The Wheel of Time, page 975
The Aes Sedai gasped and, making little whimpers as if on the point of tears, rushed to fetch a goblet as Turane bowed and left. Light, what had Amylia done? Long moments passed, and Zaida had her wine well before a large man with dark hair curling to his broad shoulders entered the cabin. He certainly was not scabrous, nor did he appear drunk. The high collar of his black coat held a silver pin in the shape of a sword on one side, and on the other a red-and-gold pin shaped like one of the creatures that entwined the Coramoor’s forearms. A dragon. Yes, that was what it was called. A round pin fastened to his left shoulder showed three golden crowns against blue enamel. A sigil, perhaps? Was he a shorebound noble? Could the Coramoor actually have done Zaida honor in sending this man? Knowing Rand al’Thor as she did, she doubted it had been intentional. It was not that he tried to dishonor anyone, yet he cared little for the honors of others.
He bowed to Zaida, handling the sword at his side smoothly, but he failed to touch heart and lips and forehead. Still, some shortcomings had to be overlooked with the shorebound. “I apologize if I arrive late, Shipmistress,” he said, “but it seemed unnecessary to come before all of your number were here.” He must have a very good looking glass to have observed that from the docks.
Studying him up and down with a frown, Zaida sipped her wine. “You have a name?”
“I am Logain,” he said simply.
Half the women in the room exhaled sharply, and most of the rest let their jaws drop. More than one slopped wine from her goblet. Not Zaida, and not Harine, but the others. Logain. That was a name known even to the Atha’an Miere.
“May I speak, Shipmistress?” Amylia asked breathily. She was clutching the porcelain pitcher so hard that Harine feared it might shatter in her hands, but the woman had learned enough sense to say no more until Zaida nodded. Then words spilled from her in a breathless rush. “This man was a false Dragon. He was gentled for it. How it is he can channel again, I cannot know, but he channels saidin. Saidin! He is tainted, Shipmistress. If you deal with him, you will incur the wrath of the White Tower. I know—”
“Enough,” Zaida cut in. “You should be well aware by now how much I fear the wrath of the White Tower.”
“But—!” Zaida held up a single finger, and the Aes Sedai’s mouth snapped shut, her lips twisting in a sickly fashion. That one word might lead to her kissing the deckmaster’s sister again, and she knew it.
“What she says is true in part,” Logain said calmly. “I am an Asha’man, but there is no taint any longer. Saidin is clean. The Creator decided to show us mercy, it seems. I have a question for her. Whom do you serve, Aes Sedai, Egwene al’Vere or Elaida a’Roihan?” Wisely, Amylia kept her mouth shut.
“For the next year, she serves me, Logain,” Zaida said firmly. The Aes Sedai squeezed her pale eyes shut for a moment, and when they opened again, they were even wider than before, impossible as that seemed, and they held a look of horror. Was it possible she had believed Zaida might relent and let her go early? “You can confine your questions to me,” the Shipmistress went on, “but first, I have two for you. Where is the Coramoor? I must send an ambassador to him, and he must keep her close, in accordance with the Bargain. Remind him of that. And what message do you bring from him? A request for some service, I suppose.”
“As to where he is, I cannot say.” The man smiled slightly, as if he had made a joke. He smiled!
“I demand,” Zaida began, but he cut her off, provoking angry mutters and hot glares from the other women. The fool seemed to think he was an equal to the Mistress of the Ships!
“He wants his whereabouts kept secret for now, Shipmistress. The Forsaken have made efforts to kill him. I am willing to take Harine din Togara with me, however. From what I heard, I think he found her acceptable.”
Harine jerked so hard she spilled wine over the back of her hand, then took another long swallow. But, no, Zaida would divorce Amel and marry a ballast stone before she sent Harine din Togara as her ambassador. Still, even the thought of it was enough to make her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth. Even becoming Mistress of the Ships might be insufficient recompense for being forced to endure Cadsuane any longer.
Studying Logain with a stony face, Zaida told Amylia to pour wine for him. The Aes Sedai flinched, and by the time she reached the table, she was trembling so hard that the pitcher’s spout clattered on the rim of the goblet. Almost as much wine went onto the deck as inside the goblet. Strangely, Logain walked over to her and put his hands on hers to steady her. Was he one of those who could not leave others to do their own work?
“You’ve nothing to fear from me, Amylia Sedai,” he told her. “It’s been a long time since I ate anyone for breakfast.” She stared up at him with her mouth hanging open as though uncertain whether he was making a joke.
“And the service he requests?” Zaida said.
“Not a request, Shipmistress.” He had to straighten the pitcher to keep the goblet from overflowing. Taking the goblet, he stepped away from Amylia, but she stood gaping at his back. Light, but the woman found no end of ways to get into trouble. “A call on your side of the Bargain with the Coramoor. Among other things, you promised him ships, and he needs ships to carry food and other supplies to Bandar Eban from Illian and Tear.”
“That can be done,” Zaida said, not quite masking her relief, though she shot a frown at Harine. Pelanna glared as well, of course, but so did Lacine and Niolle and several others. Harine suppressed a sigh.
Some of the details of the Bargain were quite onerous, she had to admit, such as the requirement that the Mistress of the Ships be prepared to attend him up to three times in any two years. The Jendai Prophecy said the Atha’an Miere were to serve the Coramoor, yet few opinions of how they were to serve included the Mistress of the Ships going running when he called. But the others had not been there, bargaining with Aes Sedai convinced that she had no alternative to making whatever Bargain she could. Truth of the Light, it was a wonder she had gotten as much as she had!
“Supplies for more than a million people, Shipmistress,” Logain added as casually as if he were asking for another goblet of wine. “How many more, I cannot say, but Bandar Eban itself is starving. The ships must arrive as soon as possible.”
Shock rippled through the cabin. Harine was not alone in taking a long drink of wine. Even Zaida’s eyes widened in amazement. “That might require more rakers than we possess,” she said at last, unable to keep the incredulity from her voice.
Logain shrugged as though that were of no account. “Even so, that is what he requires of you. Use other ships if you must.”
Zaida stiffened in her chair. Required. Bargain or no Bargain, that was imprudent language to use with her.
Turane slipped into the cabin again, and in breach of all protocol, ran to Zaida, her bare feet slapping the deck. Bending close, she whispered into the Shipmistress’s ear. Zaida’s face slowly took on a look of horror. She half-raised her scent box, then shuddered and let it fall to her bosom.
“Send her in,” she said. “Send her in immediately. There is news to make an anchor weep,” she went on as Turane raced from the cabin. “I will let you hear it from she who brought it. You must wait,” she added when Logain opened his mouth. “You must wait.” He had sufficient sense to hold his peace, but not enough to hide his impatience, stalking to the side of the cabin to stand with his mouth tight and his brows drawn down.
The young woman who entered and bowed deeply to Zaida was tall and lean, and she might have been lovely except that her face was haggard. Her blue linen blouse and green trousers looked as if they had been worn for days, and she swayed on her feet with weariness. Her honor chain held only a handful of medallions, as befitted her youth, yet Harine could see that no fewer than three commended acts of great courage.
“I am Cemeille din Selaan Long Eyes, Shipmistress,” she said hoarsely, “Sailmistress of the darter Wind Racer. I sailed as fast as I could, but I fear it is too late for anything to be done. I stopped at every island between Tremalking and here, but I was always too late.” Tears began to trickle down her cheeks, yet she seemed unaware of them.
“Tell the First Twelve your sad news in your own way, at your own pace,” Zaida said gently. “Amylia, give her wine!” Not gently said at all. The Aes Sedai leaped to obey.
“Almost three weeks ago,” Cemeille said, “Amayar on Tremalking began asking the gift of passage to every island. Always a man and a woman to each island. Those who asked for Aile Somera requested they be put off in boats out of sight of land when they were told that the Seanchan hold all of Somera.” She took a full goblet from Amylia, nodding her thanks, then drank deeply.
Harine exchanged questioning glances with Mareil, who shook her head slightly. No Amayar had ever requested the gift of passage in Harine’s memory, though for them, it truly was a gift, with no gift expected in return. And they avoided the salt, keeping their small fishing boats close to shore, so asking to be put off out of sight of land was as strange as asking passage. But what could be so dire in this?
“All of the Amayar in the ports left, even those owed money from the shipyards or the ropewalks, but no one thought anything of it for two or three days.” The wine had not wet Cemeille’s throat enough to mitigate her hoarseness. She scrubbed at the tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Not until we realized none had come back. The governor sent people to the Amayar villages, and they found. . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut. “The Amayar were all dead or dying. Men, women”—her voice broke—“children.”
Funeral keening rose in the cabin, and Harine was surprised to realize that shrill sound was coming from her mouth, too. Sad enough to make an anchor weep? This should make the heavens sob. No wonder the Sailmistress was hoarse. How many hours, how many days, had she cried since learning of this catastrophe?
“How?” Pelanna demanded when the keening died. Face distraught, she leaned forward in her chair. She was holding her scent box to her nose as if the scent could somehow ward off the stench of this news. “Some sickness? Speak, woman!”
“Poison, Wavemistress,” Cemeille replied. She struggled to compose herself, but tears still leaked down her face. “Everywhere I have been, it was the same. They gave their children a poison that put them into a deep sleep from which they did not waken. It seems there was not enough of that to go around, so many of the adults took slower poisons. Some lived long enough to be found and tell the tale. The Great Hand on Tremalking melted. The hill where it stood reportedly is now a deep hollow. It seems the Amayar had prophecies that spoke of the Hand, and when it was destroyed, they believed this signaled the end of time, what they called the end of Illusion. They believed it was time for them to leave this . . . this illusion”—she laughed the word bitterly—“we call the world.”
“Have none been saved?” Zaida asked. “None at all?” Tears glistened on her cheeks, too, but Harine could not fault her on that. Her own cheeks were wet.
“None, Shipmistress.”
Zaida stood, and tears or no tears, she held the aura of command, and her voice was steady. “The fastest ships must be sent to every island. Even to those of Aile Somera. A way must be found. When the salt first stilled after the Breaking, the Amayar asked our protection from brigands and raiders, and we owe them protection still. If we can find only a handful who still live, we still owe it.”
“This is as sad a story as I have ever heard.” Logain’s voice sounded too loud as he walked back out in front of Zaida. “But your ships are committed to Bandar Eban. If you don’t have enough rakers, then you must use your other fast ships, too. All of them if necessary.”
“Are you mad as well as heartless?” Zaida demanded. Fists on her hips and feet apart, she seemed to be standing on a quarterdeck. Her glare stabbed at Logain. “We must mourn. We must save who we can, and mourn for the countless thousands we cannot save.”
She might as well have smiled for all the effect her glares had on Logain. As he spoke, it seemed to Harine that the space turned chill and the light dimmed. She was not the only woman to hug herself against that cold. “Mourn if you must,” he said, “but mourn on the march for Tarmon Gai’don.”
CHAPTER 23
Call to a Sitting
With Magla and Salita out for the morning, Romanda had the patched brown tent to herself, a blessed opportunity to read, though the two mismatched brass lamps on the small table gave off a faint yet nose-wrinkling scent of rancid oil. One had to live with such things these days. Some might consider The Flame, the Blade and the Heart unseemly for one of her attainments and position—as a girl in Far Madding, she had been forbidden such books—but it made an agreeable change from dry histories and terrifying reports of food spoilage. She had seen a side of beef kept for months as fresh as the day the cow was slaughtered, but now the Keepings were failing one by one. Some had taken to muttering that there must be a flaw in Egwene’s creation, yet that was arrant blather. If a weave worked once, then properly done, it always worked, barring something to disrupt the weave, and Egwene’s new weaves always worked as claimed. She had to give the woman that. And try as they might, and they had tried very hard, no one could detect any interference. It was as if saidar itself were failing. It was unthinkable. And inescapable. Worst of all, no one could think of anything to do! She certainly could not. A brief interlude with tales of romance and adventure was much preferable to contemplating utter futility and the failure of what was by its very nature unfailing.
The novice straightening the tent had sense enough not to comment on her reading, or to glance at the wood-bound book twice. Bodewhin Cauthon was quite pretty, but she was an intelligent girl even so, though she had something of her brother around the eyes and rather more of him in her head than she was willing to admit. Undoubtedly she was already hard on the path to the Green, or perhaps the Blue. The girl wanted to live adventure, not just read about it, as if an Aes Sedai’s life would not bring her more adventure than she wished without searching for it. Romanda felt no regret over the girl’s path. The Yellow would have plenty to choose from among more suitable novices. There could be no question of accepting any of the older women, of course, yet that left a wealth of choice. She tried to focus on the page. She did enjoy the story of Birgitte and Gaidal Cain.
The tent was not particularly large and was quite crowded. It held a trio of hard canvas cots barely softened by thin mattresses stuffed with lumpy wool, three ladderback chairs made by distinctly different hands, a rickety washstand with a cracked mirror and a chipped blue pitcher standing in the white basin, and, along with the table, made steady by a small block of wood under one leg, brassbound chests for clothing, bed linens and personal possessions. As a Sitter, she could have had the space to herself, but she liked being able to keep a close eye on Magla and Salita. Just because they all sat for the Yellow was no reason to trust too far. Magla supposedly was her ally in the Hall yet went her own way much too often, and Salita seldom did anything else. Still, it made for inconvenience aside from crowding. Bodewhin had a great deal of work, mainly putting away the dresses and slippers Salita scattered across the tattered carpets after deciding they would not do. That woman was frivolous enough for a Green. She went through her entire wardrobe every single morning! Likely she thought Romanda would have her serving woman straighten—she always seemed to think Aelmara was as much in her service as Romanda’s—but Aelmara had served Romanda for years before she went into retirement, not to mention helping her escape Far Madding after a slight misunderstanding a short time later. There was no possibility she would require Aelmara to look after another sister as well as herself.
She frowned at the book, not seeing a word. Why in the Light had Magla insisted on Salita back in Salidar? In truth, Magla had bandied several names about, each more ridiculous than the last, but had settled on Salita once she decided the plump Tairen had the best chance of being raised to a chair. Romanda had thrown her own support behind Dagdara, a far more suitable candidate, not to mention one she thought she could sway without too much difficulty, yet she herself had been trying for a chair while Magla already held one. That carried weight, and no matter that Romanda had previously held a chair longer than anyone in living memory. Well, it was done, and that was that. What could not be cured must be endured.
Nisao ducked into the tent, the light of saidar around her winking out as she did so. In the brief instant before the tentflap fell shut, Sarin, her bald-headed stump of a Warder, was visible outside, a hand resting on his sword hilt and his head swiveling, plainly standing guard.
“May I speak with you alone?” the diminutive sister said. Short enough to make Sarin seem tall, she always minded Romanda of a large-eyed sparrow. There was nothing tiny about her powers of observation or her intellect, however. She had been a natural choice for the council the Ajahs created to try keeping an eye on Egwene, and it was certainly no fault of hers that said council had had little or no restraining effect on the woman.
“Of course, Nisao.” Romanda casually closed the book and eased up to tuck it beneath the yellow-tasseled cushion on her chair. It would never do to have word get around that she was reading that. “It must be almost time for your next class, Bodewhin. You don’t want to be late.”
“Oh, no, Aes Sedai! Sharina would be very upset.” Spreading her white skirts in a deep curtsy, the novice darted from the tent.
Romanda compressed her lips. Sharina would be upset. That woman was emblematic of all that was wrong with allowing those above eighteen into the novice ranks. Her potential was beyond incredible, but that was beside the point. Sharina Melloy was a disruption. But how to be rid of her? Her and all the other women too old to have had their names written in the novice book in the first place. Provisions were strictly limited for putting a woman out once her name was in the book. Unfortunately, over the years a number of women had been found to have lied about their age to gain entrance to the Tower. By a few years only in most cases, but allowing them to remain had set precedents. And Egwene al’Vere had set another, and worse. There had to be some way to overcome it.
