Lord of Chaos (61 page)

Elayne’s first wincing instinct was to smooth it over somehow, though how was a question she could not begin to answer. As easy to smooth over a mountain range. It was the Aes Sedai who made her forget to worry whether Nynaeve had managed to shatter everything. Those expressionless faces, those eyes that seemed able to see through stone, should have conveyed nothing at all. To her, they did convey something. There was none of the cold anger that should have flowed toward anyone foolish enough to rant at Aes Sedai. This was a covering up, and the only thing to hide was truth, a truth they did not want to admit themselves. They were afraid.

“Are you quite done?” Carlinya asked in a voice that should have frozen the sun in its flight.

Elayne sneezed, banging her head on the side of the overturned cauldron. The smell of burned soup filled her nose. The midmorning sun had heated the dark interior of the big cookpot until it felt as if it still sat on a fire; sweat dripped off her. No, it poured off. Dropping the coarse pumice stone, she backed out on her knees and glared at the woman next to her. Or rather, at the half of a woman sticking out of a slightly smaller kettle lying on its side. She poked Nynaeve in the hip, and smiled grimly when the poke produced the bang of a head against iron and a yelp. Nynaeve backed out with a baleful stare, not hindered at all by a yawn she stifled behind a grimy hand. Elayne gave her no chance to speak.

“You just had to blow up, didn’t you? You couldn’t hold on to your temper for five minutes. We had everything in our hands, and you had to kick us in the ankles.”

“They wouldn’t have let us go to Ebou Dar anyway,” Nynaeve muttered. “And I didn’t do all the kicking of ankles.” She shoved her chin up in a ridiculous fashion, so she had to look down her nose to see Elayne. “ ‘Aes Sedai rule their fear,’ ” she said in tones that might have done for berating a drunken layabout who had staggered into your horse, “ ‘they do not allow it to rule them. Lead, and we will follow gladly, but you must lead, not cower, hoping that something will make your troubles vanish.’ ”

Elayne’s cheeks heated. She had not looked anything like that. And she certainly had not sounded like that. “Well, perhaps we both overstepped good sense, but—” She cut off at the sound of a footstep.

“So the Aes Sedai’s golden children have decided to take a rest, have they?” Faolain’s smile was as far from friendly as it was possible for a smile to be. “I am not here for the joy of it, you know. I meant to spend today working on something of my own, something not terribly inferior to what you golden children have done, I think. Instead, I must watch Accepted scrub pots for their sins. Watch so you don’t sneak off like the wretched novices the pair of you should be. Now back to work. I can’t leave until you’re done, and I do not intend to spend the whole day here.”

The dark, curly-haired woman was like Theodrin, something more than Accepted, but less than Aes Sedai. As Elayne and Nynaeve would have been, if Nynaeve had not behaved liked a stepped-on cat. Nynaeve and herself, Elayne amended reluctantly. Sheriam had told them as much
in the middle of telling them just how long they would be working their “free” hours in the kitchens, the dirtiest work the cooks could find. But no Ebou Dar in any case; that had been made clear, too. A letter would be on its way to Merilille by noon if not already.

“I . . . am sorry,” Nynaeve said, and Elayne blinked at her. Apologies from Nynaeve were snow in midsummer.

“I’m sorry, too, Nynaeve.”

“Yes you are,” Faolain told them. “As sorry as I’ve seen. Now back to work! Before I find reason to send you to Tiana when you’re done here.”

With a rueful glance at Nynaeve, Elayne crawled back into the cauldron, attacking the charred soup with the pumice stone as though attacking Faolain. Stone dust and bits of black-burned vegetable flew. No, not Faolain. The Aes Sedai, sitting when they should be acting. She
was
going to get to Ebou Dar, she
was
going to find that
ter’angreal
, and she
was
going to use it to tie Sheriam and all the rest of them to Rand. On their knees! Her sneeze very nearly took her shoes off.

Sheriam turned from where she had been watching the young women through a crack in the fence, and began walking up the narrow alley with its fitful crop of withered weeds and stubble. “I regret that.” Considering Nynaeve’s words, and her tone—and Elayne’s, the wretched child!—she added, “Somewhat.”

Carlinya sneered. She was very good at that. “Do you want to tell Accepted what fewer than two dozen Aes Sedai know?” Her mouth clicked shut at a sharp look from Sheriam.

“There are ears where we least expect them,” Sheriam said softly.

“Those girls are right about one thing,” Morvrin said. “Al’Thor turns my bowels to water. What options are left to us with him?”

Sheriam was not sure they had not long since run out of options.

With the Dragon Scepter across his knees, Rand lounged on the Dragon Throne. Or made a show of lounging, at least. Thrones were not made for relaxation, this one least of all, it seemed, but that was only part of the difficulty. Sensing Alanna was part too, for all that it nudged at him constantly. If he told the Maidens, they would. . . . No. How could he even think of that? He had frightened her enough to keep her at bay; she had made no effort to enter the Inner City. He would know if she did. No, for the moment Alanna was less of a problem than the inadequate seat cushion.

Despite the silver-worked blue coat buttoned to its collar, the heat did not reach him—he really was getting the way of Taim’s trick—but if pure impatience had produced sweat, he would have dripped as if just climbing out of a river. Keeping cool presented no problem at all. Keeping still did. He intended to give Elayne an Andor whole and unharmed, and this morning would be the first real step to that. If they ever came.

“. . . and in addition,” the tall bony man standing before the Throne said in a near monotone, “one thousand four hundred twenty-three refugees from Murandy, five hundred sixty-seven from Altara, and one hundred nine from Illian. As far as the head count inside the city proper has gone to this date, I hasten to add.” The few wisps of gray hair remaining to Halwin Norry stood up like quill pens stuck behind his ears, appropriate since he
had been Morgase’s chief clerk. “I have hired twenty-three additional clerks for the enumeration, but the number is still clearly insufficient for. . . .”

Rand stopped listening. Grateful as he was that the man had not run away as so many others had, he was not certain anything was real to Norry except the numbers in his ledgers. He recited the number of deaths during the week and the price of turnips carted in from the countryside in the same dusty tone, arranged the daily burials of penniless friendless refugees with no more horror and no more joy than he showed hiring masons to check the repair of the city walls. Illian was just another land to him, not the abode of Sammael, and Rand just another ruler.

Where are they?
he wondered furiously.
Why hasn’t Alanna at least tried to sidle up to me?
Moiraine would never have been frightened off so easily.

Where are all the dead?
Lews Therin whispered.
Why will they not be silent?

Rand chuckled grimly. Surely that had to be a joke.

Sulin was sitting easily on her haunches to one side of the throne’s dais, and red-haired Urien to the other. Today twenty
Aethan Dor
, Red Shields, waited among the Grand Hall’s columns with the Maidens, some wearing the red headband. They stood or squatted or sat, some talking quietly, but as usual looked ready to spring into action in a heartbeat, even the Maiden and two Red Shields who were dicing. At least one pair of eyes always seemed to be watching Norry; few Aiel trusted a wetlander this close to Rand.

Abruptly Bashere appeared in the Hall’s tall doorway. When he nodded, Rand sat up. At last. At bloody last. The green-and-white tassel swayed as he gestured with the dragon-carved length of Seanchan spear. “You’ve done well, Master Norry. Your report left nothing out. I will see that the gold you need is provided. But I must attend to other matters now, if you will forgive me.”

The man gave no sign of curiosity or hurt at being cut off so abruptly. He merely stopped in midword, bowed with “As the Lord Dragon commands” in that same dry tone, and backed away three steps before turning. He did not even glance at Bashere in passing. Nothing real but the ledgers.

Impatiently, Rand nodded to Bashere and set himself erect and stiff-backed on the throne. The Aiel went silent. It made them seem twice as ready.

When the Saldaean entered, he did not come alone. Two men and two women followed close behind, none young, in rich silks and brocades. They tried to pretend Bashere did not exist, and almost carried it off, but the
watchful Aiel among the columns were another story. Golden-haired Dyelin missed only a step, but Abelle and Luan, both graying yet hard-faced, frowned at the
cadin’sor
-clad figures and instinctively felt for the swords they did not wear today, while Ellorien, a plump dark-haired woman who would have been pretty were her face not so determinedly stony, stopped dead and glared before she came to herself and caught up to the others with a quick stride. Their first good view of Rand took them aback as well, all of them. Quick wondering glances passed between them. Perhaps they had thought he would be older.

“My Lord Dragon,” Bashere intoned loudly, halting before the dais, “Lord of the Morning, Prince of the Dawn, True Defender of the Light, before whom the world kneels in awe, I give to you Lady Dyelin of House Taravin, Lord Abelle of House Pendar, Lady Ellorien of House Traemane, and Lord Luan of House Norwelyn.”

The four Andorans looked at Bashere then, with tight lips and sharp sidelong glances. There had been something in his tone that made it sound as if he was giving Rand four horses. To say their spines stiffened would be to say water became wetter, yet it seemed so as they stared up at Rand. Mostly at Rand. Their eyes could not help drifting to the Lion Throne shining and glittering on its pedestal beyond his head.

He wanted to laugh at their outraged faces. Outraged, but also careful, and perhaps a touch impressed in spite of themselves. He and Bashere had worked out that list of titles between them, but the bit about the world kneeling was new, Bashere’s own late addition. Moiraine had given him the advice, though. He almost thought he heard her silvery voice again.
How people see you first is what they hold hardest in their minds. It is the way of the world. You can step down from a throne, and even if you behave like a farmer in a pigsty, some part in each of them will remember that you did descend from a throne. But if they see only a young man first, a country man, they will resent him stepping up to his throne later, whatever his right, whatever his power.
Well, if a title or two could make anything so, everything would be a deal easier.

I was the Lord of the Morning
, Lews Therin mumbled.
I am the Prince of the Dawn.

Rand kept his face smooth. “I will not welcome you—this is your land, and the palace of your queen—but I am pleased you accept my invitation.” After five days, and with just a few hours’ notice, but he did not mention that. Rising, he laid the Dragon Scepter on the throne, then trotted down from the dais. With a reserved smile—
Never be hostile unless you must
, Moiraine had said,
but above all never be overly friendly. Never be eager
—he gestured to
five comfortably cushioned chairs with padded backs, set in a circle among the columns. “Join me. We will talk and have some chilled wine.”

They followed, of course, eyeing the Aiel and him with equal curiosity and perhaps equal animosity, both poorly hidden. When they were all seated,
gai’shain
came, silent in their hooded white robes, bringing wine and golden goblets already damp with condensation. Another stood behind each chair with a plumed fan, gently stirring the air. Every chair but Rand’s. They noted that, noted the lack of sweat on his face. But the
gai’shain
did not perspire either, even in their robes, and neither did the other Aiel. He watched the nobles’ faces over his own winecup.