Egwene sternly folded her arms beneath her breasts, holding the scarf tight, in the way Nynaeve used to address the Village Council when she meant to have her way no matter how stubborn they were. It was too late to start over; the only thing was to go on as she had begun. “I told you not to be a fool, Rand al’Thor. You may have Tairens bowing to your boots, but I remember when Nynaeve switched your bottom for letting Mat talk you into stealing a jar of apple brandy.” Elayne kept her face carefully composed. Too carefully; it was plain to Egwene that she wanted to laugh out loud.
Rand did not notice, of course. Men never did. He grinned at Egwene, close to laughing himself. “We had just turned thirteen. She found us asleep behind your father’s stable, and our heads hurt so much we didn’t even feel her switch.” That was not at all the way Egwene recalled it. “Not like when you threw that bowl at her head. Remember? She’d dosed you with dog-weed tea because you had been moping about for a week, and as soon as you tasted it, you hit her with her best bowl. Light, did you squeal! When was that? Two years ago come this—”
“We are not here to talk over old times,” Egwene said, shifting the scarf irritably. It was thin wool, but still far too hot. Really, he did have the habit of remembering the most unfortunate things.
He grinned as if he knew what she was thinking, and went on in better humor. “You are here to help me, you say. With what? I don’t suppose you know how to make a High Lord keep his word when I’m not staring over his shoulder. Or how to stop unwanted dreams? I could surely use help with—” Eyes darting to Elayne and back to her, he made another abrupt shift. “What about the Old Tongue? Did you learn any of that in the White Tower?” Without waiting for an answer he began rooting through the volumes scattered across the carpet. There were more on the chairs, among the tumbled bedclothes. “I have a copy here … somewhere … of … .”
“Rand.” Egwene raised her voice. “Rand, I cannot read the Old Tongue.” She shot a look at Elayne, warning her not to admit to any such knowledge. They had not come to translate the Prophecies of the Dragon for him. The sapphires in the Daughter-Heir’s hair swayed as she nodded agreement. “We had other things to learn.”
He straightened from the books with a sigh. “It was too much to hope.” For a moment he seemed on the point of saying more, but stared at his boots. Egwene wondered how he managed to deal with the High Lords in all their arrogance if she and Elayne put him so out of countenance.
“We came to help you with channeling,” she told him. “With the Power.” What Moiraine claimed was supposed to be true; a woman could not teach a man to channel any more than she could teach him how to bear a child. Egwene was not so sure. She had felt something woven from saidin, once. Or rather, she had felt nothing, something blocking her own flows as surely as stone dammed water. But she had learned as much outside the Tower as within; surely in her knowledge there was something she could teach him, some guidance she could offer.
“If we can,” Elayne added.
Suspicion flashed across his face again. It was unnerving how his mood changed so quickly. “I have more chance of reading the Old Tongue than you do of … . Are you sure this isn’t Moiraine’s doing? Did she send you here? Thinks she can convince me by some roundabout way, does she? Some twisty Aes Sedai plot I’ll not see the point of until I am mired in it?” He grunted sourly and pulled a dark green coat from the floor behind one of the chairs, shrugging into it hastily. “I agreed to meet some more of the High Lords this morning. If I don’t keep an eye on them, they just find ways to get around what I want. They’ll learn sooner or later. I rule Tear, now. Me. The Dragon Reborn. I will teach them. You will have to excuse me.”
Egwene wanted to shake him. He ruled Tear? Well, perhaps he did, if it came to that, but she remembered a boy with a lamb nestled inside his coat, proud as a rooster because he had driven off the wolf that tried to take it. He was a shepherd, not a king, and even if he had call to give himself airs, it was no good to him that he did.
She was about to tell him as much, but before she could Elayne spoke up fiercely. “No one sent us. No one. We came because … because we care for you. Perhaps it will not work, but you can try. If I … if we care enough to try, you can try, too. Is it so unimportant to you that you cannot spare us an hour? For you life?”
He stopped buttoning up his coat, staring at the Daughter-Heir so intently that for a moment Egwene thought he had forgotten she was there. With a shiver he pulled his eyes away. Glancing at Egwene, he shifted his feet and frowned at the floor. “I will try,” he muttered. “It’ll do no good, but I will … . What do you want me to do?”
Egwene drew a deep breath. She had not thought convincing him would be this easy; he had always been like a boulder buried in mud when he decided to dig his heels in, which he did far too often.
“Look at me,” she said, embracing saidar. She let the Power fill her as completely as it ever had, more completely, accepting every drop she could hold; it was as if light suffused every particle of her, as if the Light itself filled every cranny. Life seemed to burst inside her like fireworks. She had never before let this much in. It was a shock to realize she was not quivering;
surely she could not bear this glorious sweetness. She wanted to revel in it, to dance and sing, to simply lie back and let it roll through her, over her. She made herself speak. “What do you see? What do you feel? Look at me, Rand!”
He lifted his head slowly, still frowning. “I see you. What am I supposed to see? Are you touching the Source? Egwene, Moiraine has channeled around me a hundred times, and I never saw anything. Except what she did. It doesn’t work that way. Even I know that much.”
“I am stronger than Moiraine,” she told him firmly. “She would be whimpering on the floor, or insensible, if she tried to hold as much as I hold now.” It was true, though she had never before rated the Aes Sedai’s ability so closely.
It cried out to be used, this Power pulsing through her stronger than heartblood. With this much, she could do things Moiraine could not dream of doing. The wound in Rand’s side that Moiraine could never Heal completely. She did not know Healing—it was considerably more complex than anything she had ever done—but she had watched Nynaeve Heal, and perhaps, with this great pool of the Power filling her, she could see something of how that could be Healed. Not to do it, of course; only to see.
Carefully she spun out hair-fine flows of Air and Water and Spirit, the Powers used for Healing, and felt for his old injury. One touch, and she recoiled, shivering, snatching back her weaving; her stomach churned as if every meal she had ever eaten wanted to come up. It seemed that all the darkness in the world rested there in Rand’s side, all the world’s evil in a festering sore only lightly covered by tender scar tissue. A thing like that would soak up Healing flows like drops of water on dry sand. How could he bear the pain? Why was he not weeping?
From first thought to action had taken only a moment. Shaken, and desperately hiding it, she went on without a pause. “You are as strong as I. I know it; you must be. Feel, Rand. What do you feel?” Light, what can Heal that? Can anything?
“I don’t feel anything,” he muttered, shifting his feet. “Goose bumps. And no wonder. It’s not that I don’t trust you, Egwene, but I cannot help being nervous when a woman is channeling around me. I am sorry.”
She did not bother explaining to him the difference between channeling and merely embracing the True Source. There was so much he did not know, even compared to her own scant knowledge. He was a blind man trying to work a loom by touch, with no idea of colors or what the threads, or even the loom, looked like.
With an effort she released saidar, and it was an effort. Part of her wanted to cry at the loss. “I am not touching the Source now, Rand.” She stepped closer and peered up at him. “Do you still feel goose bumps?”
“No. But that’s just because you told me.” He gave an abrupt shrug of his shoulders. “You see? I started thinking about it, and I have them again.”
Egwene smiled triumphantly. She did not need to look around at Elayne to confirm what she had already sensed, what they had agreed upon earlier for this point. “You can sense a woman embracing the Source, Rand. Elayne is doing just that right now.” He squinted at the Daughter-Heir. “It doesn’t matter what you see or don’t see. You felt it. We have that much. Let’s see what else we can find. Rand, embrace the Source. Embrace saidin.” The words came out hoarsely. They had agreed on this, too, she and Elayne. He was Rand, not a monster from the stories, and they had agreed on it, but still, asking a man to … . The wonder was that she had gotten the words out at all. “Do you see anything?” she asked Elayne. “Or feel anything?”
Rand still doled out glances between them, in between staring at the floor and sometimes blushing. Why was he so out of countenance? Studying him fixedly, the Daughter-Heir shook her head. “He could just be standing there for all I can tell. Are you sure he is doing anything?”
“He can be stubborn, but he isn’t foolish. At least, he isn’t foolish most of the time.”
“Well, stubborn or foolish or something else, I feel nothing at all.”
Egwene frowned at him. “You said you would do as we asked, Rand. Are you? If you felt something, so should I, and I do not—” She broke off with a stifled yelp. Something had pinched her bottom. Rand’s lips twitched, clearly fighting a grin. “That,” she told him crisply, “was not nice.”
He tried to keep his face innocent, but the grin slipped. “You said you wanted to feel something, and I just thought—” His sudden roar made Egwene jump. Clapping a hand to his left buttock, he hobbled in a pained circle. “Blood and ashes, Egwene! There was no need to—” He fell off into deeper, inaudible mutters Egwene was just as glad she did not understand.