Perwyn and his mother both shied at the sight of the Myrddraal, of course, but the boy recovered first and reached Fain while the woman was still trying to find her breath.
“Master Mordeth, Master Mordeth,” the boy piped, dancing from foot to foot in his red-and-white coat, “I have news you wanted.”
Mordeth. Had he used that name? Sometimes he could not recall what name he had used, what name was his. Sheathing the dagger beneath his coat, he put on a warm smile. “And what news would that be now, lad?”
“Someone tried to kill the Dragon Reborn this morning. A man. He’s dead now. He got right past all the Aiel and everything, right into the Lord Dragon’s rooms.”
Fain felt his smile become a snarl. Trying to kill al’Thor? Al’Thor was his! Al’Thor would die by his hand, no other! Wait. The assassin had gotten past the Aiel, into al’Thor’s rooms? “A Gray Man!” He did not recognize that grating sound as his own voice. Gray Men meant the Chosen. Would he never be free of their interference?
All that rage had to go somewhere before he burst. Almost casually he brushed his hand across the boy’s face. The boy’s eyes bulged; he began trembling so hard his teeth rattled.
Fain did not really understand the tricks he could work. A bit of something from the Dark One, perhaps, a bit from Aridhol. It had been after there, after he stopped being just Padan Fain, that the ability began to manifest, slowly. All he knew was that he could do certain things now, as long as he could touch what he worked with.
Nan flung herself to her knees beside his chair, clutching at his coat. “Mercy, Master Mordeth,” she panted. “Please, have mercy. He’s only a child. Only a child!”
For a moment he studied her curiously, head tilted. She was quite a pretty woman, really. Planting a foot against her chest, he shoved her aside so he could stand. The Myrddraal, peeking furtively, jerked its eyeless face away when it saw him watching. It remembered his . . . tricks very well.
Fain paced; he had to move. Al’Thor’s downfall had to be his doing—his!—not the Chosen’s. How could he hurt the man again, hurt to the heart? There were those nattering girls at Culain’s Hound, but if al’Thor did not come when the Two Rivers was harrowed, what would he care even if Fain burned the inn down and the chits with it? What did he have to work with? Only a few remained of his onetime Children of the Light. That had only been a test really—he would have made the man who actually managed to kill al’Thor beg to be skinned alive!—yet it had cost him numbers. He had the Myrddraal, a handful of Trollocs hidden outside the city, a few Darkfriends gathered in Caemlyn and on the way from Tar Valon. The pull of al’Thor dragged him on. It was the most remarkable thing about Darkfriends. There should be nothing to single out a Darkfriend from anyone else, but of late he found he could tell one at a glance, even someone who had only thought of swearing to the Shadow, as if they had a sooty mark on their foreheads.
No! He had to concentrate. Concentrate! Clear his mind. His eye fell on the woman, moaning and stroking her gibbering son, talking to him softly as if that would help. Fain had no notion how to stop one of his tricks once it began; the boy should survive, if a trifle the worse for wear, once the thing ground to a conclusion. Fain had not put his whole heart into making it. Clear his mind. Think of something else. A pretty woman. How long since he had had a woman?
Smiling, he took her arm. He had to pull her away from the fool boy. “Come with me.” His voice was different, grander, the Lugard accent gone, but he did not notice; he never did. “I am sure you, at least, know how to show true respect. If you please me, no harm will come to you.” Why was she struggling? He knew he was being charming. He was going to have to hurt her. It was all al’Thor’s fault.
CHAPTER
29
Fire and Spirit
Pausing in the shade in front of the Little Tower, Nynaeve carefully dabbed at her face, then tucked the handkerchief back up her sleeve. Not that it did much good—sweat popped out again right away—but she wanted to look her best inside. She wanted to look cool, serene, dignified. Small chance of that. Her temples were throbbing, and her stomach felt . . . fragile; she had not been able to look at breakfast this morning. Just the heat, of course, but she wanted to go back to her bed, curl up and die. To top it off, her weather sense was nagging at her; the molten sun should have been hidden by roiling black clouds and threatening bolts of lightning.
The Warders lounging out front did not look like guards at first glance, but they were. They reminded her of the Aiel she had seen in the Stone of Tear; they probably looked like wolves even when asleep. A bald, square-faced man, no taller than she but nearly as wide as he was tall, trotted out of the Little Tower and down the street, the hilt of the sword on his back thrusting up over his shoulder. Even he—Jori, bonded to Morvrin—managed it.
Top-knotted Uno passed, threading his horse through the crowd and hardly seeming to acknowledge the heat despite the steel plates and mail that covered him from the shoulders down. He twisted in his saddle to watch her with his good eye, and her face darkened. Birgitte had talked. Every time the man saw her he was obviously waiting for her to ask him for horses. She was almost ready to. Even Elayne could not say they were doing any good. Well, she could, and did, but she should not.
Uno rode out of sight around a corner, and Nynaeve sighed. She was just trying to put off going inside. Myrelle might be there. Blotting her face again, she frowned at her wrinkled hand—today would be the eleventh scrubbing pots, with twenty-nine more to go; twenty-nine!—and went in.
It was slightly cooler in what had been the common room when the Little Tower was an inn, offering a little relief to her aching head. Everyone called it “the waiting room” now. No time had been wasted for repairs here. The fireplaces had stones missing, and lathing showed through holes in the plaster. Areina and Nicola were working brooms with another novice, but making little impression on the age-roughened floor; Areina wore a scowl, but, then, she was never pleased at having to do chores with the novices. No one went choreless in Salidar. At the far end of the room Romanda was speaking with two slender, aged Aes Sedai—their faces might be ageless, but their hair was white—plainly new arrivals by the thin dustcloaks still hanging down their backs. No sign of Myrelle, which brought a sigh of relief; the woman raked Nynaeve over the coals at every opportunity, then raked her the other way! Aes Sedai sat at tables, mismatched but carefully arranged in rows, working over parchments or issuing orders to Warders and servants, but fewer than the first time she had seen the room. Only the Sitters and their servants lived on the floors above now; everyone else had been removed to make space for Aes Sedai to work in. The Little Tower had taken on attributes of the White Tower, the precise formality above all. When Nynaeve first saw this room it had had a bustle about it, an air of something being done. A false air, then. Now it seemed almost slow, but it was th