed shawl so green it was nearly black and a folded head scarf to hold her hair back. She did not duplicate their jewelry, of course, all the multitudes of necklaces and bracelets. They would laugh at her for that. A woman built her collection over the years, not in the blink of a dream.

“Logain is on his way to the Black Tower,” she said aloud; she certainly hoped he was; at least there would be some check on him then, or so she hoped, and if he was caught and gentled again, Rand could not blame any sister following her, “and Moghedien has no way of knowing where I am.” That, she tried to make sound a certainty.

“Why should you fear the Shadowsouled?” asked a voice behind her, and Egwene tried to climb into the air. This being
Tel’aran’rhiod
, and she a dreamwalker, she was more than her own height above the floorstones before she came to herself.
Oh, yes
she thought, floating,
I’m far beyond all those beginner’s mistakes
. If this went on, next she would be jumping when Chesa gave her good morning.

Hoping she was not blushing too badly, she let herself settle slowly; perhaps she could retain a little dignity.

Perhaps, yet Bair’s aged face had more creases than usual from a grin that seemed nearly to touch her ears. Unlike the other two women with her, she could not channel, but that had nothing to do with dreamwalking. She was as skilled as either, more in some areas. Amys was smiling too, if not so broadly, but sun-haired Melaine threw back her head and roared.

“I have never seen anyone . . .” Melaine just managed to get out. “Like a rabbit.” She gave a little hop and lifted a full pace into the air.

“I recently caused Moghedien some hurt.” Egwene was quite proud of her poise. She liked Melaine—the woman was much less thorny since she was with child; with twins, actually—but at the moment Egwene could have strangled her cheerfully. “Some friends and I damaged her pride, if not much more. I think she would like the opportunity to repay me.” On impulse, she changed her clothes once more, to the sort of riding dress she wore every day now, in lustrous green silk. The Great Serpent encircled her finger with gold. She could not tell them everything, but these women were friends too, and they deserved to know what she could tell.

“Wounds to the pride are remembered long after wounds to the flesh.” Bair’s voice was thin and high, yet strong, a reed of iron.

“Tell us about it,” Melaine said, with an eager smile. “How did you shame her?” Bair’s was just as enthusiastic. In a cruel land, you either learned to laugh at cruelty or spent your life weeping; in the Three-fold Land, the Aiel had learned to laugh long since. Besides, shaming an enemy was considered an art.

Amys studied Egwene’s new clothes for a moment, then said, “That can come later, I think. We are to talk, you said.” She gestured to where the Wise Ones liked to talk, out beneath the vast dome at the heart of the chamber.

Why they chose that spot was another mystery Egwene could not puzzle out. The three women settled themselves cross-legged, spreading their skirts neatly, only a few paces from what seemed to be a sword made of gleaming crystal, rising hilt-first from where it had been driven into the floor-stones. They paid it no mind whatsoever—it was no part of their prophecies—any more than they did the people who flashed into existence around the great chamber, but here was always where they came.

Fabled
Callandor
would indeed function as a sword despite its appearance, but in truth it was a male
sa’angreal
, one of the most powerful ever made in the Age of Legends. She felt a little shiver, thinking of male
sa’angreal
. It had been different when there was only Rand. And the Forsaken, of course. But now there were these Asha’man. With
Callandor
, a man could draw enough of the One Power to level a city in a heartbeat and devastate everything for miles. She walked wide around it, holding her skirts aside reflexively. From the Heart of the Stone Rand had drawn
Callandor
in fulfillment of the Prophecies, then returned it for his own reasons. Returned it, and snared it round with traps woven in
saidin
. They would have their reflection, too, one that might trigger as decisively as the original should the wrong weaves be tried nearby. Some things in
Tel’aran’rhiod
were all too real.

Trying not to think of the Sword That Is Not a Sword, Egwene placed herself before the three Wise Ones. Fastening their shawls around their waists, they unlaced their blouses. That was how Aiel women sat with friends, in their tents beneath a hot sun. She did not sit, and if that made her seem a supplicant or on trial, so be it. In a way, in her heart, she was. “I’ve not told you why I was summoned away from you, and you have not asked.”

“You will tell us when you are ready,” Amys said complacently. She looked of an age with Melaine despite hair white as Bair’s tumbling to her waist—her hair had begun turning when she was little older than Egwene—but she was the leader among the three, not Bair. For the first time, Egwene wondered just how old she was. Not a question you asked a Wise One, any more than an Aes Sedai.

“When I left you, I was one of the Accepted. You know about the division in the White Tower.” Bair shook her head and grimaced; she knew, but she did not understand. None of them did. To Aiel, it was as unreal as clan or warrior society dividing against itself. Perhaps it was also affirmation in their eyes that Aes Sedai were less than they should be. Egwene went on, surprised that her voice was collected, steady. “The sisters who oppose Elaida have raised me as their Amyrlin. When Elaida is pulled down, I will sit on the Amyrlin Seat, in the White Tower.” She added the striped stole to her clothes and waited. Once she had lied to them, a serious transgression under
ji’e’toh
, and she was not sure how they would react to learning this truth she had hidden. If only they believed, at least. They merely looked at her.

“There is a thing children do,” Melaine said carefully after a time. Her pregnancy did not show yet, but already she had the inner radiance, making her even more beautiful than usual, and an inward, unshakable calm. “Children all want to push spears, and they all want to be the clan chief,
but eventually they realize that the clan chief seldom dances the spears himself. So they make a figure and set it on a rise.” Off to one side the floor suddenly mounded up, no longer stone tiles but a ridge of sun-baked brown rock. Atop it stood a shape vaguely like a man, made of twisted twigs and bits of cloth. “This is the clan chief who commands them to dance the spears from the hill where he can see the battle. But the children run where they will, and their clan chief is only a figure of sticks and rags.” A wind whipped the cloth strips, emphasizing the hollowness of the shape, and then ridge and figure were gone.

Egwene drew a deep breath. Of course. She had atoned for her lie according to
ji’e’toh
, by her own choice, and that meant it was as if the lie had never been spoken. She should have known better. But they had struck to the heart of her situation as though they had been weeks in the Aes Sedai camp. Bair studied the floor, not wanting to witness her shame. Amys sat with chin in hand, sharp blue gaze trying to dig to her heart.

“Some see me so.” Another deep breath, and she pushed the truth out. “All but a handful do. Now. By the time we finish our battle, they will know I
am
their chief, and they will run as
I
say.”

“Return to us,” Bair said. “You have too much honor for these women. Sorilea already has a dozen young men picked out for you to view in the sweat tents. She has a great desire to see you make a bridal wreath.”

“I hope she will be there when I wed, Bair”—to Gawyn, she hoped; that she would bond him, she knew from interpreting her dreams, but only hope and the certainty of love said they would wed—“I hope all of you will, but I’ve made my choice.”

Bair would have argued further, and Melaine too, but Amys raised a hand, and they fell silent, if not pleased. “There is much
ji
in her decision. She will bend her enemies to her will, not run from them. I wish you well in your dance, Egwene al’Vere.” She had been a Maiden of the Spear, and often thought as one still. “Sit. Sit.”

“Her honor is her own,” Bair said, frowning at Amys, “but I have another question.” Her eyes were an almost watery blue, yet when they turned on Egwene, they were sharp as ever Amys’ had been. “Will you bring these Aes Sedai to kneel to the
Car’a’carn
?”

Startled, Egwene nearly fell the last foot to the floorstones rather than sitting. There was no hesitation in her answer, though. “I can’t do that, Bair. And would not if I could. Our loyalty is to the Tower, to the Aes Sedai as a whole, above even the lands we were born in.” That was true, or was supposed to be, though she wondered how the claim squared in their
minds with her and the others’ rebellion. “Aes Sedai don’t even swear fealty to the Amyrlin, and certainly not to any man. That would be like one of you kneeling to a clan chief.” She made an illustration the way Melaine had, by concentrating on its reality;
Tel’aran’rhiod
was infinitely malleable if you knew how. Beyond
Callandor
three Wise Ones dropped to their knees before a clan chief. The man strongly resembled Rhuarc, the women the three in front of her. She only held it for an instant, but Bair glanced at it and sniffed loudly. The notion
was
preposterous.

“Do not compare those women to us.” Melaine’s green eyes sparkled with something very like their old sharpness; her tone was honed like a razor.

Egwene held her tongue. The Wise Ones seemed to despise Aes Sedai, all except her, or perhaps better to say they were contemptuous. She thought they might actually resent the prophecies that linked them to Aes Sedai. Before she had been summoned by the Hall to be raised Amyrlin, Sheriam and her circle of friends had met here regularly with these three, but that had ended as much because the Wise Ones refused to hide their contempt as because Egwene finally had been called. In
Tel’aran’rhiod
, a confrontation with someone more familiar with the place could be mortifying in the extreme. Even with Egwene, there was a distance now, and certain matters they would not discuss, such as whatever they knew of Rand’s plans. Before, she had been one with them, a student in dreamwalking; after, she was Aes Sedai, even before they learned what she had just told them.

“Egwene al’Vere will do as she must,” Amys said. Melaine gave her a long look and rearranged her shawl ostentatiously, shifted several long necklaces in a clatter of ivory and gold, but said nothing. Amys seemed even more the leader than she had been. The only Wise One Egwene had ever seen make other Wise Ones defer to her so easily was Sorilea.

Bair had imagined tea before her, as it might be in the tents, a golden teapot worked with lions from one country, a silver tray edged in ropework from another, tiny green cups of delicate Sea Folk porcelain. The tea tasted real, of course, felt real going down. Despite a hint of some sweet berry or herb she did not recognize, it was too bitter for Egwene’s tongue. She imagined a little honey in it and took another sip. Too sweet. A touch less honey. Now it tasted right. That was something you could not do with the Power. Egwene doubted that anyone had the skill to weave threads of
saidar
fine enough to remove honey from tea.