It was not the Aiel who kept Min sitting there, however. Not entirely, though she had heard all sorts of terrible stories about black-veiled Aiel. Her coat and breeches were the finest, softest wool that could be found in Salidar, in a pale rose, with tiny blue-and-white flowers embroidered on lapels and cuffs and down the outsides of the legs. Her shirt was cut like a boy’s too, but in cream silk. In Baerlon, after her father died, her aunts had tried to make her into what they called a decent proper woman, though maybe her Aunt Miren had understood that after ten years running about the mines in boys’ clothes, it might be too late to stuff her into dresses. They had tried, even so, and she had fought them as stubbornly as she refused to learn to wield a needle. Aside from that unfortunate episode serving tables at The Miners’ Rest—a rough place, but she had not stayed long; Rana, Jan and Miren had seen to that emphatically when they found out, and no matter that she was twenty then—aside from that one time, she had never worn a dress willingly. Now she was thinking that maybe she should have had one made instead of this coat and breeches. A dress in silk, cut snug at the bodice and low, and. . . .

He’ll have to take me as I am, she thought, twitching the reins irritably. I’m not changing for any man. Only, her clothes would have been as plain as any farmer’s not that long ago, her hair had not been in ringlets almost to her shoulders, and a small voice whispered, You’ll be whatever you think he wants you to be. She kicked it down as hard as she had ever kicked any stableman who tried to cut rough, and heeled Wildrose only a little more gently. She hated the very idea of women being weak when it came to men. There was just one problem; she was fairly certain she was going to find out just what it was like very soon now.

Dismounting in front of the Palace gates, she patted the mare, to tell her she had not meant the kick, while eyeing the Aiel uncertainly. Half were women, all but one considerably taller than she. The men towered like Rand, most of them, and some even more. Every one was watching her—well, they seemed to be watching everything, but definitely her as well—and not one blinked that she could see. With those spears and bucklers, the bows on their backs and quivers at their hips, the heavy knives, they looked ready to kill. Those black strips of cloth hanging down onto their chests must be the veils. She had heard Aiel would not kill you without covering their faces. I hope that’s so.