He danced a short time with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life, a slim yet buxom armful who wanted to know all about Mat Cauthon. Very flattering, especially when she had asked him to step out. But after a while he noticed that Halima had a way of brushing against him, a way of leaning to look at something so he could not help seeing down her dress. He might have enjoyed it, if not for the fact that she glanced at his face every time with a sharp eye and an amused smile. She was not a very good dancer—she kept trying to lead, for one thing—and he finally begged off.

It should have been nothing, but before he had gone ten paces the fox head went icy cold on his chest. He spun around, looking furiously for anything at all. What he saw was Halima staring at him in the firelight. Only for an instant before she seized a tall Warder’s arm and whirled back into the dance, but he was sure he had seen shock on that beautiful face.

The fiddles were wailing a tune he recognized. At least, one of his old memories did, not very much changed considering the passage of well over a thousand years. The words must have changed altogether, for the old words that echoed in his head would never have found favor here.

Give me your trust, said the Aes Sedai.

On my shoulders I support the sky.

Trust me to know and to do what is best,

And I will take care of the rest.

But trust is the color of a dark seed growing.

Trust is the color of a heart’s blood flowing.

Trust is the color of a soul’s last breath.

Trust is the color of death.

“Aes Sedai?” a plump young woman said contemptuously to his question. She was pretty, and he might have tried for a bit of kiss and cuddle in different circumstances. “Halima’s just Delana Sedai’s secretary. Always teasing the men, she is. Like a child with a new toy; teasing just to see if she can. She’d be in hot water to her neck ten times over if Delana didn’t protect her.”

Give me your trust, said the queen on her throne,

for I must bear the burden all alone.

Trust me to lead and to judge and to rule,

and no man will think you a fool.

But trust is the sound of the grave-dog’s bark.

Trust is the sound of betrayal in the dark.

Trust is, the sound of a soul’s last breath.

Trust is the sound of death.