Mat watched their faces firm—Egwene’s and Nynaeve’s and Elayne’s; slowly, reluctantly, but determinedly, too—and shook his head. Bloody women! They’re all ready to go on with this, go on chasing the Black Ajah, trying to fight the Forsaken and the bloody Dark One. Well, they needn’t think I am going to come pull them out of the soup pot again. They just needn’t think it, that’s all!

One of the tall, paired doors pushed open while he was trying to think of something to say, and a tall young woman of regal bearing entered the room, wearing a coronet with a golden hawk in flight above her brows. Her black hair swept to pale shoulders, and her dress of the finest red silk left those shoulders bare, along with a considerable expanse of what Mat noted as an admirable bosom. For a moment she studied Rhuarc interestedly with large, dark eyes; then she turned them on the women at the table, coolly imperious. Mat she appeared to ignore completely.

“I am not used to being given messages to carry,” she announced, flourishing a folded parchment in one slim hand.

“And who are you, child?” Moiraine asked.

The young woman drew herself up even more, which Mat would have thought was impossible. “I am Berelain, First of Mayene.” She tossed the parchment down on the table in front of Moiraine with a haughty gesture and turned back to the door.

“A moment, child,” Moiraine said, unfolding the parchment. “Who gave this to you? And why did you bring it, if you are so unused to carrying messages?”

“I . . . do not know.” Berelain stood facing the door; she sounded puzzled. “She was . . . impressive.” She gave herself a shake and seemed to recover her opinion of herself. For a moment she studied Rhuarc with a small smile. “You are the leader of these Aielmen? Your fighting disturbed my sleep. Perhaps I will ask you to dine with me. One day quite soon.” She looked over her shoulder at Moiraine. “I am told the Dragon Reborn has taken the Stone. Inform the Lord Dragon that the First of Mayene will dine with him tonight.” And she marched out of the room; Mat could think of no other way to describe that stately, one-woman procession.

“I would like to have her in the Tower as novice.” Egwene and Elayne said it almost like echoes, then shared a tight smile.

“Listen to this,” Moiraine said. “ ‘Lews Therin was mine, he is mine, and he will be mine, forever. I give him into your charge, to keep for me until I come.’ It is signed ‘Lanfear.’ ” The Aes Sedai turned that cool gaze on Mat. “And you thought it was done? You are ta’veren, Mat, a thread more crucial to the Pattern than most, and the sounder of the Horn of Valere. Nothing is done for you, yet.”