Lord of Chaos (78 page)

Graendal managed not to stare as she entered the room, but her streith gown went dead black before she could control herself and return it to a blue mist. Sammael had done enough to make anyone doubt that this chamber was in the Great Hall of the Council in Illian. But then, she would be very surprised if anyone but he ever penetrated this far uninvited into “Lord Brend’s” apartments.

The air was pleasantly cool; in one corner rose the hollow cylinder of an exchanger. Glowbulbs, bright and steady, stood oddly in heavy gold candleholders, giving much better illumination than candles or oil lamps ever could. A small music box sat on the marble mantelpiece, producing from its memory the soft strains of a sound-sculpture that very likely had not been heard outside this room in well over three thousand years. And she recognized several of the artworks on the walls.

She paused in front of Ceran Tol’s “Tempo of Infinity.” Not a copy. “One might think you had looted a museum, Sammael.” It was hard to keep the envy from her voice, and when she saw his faint smile, she realized she had failed.

Filling two silver-chased goblets with wine, he handed her one. “Only a stasis box. I suppose people tried to save what they could in the last days.” His smile pulled at that awful scar across his face as he beamed around the chamber, with especial fondness for the zara board projecting
its field of still-transparent boxes in the air; he had always liked the more violent games. Of course, a zara board meant his stasis box had been filled by someone who followed the Great Lord; possession of a single once-human playing piece had meant imprisonment at the least on the other side. What else had he found?

Sipping her wine—and suppressing a sigh; it was from the here and now; she had hoped for a delicate Satare or one of the exquisite Comolads—she stroked her gown with beringed fingers. “I found one as well, but beyond streith, it contained the most appalling collection of useless rubbish.” After all, since he had invited her here and let her see this, it was a time for confidences. Small confidences.

“How sad for you.” Again that faint smile. He
had
found something more than playthings and pretties. “On the other hand,” he went on, “think how awful it would have been to open a box and rouse a nest of cafar, say, or a jumara, or one of Aginor’s other little creations. Did you know there are jumara loose in the Blight? Full-grown, though they’ll never transform now. They call them Worms.” He laughed so hard at that, he shook.

Graendal smiled a good deal more warmly than she felt inside, though if her gown changed color, it was by a hair. She had had an unpleasant, in fact almost fatal, experience with one of Aginor’s creations. The man had been brilliant in his way, but mad. None but a madman would have made the
gholam.
“You seem in very good mood.”

“Why should I not be?” he said expansively. “I all but have my hands on a cache of
angreal
and who can say what else. Do not look so surprised. Of course I’ve known that the rest of you have been trying to look over my shoulder in hopes I will lead you to it. Well, it will do you no good. Oh, I will share, but after it’s mine, and after I have first choice.” Sprawling in a heavily gilded chair—or perhaps it was solid gold; that would be like him—he balanced one boot atop the toe of the other and stroked his golden beard. “Besides, I sent an emissary to al’Thor. And the answer was favorable.”

Graendal almost spilled her wine. “It was? I heard that he killed your messenger.” If her knowing that much shook him, he held it in. He even smiled.

“Al’Thor killed no one. Andris went there to die; do you think I wanted to wait on couriers, or
pigeons
? How he died told me al’Thor’s answer.”

“Which was?” she said carefully.

“A truce between us.”

Icy fingers seemed to dig into her scalp. It could not be true. Yet he
looked more at ease than she had seen him since waking. “Lews Therin would never—”

“Lews Therin is long dead, Graendal.” The interruption was amused, even mocking. No anger at all.

She covered a deep breath by pretending to drink. Could it be true? “His army is still gathering in Tear. I have seen it. That hardly looks like a truce to me.”

Sammael laughed outright. “It takes time to redirect an army. Believe me, it will never move against me.”

“You think not? One or two of my little friends say he wants you dead because you killed some of his pet Maidens. Were I you, I would be thinking about somewhere less conspicuous, somewhere he might not find me.” Not a flicker of an eyelid out of him. It was as if all the strings that usually moved him had been cut.

“What should it matter a few Maidens died?” The look on his face was truly puzzled. “It was battle; soldiers die in battle. Al’Thor may be a farmer, but he has generals to fight his battles and explain matters. I doubt he even noticed.”

“You really never have looked at these people. They have changed as much as the land, Sammael. Not just the Aiel. In some ways, the rest have changed much more. Those soldiers were women, and to Rand al’Thor, that makes a difference.”

He shrugged dismissively, and she suppressed contempt, kept the streith steady in a calm fog. He had never understood that you must understand people to make them do as you wished. Compulsion was all very well, but you could not use Compulsion on the entire world.

She wondered whether the stasis box had been this cache that he claimed he would put his hands on soon. If he had even one
angreal.
. . . If he did, she would find out, but probably not before he let her. “I suppose we shall see how much wiser the primitive Lews Therin has become, then.” She raised a doubting eyebrow, managed a smile of her own. No reaction. Where had he found this leash for his temper? Lews Therin’s name alone should have been enough to loose it. “If he fails to chase you out of Illian like a cosa scampering up a tree, perhaps—”

“That might be waiting too long,” he cut in smoothly. “Too long for you, that is.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat, Sammael?” Her gown shifted to a pale rose, but she let it stay. Let him be aware she was angry. “I thought you learned long ago that threatening me is a mistake.”

“No threats, Graendal,” he replied calmly. All of his pressure points had gone numb; nothing seemed to shift him out of that amused coolness. “Merely facts. Al’Thor will not attack me, and I will not attack him. And of course, I agreed not to aid any other Chosen should al’Thor find them. All very much in accordance with the Great Lord’s commands, wouldn’t you say?”

“Of course.” She kept her face smooth, but the streith had gone a deeper rose, losing some of its mistiness. In part the color was still anger. There was more to this, but how was she to find out?

“Which means,” he continued, “that on the Day of Return, I will very likely be the only one remaining to face al’Thor.”

“I doubt he will manage to kill all of us,” she said acidly, but acid churned in her stomach, as well. Too many of the Chosen had died. Sammael
had
found a way to stand aside until the last; it was the only explanation.

“You think not? Not even if he learns where you all are?” That smile deepened. “I am sure I know what Demandred is scheming, but where is he hiding? Where is Semirhage? Mesaana? What about Asmodean and Lanfear? Moghedien?”

Those cold fingers returned, imprinting themselves on her skull. He would not lounge there and talk this way—he would not dare suggest what he was suggesting—unless. . . . “Asmodean and Lanfear are dead, and I am sure Moghedien must be, too.” She was surprised to hear her own voice, hoarse and unsteady. Wine did not seem to dampen her dry throat.

“And the others?” It was just a question; his voice was not in the slightest insistent. It sent a shiver through her.

“I’ve told you what I know, Sammael.”

“Which is nothing. When I am Nae’blis, I will choose who stands just below me. That one will have to be alive to receive the Great Lord’s touch.”

“Are you saying you have been to Shayol Ghul? That the Great Lord promised you . . . ?”

“You will know all when it is time, and not before. But a small advice, Graendal. Prepare now. Where are they?”

Her mind worked furiously. He must have had that promise. He must. But why him? No, there was no time for speculation. The Great Lord chose as he wished. And Sammael knew where she was, at least. She could flee Arad Doman, establish herself elsewhere; it would not be difficult. Giving up the little games she played there, and even the larger games that might have to be abandoned, would be a small loss compared with having
al’Thor—or Lews Therin—come after her. She had no intention of ever confronting him directly; if Ishamael and Rahvin had fallen to him, she was not about to risk his strength, not head-on. Sammael
must
have had the promise. If he died now. . . . He was certainly holding
saidin
—he would be mad to say these things otherwise—and he would feel the instant she embraced
saidar.
She would be the one to die. He must have had it. “I . . . do not know where Demandred or Semirhage is. Mesaana . . . Mesaana is in the White Tower. That is all I know. I swear it.”

A tightness in her chest loosened when he finally nodded. “You will find the others for me.” It was not a question. “All of them, Graendal. If you want me to believe anyone dead, show me a corpse.”

She very much wished she dared turn him into a corpse. Her gown rippled through violent shades of red, echoing the anger and fear and shame that rippled through her uncontrollably. Very well, let him think her cowed for the moment. If he fed Mesaana to al’Thor, if he fed them all to al’Thor, so be it, so long as that kept al’Thor from her own throat. “I will try.”

“Do more than try, Graendal. More than try.”

When Graendal was gone, the gateway back to her palace in Arad Doman closed, Sammael let the smile dissolve on his face. His jaws ached from holding it. Graendal thought too much; she was so used to making others act for her that she failed to think of acting for herself. He wondered what she would say if she ever discovered that he had manipulated her as deftly as she had manipulated so many fools in her time. He would wager everything that she never saw his real purpose. So, Mesaana was inside the White Tower. Mesaana in the Tower, and Graendal in Arad Doman. Had Graendal been able to see his face then, she would have known real fear. Whatever happened, Sammael intended to be the one still standing on the Day of Return, to be named Nae’blis and defeat the Dragon Reborn.

Turning away from the musicians on the street corner, a perspiring woman puffing at a long flute and a red-faced man plucking a nine-string bittern, Egwene threaded her way through the crowd with a light heart. The sun stood high in the sky, molten gold, and the paving stones were hot enough to burn through the soles of her soft boots. Sweat dripped from her nose, her shawl felt like a heavy blanket even looped loosely over her elbows, and there was enough dust in the air that she already wanted to wash, yet she smiled. Some people eyed her askance, when they thought she was not looking, which almost made her laugh. That was how they looked at Aiel. People saw what they expected to see, and they saw a woman in Aiel garb, never noticing her eyes or her height.