Every one of the black-robed women was unwashed, her hair lank and dirty with sweat. Elza Penfell, a Green sister, met his gaze eagerly, a strangely fervent look on her face. Nesune Bihara, a slender Brown, studied him as intently as he did her. Sarene Nemdahl, so beautiful even in her dirt that you thought her agelessness must be natural, appeared to be holding to her White Ajah coolness by a fingernail. Beldeine Nyram, too new to the shawl to have the ageless features, essayed an uncertain smile that melted under his stare. Erian Boroleos, pale and almost as lovely as Sarene, flinched, then visibly forced herself to look into that frigid gaze. Those last two also were Green, and all five had been among the sisters who kidnapped him on Elaida’s orders. Some had been among those who tortured him while trying to carry him to Tar Valon. Sometimes Rand still woke, sweating and panting, mumbling about being confined, being beaten. Min hoped she did not see murder in his stare.
“These were named da’tsang, Rand al’Thor,” Sorilea said. “I think they feel their shame in the bone, now. Erian Boroleos was the first to ask to be beaten as you were, sunrise and sunset, but now each has done so. That plea has been granted. Each has asked to serve you however she may. The toh for their betrayal cannot be met,” her voice darkened for a moment; to the Aiel, the betrayal of the kidnapping was far worse than what they had done after, “yet they know their shame, and they wish to try. We have decided to leave the choice to you.”
Min frowned. Leave the choice to him? Wise Ones rarely left any choice they could make to anyone else. Sorilea never did. The sinewy Wise One casually shifted her dark shawl on her shoulders and watched Rand as if this was of no importance at all. But she shot one blue ice glance at Min, and suddenly Min was sure that if she said the wrong thing here, that bony old woman would have her hide. It was not a viewing. She just knew Sorilea better than she wanted to, by now.
Determinedly she set to studying what was appearing and vanishing around the women. No easy task when they stood so close together she could not be certain whether a particular image belonged to one woman or the woman next to her. At least the auras were always certain. Light, let her be able to understand at least some of what she saw!
Rand took Sorilea’s announcement coolly, on the surface. He rubbed his hands together slowly, then thoughtfully examined the herons branded on his palms. He examined each of those Aes Sedai faces in turn. Finally, he focused on Erian.
“Why?” he asked her in a mild voice. “I killed two of your Warders. Why?” Min winced. Rand was many things, but seldom mild. And Erian was one of the few who had beaten him more than once.
The pale Illianer sister straightened. Images danced, and auras flashed and were gone. Nothing Min could read. Dirty-faced and her long black hair matted, Erian gathered Aes Sedai authority around her and met his gaze levelly. But her answer came simply and directly. “We did be wrong in taking you. I have considered long on it. You must fight the Last Battle, and we must help you. If you will no accept me, I do understand, but I will help as you do require if you will allow.”
Rand stared at her without expression.
He put that same one-word question to each, and their answers were as different as the women.
“The Green is the Battle Ajah,” Beldeine told him proudly, and despite smudges on her cheeks and dark circles beneath her eyes, she did look a Queen of Battles. But then, Saldaean women seemed to find that second nature. “When you go to Tarmon Gai’don, the Green must be there. I will follow, if you will accept me.” Light, she was going to bond an Asha’man as a Warder! How . . .? No; it was not important now.
“What we did was logical at the time.” Sarene’s tightly held cool serenity slipped into clear worry, and she shook her head. “I say that to explain, not to exculpate. Circumstances have changed. For you, the logical course might seem to . . . ” She drew a decidedly unsteady breath. Images and auras; a tempestuous love affair, of all things! The woman was ice, however beautiful. And there was nothing useful in knowing some man would melt her! “To send us back to captivity,” she went on, “or even execute us. For me, logic says I must serve you.”
Nesune tilted her head, and her nearly black eyes seemed to be trying to store away every scrap of him. One red-and-green aura spoke of honors, and fame. A huge building appeared above her head and vanished. A library she would found. “I want to study you,” she said simply. “I can hardly do that carrying stones or digging holes. They do leave plenty of time for thought, but serving you seems a fair exchange for what I might learn.” Rand blinked at the directness of that, but otherwise, his expression did not alter.
The most surprising answer came from Elza, in her manner of delivery more than the words. Sinking to her knees, she gazed up at Rand with feverish eyes. Her whole face seemed to shine with fervor. Auras flared and images cascaded around her, telling nothing. “You are the Dragon Reborn,” she said breathlessly. “You must be there for the Last Battle. I must help you be there! Whatever is necessary, I will do!” And she flung herself facedown, pressing her lips to the polished stone floor in front of his boots. Even Sorilea looked taken aback, and Sarene’s mouth dropped open. Morr gaped at her and hastily returned to twisting his button. Min thought he giggled nervously, almost under his breath.
Turning on his heel, Rand stalked halfway to the Dragon Throne, where his scepter and the crown of Illian rested atop his gold-embroidered red coat. His face was so bleak that Min wanted to rush to him no matter who was watching, but she continued to study the Aes Sedai. And Sorilea. She had never seen anything really useful around that white-haired harridan.
Abruptly, Rand turned back, striding toward the line of women so quickly that Beldeine and Sarene stepped back. A sharp gesture from Sorilea jerked them into place again.
“Would you accept being confined in a box?” His voice grated, stone grinding on frozen stone. “Locked in a chest all day, and beaten before you go in and when you come out?” That was what they had done to him.
“Yes!” Elza moaned against the floor. “Whatever I must do, I will!”
“If you do require it,” Erian managed shakily, and, faces aghast, the others nodded slowly.
Min star
ed in amazement, knotting her fists in her coat pockets. That he might think of getting his own back in the same manner seemed almost natural, but she had to stop it, somehow. She knew him better than he did himself; she knew where he was hard as a knife blade, and where he was vulnerable no matter how he denied it. He would never forgive himself this. But how? Fury contorted his face, and he shook his head as he did when arguing with that voice he heard. He muttered one word aloud that she understood. Ta’veren. Sorilea stood there calmly examining him as closely as Nesune did. Not even the threat of the chest shook the Brown. Except for Elza, still moaning and kissing the floor, the others were hollow-eyed, as if seeing themselves doubled up and bound as he had been.
Among all of those images spilling around Rand and the women, suddenly an aura flashed, blue and yellow tinged with green, encompassing them all. And Min knew its meaning. She gasped, half in surprise, half in relief.
“They will serve you, each in her fashion, Rand,” she said hurriedly. “I saw it.” Sorilea would serve him? Suddenly Min wondered exactly what “in her fashion” meant. The words came with the knowing, but she did not always know what the words themselves meant. But they would serve; that much was plain.
The fury drained from Rand’s face as he silently studied the Aes Sedai. Some of them glanced at Min with raised eyebrows, obviously marveling that a few words from her carried so much weight, but for the most part, they watched Rand and hardly seemed to breathe. Even Elza lifted her head to gaze up at him. Sorilea gave Min one quick look, and the faintest nod. Approving, Min thought. So the old woman pretended not to care one way or the other, did she?
At last, Rand spoke. “You can swear to me as Kiruna and the others did. That, or go back to wherever the Wise Ones have been keeping you. I’ll accept nothing less.” Despite a hint of demand in his voice, he looked as if he, too, did not care, arms folded, eyes impatient. The oath he demanded of them came out in a rush.
Min did not expect quibbles, not after her viewing, yet it was still a surprise when Elza scrambled up to her knees, and the others lowered themselves to theirs. In ragged unison, five more Aes Sedai swore under the Light and by their hope of salvation to serve the Dragon Reborn faithfully until the Last Battle had come and gone. Nesune delivered the words as though examining each one, Sarene as if stating a principle of logic, Elza wearing a wide, victorious smile, but they all swore. How many Aes Sedai would he gather around him?
With the oath, Rand seemed to lose interest. “Find them clothes and put them with your other ‘apprentices,’” he told Sorilea absently. He was frowning, but not at her or the Aes Sedai. “How many do you think you’ll end up with?” Min almost jumped at the echo of her own thought.
“However many are necessary,” Sorilea said dryly. “I think more will come.” She clapped her hands once and gestured, and the five sisters sprang to their feet. Only Nesune looked surprised at the alacrity with which they had obeyed. Sorilea smiled, a very satisfied smile for an Aiel, and Min did not think it was caused by the other women’s obedience.
Nodding, Rand turned away. He was already beginning to pace again, already beginning to scowl over Elayne. Min settled into her chair once more, wishing she had one of Master Fel’s books to read. Or to throw at Rand. Well, one of Master Fel’s to read, and someone else’s to throw.
Sorilea herded the black-clad sisters out of the room, but at the last, she paused with one hand holding a door and looked back at Rand striding away from her toward the gilded throne. Her lips pursed thoughtfully. “That woman, Cadsuane Melaidhrin, is beneath this roof again today,” she said at last, to his back. “I think she believes you are afraid of her, Rand al’Thor, the way you avoid her whereabouts.” With that, she left.
For a long moment, Rand stood staring at the throne. Or maybe at something beyond it. Abruptly, he gave himself a shake and strode the remaining distance to pick up the Crown of Swords. On the point of setting it on his head, though, he hesitated, then put it back. Donning the coat, he left crown and scepter where they lay.