"Idle thoughts," he said, his arm hard as stone beneath her hand. New fires flared outside.
"Share them with me." She managed to put a hint of question in that. He seemed amused by the nature of their vows, yet he absolutely refused to follow the smallest instruction when they were alone. Requests, he granted instantly—well, most of the time—but the man would quietly leave his boots muddy till the mud flaked off if she told him not to track in mud.
"Unpleasant thoughts, but if you wish. The Myrddraal and Trollocs make me think of Tarmon Gai'don."
"Unpleasant thoughts, indeed."
Still staring out the window, he nodded. There was no expression on his face—Lan could teach Aes Sedai about hiding emotions!—but a touch of heat entered his voice. "It's coming soon, Nynaeve, yet al'Thor seems to think he has forever to dance with the Seanchan. Shadow-spawn could be moving down through the Blight while we stand here, down through—" His mouth snapped shut. Down through Malkier, he had almost said, dead Malkier, the murdered land of his birth. She was sure of it. He went on as if he had not paused. "They could strike at Shienar, at the whole Borderlands, next week, or tomorrow. And al'Thor sits weaving his Seanchan schemes. He should send someone to convince King Easar and the others to return to their duty along the Blight. He should be marshaling all the force he can gather and taking it to the Blight. The Last Battle will be there, and at Shayol Ghul. The war is there."
Sadness welled up in her, yet she managed to keep it out of her voice. "You have to go back," she said quietly.
At last he turned his head, frowning down at her. His clear blue eyes were so cold. They held less of death than they had, of that she was certain, but they were still so cold. "My place is with you, heart of my heart. Ever and always."
She gathered all of her courage and held on to it hard, so hard that she ached. She wanted to speak fast, to get the words out before courage failed, but she forced herself to a steady tone and an even pace. "A Borderland saying I heard from you once. 'Death is lighter than a feather, duty heavier than a mountain.' My duty lies here, making sure Alivia doesn't kill Rand. But I will take you to the Borderlands. Your duty lies there. You want to go to Shienar? You mentioned King Easar and Shienar. And it is close to Malkier."
He looked down at her for a long time, but at last he exhaled softly, and the tension left his arm. "Are you sure, Nynaeve? If you are, then, yes, Shienar. In the Trolloc Wars, the Shadow used Tarwin's Gap to move large numbers of Trollocs, just as it did a few years back, when we sought the Eye of the World. But only if you are completely sure."
No, she was not sure. She wanted to cry, to scream at him that he was a fool, that his place was with her, not dying alone in a futile private war with the Shadow. Only, she could not say any of that. Bond or no bond, she knew he was torn inside, torn between his love of her and his duty, torn and bleeding as surely as if he had been stabbed with a sword. She could not add to his wounds. She could try to make sure he survived, though. "Would I make the offer if I wasn't sure?" she said dryly, surprised at how calm she sounded. "I won't like sending you away, but you have your duty, and I have mine."
Wrapping his arms around her, he hugged her to his chest, gently at first, then harder, until she thought he might squeeze all the air from her lungs. She did not care. She hugged him just as fiercely, and had to pry her hands from his broad back when she was done at last. Light, she wanted to weep. And knew she must not.
As he began packing his saddlebags, she hurriedly changed into a riding dress of yellow-slashed green silk and stout leather shoes, then slipped from the room before he was done.
Algarin's library was large, a square, high-ceilinged room lined with shelves. Half a dozen cushioned chairs stood scattered around the floor, and a long table and a tall map-rack completed the furnishings. The stone hearth was cold and the iron stand-lamps unlit, but she channeled briefly to light three of them. A hasty search found the maps she needed in the rack's diamond-shaped compartments. They were as old as most of the books, yet the land did not change greatly in two or three hundred years.
When she returned to their rooms, Lan was in the sitting room, saddlebags on his shoulder, Warder's color-shifting cloak hanging down his back. His face was still, a stone mask. She took only time to get her own cloak, blue silk lined with velvet, and they walked in silence, her right hand resting lightly on his left wrist, out to the dimly lit stable where their horses were kept. The air there smelled of hay and horses and horse dung, as it always did in stables.
A lean, balding groom with a nose that had been broken more than once sighed when Lan told him they wanted Mandarb and Loversknot saddled. A gray-haired woman began work on Nynaeve's stout brown mare, while three of the aging men made a job of getting Lan's tall black stallion bridled and out of his stall.
"I want a promise from you," Nynaeve said quietly as they waited. Mandarb danced in circles so that the plump fellow trying to lift the saddle onto the stallion's back had to run trying to catch up. "An oath. I mean it, Lan Mandragoran. We aren't alone any longer."
"What do
you want my oath on?" he asked warily. The balding groom called for two more men to help.
"That you'll ride to Fal Moran before you enter the Blight, and that if anyone wants to ride with you, you'll let him."
His smile was small, and sad. "I've always refused to lead men into the Blight, Nynaeve. There were times men rode with me, but I would not—"
"If men have ridden with you before," she cut in, "men can ride with you again. Your oath on it, or I vow I'll let you ride the whole long way to Shienar." The woman was fastening the cinches on Loversknot's saddle, but the three men were still struggling to get Mandarb's saddle on his back, to keep him from shaking off the saddle blanket.
"How far south in Shienar do you mean to leave me?" he asked. When she said nothing, he nodded. "Very well, Nynaeve. If that's what you want. I swear it under the Light and by my hope of rebirth and salvation."
It was very hard not to sigh with relief. She had managed it, and without lying. She was trying to do as Egwene wanted and behave as though she had already taken the Three Oaths on the Oath Rod, but it was very hard dealing with a husband if you could not lie even when it was absolutely necessary.
"Kiss me," she told him, adding hastily, "That wasn't an order. I just want to kiss my husband." A goodbye kiss. There would be no time for one later.
"In front of everyone?" he said, laughing. "You've always been so shy about that."
The woman was nearly done with Loversknot, and one of the grooms was holding Mandarb as steady as he could while the other two hurriedly buckled the cinches.
"They're too busy to see anything. Kiss me, or I'll think you're the one who's—" His lips on hers shut off words. Her toes curled.
Some time later, she was leaning on his broad chest to catch her breath while he stroked her hair. "Perhaps we can have one last night together in Shienar," he murmured softly. "It may be some time before we're together again, and I'll miss having my back clawed."
Her face grew hot, and she pushed away from him unsteadily. The grooms were done, and staring very pointedly at the straw-covered floor, but they might well be close enough to overhear! "I think not.” She was proud that she did not sound breathless. "I don't want to leave Rand alone with Alivia that long."
"He trusts her, Nynaeve. I don't understand it, but there it is, and that's all that matters." She sniffed. As if any man knew what was good for him.