Chapter Text
She ached, pressed up against the wall, longing for the Source just out of her grasp. “Take it! Channel, girl!”
Nynaeve knew she could break the shield if she merely reached far enough, with enough force, but it seemed impossible, powerless as she was.
Liandrin rounded on her, “Power means nothing if you’re too weak to use it. You’re pathetic, a failure.”
Nynaeve knew that was true only too well. She couldn’t save everyone. Even those who lived weren’t safe. Death had beaten her too many times to count, and soon it would claim her too.
Maybe in the next life she would be less of a coward.
Liandrin’s weaves of air slashed at her skin.
This was new, some part of Nynaeve closer to consciousness noted. She expected drowning.
Her dreamscape shifted as she fell out of her corner onto a novice’s bed in the Tower. The stinging pain remained across her back, her arms. Nynaeve didn’t feel as though she were shielded but she might as well have been for as well as she could reach the Source, as if she still had her channeling block.
“Channel, girl!” Another whip of pain across her back. But… Nynaeve looked up through her tears. It wasn’t Liandrin who beat her.
“You’re weak! You’re nothing!” Elaida do Avriny a’Roihan screamed.
Nynaeve woke in a sweat, sunlight trickling in across her bed. Her large, full bed that was not in the White Tower, and neither Liandrin nor Elaida was looming over her. She touched the Source for a moment for reassurance. It was there. No block, no shield. Normal. Or near normal at any rate.
She pulled up her blankets over her head for more rest, maybe to shake this lingering headache that’s plagued her for months, but Nynaeve knew it was pointless. Her nightmares circled around in her mind more than usual. The situation was familiar, and not too distant from reality. She dreamt of it often enough, ever since Liandrin tried to sell her to the Seanchan. But… why Elaida? She was an unpleasant woman, certainly, but she meant very little to Nynaeve on a personal level.
So why was she in her dreams?
Nynaeve brushed it aside. Dreams were strange things, even ordinary ones out of tel’aran’rhiod. Sometimes nightmares were memories, other times they were futures and pasts that never were, and some were… random. Odd places and people she never knew.
She sighed and got up. They were just dreams.
Lan was halfway through breakfast by the time Nynaeve joined him. She smiled for what seemed like the first time in months. It was almost genuine. Moiraine was back so Lan could stop pestering her, and it almost seemed as if Moiraine could forgive her too. She was one step closer to fixing the mistakes she could, and those she couldn’t were long buried. Things were far from good, but they were better than yesterday.
So why didn’t Lan so much as look at her?
Nynaeve cleared her throat and buttered a roll of bread. Still nothing. “Any plans today?” she finally asked after two bites.
“I’ll be out with the men all day.”
She frowned. Lan was quiet, but he usually wasn’t so short with her. “All day? I thought… don’t you want to spend time with Moiraine?” That’s what he said he wanted often enough. And if Lan was with her, it meant she wasn’t throwing herself off the roof.
“Does she want to see me?”
The ice in Lan’s voice was uncharacteristic to say the least. She fought a chill and shrugged. “I can’t speak for her.” It was understandable asking those things when Moiraine was half a world away, but now she was nearly in earshot. “She’s awake downstairs. Go ask her yourself.”
Lan grumbled something approaching recognition. Grumbled! He never grumbled.
“Did… something happen between you two?”
Lan set his fork down rather forcefully. “Nothing at all. If she needs something, she knows where to find me.” He stood and left their quarters without another word.
Nynaeve stared into her tea. There always had to be something wrong, and doubtless it was somehow her fault. Again. She set her cup down and rubbed at her forearm. It itched horribly.
Lan was still in a huff when he arrived in the guardroom. And he deserved to be in a huff if he wanted to be. Moiraine and Nynaeve clearly took all the time they wanted to sulk and go behind his back and not talk to him about anything that mattered so he could do the same.
And he didn’t feel badly for it at all.
Not a bit.
He gritted his teeth and managed a polite smile to his guard-Captain and lieutenants. “Reports?” He began the meeting before any of the five men could exchange pleasantries or Light forbid small talk. Lan was far from being in the mood to lie.
Ahpor began with a slight bow to his head. “The high road is secure. All outposts report no incursions and good weather.”
It should have set him in a good mood. Three weeks now since any Trollocs were spotted near civilization and five since any deaths. Objectively, it was good. But today, it irritated him. Lan wanted a fight, something to do other than sit back hearing all the blasted good news, as if he did anything to earn it.
He itched for a fight, for a distraction, for fresh air. Moiraine’s return and her unwillingness to talk of her absence gave rise to stale air in the Seven Towers, poking at old wounds.
Lan looked at the map of his nation spread out before him. It was drawn with precision — each road measured to scale, outposts and villages sketched in simply and added to when they grew, even wells and campsites were marked. Small painted figures dotted the map, each representing a unit of twenty men, less than he liked to see across a nation. Lan always frowned at that. They needed new recruits, but so did every nation these days.
His eyes skirted over the city, and the red figures that surrounded it, and moved northward, past the last of the outposts and towards the unreclaimed land of the former Blight. No villages, no soldiers, not even a well. “The northern front, past outpost Jeodin. How long since a patrol went that far?”
Ahpor frowned. “Past Jeodin? Not since Fallen Wall.”
Lan cringed at the name. All battles had a name — whether it was the Battle of the Four Kings, the Blood Snow, or Dumai’s Wells — and the still gaping hole along the tall stone wall was certainly the most prominent scar from the battle. For most in Malkier. He only hoped that Nynaeve didn’t catch wind of it. Or Moiraine. He didn’t seriously think any, or many, blamed Nynaeve for what happened when she nearly wiped an army out a few minutes before, but she certainly wouldn’t see it that way. Her pride. That was always the downfall of a lion’s heart. And Moiraine being back wouldn’t do any good for her guilt…
Lan almost sighed aloud. Not his mess. Not his problem to worry over.
How he wished it was.
“We ride north today,” Lan declared.
Ahpor wasn’t a man for second thoughts or disobedience, but his mouth tightened at the order. It was little wonder why; common sense always dictated that Malkier tighten its hold onto the Seven Towers, Tarwin’s Gap, and the villages in between, before taking all of what the Blight stole. “Now, my king?”
Sense was in short supply these days anyhow. “Yes, now. A scouting sweep. We’ll be back tonight.”
“You hardly need accompany a scout. If there are Trollocs, then—”
Lan cut the man off with a sharp wave of his hand. “Captain Ahpor, I am the King of Malkier, general of its armies, am I not?”
The four lieutenants stiffened. Yuin actually took a step back, whether he knew where his feet were or not. Ahpor twitched but his stance remained the same as ever, the same as any blademaster always prepared to draw. “Yes of course, my king.”
Despite the constant titles, it seemed some forgot that too easily when he didn’t acquiesce or bend to others’ opinion. Light knew Ahpor wasn’t the only one. He needed to be harder, firmer. Softness would lead to ruin. “I say we ride so we ride,” Lan said simply but put force, authority, behind each word. He tried not to think of who taught him those tricks of command.
No one questioned him again. They divided up the men they would take in their company and sent orders for horses to be saddled.
Lan secured his sheathed blade to his belt. He hoped he had use for it today. Sometimes the only way to forget the aches of the past was to draw fresh blood.
Moiraine didn’t so much as flinch at the pin that nicked her skin, but she was certainly irked.
“My apologies, Aes Sedai,” Mistress Rillavere muttered, but Moiraine wasn’t so naive to think it an accident. A seamstress employed by a royal house would certainly be careful to show courtesy to anyone of rank, but she would generally not expect to have major dress alterations ordered with a day’s notice. The pokes were expected. Her frosty attitude towards an Aes Sedai, and an honored guest of the king and queen, was not. Moiraine would have to have words later.
Another poke at her shoulder. That one felt sharp enough to draw blood. Well at least she was in no danger of losing her focus at this fitting, but she already decided on her course. “I was thinking of adding a lace collar,” Moiraine said, turning her head side to side as if she were actually considering it. She wasn’t. She hated lace and frills, especially against her neck where it was in fashion in Cairhien for a good many years. Hardly a fashion trend born out of aesthetics or comfort, but instead because it was exceedingly difficult to sew properly. It was the sort of detail that would require an expert’s personal touch.
The request had its desired effect. Rillavere’s eyes widened and she dropped her pin cushion in surprise. The woman was part Carhienin herself judging by her name, though not her accent, so Moiraine could imagine her considerations. Accept and spend the next twenty hours doing complex and unpleasant work, still risking that it would be unfinished or poorly made in the morning. Or refuse and risk upsetting an Aes Sedai and her employers. A skilled seamstress would know this was a negotiation and know her own worth in proceedings, but there was a shortage of skilled craftspeople in Malkier. Mistress Rillavere could serve royalty here but might run a second rate shop in Cairhien or make do as an assistant in Tar Valon.
Rillavere bit her lip. “Perhaps around the sleeve cuffs, Aes Sedai,” she suggested far more meekly than she had moments prior.
“That will do.” An acceptable trade — ten hours work for Mistress Rillavere instead of twenty, and she was taught her place with no more clumsy slips with the pins. And all it cost Moiraine was some mild irritation for putting up with lace cuffs.
A touch vindictive of her, maybe, but Moiraine needed the practice if she was to re-enter public life tomorrow. She admired the mirror before her. She almost looked the part. Almost. The bruise around her eye was an oversight, maybe one she would need Nynaeve’s help to mend as much as the thought pained her.
Rillavere hurried with the rest of her measurements and adjustments with no sullenness that Moiraine could see. In a matter of minutes, she had her silks and Moiraine’s torn dress folded in her arms. Better, much better. Though unfortunately not quite fast enough. Moiraine winced before the door opened. She didn’t need to look in the mirror to know who called on her.
If Moiraine’s ‘requests’ made Rillavere move with haste, mere sight of Nynaeve sent her skittering with curtsies and compliments. It stung a bit, oddly enough. Moiraine had never before been jealous of people simpering after her. Another thing to resent about her present circumstances.
Moiraine quickly threw on a robe over her shift before Nynaeve could see the bandage on her arm or feel her fear in the matter. She retrieved last night’s notes to start their meeting, “I’ve written up a strategy to ensure my nomination passes the Hall. We should have fifteen votes secure if—”
“Did you and Lan have a fight last night?”
Moiraine stared blankly back, biting down her anger. Calm. Picture the bud of a flower. “No. We didn’t fight. Not that it’s any of your concern.” She flinched as the words left her mouth. Nynaeve was clearly not showing the same courtesy of suppressing her emotions.
“What did you say to him?” Nynaeve asked before Moiraine could say a word about the Hall.
Moiraine tapped the papers in her hand. “I told him why I came back and asked to look over records from my absence.”
“And that’s all?”
Her mouth momentarily tightened. “He was… fretting, but I set him right.” Oh Nynaeve didn’t like that at all. “He always frets! It’s hardly unusual.”
“He doesn’t fret over me.”
Moiraine had some memories to disagree with that assessment, but what was the use in trusting them. “Well I’ve known him longer. He’ll sulk for a day or two and be fine. He always is. Now can we get to business?”
Nynaeve glowered at her, but she didn’t disagree so again Moiraine held out her notes. “We have two Ajahs behind us, probably three with the Greens, so I suggest we work for votes from the Greys and Browns. Varilin owes me a debt from a number of years ago and I’m almost certain she leads the Greys. I can have a word with her before the Hall convenes and—” Moiraine broke off when it became clear that Nynaeve wasn’t listening in the slightest. She shook her notes. “This is important. I’ll get you out of this mess you made, but you have to pay attention.”
“Pull up your sleeve.”
Moiraine tried exceedingly hard to be calm, but in her haste of gesturing, a bit of that bandage poked out. “What?” She set her jaw. Certainly Nynaeve wouldn’t—
In the quick motion of someone who spent too much time around Warders, Nynaeve grabbed Moiraine’s wrist and yanked off the bandage that covered her forearm. Her mouth opened at the sight of the dozen small cuts beneath, and was surprised enough that Moiraine managed to pull free of her grasp.
Burn her nosiness. Moiraine had been careful. Small cuts, while Nynaeve was asleep. They didn’t even hurt now, only itched, and she was careful to clean and dress the skin so it wouldn’t scar. Really, it was hardly as if she had… Moiraine ended the thought before it started.
“Moiraine…” Nynaeve rubbed at her temples.
The pity would have been palpable without a bond. It made Moiraine all the angrier. “What?” Moiraine kept her voice even. “A few cuts and bruises are hardly the worst injuries I’ve had.”
“Don’t… Don’t.” Nynaeve dared to point a finger as if accusing her. Accusing her of what exactly? “You said you were better, that you could handle… this. But one night and you what? Took a knife to your wrist because you were upset?”
“I wasn’t upset.” At least not in the way Nynaeve meant.
“Blood and ashes, Moiraine! Don’t try to lie to me when I know better! You lost control of yourself and if you would admit that then—”
“This is control,” Moiraine hissed and reined herself back in from a few choice words she wanted to share. Instead she rolled up the sleeve that Nynaeve so desperately wanted to examine and pressed hard on the largest of the cuts with her thumb until it hurt. Nynaeve winced. Moiraine stayed firm. “Pain clears the mind. It’s a skill to know your limits, to know how much you have to bleed to get what you want.”
Nynaeve stared at her as if she had grown another head. Moiraine sometimes forgot that despite her accomplishments and failures, she was still naive to the way of the world. “You’re mad,” she said simply.
It made her angry. Angry because the statement was true in a way she couldn’t deny, and angry that Nynaeve didn’t see her efforts for what they were: logical, the only way to deal with her present conditions and not surrender to uselessness. “I may be mad, but that doesn’t make me wrong.”
“This was a mistake. Don’t bother coming to Tar Valon tomorrow.” Nynaeve turned to leave and Moiraine about had enough of politeness.
“What right do you have to tell me what I can or cannot do? After you—”
Nynaeve spun back on her heel. “Yes! I bonded you, raped you, whatever you want to call it today. Do you want to talk about why that happened?” Moiraine clenched her teeth in an effort not to yell back. “Because you insisted on coming into a battle that you weren’t able to fight in! Because you threw yourself into harm’s way again! Because you’re not in your right mind and have some death wish that I’m not going to be a part of!”
Picture the bud of a flower… “Well you haven’t been such a good model of emotional stability either.” Moiraine raised her chin just so, enough that she was looking down at Nynaeve. “And that’s why you don’t get to decide what happens to you. I’m going to Tar Valon tomorrow whether it’s with your blessing or not.”
It occurred to her, after the words came out of her mouth, that Moiraine wasn’t entirely sure why she was putting up such a fuss about this. It didn’t concern her directly. But she supposed it was the point of the matter. She said that she could convince the Hall to appoint her as Malkier’s advisor so she would. Moiraine could do anything she set her mind to. Besides, if there was to be a reckoning about her and Nynaeve’s recent activities, she would rather do this on her terms.
And some cursed part of her wanted to protect Nynaeve. There was no use denying that, to herself at least, but she didn’t have to be nice about it.
Nynaeve looked her up and down as if she was deciding whether Moiraine was entirely serious. She seemed to find her answer and stormed off, still shaking her head.
See? Moiraine was in control.
She tied that torn bandage around her arm again. Control.
Lan arrived back to the Seven Towers past sunset which in the summer months was quite late indeed. He was satisfied with his excursion north. Two packs of Trollocs were killed while he and his men suffered only minor wounds. He might go again tomorrow, pressing a mile further. And the day after. And for however long it took for his mind to settle itself.
Nynaeve was still awake when he returned to his quarters, staring into a cup of tea. He wished he could ignore her. She eyed a cut across his shoulder as he undressed. “What happened?”
“Trollocs.”
Lan threw on a nightshirt and when he straightened it, Nynaeve was still staring at him with those deep wide eyes he used to find impossible to look away from. But he forced himself to. Even after he saw how Nynaeve frowned, “There were Trollocs nearby? Was anyone hurt?”
“No. They were fifteen miles north. Dead now and far enough away that they weren’t causing any trouble.”
Instead of the explanation placating her, Nynaeve huffed, “Why did you go that far yourself? Send someone else! You could have gotten a lot worse than a scratch and I wouldn’t…” she trailed off, perhaps realizing that it wasn’t Lan’s fault at all of why Nynaeve wouldn’t feel any of his theoretical injuries.
“I can take care of myself,” Lan said shortly. “And you know it helps me clear my mind.” Though perhaps not enough. Maybe he should plan for a longer campaign. He had been putting off any of those plans until he and Nynaeve sorted things out; he didn’t relish the idea of days, weeks, away without any connection to his wife, but matters of state and security couldn’t all wait because of interpersonal issues.
“What do you mean that it clears your mind?” Worry tinged Nynaeve’s voice.
Lan shrugged. He was tired and not much in the mood for long discussions. He began to put out the candles. Nynaeve could find someplace else to sulk and not drink her tea. “It just does.”
He left Nynaeve’s candlestick still burning by her sitting chair and walked over to his cot on the floor. “Let me Heal that cut,” she said before he had a chance to lay down.
“It’s just a scratch,” he said. “There’s no poison, it won’t even scar.” It was a silly thing to waste Nynaeve’s talents on and there were doubtless many people who needed it more. “I’ve had worse than a few cuts and bruises.”
She muttered something he couldn’t quite hear, but it didn’t sound too pleasant.
He laid down for a few moments and was almost glad that Nynaeve couldn’t feel the sting on his shoulder. No damage didn’t mean no pain. But it was a good reminder; he needed to move faster, train harder, to keep up with his men who seemed to grow younger each day.
He should probably sleep longer too, but that was easier said than done.
Instead of closing, his eyes flicked back to Nynaeve in the candlelight. Somehow, she was looking more bothered than before they talked. “You should get some sleep too, if you are going to Tar Valon tomorrow.”
Nynaeve sighed. It didn’t sound very committed.
“You are going to Tar Valon tomorrow, aren’t you?” Light, Lan was meant to be king, he should know what official state business Nynaeve was getting into.
“I will,” Nynaeve said. “Cadsuane made that clear enough.”
Lan almost didn’t want to ask, “And Moiraine?”
“Moiraine will do whatever she wants to.” He knew that well enough, but it didn’t exactly fill him with confidence about whatever scheme they were up to.
“Do you even want her here?” Nynaeve asked after a time.
“Of course I do,” Lan snapped. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because she does whatever she wants. She argues, she lashes out, she doesn’t respect you, not as a king.”
“You don’t.”
“That’s different. I’m your wife.”
Lan thought for a moment. The idea of Moiraine curtsying, using titles, treating him differently. It made him sick. “I’m her friend, not her king.” And not her Warder.
“Well she hardly treats you as a friend either,” Nynaeve grumbled.
Lan sat up, angry. Whatever his frustrations towards Moiraine right now, he didn’t need Nynaeve criticizing her. And he wouldn’t have Moiraine do the same to Nynaeve either. “Don’t.” Nynaeve blinked in surprise at his tone. “I made oaths to her and those don’t expire. Ever. Moiraine always has a place here, and I will always be there for her in whatever capacity she needs me.”
He didn’t think twice about it, he never did. Lan wasn’t hers, as he explained to Nynaeve so long ago; Moiraine didn’t own him. His loyalty was given freely, but what sort of person would he be if he gave up on a woman who was once his whole world just because she was being difficult? Because of a dozen reasons out of both of their control. It would be as mad as asking Nynaeve for a divorce.
No, they were all held together, whether by choice or accident. When either of them wanted to reckon with that fact then he would be more than ready to talk things through, but he wouldn’t entertain any nonsense of either of them being forced away.
Nynaeve made a smart choice to stop baiting him and Lan laid back down. A dreamless sleep took him quickly enough.
Nynaeve looked at herself up and down in the mirror. She chose her best dress, and one that should would have thought looked pretty if it didn’t require her actually wearing it. The bodice of the dress was an amber yellow embroidered with green beads that formed a crane in flight; the skirts were a deep green with small gold — actual gold — plates set with an emerald that dangled between each pleat. It was hideously impractical and it required a lady’s maid to dress her which she hated most of all. And now the bodice was laced so tightly that her stays were digging into her ribs.
Well, at least it ensure she didn’t slouch, but walking around did make Nynaeve feel as though she were a puppet with a string on her head.
Gently, she took the Malkieri Queen’s crown from its box and fixed it onto her head, weaving bits of her braids over the thin vines of gold and silver. It fit well. It was constructed for her, after all, though she rarely ever wore it. Certainly not since she stopped wearing her ki’sain. Both were needed today, unfortunately. Elayne once told her that all the finery and jewelry and symbols served a purpose other than vanity: protection. In the realm of politics, it was as much armor as chainmail was on the battlefield. And as such, there was a balance. Too little and you would be left exposed, too much and it made you seem weak and afraid.
Nynaeve put on an emerald necklace and hoped that she found her balance, or a disguise at least. She twisted her Great Serpent Ring onto her finger last. An Aes Sedai queen, just like the ever-so-perfect Elayne.
Light, this was all ridiculous. What difference would pageantry make? Moiraine would trick the Hall into believing she was sane and competent or she wouldn’t. Either way, Nynaeve would be led back to Malkier on a leash.
In a way, Nynaeve hoped Moiraine would give up before Traveling to Tar Valon. She was one straw shy of crumbling completely, and for her sake it would be better for that to happen without an audience.
Lan had always made mention of her strength, her hardness, whenever he talked of Moiraine, but Nynaeve knew that hardness didn’t mean something was unbreakable. The most firm iron in the world would become brittle after enough stress. That was how Moiraine felt. She had cracked, maybe even before Nynaeve bonded her, and was fated to fall apart at the seams if she kept controlling herself so tightly.
Cutting herself, honestly… What was Nynaeve to do about that? Lock her away from sharp objects? She would find more. Tie her to her bed? As if she wouldn’t fall to panic at the very thought and end up worse than she started.
Nynaeve had seen madness before but it was different with Rand. He pushed himself too far, just like Moiraine, but there was a bloody good reason for it even if the thought made Nynaeve weep. They all knew there would be, well, an end. But Moiraine seemed to push and push, straining her body and mind because she didn’t know what else to do with herself. Even her idea of a break ended in her sobbing alone on a deserted island.
And Lan… Running off to chase Trollocs again? He wasn’t much better. No wonder they suited each other for so long.
Maybe Nynaeve wasn’t quite cut from the same cloth. Feeling this… this stress, this ever-present dread, and she might be the next one off to throw her life away.
So again, Nynaeve looked at herself, the only bloody sane person in Malkier, for now, and thought she about looked it. Still not measuring up to Elayne then. Well, it was good enough.
Nynaeve turned to leave when something small and furry hit her foot. “Mrow,” the cat that didn’t belong to Moiraine said, seeming entirely unperturbed by accidental kick. Privately, Nynaeve wondered if he would be more bothered by a purposeful kick. He looked up at her, tail swishing, and once Nynaeve stepped around him, he jumped and struck at one of the dangling gold plates hanging off her skirt. It tore clean off.
Nynaeve took a very slow breath before doing something she would regret. “Go find some mice,” she hissed and picked the cat up with a weave of air, depositing him at the far end of the room. She was in control of her temper and wouldn’t do anything drastic. Not to the cat, and not to the Aes Sedai he didn’t belong to.
She exhaled and went to go find Moiraine to see if she was still intent on this scheme of hers.
Downstairs, it seemed Moiraine was one step behind her today.
“Yes, it’s sufficient,” Moiraine turned in the mirror as a red-faced Mistress Rillavere watched, still with a needle in hand. Nynaeve hardly wanted to know what Moiraine had done to anger her seamstress beyond the short notice mending. No doubt a mess Nynaeve would have to fix herself for once.
Rillavere offered her usual flurry of praises and compliments, even whilst red-faced, when Nynaeve entered Moiraine’s quarters, and Moiraine didn’t so much as look at her despite Nynaeve’s dress jangling louder than an Arafellin on a feast day.
Rillavere packed up her sewing kit quickly, no doubt not wanting to look idle in front of the woman who allegedly paid her, not that Nynaeve had any say in her salary beyond waving the shatayan to take care of it.
And again, that left Nynaeve and Moiraine alone.
She watched as Moiraine brushed through her hair and oiled it smooth so it hung past her high collar in perfect waves down her back. Despite her apparent calm and bloody control, Nynaeve could feel the effort it took her to master that serenity.
Burn her, she was still serious about this.
They hadn’t even talked! Yes, Moiraine had whatever strategy she cut herself over, not that that was a good omen. What was she going to say if they Hall asked about her absence from the Tower? About her health? Had she given this the slightest thought or was she only assuming things would work out for the best? When had that ever happened?
Amidst Nynaeve’s worries, there was a bubble of growing frustration as Moiraine tried and failed three times to loop her kesiera into her hair. Try as she might to master her thoughts and swelling emotions, that didn’t stop her hands from shaking.
“Stop that,” Moiraine muttered on her fourth attempt.
“Stop what?”
“Your pity.” The chain fell loose again.
Nynaeve wouldn’t have used that word. She had sympathy for Moiraine, she felt badly for her. How could she not? But… Fine. Maybe there was some pity for her. “Most of us can’t turn off our emotions.”
“You should try it. Might spare me some effort.”
“Well you’re not as good as you think you are.”
Moiraine bit the inside of her cheek in some effort to temper herself. “You’re not going to convince me to stay behind so don’t bother trying.”
So Nynaeve didn’t. That was the hardest part of overcoming her channeling block: learning to surrender to a force greater than herself. She wasn’t going to challenge Moiraine to a battle of wills today. “Would you like some help?” she asked instead. Moiraine frowned. “Otherwise we’re going to be late and I know how you feel about—”
“Fine,” Moiraine said sharply and held out her kesiera over her shoulder.
Nynaeve weaved it into her hair, a strange intimacy with someone she had rather wanted to shout at a minute ago, but Moiraine almost softened at her touch. She was a strange woman, even before madness entered the picture. “There.” Nynaeve tied off the other end.
Moiraine touched the sapphire as if to ensure it wasn’t a mirage in the mirror, and Nynaeve looked her over: her dress wasn’t too dissimilar from the one she wore in Tar Valon when Nynaeve first arrived there all those years ago, albeit with some lace embroidery around the sleeves that seemed uncharacteristic, but she looked… different. Thinner, older, sunken eyes, and that bruise on her face was poking through her make-up just so.
Maybe Nynaeve only noticed now because she knew the woman uncomfortably well, but she wasn’t quite the Moiraine she remembered. She was a barely-Moiraine, or an almost-Moiraine, and it would be noticed.
“May I?” Nynaeve touched her own temple, where that bruise lay on Moiraine, and then her forearm.
This was still a poor idea, in Nynaeve’s view, but Moiraine had a point yesterday: it was her choice. Nynaeve wouldn’t, couldn’t, deny her that so she might as well try to help.
Moiraine nodded, understanding what Nynaeve asked. She hadn’t let Nynaeve touch her, much less Heal her, since the bonding. It was a truce of sorts.
Nynaeve Healed Moiraine’s cuts and bruises and relieved some of her endless exhaustion. She felt a little better, looked a little better, and Nynaeve a little worse. Moiraine would pay for it later, but that was for tomorrow. For now — let the Wheel weave how it wills.
Tar Valon was an old city, not the oldest, as most thought, but old nonetheless. Age came with rich history and a grand presence. It had been sixty-seven years since Moiraine first came to the White Tower and the awe never entirely left her. Not for the statues, and the decor, and the sheer size of the place, but for the tapestry of history woven in its wake. The world changed and still the White Tower stood.
Moiraine changed and still the White Tower stood, her history woven around it.
Today she ignored the awe; she ignored the tide of memories — real and illusory — that threatened to pull her under. Moiraine Damodred Aes Sedai was always in control, and she was Moiraine Damodred once again. Whispers and pointing followed her through the corridors from the Traveling Grounds to the Hall. It was worse than in Malkier, or Cairhien, or anywhere else, because these women she knew, or ought to know. Maybe they didn’t know her in any way that mattered, few did, but they knew more than stray gossip and half-remembered stories.
She kept her head straight and walked on with Nynaeve following at her heel. She might almost get used to the woman and her presence in Moiraine’s mind if she would only follow her wordlessly more often. She hoped their truce would hold for the day, that Nynaeve would keep her mouth well shut, but Moiraine knew her uneasiness too well.
They stopped at the entrance of the Hall, the doors already shut. Being late by a few minutes wasn’t normally frowned upon, they had come from hundred of miles away after all, but Moiraine needed every bit of good will today and she was already slipping. The few Warders milling around startled and then relaxed at their approach. One even started forward to greet them, but Moiraine waved a hand at the Tower guard. “Announce us,” she ordered. No time for frivolities.
The doors creaked open and Moiraine felt as though she might be sick. No, that had to be Nynaeve. Moiraine had been through plenty of meetings more treacherous than this and she had never been sick before.
The guard stepped inside and raised her head high, “Queen el’Nynaeve ti al’Meara Mandragoran Aes Sedai to answer a summons before the Hall.” Nynaeve stepped forward first, casting a quick glance back to Moiraine. She nodded slightly. The Tower guard then gave Moiraine a peculiar look. Surprise almost. “And the Lady Moiraine Damodred Aes Sedai to answer a summons before the Hall.”
Moiraine didn’t frown, though she wanted to, and not at the frustrating use of her title. She wasn’t answering a summons, she was here to submit herself for consideration to take up position of advisor to Malkier. She had never been summoned, not like Nynaeve. Well, the guard must be mistaken then. Moiraine supposed she couldn’t expect every guard to know the intricacies of Tower politics and the importance of exact words. She ignored it and walked forward into the Hall of Servants, focusing on keeping her head high, shoulders straight, and not tripping over the hem of her dress.
The stares and whispers were more than expected, and a few of the Sitters were openly assessing her strength in the Power. Let them. Moiraine’s angreal sat comfortably on her wrist and with it, she could match any Aes Sedai, even Nynaeve. She had nothing to hide in that regard, and no way to hide it. Without her angreal but with Nynaeve’s bond, Moiraine sat at the bottom of the Aes Sedai hierarchy rather than the very top as she was used to. She had made peace with that, at the very least she was now strong enough to be recognizable as Aes Sedai. But, crucially, it was reason enough for Moiraine to have been away from Tower affairs for so long. Worded well, it was even true.
Moiraine looked around at the Sitters — the faces she knew, and those she didn’t quite remember. She put a name to each, reciting them in her mind twice over so she didn’t forget. Her eyes skirted quickly past Alanna who was clearly trying to catch her attention. No, Alanna was a friend, probably, and friends were difficult to keep right now.
She stopped in the center of the Hall, next to Nynaeve, and turned to face— Moiraine’s eyes dropped involuntarily, and certainly not out of respect. Light, burn her! It was a piece of furniture, not anything more. She forced herself to look at it, though her mouth went dry at the sight.
Nynaeve shifted beside her, worried, but Moiraine steadied herself. She was in control. Stone and memories couldn’t hurt her, not even those that comprised the Amrylin Seat.
The Keeper, Merise Haindehl according to Moiraine’s notes, banged her staff, quieting the whispers, but not the stares. She began the ceremony, “She comes! The Watcher of the Seals, the Flame of Tar Valon, the Amrylin Seat!”
Moiraine winced, and not for the noise. But, she had hidden strong emotions in this very spot time and time again. She would not cry.
Cadsuane walked into the Hall, far less of a procession than Amrylin Seats had made in the past, but she still wore her full regalia, and commanded the same attention. It was then, with Cadsuane taking her seat, that Moiraine fell into the grips of memory.
The chittering sisters of the Blue all clamored ahead of themselves to pay the first respects to the newly raised Amrylin, yet another Blue, though one wouldn’t know by her gold dress and multi-colored stole. Moiraine didn’t want to look eager, she was meant to hate Siuan Sanche, so she remained at the back of the line. One by one, all eighty-something Blues currently in the Tower curtsied and kissed her ring, giving her traditional well wishes. When it was finally her turn, Moiraine struggled to keep her face even, not for fear or resentment as so many likely thought, but because the sight of Siuan in finery on the Amrylin Seat was one of the most beautiful sights she could imagine. Moiraine had dreamt up this exact image years prior, but she doubted reality would end in quite the same way as a dream. She blushed in recollection.
She curtsied, “Mother,” and walked forward to kiss the ring and give her well wishes. ‘May you lead us into the Light with grace and strength’ was the traditional line, and was what Moiraine had said the five prior times she had greeted a new Amrylin. But instead, as Moiraine bent to kiss her lover’s ring, perhaps a fraction longer than was necessary, she whispered, “I hope your fingers don’t tire from the prostrating. I have some excellent plans later.” She allowed the hint of a wicked smile to cross her face, and Siuan’s eyes flashed with some amount of humor and warning. Moiraine was perfectly serene when she turned back to her Blue sisters. No one heard. She knew the cost of failure, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t have her fun if she was careful.
Moiraine blinked. She was in the Hall, in the present, and a different woman sat before her. There was little humor in Cadsuane’s dark eyes, satisfaction perhaps, but no lightness. Moiraine let her fingernails pinch hard on her palm. Control. She couldn’t slip from the present, no matter how tempting the memory.
Cadsuane took a hard look at Moiraine, then at Nynaeve. Years went by and the woman still made Moiraine shiver like a novice. Moiraine might be skilled at the Game, at twisting her truths, but she knew better than to ever try directly with Cadsuane; she was harder to move than a mountain. That was one thing Moiraine counted on in her scheming: that Cadsuane really did leave this decision with the Hall rather than take it up personally. “Nynaeve,” she said with a sigh, “wait outside. The Hall has some questions to put to Moiraine that do not concern you.”
Nynaeve ran her fingers over the sealed letter she brought from Malkier, a short letter, well more like a sentence, giving Lan’s consent for Moiraine’s appointment. She was confused as to why Cadsuane didn’t ask for it, and what questions weren’t for her ears.
For that matter, so was Moiraine.
But Nynaeve nodded, and stepped away, leaving Moiraine alone.
As the door closed behind her, Moiraine felt quite sick. What did Cadsuane mean by questions? And why… oh burn her, why did Nynaeve have to leave? It felt… better having her near, as much as it pained Moiraine to admit it. And now, she was worried for the both of them, and her head was full of memories of this place, and blood and ashes! That bloody lace wouldn’t stop tickling her wrists!
Cadsuane cleared her throat, “Moiraine Damodred, the White Tower has charged you with treason. How do you plead?”
Moiraine tried to speak, to question the audacity of such a charge, to ask why she had not been informed of a trial before now, but no sound left her mouth. She froze, and that precious self-control slipped further from her grasp.
Another memory slipped in. A Foretelling. The Amrylin Seat dressed in full regalia… she would be Moiraine’s downfall.