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

The Path of Daggers (The Wheel of Time #8) Page 162

“Do what I told you,” Rand said.

Dashiva gave a jerk as if coming back to himself, then seized the Source. The wide door, carved in vertical lines, swung open with a bang on a flow of Air. The other three took hold of saidin and followed Dashiva in, faces grim.

“The Dragon Reborn,” Dashiva’s voice sounded loud, magnified slightly by the Power, “the King of Illian, the Lord of the Morning, comes to see the woman, Cadsuane Melaidhrin.”

Rand stepped in, standing tall. He did not recognize the other weave Dashiva had created, but the air seemed to hum with menace, a sense of something inexorable approaching, drawing ever nearer.

“I sent for you, Cadsuane,” Rand said. He did not use weaves. His voice was hard and flat enough without aid.

The Green sister he remembered sat beside a small table with an embroidery hoop in her hands, an opened basket on the polished tabletop spilling out skeins of bright thread from some of its many compartments. She was exactly as he remembered. That strong face topped by an irongray bun decorated with small dangling golden fish and birds, stars and moons. Those dark eyes, seeming almost black in her fair face. Cool, considering eyes. Lews Therin gave a wail and fled at the sight of her.

“Well,” she said, setting the embroidery hoop on the table, “I must say I’ve seen better without paying. With all I’ve been hearing about you, boy, the least I expected was peals of thunder, trumpets in the heavens, flashing lights in the sky.” Calmly, she regarded the five stonefaced men who could channel, which should have been enough to make any Aes Sedai flinch. Calmly, she regarded the Dragon Reborn. “I hope one of you is at least going to juggle,” she said. “Or eat fire? I’ve always enjoyed watching gleemen eat fire.”

Flinn barked a laugh before catching himself, and even then raked a hand through his fringe of hair and seemed to be struggling with amusement. Morr and Hopwil exchanged looks both puzzled and more than a little outraged. Dashiva smiled unpleasantly, and the weave he was holding grew stronger, until Rand felt as if he wanted to look over his shoulder to see what was rushing toward him.

“It is enough that you know I am who I am,” Rand told her. “Dashiva, all of you, wait outside.”

Dashiva opened his mouth as if to protest. That had not been part of Rand’s instructions, but they were not going to overawe the woman, not this way. The man went, though, muttering to himself. Hopwil and Morr actually stepped out eagerly, with sidelong glances at Cadsuane. Flinn was the only one to make a dignified withdrawal, in spite of his limp. And he still seemed amused!

Rand channeled, and a heavy, leopardcarved chair floated into the air from its place by the wall, spinning end over end in somersaults before settling like a feather in front of Cadsuane. At the same time, a heavy silver pitcher drifted up from a long, draped table across the room, making a loud ping as it was suddenly heated; steam gushed from the top, and it tipped over, whirling round and round like a slow top, as a silver cup darted up to neatly catch the dark pouring.

“Too hot, I think,” Rand said, and the glassed casements leaped from the tall, narrow windows. Snowflakes billowed in on an icy blast, and the cup soared out through one of the windows, soared back again, straight to his hand as he sat himself. Let her see how calm she could stay with a madman staring at her. The dark liquid was tea, too strong after his boiling, and bitter enough to set his teeth on edge. But the warmth was just right. His skin pebbled in the gusts howling into the room and flapping tapestries against the walls, but in the Void, that was far away, someone else’s skin.

“The Laurel Crown is prettier than some,” Cadsuane said with a faint smile. Her hair ornaments swayed whenever the wind rose, and small wisps flailed about her bun, but the only notice she took was to catch her embroidery hoop just before it was blown from the table. “I prefer that name. But you can’t expect me to be impressed by crowns. I’ve paddled the bottoms of two reigning kings and three queens. Not sitting rulers, you understand, once I was done with them, not for a day or so, but it did get their attention. You can see why crowns don’t impress me, though.”

Rand eased his jaw. Grinding his teeth would not help. He widened his eyes, hoping he looked insane instead of simply furious. “Most Aes Sedai avoid the Sun Palace,” he told her. “Except for those who have sworn fealty to me. And those I hold prisoner.” Light, what was he to do with those? As long as the Wise Ones kept them out of his hair, all was well enough.

“The Aiel seem to think I should come and go as I please,” she said absently, eyeing the hoop in her hand as if thinking of taking up her needle again. “A matter of some trifling help I gave some boy or other. Though why anyone but his mother should think him worth it, I can hardly say.”

Rand made another effort not to grind his teeth. The woman had saved his life. Her and Damer Flinn between them, and plenty of others in the bargain, Min among them. But he still owed Cadsuane something for that. Burn her. “I want you to be my advisor. I’m King of Illian now, and kings have Aes Sedai advisors.”

She gave his crown a dismissive glance. “Certainly not. An advisor has to stand and watch her charge make a muddle much too often to suit me. She also has to take orders, something I am particularly bad at. Won’t someone else do? Alanna, perhaps?”

Despite himself, Rand sat up straight. Did she know about the bond? Merana had said it was hard to keep anything from her. No; he could worry later about how much his “faithful” Aes Sedai were telling Cadsuane. Light, he wished Min could be wrong for once. But he would believe himself breathing water, first. “I... ” He could not make himself tell her that he needed her. No halter! “What if you didn’t have to swear any oaths?”

“I suppose that might work,” she said doubtfully, peering at her cursed stitchery. Her eyes rose to his. Considering. “You sound... uneasy. I don’t like to tell a man he’s afraid even when he has reason to be. Uneasy over a sister you haven’t turned into a tame lapdog snaring you in some fashion? Let me see. I can make you a few promises; perhaps they will set your mind at rest. I expect you to listen, of course — make me waste my breath, and you’ll yelp for it — but I won’t make you do what I want. I won’t tolerate anyone lying to me, certainly — that’s another thing you’ll find decidedly uncomfortable — but I don’t expect you to tell me the deepest yearnings of your heart, either. Oh, yes. Whatever I do, it will be for your own good; not mine, not the good of the White Tower, yours. Now, does that ease your fears? Pard