Nynaeve stiffened, and the spit halted for a moment before she put it back to revolving. “Sheriam had a chance to see the lists Verin gave to Egwene. So did Elaida. I make no accusations, but they had the chance. And Egwene said Alanna . . . behaved oddly, too.”

“She told you of that, did she? Alanna is Arafellin. They have strange ideas about honor and debts in Arafel.” She shrugged dismissively, but said, “I suppose I can keep an eye on her. Have you learned anything useful yet, child?”

“Some,” Nynaeve muttered grimly. What about keeping an eye on Sheriam? Maybe she didn’t just find that Gray Man. The Amyrlin could watch Elaida, too, for that matter. So Alanna really did. . . . “I do not understand why you trust Else Grinwell, but your message was helpful.”

In short, quick sentences, Nynaeve told of the things they had found in the storeroom under the library, making it seem only she and Egwene had gone, and added the conclusions they had reached concerning them. She did not mention Egwene’s dream—or whatever it had been; Egwene insisted it had been real—of Tel’aran’rhiod. Nor did she speak of the ter’angreal Verin had given Egwene. She could not make herself entirely trust the woman wearing the seven-striped stole—or any woman who could wear the shawl, for that matter—and it seemed best to keep some things in reserve.

When she was done, the Amyrlin was silent so long that Nynaeve began to think the woman had not heard. She was about to repeat herself, a little louder, when the Amyrlin finally spoke, still hardly moving her lips.

“I sent no message, Daughter. The things Liandrin and the others left were searched thoroughly, and burned after nothing was found. No one would use Black Ajah leavings. As for Else Grinwell. . . . I remember the girl. She could have learned, had she applied herself, but all she wanted was to smile at the men at the Warders’ practice yard. Else Grinwell was put on a trading vessel and sent back to her mother ten days ago.”

Nynaeve tried to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. The Amyrlin’s words made her think of bullies taunting smaller children. The bullies were always so contemptuous of the littler children, always so sure the small ones were too stupid to realize what was happening, that they made little effort to disguise their snares. That the Black Ajah was so contemptuous of her made her blood boil. That they could set this snare filled her stomach with ice. Light, if Else was sent away. . . . Light, anybody I talk to could be Liandrin, or any of the others. Light!

The spit had stopped. Hastily she started it turning once more. No one seemed to have noticed, though. They were all still doing their best not to look at the Amyrlin.