Abruptly, Graendal realized that Moghedien was letting the girl do all the talking. Hanging back until a weakness became apparent. And Graendal had been letting her! “I do not suppose you came to tell me of Sammael’s death, Moghedien,” she said sharply. “Or to talk about weather. You know I seldom go outside.” Nature was unruly, lacking order. There were not even windows in this room, nor in most that she used. “What do you want?” The dark-haired woman was edging sideways along the wall; the glow of the One Power still surrounded her. Graendal stepped casually so that both remained in her sight.
“You make a mistake, Graendal.” A chilly smile barely curved Cyndane’s full lips; she was enjoying this. “I lead between us. Moghedien is in a bad odor with Moridin for her recent mistakes.”
Wrapping her arms around herself, Moghedien shot the silver-haired little woman a scowl as good as any spoken confirmation. Suddenly Cyndane’s big eyes opened even wider, and she gasped, shuddering.
Moghedien’s glare turned malicious. “You lead for the moment,” she sneered. “Your place in his eyes is not far better than mine.” And then she gave a start and shivered, biting her lip.
Was she being toyed with, Graendal wondered. The pure hatred for each other on the two women’s faces seemed unfeigned. Either way, she would see how they enjoyed being played. Unconsciously rubbing her hands together, rubbing the angreal on her finger, she moved to a chair without taking her eyes from the pair. The sweetness of saidar flowing into her was a comfort. Not that she needed comfort, but there was something odd here. The high straight back, thickly carved and gilded, made the chair seem a throne, though it was no different from any other in the room. Such things affected even the most sophisticated on levels they never knew consciously.
She sat leaning back with her leg’s crossed, one foot kicking idly, the
picture of a woman at her ease, and made her voice bored. “Since you lead, child, tell me, when this man who calls himself Death is in his skin, who is he? What is he?”
“Moridin is Nae’blis.” The girl’s voice was calm and cold and arrogant. “The Great Lord has decided it is time for you to serve the Nae’blis, too.”
Graendal jerked upright. “This is preposterous.” She could not keep the anger from her voice. “A man I’ve never heard of has been named the Great Lord’s Regent on Earth?” She did not mind when others tried to manipulate her — she always found a way to turn their schemes against them — but Moghedien must take her for a half-wit! She had no doubt that Moghedien was directing this obnoxious girl, whatever they claimed, whatever looks they stabbed at each other. “I serve the Great Lord and myself, no other! I think the two of you should go, now, and play your little game elsewhere. Demandred might be diverted by it. Or Semirhage? Be careful how you channel in leaving; I have set a few inverted webs, and you would not want to trigger one.”
That was a lie, but a very believable one, so it came as a shock when Moghedien suddenly channeled and every lamp in the room went out, plunging them into darkness. Instantly Graendal flung herself from the chair so as not to be where they had last seen her, and she also channeled even as she moved, weaving a web of light that hung to one side, a sphere of pure white that cast lurid shadows about the room. And revealed the pair clearly. Without hesitation, she channeled again, drawing the full strength of the little ring. She did not need it all, or even most, but she wanted every advantage she could find. Attack her, would they! A net of Compulsion tightened on each of them before they could twitch.
She had spun the nets strong, for anger’s sake, nearly strong enough to do harm, and the women stood staring at her adoringly, eyes wide and mouths hanging open in adulation, intoxicated with worship. They were hers to command, now. If she told them to cut their own throats, they would. Suddenly Graendal realized that Moghedien was no longer embracing the Source. This much Compulsion might have shocked her into letting go. The servants by the door had not moved, of course.
“Now,” she said a touch breathlessly, “you will answer my questions.” She had a number, including who was this Moridin fellow, if there was such a man, and where had Cyndane come from, but one piqued her more than the rest. “What did you hope to gain by this, Moghedien? I may decide to knot those webs on you. You can pay for your game by serving me.”
“No, please,” Moghedien groaned, wringing her hands. She actually began to weep! “You will kill us all! Please, you must serve the Nae’blis! That is what we came for. To bring you to Moridin’s service!” The silver-haired little woman’s face was a shadowed mask of terror in the pale light, her bosom heaving as she gulped breath.
Suddenly uneasy, Graendal opened her mouth. This made less and less sense by the moment. She opened her mouth, and the True Source vanished. The One Power vanished from her, and blackness swallowed the room again. Abruptly the caged birds broke into a frenzy of chirruping; their wings fluttered frantically against the bamboo bars.
Behind her, a voice rasped like rock being ground to dust. “The Great Lord thought you might not take their word, Graendal. The time when you could go your own way has passed.” A ball of . . . something . . . appeared in the air, a dead black globe, but a silver light filled the room. The mirrors did not shine; they seemed to dull in that light. The birds went still, silent; somehow, Graendal knew they had frozen in terror.
She gaped at the Myrddraal standing there, pale and eyeless and clothed in black deeper than the ball, but larger than any she had ever seen. It had to be the reason she could not sense the Source, but that was impossible! Except . . . Where had that strange sphere of black light come from if not from it? She had never felt the same fear others did at a Myrddraal’s gaze, not to the same degree, yet her hands rose on their own, and she had to snatch them down to keep from covering her face. Glancing toward Moghedien and Cyndane, she flinched. They had adopted the same pose as her servants, crouching on their knees, heads to the floor toward the Myrddraal.
She had to work moisture into her mouth. “You are a messenger from the Great Lord?” Her voice was steady, but weak. She had never heard of such a thing, the Great Lord sending a message by Myrddraal, and yet . . . Moghedien was a physical coward, but still one of the Chosen, and she groveled as assiduously as the girl. And there was the light. Graendal found herself wishing her dress were not cut so low. Ridiculous, of course; Myrddraal’s appetites for women were well known, but she was one of the . . . Her eyes drifted to Moghedien once more.
The Myrddraal strode by her sinuously, seeming not to pay her any heed. Its long black cloak hung undisturbed by its movements. Aginor had thought the creatures were not quite in the world in the same way everything else was; “slightly out of phase with time and reality,” he had called it, whatever that meant.
“I am Shaidar Haran.” Stopping by her servants, the Myrddraal bent to grip them by the backs of their necks, one hand to each. “When I speak, you may consider that you hear the voice of the Great Lord of the Dark.” Those hands tightened to the surprisingly loud sound of cracking bone. The young man spasmed as he died, kicking out; the young woman merely went limp. They had been two of her prettiest. The Myrddraal straightened from the corpses. “I am his hand in this world, Graendal. When you stand before me, you stand before him.”
Graendal considered carefully, if quickly. She was afraid, an emotion she was far more used to inspiring in others, but she knew how to control her fear. While she had never commanded armies as some of the others had, she was neither a stranger to hazard nor a coward, yet this was more than a mere threat. Moghedien and Cyndane still knelt with their heads to the marble floor, Moghedien actually trembling visibly. Graendal believed this Myrddraal. Or whatever it truly was. The Great Lord was taking a more direct hand in events, as she had feared. And if he learned of her scheming with Sammael . . . If he chose to take action, that was; betting that he did not know was a foolish wager at this point.
She knelt smoothly before the Myrddraal. “What would you have me do?” Her voice had regained its strength. A necessary flexibility was not cowardice; those who did not bend for the Great Lord were bent. Or snapped in two. “Should I call you Great Master, or would you prefer another title? I would not feel comfortable addressing even the Great Lord’s hand as I would him.”
Shockingly, the Myrddraal laughed. It sounded like ice crumbling. Myrddraal never laughed. “You are braver than most. And wiser. Shaidar Haran will do for you. So long as you remember who I am. So long as you do not let bravery overcome your fear too far.”
As it issued its commands — a visit to this Moridin was first, it seemed; she would need to be on her guard against Moghedien, and perhaps Cyndane also, taking revenge for her brief use of Compulsion; she doubted the girl was any more forgiving than the Spider — she decided to keep to herself the letter she had sent to Rodel Ituralde. Nothing she was told indicated that her actions would be displeasing to the Great Lord, and she still had to consider her own position. Moridin, whoever he was, might be Nae’blis today, but there was always tomorrow.
Bracing herself against the rocking of Arilyn’s coach, Cadsuane moved one of the leather window curtains far enough to see out. A light rain fell on Cairhien from a gray sky full of blustering clouds and rough, swirling winds. Not only the sky was full of wind. Howling gusts rocked the coach more than did its forward motion. Tiny droplets stung her hand, cold as ice. If the air cooled a little more, there would be snow. She drew her woolen cloak closer; she had been pleased to find it, shoved to the bottom of her saddlebags. The air would cool.
The city’s steep slate roofs and stone-paved streets glistened wetly, and though the rain was not hard, few were willing to brave the strong winds. A woman guiding an ox-cart with taps of a long goad moved as patiently as her ox, but most people afoot clutched cloaks tightly, hoods pulled down, and stepped quickly as the bearers of a sedan chair rushed by, its stiff con fluttering. Others beside the woman and her ox saw no reason for haste, though. In the middle of the street a towering Aielman stood gaping at the sky in disbelief while the drizzle soaked him, so absorbed that a daring cutpurse sliced away his belt pouch and darted off unnoticed by his victim. A woman whose elaborately curled, high-piled hair marked her as noble walked along slowly, her cloak flapping wildly, and its long hood as well. This might have been the first time ever that she had actually walked in the streets, but she was laughing as the rain slicked her cheeks. From the doorway of a perfumer’s shop, the shopkeeper stared out disconsolately; she would do little business today. Most of the hawkers had vanished for the same reason, but a handful still hopefully cried hot tea and meat pies from barrows beneath makeshift awnings. Though anyone who bought a meat pie in the street these days deserved the bellyache she would get.
A pair of starving dogs ran out from an alley, stiff-legged and hackles up, barking and snarling at the coach. Cadsuane let the curtain fall. Dogs seemed to know women who could channel as easily as cats did, but dogs appeared to think the women were cats, if unnaturally large ones. The pair of women seated across from her were still in conversation.
“Forgive me,” Daigian was saying, “but the logic is inescapable.” She ducked her head apologetically, making the moonstone dangling on a fine silver chain from her long black hair sway across her forehead. Her fingers plucked the white slashes in her dark skirts, and she spoke rapidly, as though afraid of being interrupted. “If you accept that the lingering heat was the Dark One’s work, the change must be by some other agency. He would not have relented. You might say that he has decided to freeze or drown the world instead of baking it, but why? Had the heat continued through spring, the dead might well have outnumbered the living, no different than if snow falls into the summer. Therefore, logically, some other hand is at work.” The plump woman’s diffidence was trying at times, but as always, Cadsuane found her logic impeccable. She just wished she knew whose hand and to what end.
“Peace!” Kumira muttered. “I would rather an ounce of h
ard proof than a hundredweight of your White Ajah logic.” She was Brown, herself, though little given to their usual failings. A handsome woman with short-cut hair, she was hardheaded and practical, a keen observer, and never lost herself so deeply in thought that she lost sight of the world around her as well. No sooner had Kumira spoken than she patted Daigian’s knee with a graceful hand, and gave a smile that changed her blue eyes from sharp to warm. Shienarans were a polite people, by and large, and Kumira took care not to offend. By accident, at least. “Put your mind to what we can do about the sisters held by the Aiel. I know you’ll reason out something if anyone can.”
Cadsuane snorted. “They deserve whatever happens to them.” She had not been allowed near the Aiel tents herself, nor had any of her companions, but some of the fools who had sworn fealty to the al’Thor boy had ventured out to the sprawling encampment and come back white-faced and torn between outrage and sicking up. Normally, she also would have been furious over the affront to Aes Sedai dignity, whatever the circumstances; not now. To achieve her goal, she would have run the entire White Tower through the streets naked. How could she concern herself with the discomfort of women who might have ruined everything?