Winter's Heart (46 page)

Graendal had chosen the setting, since she had been first to arrive, and it irritated him. View-walls made the striped wooden floor appear to be surrounded by a forest full of brightly flowered vines and fluttering birds that were even more colorful. Sweet scents and soft birdcalls filled the air. Only the arch of the doorway spoiled the illusion. Why did she want a reminder of what was lost? They could as soon make shocklances or showings as a view-wall outside of this place, close to Shayol Ghul. In any case, she despised anything to do with nature, as he recalled.

Osan’gar frowned at “idiots” and “blind fools,” as well he might, but he quickly smoothed that plain, creased face, so unlike the one he had been born with. By whatever name he was called, he had always known who he dared challenge and who not. “A matter of chance,” he said calmly, though he did begin dry-washing his hands. An old habit. He was garbed like some ruler of this Age, in a coat so heavy with golden embroidery that it almost hid the red of the cloth, and boots fringed with golden tassels. There was enough white lace at his neck and wrists to clothe a child. The man had never known the meaning of excess. If not for his particular skills, he never would have been Chosen. Realizing what his hands were doing, Osan’gar snatched the tall
cuendillar
wineglass from the round table beside his chair and inhaled the dark wine’s aroma deeply. “Simply probabilities,” he murmured, trying to sound offhand. “Next time, he will be killed or taken. Chance can’t protect him forever.”

“You are going to depend on chance?” Aran’gar was stretched out in a long, flowing chair as though it were a bedchair. Directing a smoky smile at Osan’gar, she arched one leg on bare toes so the slit in her bright red skirts exposed her to the hip. Every breath threatened to free her from the red satin that just contained her full breasts. All of her mannerisms had changed since she became a woman, but not the core of what had been placed into that female body. Demandred hardly scorned fleshly pleasures, but one day her cravings would be the death of her. As they already had been once. Not that he would mourn, of course, if the next time was final. “You were responsible for watching him, Osan’gar,” she went on, her voice caressing every syllable. “You, and Demandred.” Osan’gar flinched, flicking his tongue against his lips, and she laughed throatily. “My own charge is . . .” She pressed a thumb down on the edge of the chair as if pinning something and laughed again.

“I should think you would be more worried, Aran’gar,” Graendal murmured over her wine. She concealed her contempt about as well as the almost transparent silvery mist of her streith gown concealed her ripe curves. “You, and Osan’gar, and Demandred. And Moridin, wherever he is. Perhaps you should fear al’Thor’s success as much as his failure.”

Laughing, Aran’gar caught the standing woman’s hand in one of hers. Her green eyes sparkled. “And perhaps you could explain what you mean better if we were alone?”

Graendal’s gown turned to stark black concealing smoke. Jerking her hand free with a coarse oath, she stalked away from the chair. Aran’gar . . . giggled.

“What do you mean?” Osan’gar said sharply, struggling out of his chair. Once on his feet, he struck a lecturer’s pose, gripping his lapels, and his tone became pedantic. “In the first place, my dear Graendal, I doubt that even I could devise a method to remove the Great Lord’s shadow from
saidin.
Al’Thor is a primitive. Anything he tries inevitably will prove insufficient, and I, for one, cannot believe he can even imagine how to begin. In any event, we will stop him trying because the Great Lord commands it. I can understand fear of the Great Lord’s displeasure if we somehow failed, unlikely as that might be, but why should those of us you named have any special fear?”

“Blind as ever, and dry as ever,” Graendal murmured. With the return of composure, her gown was clear mist again, though red. Perhaps she was not so calm as she pretended. Or perhaps she wanted them to believe she was controlling some agitation. Except for the streith, her adornments all came from this age, firedrops in her golden hair, a large ruby dangling between her breasts, ornate golden bracelets on both wrists. And something quite strange, that Demandred wondered whether anyone else had noticed. A simple ring of gold on the little finger of her left hand. Simple was never associated with Graendal. “If the young man does somehow remove the shadow, well . . . You who channel
saidin
will no longer need the Great Lord’s special protection. Will he trust your . . . loyalty . . . then?” Smiling, she sipped her wine.

Osan’gar did not smile. His face paled, and he scrubbed a hand across his mouth. Aran’gar sat up on the edge of her long chair, no longer trying to be sensuous. Her hands formed claws on her lap, and she glared at Graendal as if ready to go for her throat.

Demandred’s fists unclenched. It was out in the open at last. He had hoped to have al’Thor dead—or failing that, captive—before this suspicion reared its head. During the War of Power, more than a dozen of the Chosen had died of the Great Lord’s suspicion.

“The Great Lord is sure you are all faithful,” Moridin announced, striding in as though he were the Great Lord of the Dark himself. He had often seemed to believe he was, and the boy’s face he wore now had not changed that. In spite of his words, that face was grim, and his unrelieved black made his name, Death, fit. “You need not worry until he stops being sure.” The girl, Cyndane, trotted at his heels like a bosomy little silver-haired pet in red-and-black. For some reason, Moridin had a rat riding his shoulder, pale nose sniffing the air, black eyes studying the room warily. Or for no reason, perhaps. A youthful face had not made him any saner, either.

“Why have you called us here?” Demandred demanded. “I have much to do, and no time for idle talk.” Unconsciously he tried to stand taller, to match the other man.

“Mesaana is absent again?” Moridin said instead of answering. “A pity. She should hear what I have to say.” Plucking the rat from his shoulder by its tail, he watched the animal wave its legs futilely. Nothing except the rat seemed to exist for him. “Small, apparently unimportant matters can become very important,” he murmured. “This rat. Whether Isam succeeds in finding and killing that other vermin, Fain. A word whispered in the wrong ear, or not spoken to the right. A butterfly stirs its wings on a branch, and on the other side of the world a mountain collapses.” Suddenly the rat twisted, trying to sink its teeth into his wrist. Casually, he flung the creature away. In midair, there was a burst of flame, something hotter than flame, and the rat was gone. Moridin smiled.

Demandred flinched in spite of himself. That had been the True Power; he had felt nothing. A black speck floated across Moridin’s blue eyes, then another, in a steady stream. The man must have been using the True Power exclusively since he last saw him to gain so many
saa
so quickly. He himself had never touched the True Power except at need. Great need. Of course, only Moridin had that privilege now, since his . . . anointing. The man truly was insane to use it so freely. It was a drug more addictive than
saidin,
more deadly than poison.

Crossing the striped floor, Moridin laid a hand on Osan’gar’s shoulder, his smile made more ominous by the
saa.
The shorter man swallowed, and gave a wavering smile in return. “It is well you’ve never considered how to remove the Great Lord’s shadow,” Moridin said quietly. How long had he been outside? Osan’gar’s smile grew even more sickly. “Al’Thor is not as wise as you. Tell them, Cyndane.”

The little woman drew herself up. By face and form she was a luscious plum, ready for plucking, but her big blue eyes were glacial. A peach, perhaps. Peaches were poisonous, here and now. “You recall the Choedan Kal, I suppose.” No amount of effort could make that low, breathy voice anything except sultry, but she managed to inject sarcasm. “Lews Therin has two of the access keys, one for each. And he knows a woman strong enough to use the female of the pair. He plans to use the Choedan Kal for his deed.”

Nearly everyone began to talk at once.

“I thought the keys were all destroyed!” Aran’gar exclaimed, surging to her feet. Her eyes were wide with fear. “He could shatter the world just
trying
to use the Choedan Kal!”

“If you had ever read anything besides a history book, you would know they’re almost impossible to destroy!” Osan’gar snarled at her. But he was tugging at his collar as if it were too tight, and his eyes seemed ready to fall out of his face. “How can this girl know he has them? How?”

Graendal’s wineglass had dropped from her hand as soon the words were out of Cyndane’s mouth, bouncing end over end across the floor. Her gown turned as crimson as fresh blood, and her mouth twisted as if she were going to vomit. “And you’ve just been hoping to blunder into him!” she screamed at Demandred. “Hoping someone will find him for you! Fool! Fool!”

Demandred thought Graendal had been a touch flamboyant even for her. He would wager the announcement had been no surprise to her. It seemed she bore watching. He said nothing.

Putting a hand over his heart, for all the world like a lover, Moridin tilted up Cyndane’s chin on his fingertips. Resentment burned in her eyes, but her face might have been a doll’s unchanging face. She certainly accepted his attentions like a pliable doll. “Cyndane knows many things,” Moridin said softly, “and she tells me everything she knows. Everything.” The tiny woman’s expression never altered, but she trembled visibly.

She was a puzzle to Demandred. At first he had thought she was Lanfear reincarnated. Bodies for transmigration supposedly were chosen by what was available, yet Osan’gar and Aran’gar were proof of the Great Lord’s cruel sense of humor. He had been sure, until Mesaana told him the girl was weaker than Lanfear. Mesaana and the rest thought she was of this Age. Yet she spoke of al’Thor as Lews Therin, just as Lanfear had, and spoke of the Choedan Kal as one familiar with the terror they had inspired during the War of Power. Only balefire had been more feared, and only just. Or had Moridin taught her for purposes of his own? If he had any real purposes. There had always been times when the man’s actions had been sheer madness.

“So it seems he must be killed after all,” Demandred said. Hiding his satisfaction was not easy. Rand al’Thor or Lews Therin Telamon, he would rest easier when the fellow was dead. “Before he can destroy the world, and us. Which makes finding him all the more urgent.”

“Killed?” Moridin moved his hands as though weighing something. “If it comes to that, yes,” he said finally. “But finding him is no problem. When he touches the Choedan Kal, you will know where he is. And you will go there and take him. Or kill him, if necessary. The Nae’blis has spoken.”

“As the Nae’blis commands,” Cyndane said eagerly, bowing her head,
and echos of her ran around the room, though Aran’gar sounded sullen, Osan’gar desperate, and Graendal oddly thoughtful.

Bending his neck hurt Demandred as much as speaking those words. So
they
would take al’Thor—while he was trying to use the Choedan Kal, no less, he and some woman drinking enough of the One Power to melt continents!—but there had been no indication that Moridin would be with them. Or his twin pets, Moghedien and Cyndane. The man was Nae’blis for now, but perhaps matters could be arranged so he did not get another body the next time he died. Perhaps it could be arranged soon.

The Victory of Kidron
rolled on long sea swells, making the gilded lamps in the stern cabin swing on their gimbals, but Tuon sat calmly as the razor in Selucia’s sure hand slid across her scalp. Through the tall stern windows she could see other greatships crashing through the gray-green swells in sprays of white, hundreds of them row on row, stretching to the horizon. Four times as many had been left at Tanchico. The
Rhyagelle,
Those Who Come Home. The
Corenne,
the Return, had begun.

A soaring albatross seemed to be following the
Kidron,
an omen of victory indeed, though the bird’s long wings were black instead of white. It must still mean the same thing. Omens did not change according to location. An owl calling at dawn meant a death and rain without clouds an unexpected visitor whether in Imfaral or Noren M’Shar.