Eating mechanically, Nynaeve tried once more to plan. Being able to open the collar—if she really could—did no good at all unless she could reach Egwene. The apples did not taste so sweet anymore.
From the narrow window of her tiny room under the eaves, one of a number roughly walled together from whatever had been there before, Egwene could see the garden where damane were being walked by their sul’dam. It had been several gardens before the Seanchan knocked down the walls that separated them and took the big houses to keep their damane. The trees were all but leafless, but the damane were still taken out for air, whether they wanted it or not. Egwene watched the garden because Renna was down there, talking with another sul’dam, and as long as she could see Renna, then Renna was not going to enter and surprise her.
Some other sul’dam might come—there were many more sul’dam than damane, and every sul’dam wanted her turn wearing a bracelet; they called it being complete—but Renna still had charge of her training, and it was Renna who wore her bracelet four times out of five. If anyone came, they would find no impediment to entering. There were no locks on the doors of damane’s rooms. Egwene’s room held only a hard, narrow bed, a washstand with a chipped pitcher and bowl, one chair and a small table, but it had no room for more. Damane had no need of comfort, or privacy, or possessions. Damane were possessions. Min had a room just like this, in another house, but Min could come and go as she would, or almost as she would. Seanchan were great ones for rules; they had more, for everyone, than the White Tower did for novices.
Egwene stood far back from the window. She did not want any of the women below to look up and see the glow that she knew surrounded her as she channeled the One Power, probing delicately at the collar around her neck, searching futilely; she could not even tell whether the band was woven or made of links—sometimes it seemed one, sometimes the other—but it seemed all of a piece all the time. It was only a tiny trickle of the Power, the merest drip that she could imagine, but it still beaded sweat on her face and made her stomach clench. That was one of the properties of the a’dam; if a damane tried to channel without a sul’dam wearing her bracelet, she felt sick, and the more of the Power she channeled, the sicker she became. Lighting a candle beyond the reach of her arm would have made Egwene vomit. Once Renna had ordered her to juggle her tiny balls of light with the bracelet lying on the table. Remembering still made her shudder.
Now, the silver leash snaked across the bare floor and up the unpainted wooden wall to where the bracelet hung on a peg. The sight of it hanging there made her jaws clench with fury. A dog leashed so carelessly could have run away. If a damane moved her bracelet as much as a foot from where it had last been touched by a sul’dam. . . . Renna had made her do that, too—had made her carry her own bracelet across the room. Or try to. She was sure it had only been minutes before the sul’dam snapped the bracelet firmly on her own wrist, but to Egwene the screaming and the cramps that had had her writhing on the floor had seemed to go on for hours.
Someone tapped at the door, and Egwene jumped, before she realized it could not be a sul’dam. None of them would knock first. She let saidar go, anyway; she was beginning to feel decidedly ill. “Min?”
“Here I am for my weekly visit,” Min announced as she slipped inside and shut the door. Her cheeriness sounded a little forced, but she always did what she could to keep Egwene’s spirits up. “How do you like it?” She spun in a little circle, showing off her dark green wool dress of Seanchan cut. A heavy, matching cloak hung over her arm. There was even a green ribbon catching up her dark hair, though her hair was hardly long enough for it. Her knife was still in its sheath at her waist, though. Egwene had been surprised when Min first showed up wearing it, but it seemed the Seanchan trusted everyone. Until they broke a rule.
“It’s pretty,” Egwene said cautiously. “But, why?”
“I haven’t gone over to the enemy, if that is what you are thinking. It was this, or else find someplace to stay out in the town, and maybe not be able to visit you again.” She started to straddle the chair as she would have in breeches, gave a wry shake of her head, and turned it around to sit. “ ‘Everyone has a place in the Pattern,’ ” she mimicked, “ ‘and the place of everyone must be readily apparent.’ That old hag Mulaen apparently got tired of not knowing what my place was on sight and decided I ranked with the serving girls.
She gave me the choice. You should see some of the things Seanchan serving girls wear, the ones who serve the lords. It might be fun, but not unless I was betrothed, or, better yet, married. Well, there’s no going back. Not yet, anyway. Mulaen burned my coat and breeches.” Grimacing to show what she thought of that, she picked up a rock from a small pile on the table and bounced it from hand to hand. “It isn’t so bad,” she said with a laugh, “except that it has been so long since I wore skirts that I keep tripping over them.”
Egwene had had to watch her clothes being burned, too, including that lovely green silk. It had made her glad she had not brought more of the clothes the Lady Amalisa had given her, though she might never see any of them, or the White Tower, again. What she had on now was the same dark gray all damane wore. Damane have no possessions, it had been explained to her. The dress a damane wears, the food she eats, the bed she sleeps in, are all gifts from her sul’dam. If a sul’dam chooses that a damane sleep on the floor instead of in a bed, or in a stall in a stable, it is purely the choice of the sul’dam. Mulaen, who had charge of the damane quarters, had a droning nasal voice, but she was sharp with any damane who did not remember every word of her boring lectures.
“I don’t think there will be any going back for me ever,” Egwene said, sighing, sinking down on her bed. She gestured to the rocks on the table. “Renna gave me a test, yesterday. I picked out the piece of iron ore, and the copper ore, blindfolded, every time she mixed them up. She left them all here to remind me of my success. She seemed to think it was some kind of reward to be reminded.”
“It doesn’t seem any worse than the rest—not nearly as bad as making things explode like fireworks—but couldn’t you have lied? Told her you didn’t know which was which?”
“You still do not know what this is like.” Egwene tugged at the collar; pulling did no more good than channeling had. “When Renna is wearing that bracelet, she knows what I am doing with the Power, and what I am not. Sometimes she even seems to know when she isn’t wearing it; she says sul’dam develop—an affinity, she calls it—after a while.” She sighed. “No one even thought to test me on this earlier. Earth is one of the Five Powers that was strongest in men. When I picked out those rocks, she took me outside the town, and I was able to point right to an abandoned iron mine. It was all overgrown, and there wasn’t any opening to be seen at all, but once I knew how, I could feel the iron ore still in the ground. There hasn’t been enough to make it worth working in a hundred years, but I knew it was there. I couldn’t lie to her, Min. She knew I had sensed the mine as soon as I did. She was so excited, she promised me a pudding with my supper.” She felt her cheeks growing hot, in anger and embarrassment. “Apparently,” she said bitterly, “I am now too valuable to be wasted making things explode. Any damane can do that; only a handful can find ores in the ground. Light, I hate making things explode, but I wish that was all I could do.”
The color in her cheeks deepened. She did hate it, making trees tear themselves to splinters and the earth erupt; that was meant for battle, for killing, and she wanted no part of it. Yet anything the Seanchan let her do was another chance to touch saidar, to feel the Power flowing through her. She hated the things Renna and the other sul’dam made her do, but she was sure that she could handle much more of the Power now than she could before leaving Tar Valon. She certainly knew she could do things with it that no sister in the Tower had ever thought of doing; they never thought of tearing the earth apart to kill men.
“Perhaps you won’t have to worry about any of it much longer,” Min said, grinning. “I’ve found us a ship, Egwene. The captain has been held here by the Seanchan, and he is about ready to sail with or without permission.”
“If he will take you, Min, go with him,” Egwene said wearily. “I told you I’m valuable, now. Renna says in a few days they’re sending a ship back to Seanchan. Just to take me.”
Min’s grin vanished, and they stared at each other. Suddenly Min hurled her rock at the pile on the table, scattering them. “There has to be a way out of here. There has to be a way to take that bloody thing off your neck!”
Egwene leaned her head back against the wall. “You know the Seanchan have collected every woman they’ve been able to find who can channel even a speck. They come from all over, not just from here in Falme, but from the fishing villages, and from farming towns inland. Taraboner and Domani women, passengers off ships they’ve stopped. There are two Aes Sedai among them.”
“Aes Sedai!” Min exclaimed. By habit she looked around to make sure no Seanchan had overheard her saying that name. “Egwene, if there are Aes Sedai here, they can help us. Let me talk to them, and—”
“They can’t even help themselves, Min. I only talked to one—her name is Ryma; the sul’dam don’t call her that, but that’s her name; she wanted to make sure I knew it—and she told me there is another. She told me in between bouts of tears. She’s Aes Sedai, and she was crying, Min! She has a collar on her neck, they make her answer to Pura, and she can’t do anything more about it than I can. They captured her when Falme fell. She was crying because she’s beginning to stop fighting against it, because she cannot take being punished anymore. She was crying because she wants to take her own life, and she cannot even do that without permission. Light, I know how she feels!”
Min shifted uneasily, smoothing her dress with suddenly nervous hands. “Egwene, you don’t want to. . . . Egwene, you must not think of harming yourself. I will get you out somehow. I will!”
“I am not going to kill myself,” Egwene said dryly. “Even if I could. Let me have your knife. Come on. I won’t hurt myself. Just hand it to me.”
Min hesitated before slowly taking her knife from its sheath at her waist. She held it out warily, obviously ready to leap if Egwene tried anything.
Egwene took a deep breath and reached for the hilt. A soft quiver ran through the muscles of her arm. As her hand came within a foot of the knife, a cramp suddenly contorted her fingers. Eyes fixed, she tried to force her hand closer. The cramp seized her whole arm, knotting muscles to her shoulder. With a groan, she sank back, rubbing her arm and concentrating her thoughts on not touching the knife. Slowly, the pain began to lessen.
Min stared at her incredulously. “What . . . ? I don’t understand.”
“Damane are not allowed to touch a weapon of any kind.” She worked her arm, feeling the tightness go. “Even our meat is cut for us. I don’t want to hurt myself, but I could not if I did want to. No damane is ever left alone where she might jump from a height—that window is nailed shut—or throw herself in a river.”
“Well, that’s a good thing. I mean. . . . Oh, I don’t know what I mean. If you could jump in a river, you might escape.”
Egwene went on dully, as if the other woman had not spoken. “They are training me, Min. The sul’dam and the a’dam are training me. I cannot touch anything I even think of as a weapon. A few weeks ago I considered hitting Renna over the head with that pitcher, and I could not pour wash water for three days. Once I’d thought of it that way, I not only had to stop thinking about hitting her with it, I had to convince myself I would never, under any circumstances, hit her with it before I could touch it again. She knew what had happened, told me what I had to do, and would not let me wash anywhere except with that pitcher and bowl. You are lucky it happened between your visiting days. Renna made sure I spent those days sweating from the time I woke to the time I fell asleep, exhausted. I am trying to fight them, but they are training me as surely as they’re training Pura.” She clapped a hand to her mouth, moaning through her teeth. “Her name is Ryma. I have to remember her name, not the name they’ve put on her. She is Ryma, and she’s Yellow Ajah, and she has fought them as long and as hard as she could. It is no fault of hers that she hasn’t the strength left to fight any longer. I wish I knew who the other sister is that Ryma mentioned. I wish I knew her name. Remember both of us, Min. Ryma, of the Yellow Ajah, and Egwene al’Vere. Not Egwene the damane; Egwene al?
??Vere of Emond’s Field. Will you do that?”