The Path of Daggers (21 page)

There were . . . bumps, of course, of sorts, even with what might be rushing toward them. What surely was rushing toward them. Nynaeve getting her blue-plumed hat back was not really a bump, though it almost turned into one; Alise
had
found it, and handed it back telling Nynaeve she needed to shield her face from the sun if she wanted to keep that smooth pretty skin. An openmouthed Nynaeve watched the graying woman hurry off to deal with one of the numerous small problems, then ostentatiously shoved the hat under a strap of her saddlebags.

From the beginning Nynaeve set about flattening the real bumps, but Alise was nearly always there first, and where Alise met a bump, the bump flattened itself. Several noblewomen demanded help packing their belongings, only to be informed in no uncertain terms that she had meant what she said and if they did not hop to it, they could live in what they stood in. They hopped. Some, and not only nobles, changed their minds about going when they learned the destination was Andor, and were literally chased away. Afoot, and told to keep running as long as they could. Every horse was needed, but they had to be well away before the Seanchan appeared; at the very least they could be expected to put anyone near the farm to the question. As should have been expected, Nynaeve got into a shouting match with Renaile over the Bowl, and the turtle Talaan had used, which Renaile apparently had tucked behind her sash. Hardly had they reached the stage of waving arms, however, than Alise was right there, and in short order the Bowl was back in Sareitha’s care and the turtle in Merilille’s. Following which, Elayne was treated to the sight of Alise shaking her finger under the astonished nose of the Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships to the Atha’an Miere, delivering a tongue-lashing on the subject of theft that left Renaile spluttering indignantly. Nynaeve did a little spluttering, too, stalking away empty-handed, yet Elayne thought she had never seen anyone look so forlorn.

All in all, it did not take very long, though. The remaining women who had been at the farm gathered under the watchful eyes of the Knitting Circle—and of Alise, who carefully noted the last ten to arrive, all but two in fine embroidered silks, not much different from Elayne’s. Definitely not Kinswomen. Elayne felt sure they really would do the washing-up anyway; Alise would not let a little thing like noble birth stand in her way. The Windfinders lined up with their horses, surprisingly silent except for Renaile, who muttered imprecations whenever she saw Alise. Careane was summoned back from the hilltop. The Warders brought the sisters their mounts. Almost everyone kept an eye on the sky, and
saidar
made halos around all of the older Aes Sedai and most of the Windfinders. Around a few of the Kin, as well.

Leading her mare to the head of the line, at the cistern, Nynaeve fingered the
angreal
still on her hand as if she were going to be the one to make the gateway, ridiculous as the very idea might be. For one thing, though she had washed her face—and donned her hat; strangely, all things considered—she still tottered whenever her self-control slipped. Lan stayed practically at her shoulder, stone-faced as always, but if ever there was a man ready to catch a woman when she fell, it was he. Even with the bracelet-and-rings, Nynaeve might not be able to manage enough to weave a gateway. More important, she had been dashing about the farm ever since they first arrived; Elayne had spent a considerable time holding
saidar
right where they now stood. She knew that spot. Nynaeve scowled sulkily when Elayne embraced the Source, but at least she had sense enough to say nothing.

Right from the first Elayne wished that she had asked Aviendha for the woman-cloaked-in-her-own-hair; she was weary, too, and all the
saidar
she could draw was barely enough to form the weave so it would work. The flows wavered in her grasp almost as if trying to twist free, then snapped into place so suddenly that she jumped; channeling when you were tired was not at all like other times, but this was the worst ever. At least the familiar vertical slash of silver appeared as it should, and widened into an opening right alongside the cistern. An opening no bigger than the one Aviendha had made, and at that, Elayne was grateful it was large enough to fit a horse through. At the last, she had not been certain it would be. Gasps rose from the Kinswomen, seeing a view of an upland meadow suddenly standing between them and the familiar gray bulk of the cistern.

“You should have let me try,” Nynaeve said softly. Softly, but with a sharp point even so. “You nearly fubbed it altogether.”

Aviendha gave Nynaeve a flat look that almost made Elayne grab her arm. The longer they remained near-sisters, the more she seemed to think she had to defend Elayne’s honor; if they did become first-sisters, Elayne could see having to keep her away from Nynaeve, and Birgitte, completely!

“It’s done, Nynaeve,” she said quickly. “That’s all that counts.” Nynaeve directed a flat look at her and muttered something about the day being prickly, as if
Elayne
were the one showing her snappish side.

Birgitte was the first through, grinning impudently at Lan, leading her horse with her bow already in her other hand. Elayne could sense eagerness in her, a touch of satisfaction, perhaps that this time she had the lead instead of Lan—there was always a bit of rivalry between Warders—and a small measure of wariness. Very small. Elayne knew that meadow well; Gareth Bryne had taught her to ride not far from there. About five miles over those first sparsely treed hills lay the manor house of one of her mother’s estates. One of
her
estates; she had to get used to that. The seven families who tended the house and its grounds would be the only people for half a day’s journey in any direction.

Elayne had chosen that destination because they could reach Caemlyn in two weeks from there. And because the estate was so isolated, she might be entering Caemlyn before anyone knew she was in Andor. That could be a very necessary precaution; at various times in Andor’s history, rivals for the Rose Crown had been kept as “guests” until they relinquished their claims. Her mother had kept two, until she took the throne. With luck, she could have a solid base established by the time Egwene and the others arrived.

Lan took Mandarb right behind Birgitte’s brown gelding, and Nynaeve lurched as if to rush after the black warhorse, then pulled herself up short with a level stare that dared Elayne to say a word. Fiddling furiously with her reins, she made a visible effort to look anywhere except through the gateway after Lan. Her lips moved. After a moment, Elayne realized that she was
counting
.

“Nynaeve,” she said quietly, “we really don’t have time for—”

“Move along,” Alise called from the rear, the sound of her hands clapping a sharp punctuating crack. “No pushing or shoving, now, but I’ll have no laggards either! Move along.”

Nynaeve’s head swung wildly, pained indecision painting her face. For some reason she touched her wide hat, a few of its blue plumes broken and drooping, before pulling her hand away. “Oh, that goat-kissing old . . . !” she growled, the rest lost as she dragged her mare through the gateway. Elayne sniffed. And Nynaeve had the
nerve
to speak to anybody about
their
language! She wished she could have heard the rest, though; she already knew the first bit.

Alise continued her urging, but there really did not seem to be much need after the first. Even the Windfinders hurried, glancing worriedly over their shoulders at the sky. Even Renaile, who mumbled something about Alise that Elayne noted in the back of her head. Though calling someone “a fish-loving scavenger” did seem rather mild. She would have expected the Sea Folk to eat fish all the time.

Alise herself brought up the very rear, except for the remaining Warders, as if to herd even the packhorses along. She paused long enough to hand Elayne her green-plumed hat. “You’ll want to keep the sun off that sweet face of yours,” she said with a smile. “Such a pretty girl. No need to turn to leather before your time.”

Aviendha, sitting on the ground nearby, fell over backward and kicked her heels laughing.

“I think I’ll ask her to find
you
a hat. With lots of plumes, and big bows,” Elayne said in dulcet tones before quickly following the Kinswoman. That certainly cut off Aviendha’s laughter.

The gently rolling meadow was broad and nearly a mile long, surrounded by hills taller than those she had left behind, and by trees she knew, oak and pine and blackwood, sourgum and leatherleaf and fir, thick forest with good, tall timber to south and west and east, though there might not be any cutting this year. Most of the more scattered trees to the north, toward the manor, were better suited for firewood. Small gray boulders dotted the thick brown grass here and there, and not even a withered stalk marked the death of a wildflower. That was not so different from the south.

For once Nynaeve was not peering at the surrounding countryside trying to find Lan. He and Birgitte would not be gone long anyway, not here. Instead she strode briskly among the horses, ordering people to mount in a loud, commanding voice, chivvying the servants with the pack animals, curtly telling some of the Kinswomen who had no horses that any child could walk five miles, shouting at a slender Altaran noblewoman with a scar on her cheek and carrying a bundle nearly as big as herself that if she had been fool enough to bring all of her dresses then she could carry them. Alise had gathered the Atha’an Miere around her and was instructing them on how to mount a horse. For a wonder, they actually appeared to be paying attention. Nynaeve glanced her way and seemed pleased to see Alise standing in one spot. Until Alise smiled encouragingly and motioned her to go on with what she was doing.

For an instant Nynaeve stood stock-still, staring at the woman. Then she came striding through the grass to Elayne. Reaching up to her hat with both hands, she hesitated, glowering up at it through her lashes before giving it a twitch straight. “I’ll just let her take care of everything this time,” she said in a suspiciously reasonable tone. “We’ll just see how well she does with those . . . Sea Folk. Yes, we will.” Too reasonable a tone by half. Abruptly she frowned at the still-open gateway. “Why are you holding it? Let go.” Aviendha was frowning, too.

Elayne drew a deep breath. She had thought about this, and there was no other way, but Nynaeve would try to argue her out of it, and there was no time for arguing. Through the gateway, the farmyard stood empty, even the chickens finally frightened away by the hubbub, yet how long before it filled up again? She studied her weave, melded together so snugly that only a few threads remained distinct. She could see every flow, of course, but except for those few, they appeared inseparably combined. “Take everyone to the manor house, Nynaeve,” she said. The sun did not have very much farther to fall; perhaps two hours of light remained. “Master Hornwell will be surprised at so many visitors arriving at dark, but tell him you’re guests of the girl who cried over the redbird with the broken wing; he’ll remember that. I will be along as soon as I can.”

“Elayne,” Aviendha began in a surprisingly anxious voice, and at the same time, Nynaeve said sharply, “Just what do you think you’re—”

There was only one way to stop it. Elayne plucked one of the discernible threads free of the weave; it wavered and flailed like a living tentacle; it fuzzed and spluttered, tiny fluffs of
saidar
breaking off and fading away. She had not noticed that when Aviendha unmade her weave, but she had only seen the tail of that, really. “Go on,” she told Nynaeve. “I’ll wait for the rest until you are all out of sight.” Nynaeve stared out, her jaw hanging. “It has to be done,” Elayne sighed. “The Seanchan will be at the farm in hours, for sure. Even if they wait until tomorrow, what if one of the
damane
has the Talent to read residues? Nynaeve, I won’t give Traveling to the Seanchan. I won’t!”

Nynaeve growled something under her breath about the Seanchan that must have been particularly pithy, judging by her tone. “Well,
I
won’t let you burn yourself out!” she said aloud. “Now, put that back! Before the whole thing explodes the way Vandene said. You could kill all of us!”

“It cannot be put back,” Aviendha said, laying a hand on Nynaeve’s arm. “She has begun, and now she must finish. You must do as she says, Nynaeve.”

Nynaeve’s brows drew down. “Must” was a word she did not like hearing one bit, not applied to her. She was not a fool, though, so after a bit of glaring—at Elayne, at the gateway, at Aviendha, at the world in general—she flung her arms around Elayne in a hug that made her ribs creak.

“You be careful, you hear me,” she whispered. “If you get yourself killed, I swear I’ll skin you alive!” In spite of everything, Elayne burst out laughing. Nynaeve snorted, pushing her out to arm’s length by her shoulders. “You know what I mean,” she grumbled. “And don’t think I don’t mean it, because I do! I do,” she added in a softer voice. “You take care.”

It took Nynaeve a moment to gather herself, blinking and pulling her blue riding gloves tight. There seemed to be a hint of moisture in her eyes, though that could not have been; Nynaeve made other people cry, she did not cry herself. “Well, then,” she said loudly. “Alise, if you don’t have everyone ready yet—” Turning, she cut off with a strangled croak.

Those who were supposed to be mounted were, even the Atha’an Miere. The Warders were all gathered around the other sisters; Lan and Birgitte had returned, and Birgitte watched Elayne worriedly. The servants had the pack animals in a line, and the Kinswomen were waiting patiently, most afoot except for the Knitting Circle. A number of horses that could have been used for riding were loaded with sacks of food and bundles of belongings. Women who had brought more than Alise allowed—none of them Kin—carried their bundles on their own backs. The slender noble with the scar was bent at an awkward angle beneath hers, and glaring at anyone but Alise. Every woman who could channel was staring at the gateway. And every woman who had been there to hear Vandene tell of the dangers watched that one whipping filament as she would have a red adder.