“Yes, Great Mistress,” Sheriam said. “I am the Keeper of the Chronicles.”
The figure sniffed. “Keeper to a ragged bunch of would-be Aes Sedai rebels. But that is no matter. I have need of you.”
“I live to serve, Great Mistress,” Sheriam repeated, growing more worried. What did this creature want of her?
“Egwene al’Vere. She must be deposed.”
“What?” Sheriam asked, startled. A switch of Air cracked against her back, and it burned. Fool! Did she want to get herself killed? “My apologies, Great Mistress,” she said quickly. “Forgive my outburst. But it was by orders from one of the Chosen that I helped raise her as Amyrlin in the first place!”
“Yes, but she has proven to have been a . . . poor choice. We needed a child, not a woman with merely the face of a child. She must be removed. You will make certain this group of foolish rebels stops supporting her. And end those blasted meetings in Tel’aran’rhiod. How is it so many of you get there?”
“We have ter’angreal,” Sheriam said, hesitantly. “Several in the shape of an amber plaque, several others in the shape of an iron disc. Then a handful of rings.”
“Ah, sleepweavers,” the figure said. “Yes, those could be useful. How many?”
Sheriam hesitated. Her first instinct was to lie or hedge—this seemed like information she could hold over the figure. But lying to one of the Chosen? A poor choice. “We had twenty,” Sheriam said truthfully. “But one was with the woman Leane, who was captured. That leaves us with nineteen.” Just enough for Egwene’s meetings in the World of Dreams—one for each of the Sitters and one for Sheriam herself.
“Yes,” the figure hissed, shrouded in darkness. “Useful indeed. Steal the sleepweavers, then give them to me. This rabble has no business treading where the Chosen walk.”
“I. . . .” Steal the ter’angreal? How was she going to manage that? “I live to serve, Great Mistress.”
“Yes you do
. Do these things for me, and you will find yourself greatly rewarded. Fail me. . . .” The figure contemplated for a moment. “You have three days. Each of the sleepweavers you fail to acquire in that time will cost you a finger or a toe.” With that, the Chosen opened a gateway right in the middle of the room, then vanished through it. Sheriam caught a glimpse of the familiar tiled hallways of the White Tower on the other side.
Steal the sleepweavers! All nineteen of them? In three days? Darkness above! Sheriam thought. I should have lied about the number we had! Why didn’t I lie?
She remained kneeling, breathing in and out, for a long time, thinking about her predicament. Her period of peace was at an end, it appeared.
It had been brief.
“She will be tried, of course,” Seaine said. The soft-spoken White sat on a chair provided for her by the two Reds guarding Egwene’s cell.
The cell door was open, and Egwene sat on a stool inside—also provided by the Reds. Those two guards, plump Cariandre and stern Patrinda, watched carefully from the hallway, both holding the Source and maintaining Egwene’s shield. They looked as if they expected her to dart away, scrambling for freedom.
Egwene ignored them. Her two days of imprisonment had not been pleasant, but she would suffer them with dignity. Even if they locked her away in a tiny room with a door that wouldn’t let in light. Even if they refused to let her change from the bloodied novice dress. Even if they beat her each day for how she had treated Elaida. Egwene would not bow.
The Reds reluctantly allowed her visitors, as stipulated by Tower law. Egwene was surprised she had visitors, but Seaine wasn’t the only one who had come to her. Several had been Sitters. Curious. Nevertheless, Egwene was starved for news. How was the Tower reacting to Egwene’s imprisonment? Were the rifts between the Ajahs still deep and wide, or had her work started to bridge them?
“Elaida broke Tower law quite explicitly,” Seaine explained. “And it was witnessed by five Sitters of five different Ajahs. She has tried to forestall a trial, but was unsuccessful. However, there were some who listened to her argument.”
“Which was?” Egwene asked.
“That you are a Darkfriend,” Seaine said. “And, because of it, she expelled you from the Tower, and then beat you.”
Egwene felt a chill. If Elaida was able to get enough support for that argument. . . .
“It will not stand,” Seaine said, consolingly. “This is not some backward village, where the Dragon’s Fang scrawled on someone’s door is enough to convict.”
Egwene raised an eyebrow. She’d been raised in “some backward village,” and they’d had enough sense to look for more than rumors in convicting someone, no matter what the crime. But she said nothing.
“Proving that accusation is difficult by Tower standards,” Seaine said. “And so I suspect that she will not try to prove it in trial—partially because doing so would require her to let you speak for yourself, and I suspect that she’ll want to keep you hidden.”
“Yes,” Egwene said, eyeing the Reds lounging nearby. “You are probably right. But if she can’t prove I’m a Darkfriend and she couldn’t stop this from going to trial . . .”
“It is not an offense worthy of deposing her,” Seaine said. “The maximum punishment is formal censure from the Hall and penance for a month. She would retain the shawl.”
But would lose a great deal of credibility, Egwene thought. It was encouraging. But how to make certain that Elaida didn’t just hide her away? She had to keep the pressure on Elaida—Light-cursed difficult while locked away in her tiny cell each day! It had been only a short time so far, but already the lost opportunities grated on her.