If Egwene had not had herself on a tight rein, she would have jumped a foot. As it was, her heart pounded even after she made out Leane by the light of the moon. “I thought you were . . .” she said before she could stop herself, and only just managed not to say Moghedien’s name.
The taller woman fell in beside her, keeping a careful watch for other sisters as they walked. Leane did not have Siuan’s excuse for spending time with her. Not that being seen together once should cause any harm, but . . .
“Should not” isn’t always “will not,” Egwene reminded herself. Slipping the stole from her shoulders, she folded it to carry in one hand. At a glance, from a distance, Leane might well be taken for an Accepted despite her dress; many Accepted lacked enough of the banded white dresses to wear one all the time. From a distance, Egwene might be taken for one, too. Not the most pacifying thought.
“Theodrin and Faolain are asking around near Marigan’s tent, Mother. They weren’t especially pleased. I did a fine sulk over carrying messages, if I do say so. Theodrin had to stop Faolain dressing me down for it.” Leane’s laughter was quiet and breathy. Situations that grated Siuan’s teeth usually amused her. She was cosseted by most of the other sisters for how well she had adjusted.
“Good, good,” Egwene said absently. “Merana misstepped somehow, Leane, or he wouldn’t be staying in Cairhien, and she wouldn’t be keeping quiet.” Off in the distance, a dog bayed at the moon, then others, until they were abruptly silenced by shouts that, perhaps luckily, she could not quite understand. A number of the soldiers had dogs tagging along; there were none in the Aes Sedai camp. Any number of cats, but no dogs.
“Merana does know what she is doing, Mother.” It sounded very like a sigh. Leane and Siuan both agreed with Sheriam. Everyone did, except her. “When you give someone a task, you have to trust it to them.”
Egwene sniffed and folded her arms. “Leane, that man could strike sparks from a damp cloth, if it wore the shawl. I don’t know Merana, but I’ve never seen an Aes Sedai who qualified as a damp cloth.”
“I’ve met one or two,” Leane chuckled. This time her sigh was plain. “But not Merana, true. Does he really believe he has friends inside the Tower? Alviarin? That might make him difficult for Merana, I suppose, but I can hardly see Alviarin doing anything to risk her place. She was always ambitious enough for three.”
“He has a letter supposedly from her.” She could still see Rand gloating over receiving letters from Elaida and Alviarin both, back before she herself left Cairhien. “Maybe her ambitions make her think she can replace Elaida with him on her side. That’s if she really wrote it. He thinks he’s clever, Leane — maybe he is — but he doesn’t believe he needs anyone.” Rand would go on thinking he could handle anything by himself right up until one of those anythings crushed him. “I know him inside and out, Leane. Being around the Wise Ones seems to have infected him, or maybe he infected them. Whatever the Sitters think, whatever any of you think, an Aes Sedai’s shawl doesn’t impress him any more than it does the Wise Ones. Sooner or later he’ll exasperate a sister until she does something about it, or one of them will push him the wrong way, not realizing how strong he is, and what his temper is now. After that there might be no going back. I’m the only one who can deal with him safely. The only one.”
“He can hardly be as . . . irritating . . . as those Aiel women,” Leane murmured wryly. Even she found it difficult to be amused by her experiences with the Wise Ones. “But it hardly matters. ‘The Amyrlin Seat being valued with the White Tower itself . . . ‘ “
A pair of women appeared between the tents ahead, moving slowly, as they talked. Distance and shadows obscured their faces, yet it was clear they were Aes Sedai from the way they carried themselves, an assurance that nothing hiding in any darkness could harm them. No Accepted on the brink of the shawl could manage quite that degree of confidence. A queen with an army at her back might not. They were coming toward her and Leane. Leane quickly turned in to the deeper dimness between two wagons.
Scowling with frustration, Egwene nearly pulled her out again and marched on. Let it all come into the open. She would stand before the Hall and tell them it was time they realized the Amyrlin’s stole was more than a pretty scarf. She would . . . Following Leane, she motioned the other woman to walk on. What she would not do was throw everything on the midden heap in a fit of pique.
Only one Tower law specifically limited the power of the Amyrlin Seat. A fistful of irritating customs and a barrel full of inconvenient realities, but only one law, yet it could not have been a worse for her purposes. “The Amyrlin Seat being valued with the White Tower itself, as the very heart of the White Tower, she must not be endangered without dire necessity, therefore unless the White Tower be at war by declaration of the Hall of the Tower, the Amyrlin Seat shall seek the lesser consensus of the Hall of the Tower before deliberately placing herself in the way of any danger, and she shall abide by the consensus that stands.” What rash incident by an Amyrlin had inspired that, Egwene did not know, but it had been law for something over two thousand years. To most Aes Sedai, any law that old attained an aura of holiness; changing it was unthinkable.
Romanda had quoted that . . . that bloody law as though lecturing a half-wit. If the Daughter-Heir of Andor could not be allowed within a hundred miles of the Dragon Reborn, how much more they must preserve the Amyrlin Seat. Lelaine sounded almost regretful, most likely because she was agreeing with Romanda. That had nearly curdled both their tongues. Without them, both of them, the lesser consensus lay as far out of reach as the greater. Light, even that declaration of war only required the lesser consensus! So if she could not obtain permission . . .
Leane cleared her throat. “You can hardly do much if you go in secret, Mother, and the Hall will find out, soon or late. I think you would find it difficult to have an hour to yourself after that. Not that they’d dare put a guard on you, precisely, but t
here are ways. I can quote examples from . . . certain sources.” She never mentioned the hidden records directly unless they were behind a ward.
“Am I so transparent?” Egwene asked after a moment. There were only wagons around them here, and beneath the wagons the dark mounds of sleeping wagon drivers and horse handlers and all the rest needed to keep so many vehicles moving. It was remarkable just how many conveyances over three hundred Aes Sedai required, when few would condescend to ride even a mile in wagon or cart. But there were tents and furnishings and foodstuffs, and a thousand things needed to keep the sisters and those who served them. The loudest sounds here were snores, a chorus of frogs.
“No, Mother,” Leane laughed softly. “I just thought what I would do. But it’s well known I’ve lost all my dignity and sense; the Amyrlin Seat can hardly take me for a model. I think you must let young Master al’Thor go as he will, for a time anyway, while you pluck the goose that’s in front of you.”
“His way may lead us all to the Pit of Doom,” Egwene muttered, but it was not an argument. There had to be a way to pluck that goose and still keep Rand from making dangerous mistakes, but she could not see it now. Not frogs; those snores sounded like a hundred saws cutting logs full of knots. “This is as bad a spot for a soothing walk as I’ve ever visited. I think I might as well go to bed.”
Leane tilted her head. “In that case, Mother, if you will forgive me, there’s a man in Lord Bryne’s camp . . . After all, whoever heard of a Green without even one Warder?” From the sudden quickening in her voice, you might have thought she was off to meet a lover. Considering what Egwene had heard about Greens, perhaps there was not that much difference.
Back among the tents, the last of the fires had been doused with dirt; no one took risks with fire when the countryside was tinder dry. A few tendrils of smoke rose lazily in the moonlight where the job had not been well done. A man murmured drowsily in his sleep inside a tent, and here and there a cough drifted out or a rasping snore, but otherwise the camp lay silent and still. Which was why Egwene was surprised when someone stepped from the shadows in front of her, especially someone wearing the simple white dress of a novice.
“Mother, I need to speak to you.”
“Nicola?” Egwene had made a point of fixing name to face for every novice, no easy chore given how sisters hunted all along the army’s path for girls and young women who could learn. Active search was still not well thought of — custom was to wait for the girl to ask, best of all to wait for her to come to the Tower — but ten times as many novices studied in the camp now as the White Tower had held in years. Nicola was one to be remembered, though, and besides, Egwene had often noticed the young woman staring at her. “Tiana won’t be pleased if she finds you up this late.” Tiana Noselle was the Mistress of Novices, known equally for a comforting shoulder when a novice needed to cry and an unyielding stance when it came to rules.
The other woman shifted as if to hurry away, then straightened her back. Sweat glistened on her cheeks. The darkness was cooler than the light had been, but not what anyone would call cool, and the simple trick of ignoring heat or cold came only with the shawl. “I know I’m supposed to ask to see Tiana Sedai and then ask her to see you, Mother, but she’d never let a novice approach the Amyrlin Seat.”
“About what, child?” Egwene asked. The woman was older by six or seven years at least, but that was the proper address for a novice.
Fidgeting with her skirt, Nicola stepped closer. Large eyes met Egwene’s perhaps more directly than a novice’s should have. “Mother, I want to go as far as I can.” Her hands plucked at her dress, but her voice was cool and self-possessed, fit for an Aes Sedai. “I won’t say they are holding me back, but I am sure I can become stronger than they say. I just know I can. You were never held back, Mother. No one has ever gained so much of her strength as fast as you. All I ask is the same chance.”
Movement in the shadow behind Nicola turned into another sweaty-faced woman, this one in short coat and wide trousers, carrying a bow. Her hair hung to her waist in a braid tied with six ribbons, and she wore short boots with raised heels.
Nicola Treehill and Areina Nermasiv seemed an odd pair to be friends. Like many of the older novices — women with nearly ten years on Egwene were tested now, though many sisters still grumbled that they were ten years too old to accept novice discipline — like many of those older women, Nicola was ferocious in her desire to learn, by all reports, and she had a potential bettered only by Nynaeve, Elayne and Egwene herself among living Aes Sedai. In fact, Nicola apparently was making great strides, often great enough that her teachers had to slow her down. Some said she had begun picking up weaves as if she already knew them. Not only that, but she already demonstrated two Talents, although the ability to “see” ta’veren was minor, while the major Talent, Foretelling, emerged so that no one understood what she had Foretold. She herself did not remember a word she said. All in all, Nicola was already marked by the sisters as someone to watch despite her late start. The begrudging agreement to test women older than seventeen or eighteen probably could be laid at Nicola’s feet.
Areina, on the other hand, was a Hunter for the Horn who swaggered as much as a man and sat around talking of adventures, those she had had and those she would, when she was not practicing with her bow. Very likely she had picked that weapon up from Birgitte, along with her manner of dress. She certainly seemed to have no interest in anything beside the bow, except flirting occasionally, in a rather forward manner, though not lately. Perhaps long days on the road left her too tired for it, if not for archery. Why she was still traveling with them, Egwene could not understand; it was hardly likely that Areina believed the Horn of Valere would turn up along their march, and impossible that she even suspected it was hidden away inside the White Tower. Very few people knew that. Egwene was not certain even Elaida did.
Areina seemed a posturing fool, but Egwene felt a certain sympathy for Nicola. She understood the woman’s discontent, understood wanting to know it all now. She had been that way, too. Maybe she still was. “Nicola,” she said gently, “we all have limits. I’ll never match Nynaeve Sedai, for example, whatever I do.”