Nan flung herself to her knees beside his chair, clutching at his coat. “Mercy, Master Mordeth,” she panted. “Please, have mercy. He’s only a child. Only a child!”

For a moment he studied her curiously, head tilted. She was quite a pretty woman, really. Planting a foot against her chest, he shoved her aside so he could stand. The Myrddraal, peeking furtively, jerked its eyeless face away when it saw him watching. It remembered his . . . tricks very well.

Fain paced; he had to move. Al’Thor’s downfall had to be his doing—his!—not the Chosen’s. How could he hurt the man again, hurt to the heart? There were those nattering girls at Culain’s Hound, but if al’Thor did not come when the Two Rivers was harrowed, what would he care even if Fain burned the inn down and the chits with it? What did he have to work with? Only a few remained of his onetime Children of the Light. That had only been a test really—he would have made the man who actually managed to kill al’Thor beg to be skinned alive!—yet it had cost him numbers. He had the Myrddraal, a handful of Trollocs hidden outside the city, a few Darkfriends gathered in Caemlyn and on the way from Tar Valon. The pull of al’Thor dragged him on. It was the most remarkable thing about Darkfriends. There should be nothing to single out a Darkfriend from anyone else, but of late he found he could tell one at a glance, even someone who had only thought of swearing to the Shadow, as if they had a sooty mark on their foreheads.

No! He had to concentrate. Concentrate! Clear his mind. His eye fell on the woman, moaning and stroking her gibbering son, talking to him softly as if that would help. Fain had no notion how to stop one of his tricks once it began; the boy should survive, if a trifle the worse for wear, once the thing ground to a conclusion. Fain had not put his whole heart into making it. Clear his mind. Think of something else. A pretty woman. How long since he had had a woman?

Smiling, he took her arm. He had to pull her away from the fool boy. “Come with me.” His voice was different, grander, the Lugard accent gone, but he did not notice; he never did. “I am sure you, at least, know how to show true respect. If you please me, no harm will come to you.” Why was she struggling? He knew he was being charming. He was going to have to hurt her. It was all al’Thor’s fault.

CHAPTER
29

Fire and Spirit