“But, Cadsuane,” Niande began urgently, “that man is — ”
“I said, be quiet,” the gray-haired Aes Sedai told her firmly.
“I assure you,” Dashiva said, managing to sound oily and harsh at the same time, “Flinn knows what he is about. Already he can do things you Aes Sedai never dreamed of.” Samitsu sniffed; loudly. Cadsuane merely nodded and sat back in her chair.
Flinn traced his finger along the puffy gash in Rand’s side and across the old scar. That did seem more tender. “These are alike, but different, as if there’s two kinds of infection at work. Only it isn’t infection; it’s . . . darkness. I can’t think of a better word.” He shrugged, eyeing Samitsu’s Yellow-fringed shawl as she frowned at him, but it was a considering look she gave him now.
“Get on with it, Flinn,” Dashiva muttered. “If he dies . . . ” Nose wrinkled as though at a bad smell, he seemed unable to look away from Rand. His lips moved as he talked to himself, and once he made a sound, half sob, half bitter laugh, without his face changing one line.
Drawing a deep breath, Flinn looked around the room, at the Aes Sedai, at Amys. When he caught sight of Min, he gave a start, and his leathery face reddened. Hastily he rearranged the sheet to cover Rand to his neck, leaving only the old wound and the new exposed.
“I hope nobody minds if I talk,” he said, beginning to move callused hands above Rand’s side. “Talking seems to help a mite.” He squinted, focusing on the injuries, and his fingers writhed slowly. Very much as though he was weaving threads, Min realized. His tone was almost absent, only part of his mind on the words. “It was Healing made me go to the Black Tower, you might say. I was a soldier, till I took a lance in my thigh; couldn’t grip a saddle proper after that, or even walk far. That was the fifteenth wound I took in near forty years in the Queen’s Guards. Fifteen that counted, anyway; it don’t if you can walk or ride, after. I seen a lot of friends die in them forty years. So I went, and the M’Hael taught me Healing. And other things. A rough sort of Healing; I was Healed by an Aes Sedai once — oh, nigh on thirty years back now — and this hurts, compared to that. Works as well, though. Then one day, Dashiva here — pardon; Asha’man Dashiva — says he wonders why it’s all the same, no matter if a man’s got a broke leg or a cold, and we got to talking, and . . . Well, he’s got no feel for it, himself, but me, seems I got the knack you might say. The Talent. So I started thinking, what if I . . .? There. Best I can do.”
Dashiva grunted as Flinn abruptly sat back on his heels and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. Sweat beaded on his face, the first time Min had seen an Asha’man perspire. The slash in Rand’s side was not gone, yet it seemed a little smaller, less red and angry. He still slept, but his face seemed less pale.
Samitsu darted past Narishma so quickly he had no chance to intervene. “What did you do?” she demanded, laying fingers on Rand’s forehead. Whatever she found with the Power, her eyebrows climbed halfway to her hair, and her tone leaped from imperious to incredulous. “What did you do?”
Flinn shrugged his shoulders regretfully. “Not much. I couldn’t really touch what’s wrong. I sort of sealed them away from him, for a time, anyhow. It won’t last. They’re fighting each other, now. Maybe they’ll kill off each other, while he heals himself the rest of the way.” Sighing, he shook his head. “On the other hand, I can’t say that they won’t kill him. But I think he has a better chance than he did.”
Dashiva nodded self-importantly. “Yes; he has a chance, now.” You would have thought he had done the Healing himself.
To Flinn’s evident surprise, Samitsu rounded the bed to help him rise. “You will tell me what you did,” she said, regal tone at strong odds with the way her quick fingers straightened the old man’s collar and smoothed his lapels. “If only there was some way you could show me! But you will describe it. You must! I will give you all the gold I possess, bear your child, whatever you wish, but you will tell me all that you can.” Apparently not sure herself whether she was commanding or begging, she led a very bemused Flinn over by the windows. He opened his mouth more than once, but she was too busy trying to make him talk to see it.
Not caring what anyone thought, Min climbed onto the bed and lay so she could tuck Rand’s head under her chin and wrap her arms around him. A chance. Furtively she studied the three people gathered around the bed. Cadsuane in her chair, Amys standing opposite, Dashiva leaning against one of the square bedposts at the foot, all with unreadable auras and images dancing around them. All with their eyes intent on Rand. No doubt Amys saw some disaster for the Aiel if Rand died, and Dashiva, the only one with any expression, a dark yet worried scowl, disaster for the Asha’man. And Cadsuane . . . Cadsuane, who was not only known to Bera and Kiruna, but made them jump like girls for all their oaths to Rand. Cadsuane, who would not hurt Rand “any more than she had to.”
Cadsuane’s gaze met Min’s for a moment, and Min shivered. Somehow, she would protect him while he could not protect himself, from Amys, and Dashiva, and Cadsuane. Somehow. Unconsciously, she began to hum a lullaby, rocking Rand gently. Somehow.
Chapter 37
A Note from the Palace
* * *
The day after the Festival of Birds dawned to strong winds off the Sea of Storms that actually cut the heat in Ebou Dar. A sky without a cloud and the red-gold dome of the sun on the horizon gave promises for once the wind died, though. Mat hurried down through the Tarasin Palace with his green coat undone and his shirt only half-laced in anticipation. He did not quite jump at every sound, but he did give a start, considerably more wide-eyed than he liked, whenever one of the serving women passed, swishing her petticoats and smiling at him. Every last one of them smiled, in a particularly . . . knowing . . . way. It was all he could do not to run.
At the last, he slowed, easing onto the shaded walk bordering the stableyard almost on tiptoe. Between the fluted columns of the walk, yellowish reedy plants in big red pottery bowls and vines with wide, red-striped leaves dangling from metal baskets on chains formed a thin screen. Unconsciously, he tugged his hat lower to obscure his face.
His hands ran along his spear — an ashandarei, Birgitte called it — unthinkingly fingering the haft as if he might need to defend himself. The dice tumbled inside his head fiercely, yet that had nothing to do with his uneasiness. The source of that was Tylin.
Six closed coaches with the green Anchor and Sword of House Mitsobar lacquered on the doors already waited in line before the tall arched outer gates with teams hitched and liveried drivers mounted. He could see Nalesean yawning in a yellow-striped coat on the far side of them, and Vanin sat slumped atop an upended barrel not far from the stable doors, apparently asleep. Most of the other Redarms were squatting patiently on the stableyard flagstones; a few tossed dice in the shadow of the huge white stables. Elayne stood between Mat and the coaches, just the other side of the screen of plants. Reanne Corly was with her, and close by, seven more of the women who were at that peculiar meeting he had burst into the evening before; Reanne was the only one not wearing the red belt of a Wise Woman. He had half-expected them not to appear this morning. They had the features of women used to ordering their own lives and other’s, and most had at least a bit of gray in their hair, yet they watched fresh-faced Elayne with an air of expectation, seemingly on their
toes, as though ready to jump at her command. The whole lot caught less than half his attention, though; none of them was the woman who had him ready to jump out of his skin. Tylin made him feel . . . well . . . helpless was the only word that seemed to fit, however ridiculous it seemed.
“We do not need them, Mistress Corly,” Elayne said. The Daughter-Heir sounded like a woman patting a child on the head. “I’ve told them to remain here until we return. We will attract less attention, especially across the river, without anyone recognizably Aes Sedai.” Her notion of what to wear visiting the roughest part of the city without attracting attention was a wide green hat with green-dyed plumes, a light dustcloak of green linen worked in golden scrolls hanging down her back, and a high-necked green silk riding dress with gold embroidery climbing the divided skirts and thickly emphasizing the oval that exposed half her bosom. She even wore one of those necklaces for a marriage knife. That broad band of woven gold would make every thief’s hand in the Rahad itch. She carried no weapon beyond a small belt knife. But as to that, what weapon did a woman who could channel need? Of course, every one of those red belts had a curved dagger tucked behind it. So did Reane’s belt of plain worked leather.
Reanne removed a large blue straw hat, frowned at it, then put it back on and retied the ribbons. Elayne’s tone did not seem to be what was bothering her. She put on a diffident smile with the hat, and a timid tone. “But why does Merilille Sedai think we are lying, Elayne Sedai?”
“They all do,” one of the red-belts said breathlessly. All of them wore Ebou Dari dresses in sober colors, with narrow plunging necklines and skirts sewn up on one side to expose layered petticoats, but only this one, bone-lean and with more white than black in her long hair, had the olive skin and dark eyes of an Ebou Dari. “Sareitha Sedai called me liar to my face, about our numbers, about — ”She cut off short at a frown and a “Be quiet, Tamarla” from Reanne; Mistress Corly might be ready to curtsy and simper for a child if the child was Aes Sedai, but she kept a tight rein on her companions.
Mat frowned up at the windows overlooking the stable-yard, those he could see from where he stood. Elaborate white wrought-iron screens covered some, white wooden screens of intricately carved piercework others. Not likely Tylin was up there; not likely she would appear in the stableyard. He had been very careful not to wake her getting dressed. Besides, she would not try anything here. At least, he did not think she would. Then again, was anything past the woman who had had half a dozen serving women seize him in the halls last night and drag him into her apartments? The bloody woman treated him like a toy! He was not going to put up with it anymore. He was not. Light, who was he trying to fool? If they did not grab this Bowl of the Winds and get out of Ebou Dar, Tylin would be pinching his bottom and calling him her little pigeon again tonight.
“It’s your ages, Reanne.” Elayne did not exactly sound hesitant — she never did that — but her tone became very careful. “It is considered rude among Aes Sedai to speak of age, but . . . Reanne, apparently no Aes Sedai since the Breaking has lived as long as any of you in the Knitting Circle claim.” That was the odd name these Kin gave their ruling council. “In your own case, not by over a hundred years.” The red-belts gasped, going wide-eyed. A slender brown-eyed woman with pale honey hair gave a nervous giggle and instantly covered her mouth at Reanne’s whip-quick “Famelle!”
“That can’t be possible,” Reanne said faintly to Elayne. “Surely, Aes Sedai must — ”
“Good morning,” Mat said, stepping past the screen of plants. The whole discussion was idiotic; everyone knew Aes Sedai lived longer than anybody else. Instead of wasting time, they should be on their way to the Rahad. “Where are Thom and Juilin? And Nynaeve.” She had to have come back last night, or Elayne would have been in a swivet. “Blood and ashes, I don’t see Birgitte either. We need, to be on our way, Elayne, not standing around. Is Aviendha coming?”
She frowned at him slightly, with just a flicker of her eyes toward Reanne, and he knew she was deciding what performance to give him. Wide-eyed innocence might damage her standing with these women as much as flashing her dimple at him would; Elayne always expected that dimple to work where all else failed. Her chin rose slightly. “Thorn and Juilin are helping Aviendha and Birgitte watch Carridin’s palace, Mat.” It was to be the Daughter-Heir in near full-bloom. Not the whole flowering, since she surely knew how he would react to that, but a voice full of certainty, cool blue eyes demanding, and that pretty face chill if not exactly frozen with arrogance. Was there any woman in the world who was just one person? “Nynaeve will be down shortly, I’m sure. There is no reason for you to come, you know, Mat. Nalesean and your soldiers are a more than adequate bodyguard. You could enjoy yourself right here in the palace until we return.”