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A large group of women, including both commoners and noblewomen, gathered around Moiraine and Swan. Swan used her power to command the women to be quiet and form a line. The women complied and began orderly lining up. Moiraine started taking their names and information. Some women tried to push ahead, but Moiraine insisted on maintaining order. Moiraine noticed a woman with a feeding infant who was not in line and questioned her. The woman explained that the child was the same age as another child in the camp and that the father had run off to become a warder. Moiraine decided to include the woman and her child in the count. Moiraine and Swan continued taking names and information, while the routine became boring. Moiraine observed that many of the women were not from Moirand and realized that soldiers often married foreign women while away at war. Chapter 5 The Human Heart Once Moiraine was seated on one of the stools with her lap-desk open on the table in front of her, she changed her mind about the unpleasantness. The warmth of the braziers dissipated rapidly in the open air, barely lessening the chill, and eddies of the thin gray smoke drifted into her face, stinging her eyes and sometimes making her cough. Without shoes and extra stockings or not, her feet had grown quite cold on the ride. Resting on the trampled snow, they quickly became frigid. And what appeared to be close to a hundred women, the greater number clutching infants, formed a crowd around the table, all clamoring at once for their names to be taken first. Most wore plain thick woolens, but half a dozen or so were in silks, or at least ornately embroidered dresses of fine cut that indicated wealth or nobility, or both. They shouted as loudly as anyone, though. Noblewomen shouting along with the commoners. Moirandians had little sense of proper behavior. Helmet held on his hip, Steeler bellowed till his face turned dark for everyone to be quiet and form a line, and no one took any notice at all. Few of the guardsmen moved as if to begin pushing the women back, until a sharp motion from the bannerman halted them. And well that it did. That sort of thing could start a riot. Moirand stood up to try putting things to rights, though she was uncertain how. She had never had to face the like on any of her estates. She doubted any of her stewards had, for that matter, and people were more outspoken with a steward than with the lady of the estate. Swan was ahead of her, climbing atop her stool with a scowl. She gripped the edges of her cloak as though to keep from shaking her fists. The light of sidar enveloped her, and she wove air and fire. It was a simple weave, using tiny amounts of the power, but when she spoke her voice boomed like thunder. Be quiet! It was simply a command, if impressively delivered, without anger, yet startled women shrank back, suddenly as hushed as stones. Even the ring of hammers on anvils ceased. The entire camp grew still, so that Moirand could hear picketed horses stamping hooves. Steeler gave Swan a look of approbation. Bannerman approved of leather lungs, in Moirand's experience, and the women around the table a glare. A number of babies began crying shrilly, though, and when Swan went on it was without the weave. Still in a loud, firm voice that carried, however, "'If you want to see a penny, you'll line up and keep yourselves orderly. The White Tower does not treat with mobs of unruly children. Behave as grown women, or you'll wish you had.' She nodded once for emphasis, then frowned at the mass of women to see whether they had taken her words in. They had. As she climbed down from the stool, the women rushed to form two lines in front of the table, with only a little elbowing and jostling that Moirand could see. The more finely dressed women were at the front, of course, with serving women carrying their babes, yet they were not above trying to push ahead of one another and exchanging scowls. Maybe they were merchants, though what trade they could find here was beyond her. Once she had seen two well-dressed, seemingly dignified Moirandian merchants get into a fistfight in the street, bloodying noses and rolling in the gutter. Despite the petty scuffling, no one spoke a word, and those with crying children seemed to be making every effort to soothe them. A cluster of girls, perhaps ten or twelve years old, gathered off to one side, huddling in their cloaks, pointing at her and Swan, and whispering excitedly. She thought she heard Ise Sedai mentioned. Another young woman, three or four years older, about the age she had been when she came to Tarvalon, stood nearby, pretending that she was not watching avidly. Many girls dreamed of becoming Ise Sedai. Few had the nerve to take the first step beyond dreaming. Tossing back her cloak on the right side, Moirand uncapped her ink jar and picked up a pen. She kept her gloves on. The thin leather did not provide a great deal of protection against the chill, yet it was better than nothing. "'Your name, my lady?' she said. The plump, smiling woman wore a high-necked green riding-dress that was not of the best silk, but it was silk, as was her fur-lined blue cloak, embroidered in red and gold, and she wore a jewelled ring on every finger. Perhaps she was not a noble, even so, yet flattery cost nothing. "'And your babes?' "'I am the Lady Mary do Alhanna Conlin, a direct descendant of Caterina do Catalana Coralla, the first queen of Murundi.' The plump woman's smile remained, but her voice was frosty with pride. It carried those lilting Moirandian accents that made you think they must be peaceable people until you learned better. With one hand she pulled forward a stout woman in dark wool, who had a heavy shawl wrapped around her head, and a gurgling infant in her arms, swaddled so that only its face showed. "'This is my son, Cedrin. He was born just a week ago. I refused to stay behind when my husband rode to war, of course. I'll have the coins mounted in a frame, so Cedrin will always know he was honoured by the White Tower.' Moirand forebore to mention that Cedrin would share that honour with hundreds of others, perhaps thousands, if the other camps were anything like this. Light! She had never expected so many women to have given birth. Keeping her face smooth, she studied the infant for an instant. She was not an innocent. She had observed horse breeding and helped at foaling. If you did not know how a thing was done, how could you know whether your servants did it properly? But she had no experience with babies. The child could have been ten days old, or a month or two, for all of her. Steeler and his soldiers were keeping watch a short distance from the table against any further outbreaks, but they were no help here. At least she could not bring herself to ask. If Lady Aconlin was lying, a full sister would have to sort it out. Moirand glanced sideways. The woman in front of Swan was holding a larger child, but Swan was writing. Dipping her pen, she saw a woman walk past with an infant feeding at her breast. Half hidden in the woman's cloak, the child looked no larger than Cedrin, yet she was ignoring the line quite pointedly. Why is that woman not in line? Is her babe too old? Lady Aconlin's smile faded and her eyebrows rose. The temperature of her voice dropped. I'm not accustomed to keeping track of every brat born in the camp. She pointed imperiously at the paper on the table. The ring on that finger mounted a large but visibly flawed fire-drop. Put down my name. I want to return to the warmth of my tent. I will write your name and the other information we require just as soon as you tell me about that woman, Moirand said, trying for that voice of command that Swan used. The attempt did not work very well. Mary Aconlin's brows knitted in a frown and her lips bunched belligerently. She appeared on the point of bursting or striking out. Before she could do either, the round-faced serving woman spoke up hurriedly, ducking in the semblance of a curtsy every few words. Kareem's girl is the same age as Lord Cedrin, to the day, begging your pardon for speaking, my lady, begging your pardon, I stay. But the fellow Kareem wants to marry. He run off thinking to become a warder, and she don't like who she did marry half so well. She gave an emphatic shake of her head. Oh, she wants nothing from the White Tower, Kareem, don't. Even so, she will receive the bounty, Moirand said firmly. Moirand had said to get every name, after all. She wondered whether Kareem's love had achieved his goal. Few men possessed the necessary skills. A warder did not simply use weapons. He was a weapon, and that was only the first requirement. What is her full name and the child's? She's Kareem Mowli, I said I, and her girl's Elia. Full of wonders, Lady Aconlan appeared content to let her serving woman answer. Not only that, her scowl had vanished, and she was studying Moirand warily. Perhaps a firm tone was all that was needed. That and being thought, I said I. From what town or village, Moirand asked, writing. And where exactly was your girl born, she heard Swan saying. Swan had doffed her gloves and named a present from Moirand to protect them from ink stains. The impatient silk-clad woman in front of her might have been a beauty if not for an unfortunate nose. She was also quite tall, nearly a hand taller than Swan. In a hay-barn a mile west of here? No, not the place you'd expect to give birth to your heir. Perhaps you shouldn't have been out riding so close to your term, not to mention the fighting that was going on. Now do you know any woman who's had a child in the last sixteen days and isn't here? What is her name? No back-talk, my lady, just answer the question. The lady did, with no further complaint. But then Swan's manner allowed for no complaints or difficulties. She neither raised her voice nor spoke harshly. She was just obviously in charge. How did she do it? The thoughts Moirand had of adventure in hunting for the dragon reborn faded in short order, along with the thrill of being outside the city walls. Asking the same questions over and over and writing down the answers, carefully setting aside the filled pages to dry and starting anew on a fresh sheet, soon became boring drudgery. The only breaks in the routine were pauses to warm her hands over the brazier at her end of the table. An indescribable pleasure under the circumstances, with her fingers aching from the cold, yet hardly anything to thrill over. The only surprise was the number of women who were not Moirandian. Soldiers gone to war, it seemed, frequently acquired foreign-born wives. The anvils started up again after a time, and some fellows working on a wagon began hammering away as well, trying to force a new wheel into place. The clanging threatened to give her a headache. It was all quite miserable. She made a special effort not to take out her discontent on the women she spoke to, though a handful did try to give her cause. Some of the noble women had to be dissuaded from reciting their complete lineage back to Arthur Hawkwing's day and beyond, and a few of the plainly clad women wanted to argue against giving the fathers' name or telling where they came from, glowering suspiciously as though this might be some sort of trick to bilk them of the coins. But it took no more than a level look to quell most. Not even Moirandians wanted to go too far with women they thought eyes sedi, a notion that was spreading fast. It made the lines move a little more smoothly, if not in any way that could be called swift. Her eyes kept drifting to the women she saw walking by who were great with child. Some paused to look at the table as though thinking of their turn to stand in line. One of them might be the mother of the dragon reborn, at least if she chose to journey to Dragonmount to give birth for some reason. The only two infants born that day after Gitara's foretelling were girls, and like every other newborn birthed within a mile of the camp. Some other excepted was going to find the boy-child without knowing what she had found. She herself likely would not hear of it for years. Light, but it hardly seemed fair. She knew, and it meant nothing. Coming on to midday, Moirain looked up to find a slim young woman in dark wool standing before her with a blanket-wrapped child in the crook of her arm. "'Susawin, eyes sedi,' the woman said neatly. "'That's me. This is my Cyril,' she added, stroking the boy's head. Moirain might have had no experience of babies, but she could tell a child of six or seven months from a newborn. As she opened her mouth to tell the woman not to try her for a fool, Swan laid a hand briefly on her arm. That was all. Swan never stopped questioning the woman whose name she was writing, but it made Moirain take another look. Susawin was not slim. She was near to gaunt, with deep shadows beneath her eyes and a lost, desperate look about her. Her dress and cloak were worn and much-darned, neatly-darned, but in places there seemed to be more darning than original dress. "'The father's name?' Moirain asked, playing for time to decide. This child was too old by far, and that was that, except—'Jack, eyes sedi,' Jack Wynne. He—'Tears welled in the woman's sunken eyes.' Jack died before the fighting even started, slipped in the snow and cracked his head on a stone. Hardly seems right to come all this way and die for slipping in the snow. The baby began to cough, a chesty sound, and Susa bent over him anxiously. Moirain was not certain whether it was the child's cough, or the tears, or a dead husband, but she entered the woman's particulars carefully. The Tower could afford a hundred gold crowns for a woman and child who might die without some sort of help. The child seemed plump enough, true, but Susa clearly was starving, and Mary O'Conlon intended to frame her coins. It was all she could do not to demand to know who Jack Wynne had served. Whoever it was should never have allowed matters to come to this state. Noble blood carried as many responsibilities as rights, more as she had been taught. On top of that, where were the woman's friends? Moirandians. The light bless you, I said I... Susa tried to gulp back more tears, and failed. She did not sob. The tears simply spilled down her cheeks. The light shine on you forever? Yes, yes, Moirain said gently. Do you have a reader in this camp? No. Moirandians had another name for women who knew herbs and cures. What was it? Verin said I had lectured on the subject the first year she and Swan were accepted. A wisdom, a wise woman? At Susa's nod, she took her purse from her belt pouch and pressed a silver penny into the woman's free hand. Take your child to her. That brought still more weeping and more thanks, and an attempt to kiss her hand that she barely avoided. Light! Susa was not her liege-woman, it was hardly decent. Yet a bounty to come, Swan whispered once Susa had finally gone. The wise woman would have given credit. She did not move her eyes from what she was writing in a precise hand, but what Moirain could see of her face expressed disapproval. Swan was very careful with the little money she had. Moirain sighed. Done was done, and then again when she realized that a flurry of whispers was rushing along the two lines of women. She said that one of the Aïs-Sedai had accepted Susa Wynne's child spread like wildfire in dry grass, and in no time she saw women hurrying to join the end of the line, at least one leading her child by the hand. My Donnel, he's been real peaky lately, Aïs-Sedai, the round-faced woman in front of her said with a hopeful smile, and a glint of avarice in her pale eyes. The infant cradled in her arms made happy burbling noises. I surely wish I could afford to see the wise woman. The woman's gray woolen dress looked almost new. Moirain's temper flared, and for once she made no effort to force it down. I could heal him, she replied coolly. Of course he is very young. He might not survive. Very likely not. At that age he certainly would not survive the rigors of healing, and besides, that was one of the few weaves that accepted were forbidden to make without a sister watching. A mistake with healing could harm more than the weaver. The woman did not know any of that, however, and when Moirain stretched out a gloved hand she jerked back, clutching the infant protectively, her eyes nearly coming out of her head with fright. No, Aïs-Sedai, thank you, but no, I'll scrape together the coin, I will. The anger faded, it never lasted long, and for a moment Moirain felt ashamed of herself. Only for a moment. The Tower could afford to be generous, yet no one could be allowed to take Aïs-Sedai for fools. A good part of the Tower's power came from the belief that sisters were the very opposite of fools in every way. Whispers again flashed down the lines, and the woman leading her child by the hand scurried away more quickly than she had come. At least that would not have to be dealt with. There would have been no way to avoid harsh words with someone who thought the Tower could be gulled so easily. Well done, Swan murmured, her pen scratching away. Very well done. Dan'el, Moirain said, writing. And your name? Her smile was for the compliment, but Dan'el's mother seemed to take it as a sign of forgiveness, answering her answers in a relieved voice. Moirain was glad to hear it. Many people feared the White Tower, occasionally with reason. The Tower could be stern when it must, but fear was a poor tool, and one that always cut the user eventually. She had learned that long before coming to the Tower. Once the sun passed its zenith, Swan and she went to fetch the food from their saddlebags. There was certainly no point in asking one of Steeler's men to do it. They were already squatting on their heels, making a meal from dried meat and flatbread, not far from where their mounts were tethered on one of the horse-lines. None looked ready to stir a foot, short of being attacked. But Steeler bowed his head to her and Swan as they turned from their mounts. Only the slightest bob, yet approving, she thought. Men were decidedly... odd. With less than half the women's names recorded, she expected grumbling at least, but those remainings scattered to find their own food without a single complaint. A dark woman with a tyrant accent brought a battered tin teapot filled to the brim with hot dark tea to the table, and a pair of green mugs with cracked glazing, and a lean grey-haired woman brought two steaming wooden tankards that gave off the scent of hot spiced wine. Her leathery face looked as though a smile had never touched it. "'Sosa Wind's too proud to take more than a little food from anybody, except for her babe,' she said, in a deep voice for a woman as she set the tankards down. "'What you did was kindly done, and well.' With a nod she turned and strode away across the snow, her back as straight as a guardsman on parade. "'That was certainly a peculiar manner with an eye, Sidae.' "'She knows who we really are,' Swan said softly, picking up the tankard in both hands to let the warmth soak in. Moiraine did the same. Gloves or no. Poor Swan's fingers must have been freezing. "'She will not tell,' Moiraine said after a moment, and Swan nodded. Not that the truth would cause any real problems, not with Steeler and his men present, but it was better to avoid the embarrassment. To think that one of the commoners would know an eye's Sidae's face when none of the noble women had. An eye's Sidae's face, or an accepted's dress. Or both. "'She went to the Tower when she was young, I think.' A woman who could not be taught to channel was sent away, yet she would have seen eye's Sidae and accepted. Swan gave her a sideways look, as though she had said water was wet. Sometimes it could be irritating when Swan puzzled things out ahead of her. They spoke little while they ate their bread and fruit and cheese. Novices were expected to keep silent during meals, and accepted to maintain a measure of dignity, so they had grown accustomed to eating quietly. The wine they barely touched, accepted had wine with meals, but watered, and it would never do for one of them to grow tipsy. Yet Moiraine was surprised to find that she had devoured every scrap of the meal she had been certain was too much. Perhaps being out in the cold had increased her appetite. She was folding up the cloths the food had been bundled in, and wishing there had been a few more of the dried apricots, when Swan suddenly muttered, Oh no. Moiraine looked up, and her heart sank. Two sisters were riding into the camp, slowly picking their way between the tents and wagons. In the current state of affairs, women dressed in silk yet moving about the countryside without an entourage had to be sisters, and these were followed by just one man, a dark fellow in a cloak that shifted colors and blended with what lay behind him, so that parts of him and parts of his black gelding seemed not to be there at all. His eyes never rested long in one place. He made the tower guards seem half-asleep lap-dogs compared to a hunting leopard. A warder's cloak was a disconcerting sight, and murmurs rose in the camp, people gaping and pointing. The blacksmiths lowered their hammers in silence once more. It was not the appearance of just any sisters that made Moiraine's stomach feel hollow. She recognized the faces framed by the hoods of their cloaks. Malin Argania, with her silver-gray hair and thrusting chin, was one of the most respected women in the tower. It was said that no one had a bad word for Malin. By herself she would not have given Moiraine a moment's pause. The other, however, was Elida Arroyan. Light, what was she doing here? Elida had become advisor to the Queen of Andor nearly three years ago. She did return to the tower for occasional visits, to confer with the Amarlyn on events in Andor, but Swan and Moiraine always learned of her arrival very quickly, to their regret. They offered curtsies as soon as the sisters came near, and Swan burst out with, "'We have permission to be here.' Even Malin might become upset if she began to berate them, only to learn she had no cause. Elida would be furious. She absolutely hated looking foolish. The Amarlyn seat ordered us—' "'We know about that,' Malin cut in mildly. "'The way word is spreading, I suspect the cats in Sir Liza know by now.' From her tone you could not say whether she agreed with Tamra's decision. Malin's smooth face never showed any hint of emotion. Her startling blue eyes held serenity as a cup held water. With a dark-gloved hand she carefully adjusted one of her divided skirts, so slashed with white that it seemed quite trimmed with blue. She was one of the relatively few whites to have a warder. Wrapped up in questions of rationality and philosophy, the greater number saw no need. Moiraine wished she would dismount. Malin's dappled gelding was tall, and she herself was as tall as most men—most Kyrianan men, at least. Looking up at her in the saddle threatened to give Moiraine an ache in her neck. "'You are surprised to see me?' Elida said, looking down from her fine-ankled bay mare. Her brocaded dress was not a muted red or a faint red, but a bright hue, as though she were screaming her aja to the world. Her cloak, lined with black fur, was exactly the same shade. A color fit for a tinker's wagon, Moiraine thought. Elida was smiling, yet that failed to lessen the severity of her face. She might have been beautiful, except for that. Everything about her was severe. "'I reached Tarvalon just before the Aisle, and I've been busy since. But never fear. I will call on both of you.' Moiraine had been sure her heart could sink no further, but she had been mistaken. It was very hard not to groan in despair. Tarvalon sighed. "'You pay these girls too much mind, Elida. They'll get above themselves if they start thinking they're your pets. They may already.' Moiraine exchanged shocked glances with Swan. "'Pets? Goats staked out for lions, perhaps, but never pets?' Since gaining the shawl, Elida had never deferred to anyone other than the Amaryllons seat or a sitter that Moiraine had seen, yet she bowed her head and murmured, "'As you say, Maylin. But it seems possible they might test before the end of the year. I expect them to, and I expect them to pass easily. I'll accept nothing less from either.' Even that lacked her usual intensity. Normally Elida seemed as stiff-necked as a bull. Normally she'd browbeat everyone who crossed her path. The white sister gave a slight shrug, as though the matter was not important enough to say more. "'Do your children have everything you need? Good. Some of your children came very poorly prepared, I must say. How many names do you have left to take care?' "'About fifty,' Maylin said I. Swan told her. "'Maybe a few more.' Maylin glanced up at the sun, its fall toward the western horizon well begun. The dark clouds that threatened snow were moving south, leaving behind clear sky. "'In that case, write, quickly. You must be back in the tower before dark, you know.' "'Are all the camps like this?' Moiraine asked. "'I would think that men fighting a war would have their minds on that. Not on-' She trailed off, her face heating. "'Spawning like silver pike,' Swan whispered under her breath. Maylin only just heard, but the words deepened her blush. Why ever had she asked such a question in the first place? "'Cyreanon,' Maylin breathed. She sounded very nearly amused. But she went on in a serious tone. "'When a man believes he may die, he wants to leave something of himself behind. When a woman believes her man may die, she wants that part of him desperately. The result is a great many babies born during wars. It's illogical, given the hardship that comes if the man does die, or the woman. But the human heart is seldom logical.' Which explained a great deal, and left Moiraine feeling that her face might burn off. There were things one did in public and talked about, and things that were done in private and definitely not talked about. She struggled to regain control of herself, performing mental exercises for seeking calm. She was the river contained by the bank. She was the bank containing the river. She was a flower bud, opening to the sun. It did not help that Elida was studying her and Swan like a sculptor, hefting hammer and chisel, deciding which piece of stone to remove next, in order to bring out the form she wanted. "'Yes, yes, Andro,' Malin said suddenly. "'We will go in a moment.' She had not even looked back at her warder, yet he nodded as though she had responded to something he had said. Lean and no taller than his eyes to die, he appeared youthful, until you noticed his eyes. Moiraine found herself gaping, embarrassment forgotten, and not because of Andro's unblinking gaze. A sister and her bonded warder could sense each other's emotions and physical condition, and each knew exactly where the other was, if they were close enough, and at least a direction if they were far apart. But this seemed on the order of reading minds. Some said that full sisters could do that. There were a number of things that you were not taught until you had attained the shawl, after all, such as the weave for bonding a warder. Malin looked straight into her eyes. "'No,' she said softly, 'I can't read his thoughts.' Moiraine's scalp prickled, as though her hair were trying to stand on end. It must be true, since Malin had said it, yet—'When you've had a warder long enough, you will know what he is thinking, and he will know what you are. A matter of interpretation.' Elida sniffed, though quietly. Alone among the Ajahs, the Red refused to bond warders. Most Reds seemed to dislike men altogether. "'Logically,' Malin said, her serene gaze going to the other sister. 'Reds have greater needs of warders than any except greens, some greater even than greens. But no matter. The Ajahs choose as they will.' She lifted her fringed reins. "'Are you coming, Elida? We must reach as many of the children as possible. Some are certain to lose their heads and remain too long without a reminder. Remember, children, before dark.' Moiraine expected some sort of eruption from Elida, or at least a flash of anger in her eyes. That comment about warders came very close to violating the codes of courtesy and privacy that governed sisters' lives. All the rules of what an Aes Sedai could say to or ask of another, and what not. They were not laws, but rather customs, stronger than law, and every accepted had to memorize them. Surprisingly, Elida merely turned her bay to follow. Watching the two sisters leave the camp, trailed by Andro, Swan heaved a relieved sigh. "'Who's afraid she'd stay to supervise us?' "'Yes,' Moiraine said. There was no need to say which woman Swan meant. It would have been right in Elida's character. Nothing they did could escape her demand for absolute perfection. But why did she not?' Swan had no answer for that, and in any event there was no time to discuss it. With Moiraine's and her meal clearly finished, the women had taken their places in line again, but after Malin and Elida's visit they no longer seemed so certain that the two were Aes Sedai. A level look and a firm voice failed to squelch argument now. Swan took to shouting when necessary, which it frequently was, and running her hands through her hair in frustration. Three times Moiraine had to threaten to cease taking down any names at all before a woman carrying a child that was obviously too old would leave the line. She might have been tempted had one of them resembled Sousa, but they were well fed and plainly no poorer than anyone else, just greedy. To cap it off, with above a dozen women still in front of the table, Steeler appeared, helmet on his head and leading his mount. The other soldiers were not far behind, two of them holding the reins of Arrow and Swan's animal. "'Time to go,' Steeler said in that gravelly voice. "'I left it as long as I could, but leave it any longer and we'll be hard-pressed to make the tower by sunset.' "'Here now!' one of the women protested. "'They've got to take her names!' Angry mutters rose from the rest. "'Look at the sun, man,' Swan said, sounding harassed. She looked at it as well, with her hair sticking up from the constant raking of her fingers. "'We have plenty of time.' Swan did look at the sun, sitting low in the west, and she was not so sure. It was six miles back to the tower, the last of it through streets that would be just as crowded come nightfall as they had been that morning. Excuses would not be admitted. Frowning, Steeler opened his mouth, but abruptly the leathery-faced woman who had given them wine was right in front of him with six or seven others, all gray-haired or graying, holding him and forcing him back. "'You leave those girls be!' the lean woman shouted at him. "'You hear me?' More women came running from every direction, until Steeler was surrounded ten deep and his guardsmen as well. Half the women seemed to be screaming and shaking fists, while the rest scowled in sullen silence and gripped the hilts of their belt-knives. The anvils went still once more, the blacksmiths watching the crowd of women closely and hefting their hammers. Young men, boys really, began to gather, all hot-eyed and angry. Some had their belt-knives drawn. Light! They were going to have a riot. "'Right!' Swan commanded. "'They won't hold him long. Your name?' she demanded of the woman in front of her. Moraine wrote. The women waiting to give their name seemed to agree with Swan. There were no more arguments. By this time they knew the questions and spilled out the answers as soon as they came in front of her, some so quickly that she had to ask them to start over. When Steeler and his men finally managed to push through the women encircling them without doing anything that would have brought the men and boys still in the camp running, Moraine was blowing on the last name to dry the ink, and Swan was hastily straightening her hair with her carved blackwood comb. The bannerman's face was grim behind the steel bars of his faceguard, but all he said was, "'We'll need a bit of luck now.'" He led them out of the camp at a trot, with the horse's hooves flinging clods of snow, and Swan bouncing in her saddle so badly that he assigned men to ride on either side of her and keep her from falling. Clinging desperately to the tall pommel of her saddle, she grimaced at them, but she did not order them away. Moraine realized that Swan had never asked for the ointment. She was going to have more need of it than ever. After half a mile, Steeler slowed to a walk, but only for another half mile, and then he picked up the trot again. Only the two soldiers kept Swan in the saddle. Moraine started to protest, but a glance at Swan's determined face and another at the sun held her quiet. Swan would take days to forgive her calling attention to how badly she rode. She might never forgive her if she caused them to be called to Moraine's study for being late. That was the pace Steeler kept all the way back to the city, trot then walk, trot then walk, and Moraine suspected he would have maintained it there if not for the crowded streets. A walk was the best they could manage, and that's wrong. The sun was just a low dome of red gold atop the walls of the tower grounds when they rode into the yard of the west stable. The soldiers came out to take Arrow and Swan's mount, along with a sour-faced young under-lieutenant who scowled up at Steeler, even as he returned the bannerman's salute, an arm laid across the chest. You're the last, he growled, sounding as if he wanted an excuse to lash out at anyone who was handy. Did they cause problems? Helping a groaning Swan dismount, Moraine held her breath. No more than lambs, Steeler replied, and she exhaled. Stepping down from his horse, the bannerman turned to his men. I want the horses rubbed down and the tack oiled before anybody even thinks of supper. You know why I'm looking at you, Malvin. Moraine inquired of the young officer what they should do with the lap desks. He glared at her before saying, Leave them where they are. They'll be collected. And he stalked off so quickly that his cloak flared behind him. Why is he so angry? she wondered aloud. Steeler glanced at the guardsmen leading their animals into the stable, then answered in a voice too low for them to hear. He wanted to go fight the Eiel. I don't care whether the fool man wanted to be a hero, Swan said sharply. She was leaning on Moraine, who suspected that only her arm around the other woman's waist was keeping her upright. I want a hot wash in my bed, never mind supper. That sounds lovely, Moraine breathed, except the part about supper, anyway. She thought she could eat a whole sheep. Moraine managed to walk on her own, but she hobbled, tight-jawed and clearly suppressing groans. She refused to let Moraine carry her script, though. Swan never gave in to pain. She never gave in to anything. When they reached their gallery in the acceptance quarters, thoughts of hot water vanished. Katerina was waiting. About time, she said, huddling in her banded cloak. I thought I'd freeze to death before you got back. A sharp-faced woman with a mass of wavy black hair that hung to her waist, she could have an acid tongue. With novices and other accepted, she could. With eyes to die, she was milder than milk-water, all obsequious smiles. Marianne wants you in her study, Moraine. Why does she want us? Swan demanded. It isn't full sunset even now. Oh, Marianne always tells me her reasons, Swan. And it's just Moraine this time, not you. Well, you've been told, and I want my supper in my bed. We have to do this whole miserable thing over again tomorrow, starting at sunrise. Who'd have thought I'd rather stay in and study than go for a ride in the countryside? Swan frowned at Katerina's back as the other woman flounced away. One day she'll cut herself with that tongue. Do you want me to come with you, Moraine? Moraine wanted nothing more. She had not done anything, not lately, yet a summons to Moraine's study was never good. Many of the novices and accepted visited that room to cry on Moraine's shoulder when homesickness or the strain of learning grew too great. A summons was another matter entirely. But she shook her head and handed her cloak and script to Swan. The jar of ointment is in there. It is very good for soreness. Her friend's face lit up. I could still come with you. I don't need salving that badly. You can barely walk. Go on. Whatever Moraine wants, I am sure she will not keep me long. Light, she hoped Moraine had not uncovered some prank she thought safely hidden. But if so, at least Swan would escape punishment. In her present state, she could not have borne that. The study of the Mistress of Novices lay on the other side of the tower, near the novices' quarters and one level below the Omerlin's study, on a wide hallway where the floor tiles were red and green and the runner blue. Moraine took a deep breath in front of the plain door between two bright wall hangings and patted her hair, wishing she had taken time to use her brush, then knocked twice, firmly. Moraine told everyone not to tap like mice in the wainscoting. Come, a voice inside called. Taking another deep breath, Moraine went in. Unlike the Omerlin study, Moraine's was rather small and quite plain, the walls paneled in dark wood, the furniture sturdy and completely unadorned for the most part. Moraine suspected that women who had been accepted a hundred years ago would recognize everything in that room. Maybe two hundred years ago. The narrow tea-table beside the door, lightly carved on the legs in a strange pattern, might well have been older than that. And one wall held a mirror, its frame spotted with faded fragrance of gilding. Against the opposite walls stood a narrow cabinet that she avoided looking at. The strap and the switch were kept in there, along with a slipper that was worse in a way. To her surprise, Moraine was on her feet rather than seated behind her writing-table. She was tall, Moraine's head only reached Moraine's plump chin, with hair that was more gray than not, gathered at the nape of her neck, and a motherly look to her that almost overwhelmed the agelessness of her features. That was one reason most of the young women in training felt comfortable weeping on Moraine's shoulder, despite her having made them weep herself often enough. She was also kind and gentle and understanding, so long as you did not break the rules. Moraine had a positive talent for finding out what you most wanted to keep hidden. Sit down, child, she said gravely. Moraine wearily seated herself on the stool in front of the writing-table. It had to be bad news of some sort. But what? There is no way to make this easy, child. King Layman was killed yesterday, along with both of his brothers. Remember that we are all threads in the pattern and the wheel weaves as the wheel wills. The light illumine their souls, Moraine said solemnly, and may they shelter in the Creator's hand until they are born again. Moraine's eyebrows twitched upward, doubtless in surprise that she had not burst into tears on hearing that she had lost three uncles in one day. But then Moraine did not know Layman Domodred, a distant man who burned with ambition the only warmth in him. Moraine's opinion was that he had remained unmarried for the simple reason that even the inducement of becoming Queen of Kyrian was not enough to convince any woman to marry him. Moressan and Aldecane had been worse, each filled with sufficient heat for ten men which they had expressed in anger and cruelty, and in contempt for her father because he was a scholar, because he had taken another scholar for his second wife rather than marrying to bring lands or connections to House Domodred. She would pray for their souls, yet she felt more sadness for Jack Wynn than for all three of her uncles combined. Shock, Moraine murmured, you're in shock, but it will pass. When it does, come to me, child. Until then, there's no need for you to go out tomorrow. I'll inform the Amaryllon. The Mistress of Novices had the final say when it came to novices and accepted. Moraine must have been put out to learn that Tamra had sent them out of the city without consulting her. Thank you for the kindness, Moraine said quickly, but please, no. Having something to do will help, and being with friends. If I remain behind tomorrow, I will be alone. Moraine seemed doubtful, but after more soothing words, words to soothe the hurt she seemed sure Moraine must be hiding, she let Moraine return to her room, where she found both of her oil lamps lit and a fire crackling on her hearth. It was work, no doubt. She thought of dropping into Swann's room, but the other woman was certainly fast asleep by now. Supper would be available in the dining halls for at least another hour, but she put away any thought of food and instead spent that time kneeling in prayer for her uncle's souls. A penance. She did not mean to be one of those sisters who took on penances at every turn. Maintaining a balance in their lives, they called it, she thought it ostentatious foolishness. But she should feel something for the deaths of her own blood kin, however horrible they had been. It was wrong not to. Only when she knew that the dining halls would be full of serving women mopping the floors did she rise and undress to wash herself. After using a trickle of fire to heat the water. Cold water would have been another penance, but there were limits. Extinguishing her lamps, she wove a ward to keep her dreams from affecting anyone else's. Most could happen with those who could channel. Others nearby could find themselves sharing your dreams, and crawled beneath her blankets. She truly was tired, and sleep came quickly. Unfortunately nightmares came too. Not of her uncles or even of Jack Wynn, but of an infant lying in the snow on Dragonmount. Lightning flashed in the pitch black sky, and his wails were the thunder. Dreams of a faceless young man. There was lightning in those dreams, too, but he called this lightning from the sky, and cities burned, nations burned. The dragon was reborn. She woke, weeping. The fire had burned down to a few glowing coals. Rather than adding more wood, she used the fire shovel to scoop ashes over the coals, and rather than climbing back into bed, she wrapped a blanket around herself and went out into the night. She was not sure she could go back to sleep, but one thing she was certain of. She did not want to sleep alone. She was certain that Swan must be asleep, but when she slipped into her friend's room, quickly closing the door behind her, Swan said softly, Moiraine? A few flames still flickered on Swan's small hearse, giving enough light to see her pull one side of her blankets back. Moiraine wasted no time climbing in. Did you have nightmares, too? Yes, Swan breathed. What can they do, Moiraine? Even if they find him, what can they do? They can bring him to the tower, Moiraine replied, putting more confidence into her voice than she felt. He can be protected here. She hoped he could. More than the Reds might want him dead or gentled, whatever the prophecies said. And educated. The Dragon Reborn would have to be educated. He would need to know as much of politics as any queen, as much of war as any general, as much of history as any scholar. Verun Sidai said that most mistakes made by rulers came from not knowing history. They acted in ignorance of the mistakes others had made before them. He can be guided. That would be the most important of all, to make sure that he made the right decisions. The tower can't teach him to channel, Moiraine. That was true. What men did was... different. As different as men and women, Verun said. A bird could not teach a fish to fly. He would have to survive learning on his own. The prophecies did not say that he would, or that he would avoid going mad before the last battle. Only that he had to be at Tarman Gaiden for any hope of victory. Yet she had to believe. She had to. Do you think Tamra is having bad dreams tonight, Swan? Swan snorted. I, Sidai, don't have bad dreams. They were not yet, I, Sidai, however. Neither of them could close their eyes through the rest of the night. Moiraine did not know what Swan saw, lying there, staring up at the ceiling. She could not make herself ask. But she saw a babe crying in the snow on Dragon Mount, and a faceless man calling down lightning. Being awake, with no protection against these nightmares.
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