“I’ve told you everything I know,” Nynaeve sighed. “Well, told Aes Sedai, anyway.” She had, too. Nothing she knew could harm him—not any more than knowing what he was, anyway—and it might help if she could make the sisters see him as a man. Not a man who could channel; just a man. Not an easy task with the Dragon Reborn. “I don’t know any more.”

“Don’t sulk,” Delana snapped. “And don’t fidget.”

Nynaeve set her cup back in the saucer and wiped her wrist on her skirt.

“Child,” Janya said, her tone all compassion, “I know you think you’ve told all you know, but Delana. . . . I cannot think you would hold back on purpose—”

“Why would she not?” Delana barked. “Born in the same village. Watched him grow up. Her loyalties may be more to him than to the White Tower.” That razor gaze descended on Nynaeve again. “Tell us something you haven’t told before. I’ve heard all your stories, girl, so I will know.”

“Try, child. I’m sure you don’t want to make Delana angry with you. Why—” Janya cut off at another throat-clearing.

Nynaeve hoped they thought her teacup rattling meant she was rattled as well. Dragged here terrified—no, not terrified, but worried at least—over how angry they might be, and now this. Being around Aes Sedai taught you to listen carefully. You still might not catch what they really meant, but you had a better chance than if you listened with half an ear, the way most people usually did. Neither one had really said they thought she was keeping anything back. They just intended to frighten her on the chance that they might shake something else loose. She was not afraid of them. Well, not much. She was furious.

“When he was a boy,” she said carefully, “he would accept his punishment without any argument if he thought he deserved it, but if he didn’t think so, he fought every step of the way.”

Delana snorted. “You’ve told that to everyone who would listen. Something else. Quickly!”

“You can lead him, or convince him, but he won’t be pushed. He digs in his heels if he thinks you’re—”

“And that.” Hands on broad hips, Delana bent down until her head was level with Nynaeve’s. Nynaeve almost wished she had Nicola staring at her again. “Something you’ve not told every cook and laundress in Salidar.”

“Do try, child,” Janya said, and for a wonder left it at that.

They dug away, Janya prompting sympathetically, Delana boring without mercy, and Nynaeve brought up every scrap she could remember. It earned her no respite; every scrap had been told so many times before she could identify them by taste. As Delana kindly pointed out. Well, not so kindly. By the time Nynaeve managed to take a sip of her tea, it tasted stale, and the sweetness almost curled her tongue. Janya apparently really did believe young women liked lots of honey. The morning passed slowly. Very slowly.