This time it was the Amyrlin who forgot herself, half turning toward Nynaeve before jerking herself back. “They cannot be allowed to have that.” Her whisper was barely audible, as if meant for her own ears alone. “They cannot possibly take it, but. . . .” She took a deep breath, and her soft words firmed enough to be clear to Nynaeve, if to no one two paces further away. “No more than a dozen women in the Tower know what Callandor is, and perhaps as many outside. The High Lords of Tear know, but they never speak of it except when a Lord of the Land is told on being raised. The Sword That Cannot Be Touched is a sa’angreal, girl. Only two more powerful were ever made, and thank the Light, neither of those was ever used. With Callandor in your hands, child, you could level a city at one blow. If you die keeping that out of the Black Ajah’s hands—you, and Egwene, and Elayne, all three—you’ll have done a service to the whole world, and cheap at the price.”

“How could they take it?” Nynaeve asked. “I thought only the Dragon Reborn could touch Callandor.”

The Amyrlin gave her a sideways look sharp enough to carve the roasts on the spit. “They could be after something else,” she said after a moment. “They stole ter’angreal here. The Stone of Tear holds nearly as many ter’angreal as the Tower.”

“I thought the High Lords hated anything to do with the One Power,” Nynaeve whispered incredulously.