The Path of Daggers (80 page)

Seated cross-legged in a heavily gilded, high-backed chair, Min tried to lose herself in the leather-bound copy of Herid Fel’s
Reason and Unreason
lying open on her knees. It was not easy. Oh, the book itself was mesmerizing; Master Fel’s writings always swept her into worlds of thought she had not dreamed of while working in stables. She very much regretted the sweet old man’s death. She hoped to find a clue in his books to why he had been killed. Her dark ringlets swung as she shook her head and tried to apply herself.

The book was fascinating, but the room was oppressive. Rand’s small throne room in the Sun Palace was thick with gilt from the wide cornices to the tall mirrors on the walls replacing those Rand had smashed, from the two rows of chairs like the one she sat in to the dais at the head of the rows and the Dragon Throne atop the dais. That was a monstrosity, in the style of Tear as imagined by Cairhienin craftsmen, resting on the backs of a pair of Dragons with two more Dragons for the arms and others climbing the back, all with large sunstones for eyes, the whole glittering with gilt and red enamel. A huge golden, wavy-rayed Rising Sun set in the polished stone floor only added to the sense of heaviness. At least the fires blazing in two great fireplaces, tall enough for her to walk into, gave a pleasing warmth, especially with snow spilling down outside. And these were Rand’s rooms; the comfort of that alone outweighed any amount of oppression. An irritating thought. This was Rand’s room if he ever deigned to return. A very irritating thought. Being in love with a man seemed to consist largely of a great many irritating admissions to yourself!

Shifting in a vain attempt to make the hard chair comfortable, she tried to read, but her eyes kept swinging to the tall doors, each climbed by its own line of gilded Rising Suns. She hoped to see Rand walk in; she feared to see Sorilea, or Cadsuane. Unconsciously, she adjusted her pale blue coat, fingering the tiny snowflowers embroidered on the lapels. More twined around the sleeves, and the legs of breeches made as snug as she could manage to wriggle herself into. Not that great a change from what she had always worn. Not really. So far, she had avoided dresses, however much embroidery she wore, but she very much feared that Sorilea meant to stuff her into a dress if the Wise One had to peel her out of what she was wearing with her own hands.

The woman knew all about her and Rand.
All
about. She felt her cheeks heating. Sorilea seemed to be trying to decide whether Min Farshaw was a suitable . . . lover . . . for Rand al’Thor. That word made her feel foolishly giddy; she was not a fluff-brained girl! That word made her want to look over her shoulder guiltily for the aunts who had raised her.
No
, she thought wryly,
you’re not fluff-brained. Fluff has its wits about it compared to you
!

Or maybe Sorilea wanted to know whether Rand was suitable for Min; it seemed that way, at times. The Wise Ones accepted Min as one of them, or very nearly, but these past weeks, Sorilea had wrung her out like a laundress’s mangle. The leather-faced, white-haired Wise One wanted to know every scrap about Min, and every shred about Rand. She wanted the dust from the bottoms of his pockets! Twice Min had tried balking at the incessant interrogation, and twice Sorilea had produced a switch! That terrible old woman simply bundled her over the side of the nearest table, and afterward told her that maybe
that
would loosen another scrap in her head. None of the other Wise Ones gave the slightest commiseration, either! Light, the things you had to put up with for a man! And she could not have him for herself alone, at that!

Cadsuane was a different proposition altogether. The immensely dignified Aes Sedai, as gray-haired as Sorilea was white, did not seem to care two figs for Min or Rand either one, but she spent a great deal of time in the Sun Palace. Avoiding her entirely was impossible; she seemed to wander wherever she wanted. And when Cadsuane looked at Min, however briefly, Min could not help seeing a woman who could teach bulls to dance and bears to sing. She kept expecting the woman to point at her and announce that it was time Min Farshaw learned to balance a ball on her nose. Sooner or later, Rand had to face Cadsuane again, and the thought tied Min’s stomach in knots.

She made herself bend back over her book. One of the doors swung open, and Rand strolled in with the Dragon Scepter nestled in the crook of his arm. He wore a golden crown, a broad circlet of laurel leaves—that must be this Crown of Swords everyone was talking about—snug breeches that showed his legs to advantage, and a gold-worked green silk coat that fit him beautifully.
He
was beautiful.

Marking her place with the note Master Fel had written saying she was “too pretty,” she carefully closed the book and carefully set it on the floor beside her chair. Then she folded her arms and waited. Had she been standing, she would have tapped her foot, but she would not have the man thinking she was springing up just because
he finally
appeared.

For a moment he stood smiling at her, and tugging his earlobe for some reason—he seemed to be humming!—then abruptly he swung round to frown at the doors. “The Maidens out there didn’t tell me you were in here. They hardly said a word at all. Light, they looked ready to veil at the sight of me.”

“Maybe they are upset,” she said calmly. “Maybe they wondered where you were. The way I did. Maybe
they
wondered whether you were hurt, or sick, or cold.”
The way I did
, she thought bitterly. The man looked confused!

“I wrote to you,” he said slowly, and she sniffed.

“Twice! With Asha’man to deliver your letters, you wrote twice, Rand al’Thor. If you call it writing!”

He staggered as if she had slapped him—no; as if she had kicked him in the belly!—and blinked. She took a firm hold on herself and settled against the chairback. Give a man sympathy at the wrong moment, and you never regained the ground lost. A part of her wanted to throw her arms around him, comfort him, draw out all his pains, soothe all his hurts. He had so many, and refused to admit a one. She was
not
going to spring up and rush to him, gushing to know what was wrong or . . . Light, he had to be all right.

Something took her gently beneath the elbows and lifted her out of the chair. Blue boots dangling, she floated toward him through the air. The Dragon Scepter floated away from him. So, he thought he could smile, did he? He thought a pretty smile could turn her around? She opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind. A very sharp piece! Folding his arms around her, he kissed her.

When she could breathe again, she peered up at him through her lashes. “The first time . . .” She swallowed to clear her voice. “First, Jahar Narishma stalked in trying to stare inside everybody’s skull the way he does, and vanished after handing me a scrap of parchment. Let me see. It said, ‘I have claimed the crown of Illian. Trust no one until I return. Rand.’ A little short of a proper love letter, I’d say.”

He kissed her again.

This time, getting her breath back took longer. This was not going as she had expected at all. On the other hand, it was not going very badly. “The second time, Jonan Adley delivered a bit of paper that said, ‘I will return when I finish here. Trust no one. Rand.’ Adley walked in on me in my bath,” she added, “and he wasn’t shy about getting an eyeful.” Rand always tried to pretend he was not jealous—as if there were a man in the world who was not—but she had noticed his scowls at men who looked at her. And his very considerable ardor was more heated afterward, too. She wondered what this kiss would be like. Maybe she should suggest retiring to the bedchamber? No, she would not be that forward no matter—

Rand set her down, his face suddenly bleak. “Adley’s dead,” he said. Suddenly the crown flew from his head, spinning the length of the room as though hurled. Just when she thought it would crash into the back of the Dragon Throne, perhaps smash through it, the wide ring of gold stopped short and settled slowly onto the throne’s seat.

Min’s breath caught as she looked up at him. Blood glistened in the dark red curls above his left ear. Pulling a lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve, she reached for his temple, but he caught her wrist.

“I killed him,” he said quietly.

She shivered at the sound of his voice. Quiet, the way the grave was quiet. Perhaps the bedchamber was a very good idea. No matter how forward it was. Making herself smile—and blushing when she realized how easy it was to smile, thinking of that huge bed—she gripped the front of his shirt, preparing to rip shirt and coat from his back right then and there.

Someone knocked at the doors.

Min’s hands sprang away from Rand’s shirt. She sprang away, too. Who could it be, she wondered irritably. The Maidens either announced visitors when Rand was there, or simply sent them in.

“Come,” he said loudly, giving her a rueful smile. And she blushed again at that.

Dobraine put his head in at the door, then entered and shut the door behind him when he saw them standing together. The Cairhienin lord was a small man, little taller than she, with the front of his head shaved and the rest of his mostly gray hair falling to his shoulders. Stripes of blue and white decorated the front of his nearly black coat to below his waist. Even before gaining Rand’s favor he had been a power in the land. Now, he ruled here, at least until Elayne could claim the Sun Throne. “My Lord Dragon,” he murmured, bowing. “My Lady
Ta’veren
.”

“A joke,” Min muttered, when Rand quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Perhaps,” Dobraine said, shrugging slightly, “yet half the noblewomen in the city now wear bright colors in imitation of the Lady Min. Breeches that display their legs, and many in coats that do not even cover their . . .” He coughed discreetly, realizing that Min’s coat did not cover
her
hips completely.

She thought about telling him
he
had very pretty legs, even if they were decidedly knobby, then quickly thought better. Rand’s jealousy might be a wonderful flame if they were alone, but she did not want him striking out at Dobraine. He was capable of that, she feared. Besides, she thought it really was a slip; Lord Dobraine Taborwin was not the sort to make even slightly rough jokes.

“So you’re changing the world, too, Min.” Grinning, Rand tapped the tip of her nose with a finger. He tapped her nose! Like a child he was amused with! Worse, she felt herself grinning back at him like a fool. “In better ways than I am, it appears,” he went on, and that momentary boyish grin faded like mist.

“Is all well in Tear and Illian, my Lord Dragon?” Dobraine enquired.

“In Tear and Illian, all is well,” Rand replied grimly. “What do you have for me, Dobraine? Sit, man. Sit.” He motioned toward the rows of chairs, and took one for himself.

“I have acted on all of your letters,” Dobraine said, seating himself across from Rand, “but there is little good to report, I fear.”

“I’ll get us something to drink,” Min said in a tight voice. Letters? It was not easy to stalk in heeled boots—she had grown accustomed to them, but the things made you sway whatever you did—not easy, yet enough anger made anything possible. She stalked to the small gilded table beneath one of the huge mirrors where a silver pitcher and goblets sat. She busied herself with pouring spiced wine, splashing it out furiously. The servants always brought extra goblets, in case she had visitors, though she seldom did except for Sorilea or a fool lot of noblewomen. The wine was barely warm, but it was more than hot enough for the likes of that pair. She had received two letters, but she would bet Dobraine had had ten! Twenty! Banging pitcher and goblets about, she listened carefully. What had they been up to behind her back with their dozens of letters?

“Toram Riatin appears to have vanished,” Dobraine said, “though rumor, at least, says he still lives, worse luck. Rumors also say that Daved Hanlon and Jeraal Mordeth—Padan Fain, as you call the man—have deserted him. By the way, I have settled Toram’s sister, the Lady Ailil, in generous apartments, with servants who are . . . trustworthy.” By his tone, he clearly meant trustworthy toward himself. The woman would not be able to change her dress without him knowing. “I can understand bringing her here, and Lord Bertome and the others, but why High Lord Weiramon, or High Lady Anaiyella? It goes without saying, of course, that their servants also are trustworthy.”

“How do you know when a woman wants to kill you?” Rand mused.

“When she knows your name?” Dobraine did not sound as if he were joking. Rand tilted his head thoughtfully, then nodded. Nodded! She hoped he was not still hearing voices.

Rand gestured as if brushing away the women who wanted to kill him. A dangerous thing, with her about. She did not want to kill him, certainly, but she would not mind seeing Sorilea go at him with that switch! Breeches did not give much protection.

“Weiramon is a fool who makes too many mistakes,” Rand told Dobraine, who nodded sober agreement. “My mistake for thinking I could use him. He seems happy enough to stay near the Dragon Reborn in any case. What else?” Min handed him a goblet, and he smiled at her despite the wine that slopped over his wrist. Maybe he thought it was an accident.

“Little else and too much,” Dobraine began, then jerked back in his chair to avoid spilling wine as Min shoved the second silver goblet at him. She had not liked her brief stint as a tavernmaid. “My thanks, my Lady Min,” he murmured graciously, but he eyed her askance as he took the goblet. She walked calmly back to fetch her own wine. Calmly.

“I fear that Lady Caraline and the High Lord Darlin are in Lady Arilyn’s palace here in the City,” the Cairhienin lord went on, “under the protection of Cadsuane Sedai. Perhaps protection is not the correct word. I have been refused entry to see them, but I hear that they have attempted to leave the City and been brought back like sacks.
In
a sack, one story claims. Having met Cadsuane, I can almost believe it.”

“Cadsuane,” Rand murmured, and Min felt a chill. He did not sound afraid, precisely, yet he did sound more than uneasy. “What do you think I should do about Caraline and Darlin, Min?”