The Path of Daggers

noses caught in a worse crack than they already do be.'

As she turned to go, gathering her skirts grandly, Nynaeve caught her arm. Wetlanders usually let emotion gild their faces, and Nynaeve’s was the image of conflict, anger struggling to break through fixed determination. 'Wait, Teslyn,' she said reluctantly. 'You and Joline may be in danger. I told Tylin, but I think she may be afraid to tell anyone else. Unwilling, anyway. It’s nothing anybody really wants to talk about.' She drew a long, deep breath, and if she was thinking of her own fears in the matter, she had cause. There was no shame in feeling fear, only in giving way to it, or letting it show. Aviendha felt a flutter in her own belly as Nynaeve went on. 'Moghedien has been here in Ebou Dar. She might still be. And maybe another of the Forsaken, too. With a gholam, a kind of Shadowspawn the Power won’t touch. It looks like a man, but it was made, and made to kill Aes Sedai. Steel doesn’t seem to hurt it either, and it can squeeze through a mousehole. The Black Ajah is here, as well. And there’s a storm coming, a bad storm. Only it isn’t a storm, not weather. I can feel it; that’s a skill I have, a Talent, maybe. There’s danger headed for Ebou Dar, and trouble worse than any wind or rain or lightning.'

'The Forsaken, a storm that is no a storm, and some Shadowspawn I did never hear of before,' Teslyn Baradon said wryly. 'Not to mention the Black Ajah. Light! The Black Ajah! And the Dark One himself, perhaps?' Her twisted smile was razor thin. She plucked Nynaeve’s hand from her sleeve contemptuously. 'When you do be back in the White Tower where you belong, in white as you all truly belong, you will learn no to waste your hours with wild fancies. Or to carry your tales to sisters.' Running her eyes over them, and once more skipping past Aviendha, she gave a loud sniff and marched off down the hallway so quickly that servants had to leap from her path.

'That woman has the nerve to…!' Nynaeve spluttered, glaring after the retreating woman and strangling her braid with both hands. 'After I made myself…!' She almost choked on her spleen. 'Well, I tried.' And now regretted the attempt, by the sound.

'You did,' Elayne agreed with a sharp nod, 'and more than she deserves. Denying that we’re Aes Sedai! I won’t put up with that anymore! I won’t!' Her voice had only seemed cold before; now it was cold, and grim.

'Can one like that be trusted?' Aviendha muttered. 'Maybe we should be sure she cannot interfere.' She examined her fist; Teslyn Baradon would see that. The woman deserved to be caught by the Shadowsouled, by Moghedien or another. Fools deserved whatever their foolishness brought.

Nynaeve appeared to consider the suggestion, but what she said was 'If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was ready to turn on Elaida.' She clicked her tongue in exasperation.

'You can dizzy yourself trying to read the currents in Aes Sedai politics.' Elayne did not say Nynaeve should know that by now, but her tone did. 'Even a Red might be turning against Elaida, for some reason we can’t begin to imagine. Or she could be trying to make us lower our guard, so she can somehow trick us into putting ourselves into Elaida’s hands. Or — '

Lan coughed. 'If any of the Forsaken are coming,' he said in a voice like polished stone, 'they could be here any moment. Or that gholam could. In either case, it would be best to be elsewhere.'

'With Aes Sedai, always a little patience,' Birgitte murmured as though quoting. 'But the Windfinders don’t seem to have any,' she continued, 'so you might do well to forget Teslyn and remember Renaile.'

Elayne and Nynaeve turned stares on the Warders cold enough to give ten Stone Dogs pause. Neither liked running from the Shadowsouled and this gholam, for all they were the ones who had decided there was no choice. Certainly neither liked being reminded that they needed to run to meet the Windfinders almost as much as to escape the Forsaken. Aviendha would have studied those looks — Wise Ones did with a glance or a few words what she had always needed the threat of spear or fist for, only they usually did it faster and with more success — she would have studied Elayne and Nynaeve, except that their glares had no visible effect on the pair at all. Birgitte grinned and cut her eyes toward Lan, who shrugged back at her with obvious forbearance.

Elayne and Nynaeve gave over. Unhurriedly, and unnecessarily, straightening their skirts, they each took one of Aviendha’s arms before setting off again without so much as a glance to see that the Warders followed. Not that Elayne needed to, with the Warder bond. Or Nynaeve, if not for the same reason; Aan’allein’s bond might belong to another, but his heart hung alongside his ring on that chain around her neck. They made a great show of strolling casually, unwilling to let Birgitte and Lan think they had been brought to hurry, yet the truth was, they did walk faster than before.

As if to make up for that, they chatted with deliberate idleness, choosing the most frivolous subjects. Elayne regretted not having a chance to truly see the Festival of Birds, two days before, and never gave a blush for the scant garments many people had worn. Nynaeve did not blush either, but she quickly began talking about the Feast of Embers, to be held that night. Some of the servants claimed there would be fireworks, supposedly made by a refugee Illuminator. Several traveling shows had come to the city with their strange animals and acrobats, which interested both Elayne and Nynaeve, since they had spent some time with such a show. They talked of seamstresses, and the varieties of lace available in Ebou Dar, and the different qualities of silk and linen that could be bought, and Aviendha found herself responding with pleasure to comments on how well her gray silk riding dress looked on her, and the other garments given to her by Tylin Quintara, fine woolens and silks, and the stockings and shifts to go with them, and jewelry. Elayne and Nynaeve also had received extravagant gifts. All together their presents filled a number of chests and bundles that had been carried down to the stables by servants, along with their saddlebags.

'Why are you scowling, Aviendha?' Elayne asked, giving her a pat on the arm and a smile. 'Don’t worry. You know the weave; you will do just fine.'

Nynaeve leaned her head close and whispered, 'I’ll fix you a tea when I have a chance. I know several that will soothe your stomach. Or any woman’s troubles.' She patted Aviendha’s arm, too.

They did not understand. No comforting words or teas would cure what ailed her. She was enjoying talk of lace and embroidery! She did not know whether to growl in disgust or wail in despair. She was growing soft. Never before in her life had she looked at a woman’s dress except to think where it might be hiding a weapon, never to notice the color and cut, or think how it would look on her. It was past time to be away from this city, away from wetlander palaces. Soon she would start simpering. She had not seen Elayne or Nynaeve do that, but everyone knew wetlander women simpered, and it was obvious she had become as weak as any milk-water wetlander. Strolling arm-in-arm, chatting about lace! How was she to reach her belt knife if someone attacked them? A knife might be useless against the likeliest assailants, but she had had faith in steel long before she knew she could channel. Should anyone try to harm Elayne or Nynaeve — especially Elayne, but she had promised Mat Cauthon to protect them both surely as Birgitte and Aan’allein had — should anyone try, she would plant steel in their hearts. Lace! As they walked, she wept at how soft she had become.

Huge, paired stable doors fronted three sides of the palace’s largest stableyard, the doorways crowded by servants in green-and-white livery. Behind them in the white stone stables waited horses, saddled or loaded with wicker panniers. Seabirds wheeled and cried overhead, an unpleasant reminder of how much water lay nearby. Heat shimmered up from pale paving stones, but it was tension that thickened the air. Aviendha had seen blood spilled where there was less strain.

Renaile din Calon, in red and yellow silks, arms crossed arrogantly beneath her breasts, stood before nineteen more barefoot women with tattooed hands and brightly colored blouses, most in trousers and long sashes just as brilliant. Sweat glistening on dark faces did not lessen their grave dignity. Some sniffed at lacy gold boxes, filled with heavy scent, that hung about their necks. Five fat gold rings pierced each of Renaile din Calon’s ears, a chain from one dripping medallions as it ran across her left cheek to a ring in her nose. The three women close behind her each wore eight earrings and slightly fewer bits of dangling gold. That was how the Sea Folk marked rank among themselves, with the women at least. All deferred to Renaile din Calon, Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships to the Atha’an Miere, but even the two apprentices at the rear, in dark trousers and linen blouses instead of silk, added their own golden shimmers to the air. When Aviendha and the others appeared, Renaile din Calon ostentatiously looked to the sun, past its noon peak. Her eyebrows climbed as she directed her gaze back to them, eyes black as her white-winged hair, a demanding stare of impatience so loud she might as well have shouted.

Elayne and Nynaeve stopped short, dragging Aviendha to an abrupt halt. They exchanged worried glances past her, and deep sighs. She did not see how they were to escape. Obligation bound her near-sister and Nynaeve