Al'Thor's tame Aiel brought Ramshalan forward, and Nynaeve inspected him. Yes, that Nynaeve did seem to be able to read Compulsion. She knew what to look for, at least. She would have to die; al'Thor relied upon her; her death would bring him pain. And after her, al'Thor's dark-haired lover.
Graendal nudged the dove down onto a lower branch. What would al'Thor do? Graendal's instincts said he wouldn't dare move, not until he unraveled her plot. He acted the same now as he had during her Age; he liked to plan, to spend time building to a crescendo of an assault.
She frowned. What was he saying? She strained, trying to make sense of the sounds. Cursed bird's earholes the voices sounded like croaks. Callandor? Why was he talking about Callandor! And a box . . .
Something burst alight in his hand. The access key. Graendal gasped. He'd brought that with him? It was nearly as bad as balefire.
Suddenly she understood. She'd been played.
Cold, terrified, she released the dove and snapped her eyes open. She was still sitting in the small, windowless room, Aran'gar leaning beside the doorway with arms folded.
Al'Thor had sent Ramshalan in, expecting him to be captured, expecting him to have Compulsion placed on him. Ramshalan's only purpose was to give al'Thor confirmation that Graendal was in the tower.
Light! How clever he's become.
She released the True Power and embraced less-wonderful saidar. Quickly! She was so unsettled that her embrace nearly failed. She was sweating.
Go. She had to go.
She opened a new gateway. Aran'gar turned, staring through the walls in the direction of al'Thor. "So much power! What is he doing?"
Aran'gar. She and Delana had made the weaves of Compulsion.
Al'Thor must think Graendal dead. If he destroyed the place and those Compulsions remained, al'Thor would know that he'd missed and that Graendal lived.
Graendal formed two shields and slammed them into place, one for
Aran'gar, one for Delana. The women gasped. Graendal tied off the weaves and bound the two in Air.
"Graendal?" Aran'gar said, voice panicked. "What are you "
It was coming. Graendal leaped for the gateway, rolling through it, tumbling and ripping her dress on a branch. A blinding light rose behind her. She struggled to dismiss the gateway, and caught one glimpse of the horrified Aran'gar before everything behind was consumed in beautiful, pure whiteness.
The gateway vanished, leaving Graendal in darkness.
She lay, heart beating at a terrible speed, nearly blinded by the glare. She'd made the quickest gateway she could, one that led only a short distance away. She lay in the dirty underbrush atop a ridge behind the palace.
A wave of wrongness washed over her, a warping in the air, the Pattern itself rippling. A balescream, it was called a moment when creation itself howled in pain.
She breathed in and out, trembling. But she had to see. She had to know. She rose to her feet, left ankle twisted. She hobbled to the treeline and looked down.
Natrin's Barrow the entire palace was gone. Burned out of the Pattern. She couldn't see al'Thor on his distant ridge, but she knew where he was.
"You," she growled. "You have become far more dangerous than I assumed."
Hundreds of beautiful men and women, the finest she'd gathered, gone. Her stronghold, dozens of items of Power, her greatest ally among the Chosen. Gone. This was a disaster.
No, she thought. I live. She'd anticipated him, if only by a few moments. Now he would think she was dead.
She was suddenly the safest she'd been since escaping'the Dark One's prison. Except, of course, that she'd just caused the death of one of the Chosen. The Great Lord would not be pleased.
She limped away from the ridge
, already planning her next move. This would have to be handled very, very carefully.
Galad Damodred, Lord Captain Commander of the Children of the Light, yanked his booted foot free of the ankle-deep mud with a slurping sound.
Bitemes buzzed in the muggy air. The stench of mud and stagnant water threatened to gag him with each breath as he led his horse to drier ground on the path. Behind him trudged a long, twisting column four men wide, each one as muddied, sweaty and weary as he was.