In the hallway, Aviendha sagged against the door, taking deep calming breaths. Meant to be calming, anyway. Her heart still tried to tear through her rib cage. Being near Rand al’Thor stretched her naked over hot coals, stretched her till she thought her bones would pop apart. He brought such shame to her as she had never thought she would know. A great joke, she had told him, and part of her did want to laugh. She had toh toward him, but much more toward Elayne. All he had done was save her life. Lanfear would have killed her without him. Lanfear had wanted to kill her in particular, as painfully as possible. Somehow, Lanfear had known. Beside what she had incurred toward Elayne, her toh toward Rand was a termite mound beside the Spine of the World.

Cassin—the cut of his coat told her he was Goshien as well as Aethan Dor; she did not recognize his sept—merely glanced at her from where he squatted with his spears across his knees; he knew nothing, of course. But Liah smiled at her, entirely too encouragingly for a woman she did not know, entirely too knowingly for anyone. Aviendha was shocked to find herself thinking that Chareen, as Liah’s coat marked her, were often sneaking cats; she had never thought of any Maiden as anything but Far Dareis Mai. Rand al’Thor had unstrung her brain.

Still, her fingers flashed angrily. Why do you smile, girl? Have you no better use for your time?

Liah’s eyebrows raised slightly, and if anything her smile became amused. Her fingers moved in answer. Who do you call girl, girl? You are not yet wise, but no longer Maiden. I think you will put your soul in a wreath to lay at a man’s feet.

Aviendha took a furious step forward—there were few insults worse among Far Dareis Mai—then stopped. In cadin’sor she did not think Liah could match her, but in skirts, she would be defeated. Worse, Liah would probably refuse to make her gai’shain; she could, attacked by a woman who was not a Maiden and not yet a Wise One, or demand the right to beat Aviendha before any of the Taardad who could be gathered. A lesser shame than the refusal, but not small. Worst of all, whether she won or lost, Melaine surely would choose a method to remind her she had left the spear behind that would make her wish Liah had drubbed her ten times before all the clans. In a Wise One’s hands, shame was keener than a flaying knife. Liah never moved a muscle; she knew all that as well as Aviendha did.

“Now you stare at one another,” Cassin said idly. “One day I must learn this handtalk of yours.”