“No threats, Graendal,” he replied calmly. All of his pressure points had gone numb; nothing seemed to shift him out of that amused coolness. “Merely facts. Al’Thor will not attack me, and I will not attack him. And of course, I agreed not to aid any other Chosen should al’Thor find them. All very much in accordance with the Great Lord’s commands, wouldn’t you say?”

“Of course.” She kept her face smooth, but the streith had gone a deeper rose, losing some of its mistiness. In part the color was still anger. There was more to this, but how was she to find out?

“Which means,” he continued, “that on the Day of Return, I will very likely be the only one remaining to face al’Thor.”

“I doubt he will manage to kill all of us,” she said acidly, but acid churned in her stomach, as well. Too many of the Chosen had died. Sammael had found a way to stand aside until the last; it was the only explanation.

“You think not? Not even if he learns where you all are?” That smile deepened. “I am sure I know what Demandred is scheming, but where is he hiding? Where is Semirhage? Mesaana? What about Asmodean and Lanfear? Moghedien?”

Those cold fingers returned, imprinting themselves on her skull. He would not lounge there and talk this way—he would not dare suggest what he was suggesting—unless. . . . “Asmodean and Lanfear are dead, and I am sure Moghedien must be, too.” She was surprised to hear her own voice, hoarse and unsteady. Wine did not seem to dampen her dry throat.

“And the others?” It was just a question; his voice was not in the slightest insistent. It sent a shiver through her.

“I’ve told you what I know, Sammael.”

“Which is nothing. When I am Nae’blis, I will choose who stands just below me. That one will have to be alive to receive the Great Lord’s touch.”

“Are you saying you have been to Shayol Ghul? That the Great Lord promised you . . . ?”

“You will know all when it is time, and not before. But a small advice, Graendal. Prepare now. Where are they?”

Her mind worked furiously. He must have had that promise. He must. But why him? No, there was no time for speculation. The Great Lord chose as he wished. And Sammael knew where she was, at least. She could flee Arad Doman, establish herself elsewhere; it would not be difficult. Giving up the little games she played there, and even the larger games that might have to be abandoned, would be a small loss compared with having al’Thor—or Lews Therin—come after her. She had no intention of ever confronting him directly; if Ishamael and Rahvin had fallen to him, she was not about to risk his strength, not head-on. Sammael must have had the promise. If he died now. . . . He was certainly holding saidin—he would be mad to say these things otherwise—and he would feel the instant she embraced saidar. She would be the one to die. He must have had it. “I . . . do not know where Demandred or Semirhage is. Mesaana . . . Mesaana is in the White Tower. That is all I know. I swear it.”