“When shall I tell your men that you aren’t returning?” Sleete asked.
Gawyn pulled the saddle straps tight and waited for his horse to exhale. He looked over Challenge, frowning. “You don’t plan to stop me?”
Sleete chuckled. “I fought you thrice today and didn’t win a single bout, although I had a good man to lend me aid. You have the look about you of a man who will kill if needed, and I don’t thirst for death so eagerly as some might assume.”
“You’d fight me,” Gawyn said, finally doing up the saddle and lifting the bags into place, tying them on. Challenge snorted. The horse never did like carrying extra weight. “You’d die if you thought it was necessary. If you attacked, even if I killed you, it would raise a ruckus. I’d never be able to explain why I’d killed a Warder. You could stop me.”
“True,” Sleete said.
“Then why let me go?” Gawyn said, rounding the gelding and taking the reins. He met those shadowed eyes and thought he caught the faintest hint of a smile on the lips beneath them.
“Perhaps I just like to see men care,” Sleete said. “Perhaps I hope you’ll find a way to help end this. Perhaps I am feeling lazy and sore with a bruised spirit from so many defeats. May you find what you seek, young Trakand.” And with a rustle of the cloak, Sleete withdrew, fading into the darkness of oncoming night.
Gawyn slung himself into his saddle. There was only one place he could think to go for help in rescuing Egwene.
With a kick of the heels, he left Dorlan behind.
CHAPTER 14
A Box Opens
“So this is one of the Shadowsouled,” Sorilea said. The white-haired Wise One circled around the prisoner, looking thoughtfully at Semirhage. Of course, Cadsuane had not expected fear from one such as Sorilea. The Aiel woman was a rugged creature, like a statue that had weathered storm after storm, patient before the winds. Among the Aiel, this Wise One was a particular specimen of strength. She had arrived at the manor house only recently, coming with those who had brought al’Thor a report from Bandar Eban.
Cadsuane had anticipated finding many things among the Aiel who followed Rand al’Thor: fierce warriors, strange ways, honor and loyalty, inexperience with subtlety and politics. She had been right. One thing she had certainly not expected to find, however, was an equal. Certainly not in a Wise One who could barely channel. And yet, oddly, that was how she regarded the leathery-faced Aiel woman.
Not that she trusted Sorilea. The Wise One had her own goals, and they might not completely coincide with Cadsuane’s. However, she did find Sorilea capable, and there were blessed few people in the world these days who deserved that word.
Semirhage flinched suddenly, and Sorilea cocked her head. The Forsaken was not floating this time; she stood upright, wearing the stiff brown dress, her short, dark hair tangled from lack of brushing. She still projected superiority and control. Just as Cadsuane herself would have in a similar situation.
“What are these weaves?” Sorilea asked, gesturing. The weaves in question were the source of Semirhage’s occasional flinching.
“A personal trick of mine,” Cadsuane said, undoing the weaves and remaking them to show how they were done. “They ring a sound in your subjects’ ears every few minutes and flash a light in their eyes, keeping them from sleep.”
“You hope to make her so fatigued that she will talk,” Sorilea said, studying the Forsaken again.
Semirhage was warded to keep her from hearing them, of course. Despite two
days without decent sleep, the woman wore a serene expression, eyes open but blocked by glowing lights. She had likely mastered some kind of mental trick to help her stave off exhaustion.
“I doubt it will break her,” Cadsuane admitted. “Phaw! It barely even makes her flinch.” She, Sorilea and Bair—an aged Wise One with no channeling ability—were the only ones in the room. The Aes Sedai maintaining Semirhage’s shield sat in their places outside.
Sorilea nodded. “One of the Shadowsouled will not be manipulated so easily. Still, you are wise to try, considering your . . . limitations.”
“We could speak to the Car’a’carn,” Bair said. “Convince him to turn this one over to us for a time. A few days of . . . delicate Aiel questioning and she would speak whatever you wish.”
Cadsuane smiled noncommittally. As if she would let another handle the questioning! This woman’s secrets were too valuable to risk, even in the hands of allies. “Well, you are welcome to ask,” she said, “but I doubt al’Thor will listen. You know how the fool boy can be when it comes to hurting women.”
Bair sighed. It was odd to think of this grandmotherly lady engaging in “delicate Aiel questioning.”
“Yes,” she said. “You are right, I suspect. Rand al’Thor is twice as stubborn as any clan chief I’ve known. And twice as arrogant too. To presume that women cannot bear pain as well as men!”
Cadsuane snorted at that. “To be honest, I considered having this one strung up and whipped, al’Thor’s prohibitions be blackened! But I don’t think it would work. Phaw! We’ll need to find something other than pain to break this one.”
Sorilea was still regarding Semirhage. “I would speak with her.”
Cadsuane made a motion, dismissing the weaves that kept Semirhage from hearing, seeing or speaking. The woman blinked—just once—to clear her vision, then turned to Sorilea and Bair. “Ah,” she said. “Aiel. You were such good servants, once. Tell me, how strongly does it bite, knowing how you betrayed your oaths? Your ancestors would cry for punishment if they knew how many deaths lay at the hands of their descendants.”
Sorilea gave no reaction. Cadsuane knew some tidbits of what al’Thor had revealed about the Aiel, things that had been said at second or third hand. Al’Thor claimed that the Aiel had once followed the Way of the Leaf, sworn not to do harm, before betraying their oaths. Cadsuane had been interested to learn of these rumors, and she was more interested to hear Semirhage corroborating them.