CHAPTER 5

A Tale of Blood

Rand crossed the trampled manor green, banners flapping before him, tents surrounding him, horses whinnying in their pickets on the far west side. In the air hung the scents of an efficient war camp: smoke and savor from the stewpots were much stronger than the occasional whiff of horse dung or an unwashed body.

Bashere’s men maintained a tidy camp, busying themselves with the hundreds of little tasks that allowed the army to function: sharpening swords, oiling leathers, mending saddles, fetching water from the stream. Some practiced charges to the left, on the far side of the green, in the space between tent lines and the scraggly trees growing alongside the stream. The men held gleaming lances at the level as their horses trampled the muddy ground in a long swath. The maneuvers not only kept their skills sharp, but exercised the horses as well.

As always, Rand was trailed by a flock of attendants. Maidens were his guards, and the Aiel watched the Saldaean soldiers with wariness. Beside him were several Aes Sedai. They were always about him, now. The Pattern had no place for his onetime insistence that all Aes Sedai be kept at arm’s length. It wove as it willed, and experience had shown that Rand needed these Aes Sedai. What he wanted no longer mattered. He understood that now.

It was little comfort that many of these Aes Sedai in his camp had sworn allegiance to him. Everyone knew that Aes Sedai followed their oaths in their own ways, and they would decide what their “fealty” to him would require.

Elza Penfell—who accompanied him this day—was one of those who had sworn to him. Of the Green Ajah, she had a face that might be considered pretty, if one didn’t recognize the ageless quality that marked her as Aes Sedai. She was pleasant, for an Aes Sedai, despite the fact that she had helped kidnap Rand and lock him in a box for days, to be pulled out only for the occasional beating.

In the back of his mind, Lews Therin growled.

That was past. Elza had sworn. That was enough to allow Rand to use her. The other woman attending him today was less predictable; she was a member of Cadsuane’s retinue. Corele Hovian—a slim Yellow with blue eyes, wild dark hair, and a perpetual smile—had sworn no oaths to do as he said. Despite that, he felt a temptation to trust her, since she had once tried to save his life. It was only because of her, Samitsu and Damer Flinn that Rand had survived. One of two wounds in Rand’s side that would not heal—a gift from Padan Fain’s cursed dagger—still lingered as a reminder of that day. The constant pain of that festering evil overlaid the equal pain of an older wound beneath, the one Rand had taken while fighting Ishamael so long ago.

Soon, one of those wounds—or perhaps both—would spill Rand’s blood onto the rocks of Shayol Ghul. He wasn’t certain if they would be what killed him or not; with the number and variety of the different factors competing to take Rand’s life, even Mat wouldn’t have known which one was the best bet.

As soon as Rand thought of Mat, the colors swirled in his vision, forming into the image of a wiry, brown-eyed man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and tossing dice before a small crowd of watching soldiers. Mat wore a grin and seemed to be showing off, which was not unusual, though there didn’t seem to be any coin changing hands for his throws.

The visions came whenever he thought of Mat or Perrin, and Rand had stopped dismissing them. He did not know what caused the images to appear; probably his ta’veren nature interacting with the other two ta’veren from his home village. Whatever it was, he used it. Just another tool. It appeared that Mat was still with the Band, but was no longer camped in a forested land. It was hard to tell from the angle, but he looked to be outside a city somewhere. At least, that was a large road in the near distance. Rand had not seen the small, dark-skinned woman with Mat for some time. Who was she? Where had she gone?

The vision faded. Hopefully, Mat would return to him soon. He would need Mat and his tactical skills at Shayol Ghul.

One of Bashere’s quartermasters—a thick-mustached man with bowlegs and a squat body—saw Rand and approached with a quick step. Rand waved the Saldaean back; he had no mind for supply reports at the moment. The quartermaster saluted immediately and retreated. Once, Rand might have been surprised at how quickly he was obeyed, but no longer. It was right for the soldiers to obey. Rand was a king, though he didn’t wear the Crown of Swords at the moment.

Rand passed through the green, filled with tents and horse pickets now. He left the camp, passing the unfinished earthen bulwark. Here, pine trees continued down the sides of the gentle slope. Tucked into a stand of trees just to the right was the Traveling ground, a square section of ground roped off to provide a safe location for gateways.

One hung in the air at that moment, an opening to another place. A small group of people was making their way through, walking out onto the pinecone-strewn ground. Rand could see the weaves that made up the gateway; this one had been crafted with saidin.

Most of the people in the group wore the colorful clothing of Sea Folk—the men bare-chested, even in the chill spring air, the women in loose bright blouses. All wore loose trousers, and all had piercings in their ears or noses, the complexity of the adornments an indication of each person’s relative status.

As he waited for the Sea Folk, one of the soldiers who guarded the Traveling ground approached Rand with a sealed letter. The letter would be one sent via Asha’man from one of Rand’s interests in the east. Indeed, as he opened it, he found it was from Darlin, the Tairen king. Rand had left him with orders to gather an army and prepare it for marching into Arad Doman. That gathering had been completed for some time now, and Darlin wondered—yet again—about his orders. Could no one simply do as they were told?

“Send a messenger,” Rand said to the soldier, impatiently tucking the letter away. “Tell Darlin to continue recruiting. I want him to draft every Tairen who can hold a sword and either train him for combat or set him to work in the forges. The Last Battle is close. Very close.”

“Yes, my Lord Dragon,” the soldier said, saluting.

“Tell him that I will send an Asha’man when I want him to move,” Rand said. “I still intend to use him in Arad Doman, but I need to see what the Aiel have discovered first.”

The soldier bowed and retreated. Rand turned back to the Sea Folk. One of them approached him.

“Coramoor,” she said, nodding. Harine was a handsome woman in her middle years, with white streaking her hair. Her Atha’an Miere blouse was of a bright blue, colorful enough to impress a Tinker, and she had an impressive five gold rings in each ear as well as a nose chain strung with gold medallions.

“I did not expect you to come and meet us personally,” Harine continued.

“I have questions for you that could not wait.”

Harine looked taken aback. She was the Sea Folk ambassador to the Coramoor, which was their name for Rand. They were angry with Rand for the weeks he had spent without a Sea Folk minder—he had promised to keep one with him at all times—yet Logain had mentioned their hesitation to send Harine back. Why was that? Had she achieved greater rank, making her too important to attend him? Could one be too important to attend the Coramoor? Much about the Sea Folk made little sense to him.

“I will answer if I can,” Harine said guardedly. Behind her, porters moved the rest of her belongings through the gateway. Flinn stood on the other side, holding the portal open.

“Good,” Rand said, pacing back and forth before her as he spoke. At times, he felt so tired—so weary to his bones—that he knew he had to keep moving. Never stopping. If he did, his enemies would find him. Either that, or his own exhaustion, both mental and physical, would drag him down.

“Tell me this,” he demanded as he paced. “Where are the ships which have been promised? The Domani people starve while grain rots in the east. Logain said you had agreed to my demands, but I have seen nothing of your ships. It has been weeks!”

“Our ships are swift,” Harine said testily, “but there is a great distance to travel—and we must go through seas controlled by the Seanchan. The invaders have been extremely diligent with their patrols, and our ships have had to turn back and flee on several occasions. Did you expect that we would be able bring your food in an instant? Perhaps the convenience of these gateways has made you impatient, Coramoor. We must deal with the realities of shipping and war even if you do not.”

Her tone implied that he would have to deal with those realities in this case. “I expect results,” Rand said, shaking his head. “I expect no delays. I know you do not like being forced to keep your agreement, but I will suffer no lagging to prove a point. People die because of your slowness.”

Harine looked as if she’d been slapped. “Surely,” she said, “the Coramoor does not imply that we would not keep to our Bargain.”

The Sea Folk were stubborn and prideful, Wavemistresses more than most. They were like an entire race of Aes Sedai. He hesitated. I should not insult her so, not because I am frustrated about other things. “No,” he finally said. “No, I do not imply that. Tell me, Harine, were you punished much for your part in our agreement?”

“I was hung up by my ankles naked and strapped until I could scream no more.” As soon as the words left her mouth, her eyes opened in shock. Often, when influenced by Rand’s ta’veren nature, people said things they did not intend to admit.

“So harsh?” Rand said, genuinely surprised.

“It was not so bad as it could have been. I retain my position as Wavemistress for my clan.”

But it was obvious she had lost a great deal of face, or incurred great toh, or whatever the blasted Sea Folk called honor. Even when he wasn’t present, he caused pain and suffering!

“I am glad you have returned,” he forced himself to say. No smile, but a softer tone. That was the best he could do. “You have impressed me, Harine, with your levelheadedness.”

She nodded in thanks to him. “We will keep our Bargain, Coramoor. You needn’t fear.”

Something else struck him, one of the original questions he’d come to ask her. “Harine. I would ask you a somewhat delicate question about your people.”

“You may ask,” she said carefully.

“How do the Sea Folk treat men who can channel?”

She hesitated. “That is not a matter for the shorebound to know.”

Rand met her eyes. “If you agree to answer, then I will answer a question for you in return.” The best way to deal with the Atha’an Miere was not to push or bully, but to offer trade.

She paused. “If you give me two questions,” she said, “I will answer.”

“I will give you one question, Harine,” he said, raising a finger. “But I promise to answer you as truthfully as I can. It is a fair bargain, and you know it. I have little patience right now.”

Harine touched her fingers to her lips. “It is agreed, then, under the Light.”

“It is agreed,” Rand said. “Under the Light. My question?”

“Men who can channel are given a choice,” Harine said. “They can either step from the bow of their ship holding a stone which is also tied to their legs, or they can be dropped off on a barren isle with no food or water. The second is considered the more shameful option, but some few do take it, to live for a brief time longer.”

Not much different from what his own people did in gentling men, truth be told. “Saidin is cleansed now,” he said to her. “This practice must stop.”

She pursed her lips, regarding him. “Your . . . man spoke of this, Coramoor. Some find it difficult to accept.”

“It is true,” he said firmly.

“I do not doubt that you believe it to be so.”

Rand gritted his teeth, forcing down another burst of anger, his hand forming a fist. He had cleansed the taint! He, Rand al’Thor, had performed a deed the likes of which had not been seen since the Age of Legends. And how was it treated? With suspicion and doubt. Most assumed that he was going mad, and therefore seeing a “cleansing” that had not really happened.

Men who could channel were always distrusted. Yet they were the only ones who could confirm what Rand said! He’d imagined joy and wonder at the victory, but he should have known better. Though male Aes Sedai had once been as respected as their female counterparts, that had been long ago. The days of Jorlen Corbesan had been lost in time. All people could remember now was the Breaking and the Madness.

They hated male channelers. Yet, in following Rand, they served one. Did they not see the contradiction? How could he convince them that there was no longer reason to murder men who could touch the One Power? He needed them! Why, there might be another Jorlen Corbesan among the very men the Sea Folk tossed into the ocean!

He froze. Jorlen Corbesan had been one of the most talented Aes Sedai before the Breaking, a man who had crafted some of the most amazing ter’angreal Rand had ever seen. Except Rand had not seen them. Those were Lews Therin’s memories, not his. Jorlen’s research facility of Sharom had been destroyed—the man himself killed—by the backlash of Power from the Bore.

Oh, Light, Rand thought with despair. I’m losing myself. Losing myself in him.

The most terrifying part was that Rand could no longer make himself wish to banish Lews Therin. Lews Therin had known a way to seal the Bore, if imperfectly, but Rand had no idea how to approach the task. The safety of the world might depend on the memories of a dead madman.

Many of the people around Rand appeared shocked, and Harine’s eyes were both uncomfortable and a little frightened. Rand had been muttering to himself again, he realized, and he cut off abruptly.

“I accept your answer,” he said stiffly. “What is your question of me?”

“I will ask it later,” she said. “Once I have had a chance to consider.”

“As you wish.” He turned away, his retinue of Aes Sedai, Maidens and attendants following. “The Traveling ground guards will see you to your room and carry your luggage.” There was a veritable mountain of that. “Flinn, to me!”

The elderly Asha’man jumped through the gateway, motioning for the last of the porters to trot back to the docks on the other side. He let the portal twist back into a slash of light and vanish, then hurried after Rand. He spared a glance and a smile for Corele, who had bonded him as her Warder.

“I apologize for taking so long to return, Lord Dragon.” Flinn had a leathery face and only a few wisps of hair on his head. He looked a lot like some of the farmers Rand had known back in Emond’s Field, though he had been a soldier for most of his life. Flinn had come to Rand because he wanted to learn Healing. Rand had turned him into a weapon instead.

“You did as ordered,” Rand said, walking back toward the green. He wanted to blame Harine for the prejudices of an entire world, but that was not fair. He needed a better way, a way to make everyone see.

“I’ve never been exceptional at making gateways,” Flinn continued. “Not like Androl. I needed to—”

“Flinn,” Rand said, cutting in. “Enough.”

The Asha’man blushed. “I apologize, my Lord Dragon.”

To the side, Corele laughed softly, patting Flinn on the shoulder. “Don’t mind him, Damer,” she said in a lilting Murandian accent. “He’s been as surly as a winter thunderhead all morning.”

Rand glared at her, but she just smiled good-naturedly. Regardless of what the Aes Sedai thought of men who could channel in general, the ones who had taken Asha’man as Warders seemed as protective of them as mothers of their children. She had bonded one of his men, but that did not change the fact that Flinn was one of his men. An Asha’man first and foremost, a Warder second.

“What do you think, Elza?” Rand said, turning from Corele to the other Aes Sedai. “About the taint and what Harine said?”

The round-faced woman hesitated. She walked with hands behind her back, dark green dress marked only by subtle embroideries. Utilitarian, for an Aes Sedai. “If my Lord Dragon says that the taint has been cleansed,” the woman said carefully, “then it is certainly improper to express doubt of him where others can hear.”

Rand grimaced. An Aes Sedai answer for certain. Oath or no oath, Elza did as she wished.

“Oh, we were both there at Shadar Logoth,” Corele said, rolling her eyes. “We saw what you did, Rand. Besides, I can feel male power through dear Damer here when we link. It has changed. The taint is gone. Right as sunlight, it is, though channeling the male half still feels like wrestling with a summer whirlwind.”

“Yes,” Elza said, “but be that as it is, you must realize how difficult it will be for others to believe this, Lord Dragon. During the Time of Madness, it took decades for some people to accept that the male Aes Sedai were doomed to go insane. It will likely take longer for them to overcome their distrust, now that it has been ingrained for so long.”

Rand gritted his teeth. He had reached a small hill at the side of the camp, just beside the bulwark. He continued up to the top, Aes Sedai following. Here, a short wooden platform had been erected—a fire tower for launching arrows over the bulwark.

Rand stopped at the top of the hill, Maidens surrounding him. He barely noticed the soldiers who saluted him as he looked over the Saldaean camp with its neat tent lines.

Was this all he would leave to the world? A taint cleansed, yet men still killed or exiled for something they could not help? He had bound most nations to him. Yet he knew well that the tighter one tied a bale, the sharper the snap of the cords when they were cut. What would happen when he died? Wars and devastation to match the Breaking? He hadn’t been able to help that last time, for his madness and grief at Ilyena’s death had consumed him. Could he prevent something similar this time? Did he have a choice?

He was ta’veren. The Pattern bent and shaped around him. And yet, he had quickly learned one thing from being a king: the more authority you gained, the less control you had over your life. Duty was truly heavier than a mountain; it forced his hand as often as the prophecies did. Or were they both one and the same? Duty and prophecy? His nature as a ta’veren and his place in history? Could he change his life? Could he leave the world better for his passing, rather than leaving the nations scarred, torn and bleeding?

He watched the camp, men moving about their tasks, horses nosing at the ground, searching for patches of winter grass that had not already been chewed to their roots. Though Rand had ordered this army to travel light, there were still camp followers. Women to help with meals and laundry, blacksmiths and farriers to tend horses and equipment, young boys to run messages and to train on the weapons. Saldaea was a Borderland, and battle was a way of life for its people.

“I envy them, sometimes,” Rand whispered.

“My Lord?” Flinn asked, stepping up to him.

“The people of the camp,” Rand said. “They do as they are told, working each day under orders. Strict orders, at times. But orders or not, those people are more free than I.”

“You, Lord?” Flinn said, rubbing his leathery face with an aged finger. “You are the most powerful man alive! You’re ta’veren. Even the Pattern obeys your will, I should think!”

Rand shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way, Flinn. Those people out there, any one of them could just ride away. Escape, if they felt like it. Leave the battle to others.”

“I’ve known a few Saldaeans in my day, my Lord,” Flinn said. “Forgive me, but I have doubts that any one of them would do that.”

“But they could,” Rand said. “It’s possible. For all their laws and oaths, they are free. Me, I seem as if I can do as I wish, but I am tied so tightly the bonds cut my flesh. My power and influence are meaningless against fate. My freedom is all just an illusion, Flinn. And so I envy them. Sometimes.”

Flinn folded his hands behind his back, obviously uncertain how to respond.

We all do as we must, Moiraine’s voice from the past returned to his memory. As the Pattern decrees. For some there is less freedom than for others. It does not matter whether we choose or are chosen. What must be, must be.

She had understood. I’m trying, Moiraine, he thought. I will do what must be done.

“My Lord Dragon!” a voice called. Rand turned toward the sound and saw one of Bashere’s scouts running up the hill. The Maidens cautiously allowed the youthful, dark-haired man to approach.

“My Lord,” the scout said, saluting. “There are Aiel on the outskirts of the camp. We saw two of them prowling through the trees about half a mile down the slope.”

The Maidens immediately began to move their hands, speaking in their clandestine handtalk.

“Did any of those Aiel wave at you, soldier?” Rand asked dryly.

“My Lord?” the man asked. “Why would they do that?”

“They’re Aiel. If you saw them, that means they wanted you to—and that means they’re allies, not foes. Inform Bashere that we’ll be meeting with Rhuarc and Bael shortly. It is time to secure Arad Doman.”

Or maybe it was time to destroy it. Sometimes, it was difficult to tell the difference.

Merise spoke. “Graendal’s plans. Tell me again what you know of them.” The tall Aes Sedai—of the Green Ajah, like Cadsuane herself—maintained a stern expression, arms folded beneath her breasts, a silver comb slid into the side of her black hair.

The Taraboner woman was a good choice to lead the interrogation. Or, at least, she was the best choice Cadsuane had. Merise didn’t show a bit of discomfort at being so near to one of the most feared beings in all of creation, and she was relentless in her questioning. She did try a little too hard to prove how stern she was. The way she kept her hair pulled back into its bun with such force, for instance, or the way she flaunted her Asha’man Warder.

The room was on the second floor of Rand al’Thor’s Domani mansion, the outer wall made of thick round pine logs, the inner walls of wood planks, all stained a matching dark color. This chamber, which had once been a bedroom, had been emptied of nearly all furniture; there was not even a rug on the sanded wood floor. In fact, the only furniture in it now was the stout chair Cadsuane sat in.

Cadsuane sipped her tea, intentionally projecting an air of composure. That was important, especially if one wasn’t anything near composed on the inside. At the moment, for instance, Cadsuane wanted to crush the teacup between her hands, then perhaps spend an hour or so stamping on the shards.

She took another sip.

The source of her frustration—and the object of Merise’s questioning—hung in the air, held upside down by weaves of Air with her arms tied behind her back. The captive had short wavy hair and dark skin. Her face matched Cadsuane’s own for composed serenity, despite her circumstances. Wearing a simple brown dress—the hem held up around her legs by a weave of Air to keep it from obscuring her face—held bound and shielded, the prisoner somehow seemed the one in control.

Merise stood in front of the prisoner. Narishma leaned against the wall, the only other one in the room.

Cadsuane did not control the questioning herself, not yet. Letting another lead the interrogation worked to her advantage; it let her think and plan. Outside the room, Erian, Sarene, and Nesune held the prisoner’s shield, two more than were normally considered necessary.

One did not take chances with the Forsaken.

Their prisoner was Semirhage. A monster who many thought was simply a legend. Cadsuane did not know how many of the stories about the woman were true. She did know that Semirhage was not easily intimidated, unsettled or manipulated. And that was a problem.

“Well?” Merise demanded. “My question: you have an answer?”

Semirhage regarded Merise, icy contempt in her voice as she spoke. “Do you know what happens to a man when his blood is replaced with something else?”

“I did not—”

“He dies, of course,” Semirhage said, cutting Merise off with words like knives. “The death often happens instantly, and quick deaths are of little interest. With experiment, I discovered that some solutions can replace blood more effectively, allowing the subject to live for a short time after the transfusion.”

She fell silent.

“Answer the question,” Merise said, “or out the window you will hang again and—”

“The transfusion itself requires use of the Power, of course,” Semirhage interrupted again. “Other methods are not quick enough. I invented the weave myself. It can suddenly and instantly pull the blood from a body and deposit it in a bin, while at the same time taking a solution and pressing it into the veins.”

Merise gritted her teeth, glancing at Narishma. The Asha’man wore a coat and trousers of black, as usual, his long dark hair in braids woven with bells on the ends. He lounged against the log wall. He had a boyish face, but displayed a growing edge of danger. Perhaps that came from training with Merise’s other Warders. Perhaps it came from associating with people who would put one of the Forsaken to the question.

“My warning—” Merise began again.

“I had one subject survive an entire hour after the transfusion,” Semirhage said in a calm, conversational tone. “I count it as one of my greatest victories. He was in pain the entire time, of course. True pain, agony that he could feel in every vein of his body, right down to the near-invisible ones in his fingers. I know of no other way to bring such suffering to every part of the body at once.”

She met Merise’s eyes. “I will show you the weave someday.”

Merise paled just slightly.

With a whip of her hand, Cadsuane wove a shield of Air around Semirhage’s head to block her from hearing, then wove Fire and Air into two small balls of light, which she placed directly in front of the Forsaken’s eyes. The lights weren’t bright enough to blind or damage her eyes, but they would keep her from seeing. That was a particular trick of Cadsuane’s; too many sisters would think to deafen a captive, yet leave them capable of watching. One never knew who had learned to read lips, and Cadsuane had little inclination to underestimate her current captive.

Merise glanced at Cadsuane, a flash of annoyance in her eyes.

“You were losing control of her,” Cadsuane said firmly, setting her tea on the floor beside her chair.

Merise hesitated, then nodded, looking truly angry. Likely at herself. “This woman, nothing works on her,” she said. “She never changes the tone of her voice, no matter what we do to her. Every punishment I can think of only creates more threats. Each one more gruesome than the last! Light!” She gritted her teeth again, refolding her arms and breathing deeply through her nose. Narishma straightened as if to walk over to her, but she waved him back. Merise was appropriately firm with her Warders, though she did snap at anyone else who tried to keep them in their places.

“We can break her,” Cadsuane said.

“Can we, Cadsuane?”

“Phaw! Of course we can. She is human, just like anyone else.”

“True,” Merise said. “Though she’s lived for three thousand years. Three thousand, Cadsuane.”

“She spent the bulk of that time imprisoned,” Cadsuane said with a dismissive sniff. “Centuries locked up in the Dark One’s prison, likely in a trance or hibernation. Subtract those years, and she’s no older than any of us. A fair sight younger than some, I would imagine.”

It was a subtle reminder of her own age, something rarely discussed among Aes Sedai. The entire conversation about age was, in fact, a sign of how uncomfortable the Forsaken made Merise. Aes Sedai were practiced at appearing calm, but there was a reason that Cadsuane had kept those holding the shield outside the room. They gave away too much. Even the normally unflappable Merise lost control far too often during these interrogations.

Of course, Merise and the others—like all the women in the Tower these days—still fell short of what an Aes Sedai should be. These younger Aes Sedai had been allowed to grow soft and weak, prone to bickering. Some had allowed themselves to be bullied into swearing fealty to Rand al’Thor. Sometimes, Cadsuane wished she could simply send them all to penance for a few decades.

Or maybe that was just Cadsuane’s age speaking. She was old, and that was making her increasingly intolerant of foolishness. Over two centuries ago, she’d sworn to herself that she’d live to attend the Last Battle, no matter how long that took. Using the One Power lengthened one’s years, and she’d found that determination and grit could stretch those years even further. She was one of the oldest people alive.

Unfortunately, her years had taught her that no measure of planning or determination could make life turn out as you wanted. That didn’t stop her from being annoyed when it didn’t. One might have thought that the years would also have taught her patience, but it had done the opposite. The older she grew, the less inclined she was to wait, for she knew she didn’t have many years left.

Anyone who claimed that old age had brought them patience was either lying or senile.

“She can and will be broken,” Cadsuane repeated, “I am not going to allow a person who knows weaves from the Age of Legends to simply dance herself to execution. We are going to pull every scrap of knowledge from that woman’s brain, if we have to turn a few of her own ‘creative’ weaves on her.”

“The a’dam. If only the Lord Dragon would let us use it on her . . .” Merise said, glancing at Semirhage.

If ever Cadsuane had been tempted to break her word, it was regarding that. Slip an a’dam on the woman . . . but no, in order to force someone to talk with an a’dam, you had to give them pain. It was the same as torture, and al’Thor had forbidden it.

Semirhage had closed her eyes against Cadsuane’s lights, but she was still composed, controlled. What was going on in that woman’s mind? Did she wait for rescue? Did she think to force them to execute her so that she could avoid true torture? Did she really assume that she’d be able to escape, then wreak vengeance on the Aes Sedai who had questioned her?

Likely the last—and it was hard not to feel at least a hint of apprehension. The woman knew things about the One Power that hadn’t survived even in legends. Three thousand years was a long, long time. Could Semirhage break through a shield in a way that was unknown? If she could, why hadn’t she already? Cadsuane wouldn’t be entirely comfortable until she was able to get her hands on some of that forkroot tea.

“Your weaves, you can release them, Cadsuane,” Merise said, standing. “I have composed myself. I fear we will have to hang her out the window for a time, as I said. Perhaps we can threaten her with pain. She can’t know of al’Thor’s foolish requirements.”

Cadsuane leaned forward, releasing the weaves that hung the lights before the Forsaken’s eyes, but not removing the shield of Air that kept her from hearing. Semirhage’s eyes snapped open, then quickly found Cadsuane. Yes, she knew who was in charge. The two locked eyes.

Merise continued to question, asking about Graendal. Al’Thor thought the other Forsaken might be somewhere in Arad Doman. Cadsuane was far more interested in other questions, but Graendal made an acceptable starting point.

Semirhage responded to Merise’s questions with silence this time, and Cadsuane found herself thinking about al’Thor. The boy had resisted her teaching as stubbornly as Semirhage resisted questioning. Oh, true, he had learned some minor things—how to treat her with a measure of respect, how to at least feign civility. But nothing more.

Cadsuane hated admitting failure. And this was not a failure, not yet, but she was close. That boy was destined to destroy the world. And maybe save it, too. The first was inevitable; the second conditional. She could wish the two were reversed, but wishes were about as useful as coins carved from wood. You could paint them however you wanted, but they remained wood.

She gritted her teeth, putting the boy out of her mind. She needed to watch Semirhage. Each time the woman spoke, it could be a clue. Semirhage returned her stare, ignoring Merise.

How did you break one of the most powerful women who had ever lived? A woman who had perpetrated countless atrocities during the days of wonder before, even, the Dark One’s release? Meeting those black, onyx eyes, Cadsuane realized something. Al’Thor’s prohibition on hurting Semirhage was meaningless. They could not break this woman with pain. Semirhage was the great torturer of the Forsaken, a woman intrigued by death and agony.

No, she would not break that way, even if the means had been allowed them. With a chill, looking into those eyes, Cadsuane thought she saw something of herself in the creature. Age, craftiness and unwillingness to budge.

That, then, left a question for her. If given the task, how would Cadsuane go about breaking herself?

The concept was so disturbing that she was relieved when Corele interrupted the interrogation a few moments later. The slender, cheerful Murandian was loyal to Cadsuane and had been on duty watching over al’Thor this afternoon. Corele’s word that al’Thor would be meeting soon with his Aiel chiefs brought an end to the interrogation, and the three sisters maintaining the shield entered and towed Semirhage off to the room where they would set her bound and gagged with flows of Air.

Cadsuane watched the Forsaken go, carried on weaves of Air, then shook her head. Semirhage had been only the day’s opening scene. It was time to deal with the boy.