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Moiraine is in the cold sitting room of Amaralyn's house, waiting anxiously for news of the ongoing battle. She is frustrated by the Aes Sedai's lack of information and feels confined within the Tower. The Amaralyn, Tamra, and Gitara Moroso are in the room with her, appearing calm but worried. Moiraine wonders if Gitara's foretelling abilities have predicted the battle and what other foretellings she might have had. She tries to reason about the possibilities but realizes that guessing won't help. Chapter 2 A Wish Fulfilled Despite a fire blazing on the green marble hearth, the Amaralyn's sitting room was cold enough to make Moiraine shiver, and only a tight jaw kept her teeth from chattering. Of course it also stopped her from yawning, which never would have done, half a night's sleep or not. The colorful winter tapestries hanging on the walls, bright scenes of spring and garden parks, ought to have had a coating of frost, and icicles should have been hanging from the scroll-carved cornices. For one thing, the fireplace lay on the other side of the room from her, and its warmth did not extend far. For another, the tall glassed casements behind her, filling the arched windows that led on to the balcony overlooking the Amaralyn's private garden, did not fit as well as they might, and they leaked cold around the edges. Whenever the wind gusted outside, an icy breeze hit her back and cut through her woolen dress. Another struck her closest friend as well, but for all that Swan was tyrant, she would not have let it show if she were freezing to death. The Sun Palace in Kyrian, where Moiraine had done most of her growing up, had often been as cold in winter, yet there she had never been forced to stand in draughts. The chill seeped from the marble floor tiles through the flowered Ileana carpet, and Moiraine's slippers too. The golden great serpent ring on her left hand, the snake biting its own tail that symbolized eternity and continuity and an initiate's bond to the Tower, felt like a band of ice. When the Amaralyn told an Accepted to stand over there and not bother her, however, the Accepted stood where the Amaralyn pointed, and tried not to let her notice any shivers. Lost in the cold, really, was the heavy smell of acrid smoke that even the heavy draughts could not dispel. It was not the smoke of chimneys, but of burned villages around Tar Valon. Concentration on the cold kept her from fretting over the smoke and the battle. The sky outside the windows held the gray of early morning now. Soon the fighting would begin again, if it had not already. She wanted to know how the battle was going. She had a right to know. Her uncle had started this war. She certainly did not excuse the Aiel in the slightest for the destruction they had brought to Kyrian, city and nation, but she knew where the ultimate blame lay. Since the Aiel arrived, though, Accepted had been confined to the Tower grounds as strictly as novices. The world outside the walls might as well have ceased to exist. Reports came at regular intervals from Azil Marid, High Captain of the Tower Guard, but the contents were not shared with anyone except full sisters, if with them. Questions about the fighting addressed to Aiz Sadai earned admonitions to concentrate on your studies, as though the largest battle fought since Arter Hawkwing's time, and practically under her nose, was a mere distraction. Moiré knew she could not be involved in any meaningful way, not in any way, really, yet she wanted to be, if only by knowing what was happening. That might be illogical, but then she had never thought she was going to join the White Aja once she gained the shawl. The two silk-gowned women in shades of blue, seated on opposite sides of the small writing table on one side of the room, gave no sign that they were aware of the smoke or the cold, though they were almost as far from the fireplace as she. Of course they were Aiz Sadai, with ageless faces, and for the smoke they had certainly seen the aftermath of more battles than any general. They could remain serenity-made flesh if a thousand villages burned right in front of them. No one became Aiz Sadai without learning to control her emotions at need, inwardly and outwardly. Tamra and Gitara did not seem tired, though they had taken only catnap since the fighting began. That was why they had accepted an attendance all night, in case they wanted errands run or someone brought to them. And for the cold, neither cold nor heat touched sisters the way it did other people. They always appeared unaware of either. Moiraine had tried to work out how that was done. Every accepted tried, sooner or later. However it was worked, it did not involve the one power, or she would have been able to see the weaves, or at least feel them. Tamra was more than simply Aiz Sadai. She was the Amelan Seat, the ruler over all Aiz Sadai. She had been raised from the blue, but of course the long stole draped on her shoulders was striped in the colors of the seven Ajahs, to show that the Amelan was of all Ajahs and none. Over the history of the Tower, some Amelans had taken that more literally than others. Tamra's skirts were slashed with all seven colors, though that was not required. No Ajah could feel itself advantaged or disadvantaged with her. At the Tower, when Tamra Ospenia spoke, kings and queens listened, whether they had Aiz Sadai advisors or hated the White Tower. That was the power of an Amelan Seat. They might not take her advice or obey her instructions, but they listened, and politely. Even the High Lords of Tyr and the Lord Captain Commander of the Children of the White did that much. Her long hair, lightly streaked with gray and caught in a jeweled silver net, framed a square, determined face. She usually got her way with rulers, but she did not take her power lightly or use it indiscriminately, either outside the Tower or inside. Tamra was fair and just, which were not always the same thing, and she was often kind. Moiraine admired her greatly. The other woman, Tamra's Keeper of the Chronicles, was a different matter altogether. Perhaps the second most powerful woman in the Tower, and certainly at least equal to the Sitters, Gitara Moroso was always just and usually fair, but kindness never seemed to occur to her. She was also flamboyant enough for a green or a yellow. Tall and close to voluptuous, she wore a wide necklace of fire-drops, earrings with rubies the size of pigeon's eggs, and three jeweled rings beside her great serpent ring. Her dress was a deeper blue than Tamra's and brocaded, and the Keeper's stole on her shoulders, blue, since she also had been raised from the blue, was nearly wide enough to be called a shawl. Moiraine had heard that Gitara still considered herself a blue, which would be shocking if true. The width of her stole certainly spoke in favor of the Whispers. That was a matter of personal choice. As with all Aes Sedai, once they had worked long enough with the One Power, it was impossible to put an age to Gitara's face. At a glance, you might think she was no more than twenty-five, perhaps less. Then a second glance would say a youthful forty-five or fifty, and still just short of great beauty, while a third changed it all again. That smooth, ageless face was the mark of Aes Sedai, to those who knew. To those who did not know, and many did not, her hair would have added to the confusion. Caught with carved ivory combs, it was white as snow. By Whispered rumor she was over three hundred years old, very old even for an Aes Sedai. Speaking of a sister's age was extremely rude. When another sister would be given a penance for it, a novice or accepted would find herself sent to the Mistress of Novices for a switching, but surely thinking about it did not count. Something else placed Gitara out of the ordinary. She had the foretelling, sometimes, the talent of speaking what was still in the future. That was a very rare talent, and came to her only occasionally. Gossip, the Accepted's quarters overflowed with tittle-tattle, gossip said that Gitara had had more than one foretelling in the last few months. Some claimed that the reason the armies outside the city had been in place when the Aiel came was one of Gitara's foretellings. No one among the Accepted knew for certain, of course. Maybe some of the other sisters did. Maybe. Even when the fact that Gitara had had a foretelling was common knowledge, sometimes no one other than Tamra learned what it had been. It was foolish to hope to be present when Gitara had a foretelling, yet Moiraine had hoped. But in the four hours since she and Swan had replaced Tamyla and Brendis in attendance on the Amarylline, Gitara had only sat there writing a letter. It suddenly hit her that close on four hours was a very long time to spend on one letter, and Gitara had not covered half of one sheet of paper yet. She was sitting there with her pen suspended above the cream-colored page. As if Moiraine's thinking of it had somehow reached her, Gitara glanced at the nib and made a small sound of irritation, then swirled the steel nib in a small red-glazed bowl of alcohol to clean away dried ink. Clearly not for the first time. The liquid in the bowl was as black as that in the silver-capped ink jar of cut glass on the table. A gilt-edged leather folder full of papers lay open in front of Tamra, and she appeared to be studying them intently, yet Moiraine could not remember seeing the Amarylline turn over a single sheet. The two eyes-at-eyes faces were images of cool calm, but plainly they were worried, and that made her worried, too. She bit at her lower lip in furious thought, then had to stop when a yawn threatened. The biting, not the thinking. It had to be something to make them worry today in particular. She had seen Tamra in the corridors yesterday, and if there had ever been a woman bubbling with confidence it had been she. So. The battle that had been raging for the last three days. If Gitara really had foretold the battle, if she really had had other foretellings, what else might they have been? Guessing would do no good, but reasoning might. Yael crossing the bridges and breaking into the city? Impossible. In three thousand years, while nations rose and fell and even Hawkwing's empire was swept away in fire and chaos, no army had managed to breach Tar-Vallon's walls or break down its gates, and quite a few had tried over that time. Perhaps the battle turning to disaster in some other way? Or something needed to avoid disaster? Tamra and Gitara were the only two Aes Sedai actually in the tower at that moment, unless some had returned in the night. There had been talk of injured soldiers in such numbers that all sisters with the smallest ability at healing were needed, but no one had said straight out that that was where they were going. Aes Sedai could not lie, yet they often spoke obliquely, and they were not above misdirection. Sisters also could use the power as a weapon if they or their warders were in danger. No Aes Sedai had taken part in the battle since the Trolloc Wars, when they faced Shadowspawn and armies of dark friends, but perhaps Gitara had foretold disaster unless Aes Sedai joined. But why wait until the third day? Could a foretelling be that detailed? Maybe if the sisters had entered the battle earlier, that would have caused— Out of the corner of her eye, Moiraine saw Swan smiling at her. That smile turned Swan's face from handsome to pretty and made her clear blue eyes twinkle. Nearly a hand taller than Moiraine, Moiraine had gotten over the irritation she had once felt at being shorter than nearly all the women around her, but she could never help noticing height. Taller and almost as fair-skinned as she, Swan wore her formal accepted dress with an air of assurance that Moiraine had never quite mastered. The high-necked dresses were the purest white, except for the bands at hem and cuffs that copied the amarylline's seven-colored stole. She could not understand how so many sisters of the White Aja could bear to wear white all the time, as if they were forever in mourning. For her, the hardest thing about being a novice had been dressing in plain white, day after day. The hardest aside from learning to control her temper, anyway. That still dropped her in hot water now and then, but not so often as during her first year. We'll find out when we find out, Swan whispered with a quick glance at Tamra and Gitara. Neither moved an inch. Gitara's pen was held over the letter again, the ink drying. Moiraine could not help smiling back. Moiraine had that gift, making her smile when she wanted to frown and laugh when she wanted to weep. The smile turned into a yawn, and she looked hastily to see whether the amarylline or the Keeper had noticed. They were still absorbed in their own thoughts. When she turned back, Swan had a hand over her own mouth and was glaring at her over it, which almost set her giggling. It had surprised her at first, she and Swan becoming friends. But among novices and accepted, the closest friends always seemed to be very much alike or very different. In some things, she and Swan were alike. They were both orphans. Their mothers had died while they were young, their fathers since they left home. And both had been born with the spark, which was uncommon. They would have begun channeling the power eventually, whether or not they had tried to learn how. Not every woman could learn, by any means. That was where the differences began, before they arrived in Tar Valon. And it was not just that Swan had been born poor and she wealthy. In Kyrian, Aes Sedai were respected, and Moiraine had been given a grand dance in the Sun Palace to celebrate her departure for the Tower. In Tyr, channeling was outlawed, and Aes Sedai were not popular. Swan had been bundled onto a ship bound upriver for Tar Valon the very day a sister discovered she could learn to channel. There were so many differences, though none mattered between them. Among other things, Swan had come to the Tower in full control of her temper. She was quick with puzzles, which Moiraine was not. She could not abide horses, which Moiraine loved. And she learned at a rate that left Moiraine dazed. Oh, not about channeling the One Power. They had been entered in the novice book on the same day, and moved almost in lock-step with the Power, even to passing for accepted on the same day. Moiraine, though, had received the education expected of a noblewoman. Everything from history to the old tongue, which she spoke and read well enough that she'd been excused classes in it. The daughter of a tyrant fisherman, Swan arrived barely able to read or do more than the simplest arithmetic, but she had soaked her lessons in like sand soaking up water. She taught the old tongue to novices now, at least the beginning classes. Swan Sanche was held up to novices as an example of what they should aspire to. Well, both of them were. Only one other woman had ever finished novice training in just three years. Elida Arroyan, a detestable woman, had completed her time as accepted in three years, too. She knew a record, and it seemed at least possible that they might match that as well. Moiraine was all too aware of her own shortcomings, but she thought that Swan would make a perfect eyesaday. She opened her mouth to whisper that patience was for stones, but wind rattled the casements and another blast of freezing air hit her. She might as well have been standing in her shift for all the protection her dress gave. Instead of whispering, she gasped, loudly. Tamara turned her head toward the windows, yet not because of Moiraine. The sound of distant trumpets suddenly was floating on the wind, dozens of them, no, hundreds. To be heard here inside the tower, there would have to be hundreds. And the sound was continuous call, rolling over call. Whatever the cause, it must be urgent. The amarylline closed the folder lying before her with a slap. Go see if there's news from the battlefield, Moiraine. Tamara spoke almost normally, but her voice held an unidentifiable edge, a sharpness. Swan, make some tea, quickly, child. Moiraine blinked. The amarylline was worried, but there was only one thing to do. It will be as you say, Mother, she and Swan said together, without hesitation, offering deep curtsies, and turned for the door to the ante-room, beside the fireplace. The gold-chased silver teapot sat on a rope-work tray on a table near that door, along with a tea canister, a honey jar, a small pitcher of milk, and a large pitcher of water, all in worked silver. A second tray held cups made of delicate green seafolk porcelain. Moiraine felt a faint tingle as Swan opened herself to the source and embraced Sydar, the female half of the power. A glow surrounded her, though it would be visible only to another woman who could channel. Normally channeling to do chores was forbidden, yet the amarylline had said quickly. Swan was already preparing a thin thread of fire to bring the tea-water to a boil. Neither Tamara nor Gitara spoke a word to stop her. The ante-room to the amarylline's apartments was not large, since it was only meant to hold a few visitors until they could be announced. Delegations came to the amarylline in one of the audience halls, or in her study next door, not her private chambers. Backed by the sitting-room fireplace, the ante-room was almost warm. There was only one chair, simply carved but large, yet despite its weight, the chair had been dragged closer to one of the gilded stand-lamps, so Ellen Worrell, the slender novice on duty, would have better light to read. Facing away from the sitting-room door and intent on her wood-bound book, she did not hear Moiraine cross the fringed carpet. Ellen should have felt her presence long before she was close enough to peer over the child's shoulder. Not really a child, since she had been seven years a novice and had come to the Tower at eighteen, but a novice was referred to as a child no matter her age. For that matter, I said I called accepted, child, too. Moiraine had been able to feel the child's ability to channel soon after entering the room. Ellen certainly should have been able to sense hers from this near. One woman who could channel could never sneak up on another if the second was paying attention. Peering over Ellen's shoulder, she recognized the book instantly. Books of Flame, a collection of love stories. The Tower library was the largest in the known world, containing copies of almost every book that had ever been printed, but this was unsuitable for a novice. Accepted were granted a little leeway. By that time you knew that you would watch a husband age and die, and your children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, while you changed not at all. But novices were quietly discouraged from thinking about men or love, and kept away from men entirely. It would never do for a novice to try running away to get married, or worse, to get herself with child. Novice training was purposefully hard. If you were going to break, better it happened as a novice than as a sister. Being I said I was truly hard, and adding a child to it would only make matters beyond difficult. You should find more appropriate reading, Ellen, Moiraine said levelly, and pay more attention to your duties. Before Moiraine finished speaking, Ellen leaped to her feet with a startled gasp, the book tumbling to the floor, and whirled around. She was not tall for an Andorran, but Moiraine still had to look up to meet her eyes. When she saw Moiraine, she heaved a small sigh of relief. Very small. The novices accepted were only a tiny step below I said I. Ellen spread her plain white skirts in a hasty curtsy. No one could have come in without my seeing, Moiraine, Marianne said I said I could read. She tilted her head to one side, toying with the wide white ribbon that held her hair. Everything novices wore was white, even their thin leather slippers. Why is that book inappropriate, Moiraine? She was three years the elder, but the great serpent ring and banded skirts marked a fount of knowledge in novice eyes. Unfortunately, there were subjects Moiraine felt uncomfortable talking about with just anyone. There was such a thing as decorum. Picking up the volume, she handed it to the novice. The librarians would be very put out if you returned one of their books in damaged condition. She felt a measure of satisfaction at that. It was the sort of reply a full sister might have given when she did not want to answer the question. Accepted practiced the I said I way of speaking against the day they gained the shawl, but the only ones to practice on safely were the novices. Some tried it with the servants for a little while, but that only got them laughed at. Servants knew very well that in I said I eyes, accepted were not a small step below the sisters, but a small step above the novices. Servants hoped for Ellen anxiously began examining the book for damage, and Moiraine went on before the novice could come back to her embarrassing question. Have there been any messages from the field of battle, child? Ellen's eyes widened indignantly. You know I'd have brought it in right away if there'd been any message, Moiraine. You know I would. She did know. Tamra had known, too. And while the keeper or a sitter might point out that the Amarylline had given a foolish order, at least she thought they might, an accepted could only obey. For that matter, novices were not supposed to point out that an accepted had asked a foolish question. Is that the proper way to answer, Ellen? No, Moiraine, Ellen said contritely, bobbing another curtsy. There hasn't been any message the whole time I've been here. Her head tilted again. But Gitara said I have a foretelling. Go back to your reading, child. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Moiraine knew they were wrong, contradicting what she had said before. It was too late for a recovery now, though. Turning quickly and hoping that Ellen had not noticed the blush suddenly heating her face, she glided out of the ante room with as much dignity as she could muster. Well, the mistress of novices had told the child she could read, and the librarians had let her take the book, if one of the accepted had not loaned it to her. But Moiraine did hate sounding like a fool. A faint trickle of steam was rising from the teapot spout, and more from the water pitcher, when Moiraine re-entered the sitting room and closed the door. The glow of cider no longer shone around Swan. Water boiled very quickly when the One Power was used. The trick was to keep it all from flashing to steam. Ellen had filled two of the green cups and was stirring honey into one. The other was milky. Swan pushed the cup she had been stirring toward Moiraine. "'Guitaras,' she said softly, and then in a whisper with a grimace, "'She likes enough honey to turn it to syrup. She told me not to be stingy.'" The porcelain was just barely too hot on Moiraine's fingertips, but it should be cooled to exactly the right point by the time she crossed the room to the writing table where Guitara still sat, now drumming her fingers on the tabletop impatiently. The polished blackwood clock on the mantle over the fireplace chimed first rise. The trumpets were still calling. They seemed to sound frantic, though Moiraine knew that was only imagination. Tamra was standing at the windows, peering out at a sky that was growing brighter by the moment. She continued to stare out after Swan had curtsied and proffered her cup, then finally turned and saw Moiraine. Instead of taking the tea, she said, "'What news, Moiraine? You know better than to delay?' Oh, she was on edge, to speak so. She had to know Moiraine would have spoken immediately if there had been anything." Moiraine was just offering Guitara her own cup, but before she could reply, the Keeper jerked her feet, bumping the table so hard that the ink jar overturned, spreading a pool of black across the tabletop. Trembling she stood with her arms rigid at her sides and stared over the top of Moiraine's head, wide-eyed with terror. It was terror, plain and simple. "'He is born again!' Guitara cried. "'I feel him! The dragon takes his first breath on the slope of Dragonmount! He is coming! He is coming! Light, help us! Light, help the world! He lies in the snow and cries like the thunder! He burns like the sun!" With the last word she gasped, a tiny sound, and fell forward into Moiraine's arms. Moiraine dropped the teacup to try to catch her, but the truth of it was that the larger woman bore both of them to the carpet. It was all Moiraine could do to end up on her knees holding the Keeper, rather than lying beneath her. In an instant Tamra was there, kneeling, careless of the ink trickling from the table. The light of Cidar already surrounded her, and she already had a weave prepared of spirit, air, and water. Gripping Guitara's head between her hands, she let the weave sink into the still form. But delving, used to check health, did not turn to healing. Looking helplessly into Guitara's staring eyes, Moiraine knew why not. She had hoped there was some tiny fragment of life left, something that Tamra could work with. Healing could cure any sickness, mend any injury, but you could not heal death. The pool of ink on the table had spread to ruin whatever the Keeper had been writing. It was very odd, what you noticed at a time like this. Not now, Guitara, Tamra breathed softly. She sounded weary to the bone. Not now, when I need you most. Slowly her eyes came up to meet Moiraine's, and Moiraine started back on her knees. It was said Tamra's stare could make a stone move, and at that moment Moiraine believed. Jamerlin shifted her gaze to Swan, still standing in front of the windows. Swan had both hands pressed to her mouth, and the teacup she had been carrying lay on the carpet at her feet. She gave a jerk under that gaze, too. Moiraine's eye found the cup she had been carrying. A good thing the cups did not break, she thought. Seafolk porcelain is quite expensive. Oh, the mind did play odd tricks when you wanted to avoid thinking about something. You are both intelligent, Tamra said finally, and not deaf, unfortunately. You know what Guitara just foretold? There was just enough question in that for both of them to nod and say that they did. Tamra sighed, as if she had been wishing for a different response. Taking Guitara out of Moiraine's arms, the hourglass eased her down to the carpet and smoothed her hair. After a moment she pulled the wide blue stole from Guitara's shoulders, folded it carefully, and laid it over the Keeper's face. With your permission, Mother, Swan said in a husky voice. I'll send Ellen to fetch the Keeper's serving woman to do what's needful. Sorry, Tamra barked. That iron-hard gaze studied them both. You will tell no one about this. Not for any reason. If necessary, lie. Even to a sister. Guitara died without speaking. Do you understand me? Moiraine nodded jerkily and was aware of Swan doing the same. They were not eyes to die yet. They still could lie, and some did occasionally, for all their efforts to behave like full sisters. But she had never been expected to be ordered to, especially not to eyes to die. And never by the Omerlin's seat. Good, Tamra said tiredly. Send the novice on duty is named Ellen. Send Ellen in to me. I'll tell her where to find Guitara's woman. And make sure that Ellen had heard nothing through the closed door, obviously. Otherwise the task would have been Swan's or Moiraine's. When the girl comes in, the two of you may go. And remember, not a word. Not one. The emphasis only drove home the peculiarity. An order from the Omerlin's seat was to be obeyed as if on oath. There was no need to emphasize anything. I wished to hear a foretelling, Moiraine thought as she made her final curtsy before leaving. And what I received was a foretelling of doom. Now she wished very much that she had been more careful of what she wished for.
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