Delana could not imagine how, but she would not doubt the woman until she failed. “What I don’t understand is why you are so afraid of a man with six sisters shielding him from sunup to sunup.”

Halima’s green eyes blazed as she leaped to her feet. “I am not afraid, and don’t you ever suggest it! I want Logain severed or dead, and that is all you have to know. Do we understand one another?”

Not for the first time Delana considered killing the other woman, but as always she had a sinking certainty that she would be the one to die. Somehow Halima knew when she embraced saidar, even if Halima could not channel herself. The worst of it was the possibility that because Halima needed her, she would not kill her; Delana could not imagine what she might do instead, but the very vagueness of the threat made her shudder. She should be able to kill the woman right there, right then. “Yes, Halima,” she said meekly, and hated herself for it.

“So good of you,” Siuan murmured, holding her cup for Lelaine to add a small splash of brandy in her tea. The sun was sinking toward the horizon, giving the light a reddish cast, but the streets outside were still raucous. “You have no idea how tiring it is trying to teach that girl etiquette. She seemed to think as long as she behaves like a Wisdom from back home, everything will be fine. The Hall is supposed to be the Women’s Circle or some such thing.”

Lelaine made sympathetic noises over her own tea. “You say she was complaining about Romanda?”

Siuan shrugged. “Something about Romanda insisting we stay here instead of marching for Tar Valon, as near as I could make out. Light, the girl has a temper like a fisherbird in mating season. I almost wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her, but of course, she does wear the stole, now. Well, once I finish my lectures I’m done with her. Do you remember . . . ?”

Smiling inside, Siuan watched Lelaine drinking it all in with the tea. Only the first sentence had really been important. The bit about a temper was her own addition, but it might make some of the Sitters walk a little more carefully around Egwene. Besides, she suspected it might be true. She would never be Amyrlin again herself, and she was fairly certain that trying to manipulate Egwene would be as futile as trying to manipulate herself had been, and as painful, yet teaching an Amyrlin to be Amyrlin. . . . She looked forward to that as much as she had anything in a long time. Egwene al’Vere would be an Amyrlin to make thrones tremble.