Sipping her wine—and suppressing a sigh; it was from the here and now; she had hoped for a delicate Satare or one of the exquisite Comolads—she stroked her gown with beringed fingers. “I found one as well, but beyond streith, it contained the most appalling collection of useless rubbish.” After all, since he had invited her here and let her see this, it was a time for confidences. Small confidences.

“How sad for you.” Again that faint smile. He had found something more than playthings and pretties. “On the other hand,” he went on, “think how awful it would have been to open a box and rouse a nest of cafar, say, or a jumara, or one of Aginor’s other little creations. Did you know there are jumara loose in the Blight? Full-grown, though they’ll never transform now. They call them Worms.” He laughed so hard at that, he shook.

Graendal smiled a good deal more warmly than she felt inside, though if her gown changed color, it was by a hair. She had had an unpleasant, in fact almost fatal, experience with one of Aginor’s creations. The man had been brilliant in his way, but mad. None but a madman would have made the gholam. “You seem in very good mood.”

“Why should I not be?” he said expansively. “I all but have my hands on a cache of angreal and who can say what else. Do not look so surprised. Of course I’ve known that the rest of you have been trying to look over my shoulder in hopes I will lead you to it. Well, it will do you no good. Oh, I will share, but after it’s mine, and after I have first choice.” Sprawling in a heavily gilded chair—or perhaps it was solid gold; that would be like him—he balanced one boot atop the toe of the other and stroked his golden beard. “Besides, I sent an emissary to al’Thor. And the answer was favorable.”

Graendal almost spilled her wine. “It was? I heard that he killed your messenger.” If her knowing that much shook him, he held it in. He even smiled.

“Al’Thor killed no one. Andris went there to die; do you think I wanted to wait on couriers, or pigeons? How he died told me al’Thor’s answer.”

“Which was?” she said carefully.

“A truce between us.”

Icy fingers seemed to dig into her scalp. It could not be true. Yet he looked more at ease than she had seen him since waking. “Lews Therin would never—”

“Lews Therin is long dead, Graendal.” The interruption was amused, even mocking. No anger at all.

She covered a deep breath by pretending to drink. Could it be true? “His army is still gathering in Tear. I have seen it. That hardly looks like a truce to me.”