Shadow Rising, The (91 page)

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Authors: Robert Jordan

BOOK: Shadow Rising, The
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Once the two men had wrung the smuggler dry, Nynaeve summoned Rendra to bring pen and ink and paper, and wrote out a list describing each of the Black sisters. Holding the sheets gingerly in one big hand, Domon frowned at them uneasily, as though they were the women themselves, but he promised to have such of his men as were in port keep their eyes open. When Nynaeve reminded him that they all should take extreme care, he laughed the way he would had she told him not to run himself through with a sword.
Juilin left on Domon’s heels, twirling his pale staff and saying night was the best time to find thieves and people who lived off thieves. Nynaeve announced she was retiring to her room—
her
room—to lie down awhile. She looked a bit unsteady, and suddenly Elayne realized why. Nynaeve had become used to
Wavedancer
’s heaving; now she was having trouble with the ground
not
heaving. The woman’s stomach was not a pleasant traveling companion.
She herself followed Thom down to the common room, where he had promised Rendra he would perform. For a wonder she found a bench at an empty table, and cool looks sufficed to ward off the men who suddenly seemed to want to sit there. Rendra brought her a silver cup of wine, and she sipped as she listened to Thom play his harp, singing love songs like “The First Rose of Summer” and “The Wind That Shakes the Willow,” and funny songs like “Only One Boot” and “The Old Gray Goose.” His listeners were appreciative, slapping the tables for applause. After a while Elayne slapped hers, too. She had not drunk more than half her wine, but a handsome young serving man smiled at her and filled it up. It was all strangely exciting. In her whole life she had not been in an inn’s common room half a dozen times, and never to sip wine and be entertained like one of the common people.
Flourishing his cloak to set the multihued patches fluttering, Thom told stories—“Mara and the Three Foolish Kings,” and several tales about Anla, the Wise Counselor—and recited a long stretch of
The Great Hunt of the Horn
, reciting it so that horses seemed to prance and trumpets blare in the common room, and men and women fought and loved and died. On into the night he sang and recited, only pausing now and then to wet his throat with a sip of wine as the patrons eagerly clamored for more. The woman who had been playing the dulcimer sat in a corner with her instrument on her knees and a sour expression on her face. People often tossed
coins to Thom—he had enlisted a small boy to gather them up—and it was unlikely they had produced as much for her music.
It all seemed to suit Thom, the harp, and especially the recital. Well, he was a gleeman, but it seemed more than that. Elayne could have sworn she had heard him recite
The Great Hunt
before, but in High Chant, not Plain. How could that be? He was just a simple old gleeman.
Finally, in the deep hours of the night, Thom bowed with a last sweeping flourish of his cloak and headed for the stairs amid great slapping of tables. Elayne slapped hers as vigorously as anyone.
Rising to follow, she slipped and sat back down hard, frowning at her silver winecup. It was full. Surely she had drunk a little. She felt dizzy for some reason. Yes. That sweet young man with those melting brown eyes had refilled her cup—how many times? Not that it mattered. She never drank more than one cup of wine. Never. It was being off
Wavedancer
and back on dry land. She was reacting like Nynaeve. That was all.
Getting carefully to her feet—and refusing the sweet young man’s most solicitous offer of help—she managed to climb the stairs despite the way they swayed. Not stopping at the second floor, where her and Nynaeve’s room was, she went up to the third and knocked on Thom’s door. He opened it slowly, peering out suspiciously. He seemed to have a knife in his hand, and then it was gone. Strange. She seized one of his long white mustaches.
“I remember,” she said. Her tongue did not seem to be working properly; the words sounded … fuzzy. “I was sitting on your knee, and I pulled your mustache …” She gave it a yank to demonstrate, and he winced. “ … and my mother leaned over your shoulder and laughed at me.”
“I think it best you go to your room,” he said, trying to pry her hand free. “I think you need some sleep.”
She refused to let go. In fact, she seemed to have pushed him back into his room. By his mustache. “My mother sat on your knee, too. I saw it. I remember.”
“Sleep is the thing, Elayne. You will feel better in the morning.” He managed to get her hand loose and tried ushering her to the door, but she slipped around him. The bed had no posts. If she had a bedpost to hold on to, perhaps the room would stop tilting back and forth.
“I want to know why Mother sat on your knee.” He stepped back, and she realized she was reaching for his mustache again. “You’re a gleeman. My mother would not sit on a gleeman’s knee.”
“Go to bed, child.”
“I am
not
a child!” She stamped her foot angrily, and almost fell. The floor was lower than it looked. “Not a child. You will tell me. Now!”
Thom sighed and shook his head. At last he said stiffly, “I was not always a gleeman. I was a bard, once. A Court-bard. In Caemlyn, as it happens. For Queen Morgase. You were a child. You are just remembering things wrong, that’s all.”
“You were her lover, weren’t you?” The flinch of his eyes was enough. “You were! I always knew about Gareth Bryne. At least, I figured it out. But I always hoped she would marry him. Gareth Bryne, and you, and this Lord Gaebril Mat said she looks calf-eyes at now, and … . How many more? How many? What makes her any different from Berelain, tripping every man who catches her eye into her bed. She is no different—” Her vision shivered, and her head rang. It took her a moment to realize he had slapped her.
Slapped
her! She drew herself up, wishing he would not sway. “How dare you? I am Daughter-Heir of Andor, and I will not be—”
“You are a little girl with a skinful of wine throwing a temper tantrum,” he snapped. “And if I ever hear you say anything like that about Morgase again, drunk or sober, I’ll put you over my knee however you channel! Morgase is a fine woman, as good as any there is!”
“Is she?” Her voice quavered, and she realized she was crying. “Then why did she—? Why—?” Somehow she had her face buried against his coat, and he was smoothing her hair.
“Because it is lonely being a queen,” he said softly. “Because most men attracted to a queen see power, not a woman. I saw a woman, and she knew it. I suppose Bryne saw the same in her, and this Gaebril, too. You have to understand, child. Everyone wants someone in their life, someone who cares for them, someone they can care for. Even a queen.”
“Why did you go away?” she mumbled into his chest. “You made me laugh. I remember that. You made her laugh, too. And you rode me on your shoulder.”
“A long story.” He sighed painfully. “I will tell you another time. If you ask. With luck, you’ll forget this by morning. It’s time for you to go to bed, Elayne.”
He guided her to the door, and she took the opportunity to tug at his mustache again. “Like that,” she said with satisfaction. “I used to pull it just like that.”
“Yes, you did. Can you make it downstairs by yourself?”
“Of course I can.” She gave him her haughtiest stare, but he looked readier than ever to follow her into the hall. To prove there was no need,
she walked—carefully—as far as the head of the stairs. He was still frowning at her worriedly from the doorway when she started down.
Luckily she did not stumble until she was out of his sight, but she did walk right by her door and had to come back. Something must have been wrong with that apple jelly; she knew she should not have eaten so much of it. Lini always said … . She could not remember what it was Lini said, but something about eating too many sweets.
There were two lamps burning in the room, one on the small round table by the bed and the other on the white-plastered mantel above the brick fireplace. Nynaeve lay stretched out on the bed atop the coverlet, fully dressed. With her elbows stuck out, Elayne noted.
She said the first thing that came into her head. “Rand must think I’m crazy, Thom is a bard, and Morgase isn’t my mother after all.” Nynaeve gave her the oddest look. “I am a little dizzy for some reason. A nice boy with sweet brown eyes offered to help me upstairs.”
“I will wager he did,” Nynaeve said, biting off each word. Rising, she came to put an arm around Elayne’s shoulders. “Come over here a moment. There’s something I think you should see.” It appeared to be a bucket of extra water by the washstand. “Here. We’ll both kneel down so you can look.”
Elayne did, but there was nothing in the bucket but her own reflection in the water. She wondered why she was grinning that way. Then Nynaeve’s hand went to the back of her neck, and her head was in the water.
Flailing her hands, she tried to straighten up, but Nynaeve’s arm was like an iron bar. You were supposed to hold your breath under water. Elayne knew you were. She just could not remember how. All she could do was flail and gurgle and choke.
Nynaeve hauled her up, water streaming down her face, and she filled her lungs. “How dare—you,” she gasped. “I am—the Daughter-Heir of—” She managed to get out one wail before her head went back in with a splash. Seizing the bucket with both hands and pushing did no good. Drumming her feet on the floor did no good. She was going to drown. Nynaeve was going to drown her.
After an Age she was back out in the air again. Sodden strands of hair hung all across her face. “I think,” she said in the steadiest voice she could find, “that I am going to sick up.”
Nynaeve got the big white-glazed basin down from the washstand just in time, and held Elayne’s head while she brought up everything she had ever eaten in her life. A year later—well, hours anyway; it seemed that
long—Nynaeve was washing her face and wiping her mouth, bathing her hands and wrists. There was nothing solicitous in her voice, though.
“How could you do this? Whatever possessed you? I might expect a fool man to drink until he can’t stand, but you! And tonight.”
“I only had one cup,” Elayne muttered. Even with that young man refilling it, she could not have had more than two. Surely not.
“A cup the size of a pitcher.” Nynaeve sniffed, helping her to her feet. Hauling her, really. “Can you stay awake? I am going to look for Egwene, and I still don’t trust myself to get out of
Tel’aran’rhiod
without someone to wake me.”
Elayne blinked at her. They had looked for Egwene, unsuccessfully, every night since she had disappeared so abruptly out of that meeting in the Heart of the Stone. “Stay awake? Nynaeve, it is my turn to look, and better it’s me. You know you cannot channel unless you are angry, and … .” She realized the other woman was surrounded by the glow of
saidar.
And had been for some time, she thought. Her own head felt stuffed full of wool; thought had to burrow through. She could barely sense the True Source. “Maybe you had better go. I will stay awake.”
Nynaeve frowned at her, but finally nodded. Elayne tried to help undress her, but her fingers did not seem to work very well when it came to those little buttons. Grumping under her breath, Nynaeve managed on her own. In only her shift, she threaded the twisted stone ring onto the leather cord she wore hanging around her neck, alongside a man’s ring, heavy and golden. That was Lan’s ring; Nynaeve always wore it between her breasts.
Elayne pulled a low wooden stool over beside the bed while Nynaeve stretched out again. She did feel rather sleepy, but she would not fall asleep sitting on that. The problem seemed to be not falling on the floor. “I will judge an hour and wake you.”
Nynaeve nodded, then closed her eyes, both hands clutched around the two rings. After a time her breathing deepened.
 
 
The Heart of the Stone was quite empty. Peering into the dimness among the great columns, Nynaeve had circled
Callandor
, sparkling out of the floorstones, completely before she realized she was still in her shift, the leather cord dangling about her neck with the two rings. She frowned, and after a moment she was wearing a Two Rivers dress of good brown wool, and stout shoes. Elayne and Egwene both seemed to find this sort of thing easy, but it was not easy for her. There had been embarrassing moments in
earlier visits to
Tel’aran’rhiod
, mostly after stray thoughts of Lan, but changing her garb deliberately took concentration. Just that—remembering—and her dress was silk, and as transparent as Rendra’s veil. Berelain would have blushed. So did Nynaeve, thinking of Lan seeing her in it. It took an effort to bring the brown wool back.
Worse, her anger had faded—that fool girl; did she not realize what happened when you drank too much wine? Had she never been alone in a common room before? Well, possibly she had not—and the True Source might as well not exist so far as she was concerned. Perhaps it would not matter. Uneasy, she stared into the forest of huge redstone columns, turning in one spot. What had made Egwene leave here abruptly?
The Stone was silent, with a hollow emptiness. She could hear the blood rushing in her own ears. Yet the skin between her shoulder blades prickled as if someone were watching her.
“Egwene?” Her shout echoed in the silence among the columns. “Egwene?” Nothing.

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