The Path of Daggers (The Wheel of Time #8)

The Path of Daggers (The Wheel of Time #8) Page 157

“I wrote to you,” he said slowly, and she sniffed.

“Twice! With Asha’man to deliver your letters, you wrote twice, Rand al’Thor. If you call it writing!”

He staggered as if she had slapped him — no; as if she had kicked him in the belly! — and blinked. She took a firm hold on herself and settled against the chairback. Give a man sympathy at the wrong moment, and you never regained the ground lost. A part of her wanted to throw her arms around him, comfort him, draw out all his pains, soothe all his hurts. He had so many, and refused to admit a one. She was not going to spring up and rush to him, gushing to know what was wrong or... Light, he had to be all right.

Something took her gently beneath the elbows and lifted her out of the chair. Blue boots dangling, she floated toward him through the air. The Dragon Scepter floated away from him. So, he thought he could smile, did he? He thought a pretty smile could turn her around? She opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind. A very sharp piece! Folding his arms around her, he kissed her.

When she could breathe again, she peered up at him through her lashes. “The first time... ” She swallowed to clear her voice. “First, Jahar Narishma stalked in trying to stare inside everybody’s skull the way he does, and vanished after handing me a scrap of parchment. Let me see. It said, ‘I have claimed the crown of Illian. Trust no one until I return. Rand.’ A little short of a proper love letter, I’d say.”

He kissed her again.

This time, getting her breath back took longer. This was not going as she had expected at all. On the other hand, it was not going very badly. “The second time, Jonan Adley delivered a bit of paper that said, ‘I will return when I finish here. Trust no one. Rand.’ Adley walked in on me in my bath,” she added, “and he wasn’t shy about getting an eyeful.” Rand always tried to pretend he was not jealous — as if there were a man in the world who was not — but she had noticed his scowls at men who looked at her. And his very considerable ardor was more heated afterward, too. She wondered what this kiss would be like. Maybe she should suggest retiring to the bedchamber? No, she would not be that forward no matter —

Rand set her down, his face suddenly bleak. “Adley’s dead,” he said. Suddenly the crown flew from his head, spinning the length of the room as though hurled. Just when she thought it would crash into the back of the Dragon Throne, perhaps smash through it, the wide ring of gold stopped short and settled slowly onto the throne’s seat.

Min’s breath caught as she looked up at him. Blood glistened in the dark red curls above his left ear. Pulling a laceedged handkerchief from her sleeve, she reached for his temple, but he caught her wrist.

“I killed him,” he said quietly.

She shivered at the sound of his voice. Quiet, the way the grave was quiet. Perhaps the bedchamber was a very good idea. No matter how forward it was. Making herself smile — and blushing when she realized how easy it was to smile, thinking of that huge bed — she gripped the front of his shirt, preparing to rip shirt and coat from his back right then and there.

Someone knocked at the doors.

Min’s hands sprang away from Rand’s shirt. She sprang away, too. Who could it be, she wondered irritably. The Maidens either announced visitors when Rand was there, or simply sent them in.

“Come,” he said loudly, giving her a rueful smile. And she blushed again at that.

Dobraine put his head in at the door, then entered and shut the door behind him when he saw them standing together. The Cairhienin lord was a small man, little taller than she, with the front of his head shaved and the rest of his mostly gray hair falling to his shoulders. Stripes of blue and white decorated the front of his nearly black coat to below his waist. Even before gaining Rand’s favor he had been a power in the land. Now, he ruled here, at least until Elayne could claim the Sun Throne. “My Lord Dragon,” he murmured, bowing. “My Lady Ta’veren.”

“A joke,” Min muttered, when Rand quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Perhaps,” Dobraine said, shrugging slightly, “yet half the noblewomen in the city now wear bright colors in imitation of the Lady Min. Breeches that display their legs, and many in coats that do not even cover their... ” He coughed discreetly, realizing that Min’s coat did not cover her hips completely.

She thought about telling him he had very pretty legs, even if they were decidedly knobby, then quickly thought better. Rand’s jealousy might be a wonderful flame if they were alone, but she did not want him striking out at Dobraine. He was capable of that, she feared. Besides, she thought it really was a slip; Lord Dobraine Taborwin was not the sort to make even slightly rough jokes.

“So you’re changing the world, too, Min.” Grinning, Rand tapped the tip of her nose with a finger. He tapped her nose! Like a child he was amused with! Worse, she felt herself grinning back at him like a fool. “In better ways than I am, it appears,” he went on, and that momentary boyish grin faded like mist.

“Is all well in Tear and Illian, my Lord Dragon?” Dobraine inquired.

“In Tear and Illian, all is well,” Rand replied grimly. “What do you have for me, Dobraine? Sit, man. Sit.” He motioned toward the rows of chairs, and took one for himself.

“I have acted on all of your letters,” Dobraine said, seating himself across from Rand, “but there is little good to report, I fear.”

“I’ll get us something to drink,” Min said in a tight voice. Letters? It was not easy to stalk in heeled boots — she had grown accustomed to them, but the things made you sway whatever you did — not easy, yet enough anger made anything possible. She stalked to the small gilded table beneath one of the huge mirrors where a silver pitcher and goblets sat. She busied herself with pouring spiced wine, splashing it out furiously. The servants always brought extra goblets, in case she had visitors, though she seldom did except for Sorilea or a fool lot of noblewomen. The wine was barely warm, but it was more than hot enough for the likes of that pair. She had received two letters, but she would bet Dobraine had had ten! Twenty! Banging pitcher and goblets about, she listened carefully. What had they been up to behind her back with their dozens of letters?

“Toram Riatin appears to have vanished,” Dobraine said, “though rumor, at least, says he still lives, worse luck. Rumors also say that Daved Hanlon and Jeraal Mordeth — Padan Fain, as you call the man — have deserted him. By the way, I have settled Toram’s sister, the Lady Ailil, in generous apartments, with servants who are... trustworthy.” By his tone, he clearly meant trustworthy toward himself. The woman would not be able to change her dress without him knowing. “I can understand bringing her here, and Lord Bertome and the others, but why High Lord Weiramon, or High Lady Anaiyella? It goes without saying, of course, that their servants al