How long had he been here? A gray bleakness had settled over him, blanketing time, blanketing him in lethargy. He had been here long enough to be hungry, but the Void made sensation distant, and even the smell of hot stew and warm bread coming from the covered tray sparked no interest. Rising seemed too much effort. So far, twelve Aes Sedai had taken turns around the cage, and not one a face he had seen before they appeared in the basement. How many were there in the house? That might be important later. Where was the house? He had no notion how far he had been carried in that chest, most of the way jolted about in a wagon or cart. Why had he forgotten Moiraine’s advice. Trust no Aes Sedai, not an inch, not a hair. Six Aes Sedai channeling enough of saidar to hold that shield should be felt outside by any woman who could channel. All he needed was Amys or Bair or some other to pass by in the street and wonder. They had to be thinking now that he had vanished when Coiren left the palace. If there was a street outside. All he needed. . . .

He felt at the shield again, softly, so they would not feel. Six points. Six soft points, somehow. That had to mean something. He wished Lews Therin would speak again, but the only sound in his head was his own thoughts sliding along the Void. Six points.

Hurrying along the dusk-covered street by the great stone house where the Aes Sedai were, Sorilea could barely sense them still channeling inside. She could only just sense it because she could only just channel at all, but that was not why she ignored it. They had been channeling day and night in there since their arrival; none of the Wise Ones wasted thought on why any longer. Sorilea certainly had more important matters to think of now. Back at the treekiller’s palace, the Maidens were beginning to grow itchy over Rand al’Thor, muttering that the Car’a’carn would have some explaining to do when he returned this time. Sorilea had lived a great deal longer than any of those Maidens, longer than any other Wise One, weak in the Power or not, and she was uneasy. Like most men, Rand al’Thor went when he wished, where he wished—men were like cats in that—but this time, at the same time he was flitting off, Min had vanished somewhere between the tents and the palace. Sorilea did not like coincidences, no matter how many surrounded the Car’a’carn. Wrapping her shawl against a sudden feel of chill in her bones, she hurried on toward the tents.

CHAPTER
52

Weaves of the Power