After a moment’s hesitation, he unraveled the weave. He was tensed to seize her again if need be, but she only crossed her legs and sat bouncing the spear on her palms. “Sometimes I forget you were raised out of our blood, Rand al’Thor. Listen to me. I am what I am. This is what I am.” She hefted the spear.

“Sulin—”

“Listen, Rand al’Thor. I am the spear. When a lover came between me and the spear, I chose the spear. Some chose the other way. Some decide they have run with the spears long enough, that they want a husband, a child. I have never wanted anything else. No chief would hesitate to send me wherever the dance is hottest. If I died there, my first-sisters would mourn me, but not a fingernail more than when our first-brother fell. A treekiller who stabbed me to the heart in my sleep would do me more honor than you do. Do you understand now?”

“I understand, but . . .” He did understand. She did not want him to make her something other than what she was. All he had to do was be willing to watch her die. “What happens if you break the last spear?”

“If I have no honor in this life, perhaps in another.” She said it as if it was just another explanation. It took him a moment to comprehend. All he had to do was be willing to watch her die.

“You don’t leave me any choices, do you?” No more than Moiraine had.

“There are always choices, Rand al’Thor. You have a choice, and I have one. Ji’e’toh allows no other.”

He wanted to snarl at her, to curse ji’e’toh and everyone who followed it. “Choose out your Maidens, Sulin. I don’t know how many I can take, but Far Dareis Mai will have as many as any other society.”

He stalked past her and her sudden smile. Not relief. Pleasure. Pleasure that she would have the chance to die. He should have left her wrapped up in saidin, left her to be dealt with somehow when he came back from Caemlyn. Slamming the door open, he strode out onto the quay—and stopped.