ht be of some use once I train them. Once I train you. But I can make you think that what you just felt was a lover’s caress. Now, answer my question.”
Nynaeve managed to gather breath. “No,” she wept. “She ran off with a man after we left Tanchico. A man old enough to be her grandfather, but he had money. We heard what happened in the Tower”—she was sure Moghedien must know of that—“and she was afraid to go back.”
The other woman laughed. “A delightful tale. I can almost see what fascinates Semirhage about breaking the spirit. Oh, you are going to provide me with a great deal of entertainment, Nynaeve al’Meara. But first, you are going to bring the girl Elayne to me. You will shield her and bind her and bring her to lie at my feet. Do you know why? Because some things are actually stronger in Tel’aran’rhiod than in the waking world. That is why you will be a glossy white mare whenever I bring you here. And it is not only hurts taken here that last into waking. Compulsion is another. I want you to think of it for a moment or two, before you begin believing it your own idea. I suspect that the girl is your friend. But you are going to bring her to me like a pet—” Moghedien screamed as a silver arrow suddenly stuck its head out from below her right breast.
Nynaeve fell to the ground like a dropped sack. The fall knocked every speck of breath from her lungs as surely as a hammer in the belly. Straining to breathe, she struggled to make racked muscles move, to fight through pain to saidar.
Staggering on her feet, Birgitte fumbled another arrow from her quiver. “Go, Nynaeve!” It was a mumbling shout. “Get away!” Birgitte’s head wavered, and the silver bow wobbled as she raised it.
The glow around Moghedien increased until it seemed as if the blinding sun surrounded her.
The night folded in over Birgitte like an ocean wave, enveloping her in blackness. When it passed, the bow dropped atop empty clothes as they collapsed. The clothes faded like fog burning off, and only the bow and arrows remained, shining in the moonlight.
Moghedien sank to her knees, panting, clutching the protruding arrow shaft with both hands as the glow around her faded and died. Then she vanished, and the silver arrow fell where she had been, stained dark with blood.
After what seemed an eternity, Nynaeve managed to push up to hands and knees. Weeping, she crawled to Birgitte’s bow. This time it was not pain that made tears come. Kneeling, naked and not caring, she clutched the bow. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “Oh, Birgitte, forgive me. Birgitte!”
There was no answer except the mournful cry of a night-bird.
Liandrin leaped to her feet as the door to Moghedien’s bedchamber crashed open and the Chosen staggered into the sitting room, blood soaking her silk shift. Chesmal and Temaile rushed to her side, each taking an arm to keep the woman on her feet, but Liandrin remained by her chair. The others were out; perhaps out of Amador, for all Liandrin knew. Moghedien told only what she wanted the hearer to know, and punished questions she did not like.
“What happened?” Temaile gasped.
Moghedien’s brief look should have fried her where she stood. “You have some small ability with Healing,” the Chosen told Chesmal thickly. Blood stained her lips, trickled from the corner of her mouth in an increasing stream. “Do it. Now, fool!”
The dark-haired Ghealdanin woman did not hesitate in laying hands to Moghedien’s head. Liandrin sneered to herself as the glow surrounded Chesmal; concern painted Chesmal’s handsome face, and Temaile’s delicate, foxlike features were contorted with pure fright and worry. So faithful, they were. Such obedient lapdogs. Moghedien lifted up onto her toes, head flung back; eyes wide, she shook, breath rushing from her gaping mouth as if she had been plunged into ice.
In moments it was done. The glow around Chesmal disappeared, and Moghedien’s heels settled to the blue-and-green-patterned carpet. Without Temaile’s support, she might have fallen. Only a part of the strength for Healing came from the Power; the rest came from the person being Healed. Whatever wound had caused all that bleeding would be gone, but Moghedien was surely as weak as if she had lain in bed an invalid for weeks. She pulled the fine gold-and-ivory silk scarf from Temaile’s belt to wipe her mouth as the woman helped her turn toward the bedchamber door. Weak, and her back turned.
Liandrin struck as hard as she ever had, with everything she had puzzled out of what the woman had done to her.
Even as she did, saidar seemed to fill Moghedien like a flood. Liandrin’s probe died as the Source was shielded from her. Flows of Air picked her up and slammed her against the paneled wall hard enough to make her teeth rattle. Spread-eagled, helpless, she hung there.
Chesmal and Temaile exchanged confused glances, as if they did not understand what had occurred. They continued to support Moghedien as she came to stand in front of Liandrin, still calmly wiping her mouth on Temaile’s scarf. Moghedien channeled, and the blood on her shift turned black and flaked away, falling to the carpet.
“Y-you do not understand, Great M-mistress,” Liandrin said frantically. “I only wished to help you to have the good sleep.” For once in her life, slipping back into the accents of a commoner did not concern her in the least. “I only—” She cut off with a strangled gagging as a flow of Air seized her tongue, stretching it out between her teeth. Her brown eyes bulged. A hair more pressure, and . . .
“Shall I pull it out?” Moghedien studied her face, but spoke as if to herself. “I think not. A pity for you that the al’Meara woman makes me think like Semirhage. Otherwise, I might only kill you.” Suddenly she was tying off the shield, the knot growing ever more intricate, until Liandrin lost the twists and turns completely. And still it went on. “There,” Moghedien said finally in tones of satisfaction. “You will search a very long time to find anyone who can unravel that. But you will have no opportunity to search.”
Liandrin searched Chesmal’s face, and Temaile’s, for some sign of sympathy, pity, anything. Chesmal’s eyes were cold and stern; Temaile’s shone, and she touched her lips with the tip of her tongue and smiled. Not a friendly smile.
“You thought you had learned something of compulsion,” Moghedien went on. “I will teach you a bit more.” For an instant Liandrin shivered, Moghedien’s eyes filling her vision as the woman’s voice filled her ears, her entire head. “Live.” The instant passed, and sweat beaded on Liandrin’s face as the Chosen smiled at her. “Compulsion has many limits, but a command to do what someone wants to do in their inmost depths will hold for a lifetime. You will live, however much you think you want to take your life. And you will think of it. You will lie weeping many nights, wishing for it.”
The flow holding Liandrin’s tongue vanished, and she barely paused to swallow. “Please, Great Mistress, I swear I did not mean—” Her head rang and silvery black spots danced before her eyes from Moghedien’s slap.
“There are . . . attractions . . . to doing a thing physically,” the woman breathed. “Do you wish to beg more?”
“Please, Great Mistress—” The second slap sent her hair flying.
“More?”
“Please—” A third nearly unhinged her jaw. Her cheek burned.
“If you cannot be more inventive than that, I will not listen. You will listen instead. I think what I have planned for you would delight Semirhage herself.” Moghedien’s smile was almost as dark as Temaile’s. “You will live, not stilled, but knowing that you could channel again, if only you found someone to untie your shield. Yet that is only the beginning. Evon will be glad of a new scullery girl, and I am sure the Arene woman will want to have long talks with you about her husband. Why, they will enjoy your company so much that I doubt you will see the outside of this house during the years to come. Long years in which to wish that you had served me faithfully.”
Liandrin shook her head, mouthing “no” and “please”; she was crying too hard to force the words out.
Turning her head to Temaile, Moghedien said, “Prepare her for them. And tell them they are not to kill or maim her. I want her always to believe she might escape. Even futile hope will keep her alive to suffer.” She turned away on Chesmal’s arm, and the flows holding Liandrin to the wall vanished.