Knife of Dreams (129 page)

The three men who stepped out into the opening were not at all ludicrous, however. They wore long black coats, and swords at their hips. One, a lean young fellow with curled mustaches, had a silver pin in the shape of
a sword on his high collar. One of the Dedicated. Pevara resisted the instinct to think of him as equivalent to an Accepted and the other two as novices. Novices and Accepted were kept safe and guided until they knew enough of the Power to become Aes Sedai. By all reports, Soldiers and Dedicated were considered ready for battle almost as soon as they learned to channel. And they were forced from the first day, pressed to seize as much of
saidin
as they could, made to use it almost continually. Men died from that, and they called it “training losses,” as if they could hide death behind bland words. The thought of losing novices or Accepted in that fashion curdled Pevara’s stomach, but it seemed that the men took it in stride.

“A fine morning to you, Aes Sedai,” the Dedicated said with a small bow as they reined in before him. A very small bow, never taking his eyes from them. His accents were those of Murandy. “Now what would six sisters be wanting here at the Black Tower this fine morning?”

“To see the M’Hael,” Pevara replied, managing to avoid choking on the word. It meant “leader” in the Old Tongue, but the implication of taking that alone as a title gave the word much stronger meaning, as if he led everyone and everything.

“Ah, to see the M’Hael, is it? And of what Ajahs should I say?”

“The Red,” Pevara replied and watched him blink. Very satisfying. But not very helpful.

“The Red,” he said flatly. He had not remained startled very long. “Well, then. Enkazin, al’Seen, you keep watch while I see what the M’Hael has to say to this.”

He turned his back, and the vertical silvery slash of a gateway appeared in front of him, widening into an opening no larger than a door. Was that as large as he could make? There had been some discussion about whether to bond men who were as strong as possible or those who were weak. The weak might be more easily controlled, while the strong might—would definitely—be more useful. They had reached no consensus; each sister would have to decide for herself. He darted through the gateway and closed it before she had a chance to see more than a white stone platform with steps leading up one side and a squared-off black stone that might have been one of the building blocks for the wall, polished till it shone in the sun, sitting atop it.

The two who remained stayed in the middle of the double arch as if to bar the sisters from riding in. One was a Saldaean, a skinny broad-nosed man just short of his middle years who had something of the look of a clerk about him, a bit of a stoop as from hunching for long hours over a writing table, the other a boy, little more than a child, who raked dark hair
out of his eyes with his fingers though the breeze quickly put it back again. Neither seemed the slightest uneasy over confronting six sisters alone. If they
were
alone. Were there others in those towers? Pevara refrained from glancing at the tower tops.

“You there, boy,” Desala said in a voice like chimes. Chimes tinged with anger. The surest way to set off her temper was to harm a child. “You should be at home with your mother studying your letters. What are you doing here?” The boy flushed bright red and raked hair from his face again.

“Saml’s all right, Aes Sedai,” the Saldaean said, patting the boy’s shoulder. “He’s a quick learner, and you don’t need to show him anything twice before he knows it.” The boy stood up very straight, pride on his face, and tucked his thumbs behind his sword belt. A sword, at his age! True, a noble’s son would have been learning the sword for several years at Saml al’Seen’s age, but he would not be allowed to wear the thing about!

“Pevara,” Tarna said coolly, “no children. I knew they had children here, but no children.”

“Light!” Melare breathed. Her white mare sensed her agitation and tossed her head. “Certainly no children!”

“That would be an abomination,” Jezrail said.

“No children,” Pevara agreed quickly. “I think we should wait to say more until we see Master . . . the M’Hael.” Javindhra sniffed.

“No children what, Aes Sedai?” Enkazin asked, frowning. “No children what?” he said again when no one answered.

He no longer appeared so much like a clerk. The stoop remained, but something in his tilted eyes suddenly seemed . . . dangerous. Was he holding the male half of the Power? The possibility sent a chill down Pevara’s spine, but she resisted the desire to embrace
saidar
. Some men who could channel seemed able to sense when a woman was holding the Power. Enkazin looked like he might be hasty, now.

They waited in silence except for the occasional stamp of a hoof, Pevara schooling herself to patience, Javindhra grumbling under her breath. Pevara could not make out the words, but she knew grumbling when she heard it. Tarna and Jezrail took books from their saddlebags and read. Good. Let these Asha’man see that they were unconcerned. Only, not even the boy seemed impressed. He and the Saldaean just stood there in the middle of the gate watching, hardly blinking.

After perhaps half an hour, a larger gateway opened and the Murandian strode through. “The M’Hael will be receiving you at the palace, Aes Sedai. Go on through.” He jerked his head toward the opening.

“You will show us the way?” Pevara said, dismounting. The gateway was larger, but she would have had to crouch to ride through.

“There’ll be someone on the other side to guide you.” He barked a laugh. “The M’Hael doesn’t associate with the likes of me.” Pevara filed that away to chew over later.

As soon as the last of them was through, near the white stone platform with its mirror-bright black stone, the gateway winked shut, but they were not alone. Four men and two women in rough woolens took the reins of their horses, and a dark, heavyset man with both the silver sword and a sinuous red-and-gold figure, a dragon, on his tall black collar gave them a minimal bow.

“Follow me,” he said curtly in a Tairen accent. His eyes were like augers.

The palace the Murandian had spoken of was just that, two stories of white marble topped with pointed domes and spires in the style of Saldaea, separated from a large space of bare, hard-packed ground by the white platform. It was not large among palaces, but most nobles lived in buildings far smaller and less grand. Broad stone stairs rose to a wide landing in front of tall twinned doors. Each bore a gauntleted fist gripping three lightning bolts, carved large and gilded. Those doors swung open before the Tairen reached them, but there were no servants in evidence. The man must have channeled. Pevara felt that chill again. Javindhra muttered under her breath. With a sound of prayer, this time.

The palace might have belonged to any noble with a taste for tapestries showing battles and red-and-black floor tiles, except that there were no servants in evidence. He had servants, though unfortunately no Red Ajah eyes-and-ears among them, but did he expect them to remain out of sight when not needed or had he ordered them from the halls? Perhaps to avoid having anyone see six Aes Sedai arrive. That line of reasoning ran toward thoughts she would rather not consider. She had acknowledged the dangers before leaving the White Tower. There was no point dwelling on them.

The chamber the Tairen led them to was a throne room, where a ring of spiral-cut black columns supported what must have been the palace’s largest dome, its interior layered with gilt and half filled with gilded lamps hanging on gilded chains. Tall mirrored stand-lamps stood along the curved walls, too. Perhaps a hundred men in black coats were standing to either side of the room. Every man she could see wore the sword and the dragon, men with hard faces, leering faces, cruel faces. Their eyes focused on her and the other sisters.

The Tairen did not announce them, but rather simply joined the mass
of Asha’man and left them to make their own way across the room. The floor tiles were red and black here, too. Taim must particularly like those colors. The man himself was lounging on what could only be called a throne, a massive chair as heavily carved and gilded as any throne she had seen, atop a white marble dais. Pevara focused on him, and not only to avoid feeling all those eyes of men who could channel following her. Mazrim Taim drew the eye. He was tall, with a strongly hooked nose and an air of physical strength about him. An air of darkness, too. He sat there with his ankles crossed and one arm hanging over the heavy arm of the throne, yet he seemed ready to explode into violence. Interestingly, though his black coat was embroidered with blue-and-gold dragons that twined around the sleeves from elbows to cuffs, he did not wear the collar pins.

“Six sisters of the Red Ajah,” he said when they stopped short of the dais. His eyes. . . . She had only thought the Tairen’s eyes were augers. “Plainly you didn’t come to try gentling us all.” Chuckles rippled around the room. “Why
did
you come asking to speak to me?”

“I am Pevara Tazanovni, Sitter for the Red,” she said. “This is Javindhra Doraille, also a Red Sitter. The others are Tarna Feir, Desala Nevanche—”

“I didn’t ask your names,” Taim cut in coldly. “I asked why you came here.”

This was not going well. She managed not to take a deep breath, but she wanted to. Outwardly, she was cool and calm. Inside, she wondered whether she would end the day forcibly bonded. Or dead. “We want to discuss bonding Asha’man as Warders. After all, you’ve bonded fifty-one sisters. Against their will.” As well to let him know they were aware of that from the start. “We do not propose bonding any man against his will, however.”

A tall, golden-haired man standing near the dais sneered at her. “Why should we allow Aes Sedai to take any m—” Something unseen struck the side of his head so hard that his feet left the floor tiles before he fell in a heap, eyes closed and blood trickling from his nostrils.

A lean man with receding gray-streaked hair and a forked beard bent to touch a finger to the fallen man’s head. “He’s alive,” he said as he straightened, “but his skull’s cracked and his jaw’s broken.” He might have been talking about the weather. None of the men made any move to offer Healing. Not one!

“I have some small skill in Healing,” Melare said, gathering her skirts and already moving toward the fallen man. “Enough for this, I think. With your permission.”

Taim shook his head. “You do not have my permission. If Mishraile
survives till nightfall, he’ll be Healed. Perhaps the pain will teach him to guard his tongue. You say
you
want to bond Warders?
Reds
?”

That last word carried a great deal of contempt, which Pevara chose to ignore. Tarna’s eyes could have turned the sun to an icicle, though. Pevara laid a cautionary hand on the other woman’s arm as she spoke. “Reds have experience with men who can channel.” Mutters rose among the watching Asha’man. Angry mutters. She ignored that, too. “We are not afraid of them. Custom can be as hard to change as law, harder at times, but it has been decided to change ours. Henceforth, Red sisters may bond Warders, but only men who can channel. Each sister may bond as many as she feels comfortable with. Given the Green, for example, I think that is unlikely to be more than three or four.”

“Very well.”

Pevara blinked in spite of herself. “ ‘Very well’?” She must have misunderstood him. He could not have been convinced so easily.

Taim’s eyes seemed to bore into her head. He spread his hands, and it was a mocking gesture. “What would you have me say? Fair is fair? Equal shares? Accept ‘very well’ and ask who will let you bond them. Besides, you must remember the old saying. Let the lord of chaos rule.” The chamber erupted with men’s laughter.

Pevara had never heard any saying like that. The laughter made the hair on the back of her neck try to stand.

The End of the Eleventh Book of
The Wheel of Time