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.

CHAPTER
16

Tellings of the Wheel

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.