If for them, why not for Egwene? She put that aside. The child behaved wretchedly, snapping at the most obvious suggestions, objecting to the most sensible things. Even when it was plain what they should do, Egwene wanted to be convinced. Nynaeve was not used to having to convince people, especially not people she had changed swaddling clothes for. The fact that she was only a matter of seven years older than Egwene was of no account.
It is all those bad dreams, she told herself. I cannot understand what they mean, and now Elayne and I are having them, too, and I do not know what that means either, and Sandar won't say anything except that he is still looking, and I am so frustrated I... I could just spit! She jerked her braid so hard it hurt. At least she had been able to convince Egwene not to use the ter'angreal again, to put the thing back in her pouch instead of wearing it next to her skin always. If the Black Ajah was in Tel'aran'rhiod... She did not want to think about that possibility. We will find them!
“I will bring them down,” she muttered. “Trying to sell me like a sheep! Hunting me like an animal! I am the hunter this time, not the rabbit! That Moiraine! If she had never come to Emond's Field, I could have taught Egwene enough. And Rand ... I could have... I could have done something.” That she knew neither was true did not help; it made it worse. She hated Moiraine almost as much as she hated Liandrin and the Black Ajah, maybe as much as she hated the Seanchan.
She rounded a corner, and Juilin Sandar had to leap out of her way to keep from being trampled. Even used to them as he was, he nearly tripped over his own clogs, only his staff saving him from falling on his face in the mud. That pale, ridged wood was called bamboo, she had learned, and it was stronger than it looked.
“Mistress — uh — Mistress Maryim,” Sandar said, regaining his balance. “I was... looking for you.” He flashed her a nervous smile. “Are you angry? Why are you frowning at me that way?”
She smoothed her forehead. “I was not frowning at you, Master Sandar. The butcher... It does not matter. Why are you looking for me?” Her breath caught. “Have you found them?”
He looked around as if he suspected the passersby of trying to listen. “Yes. Yes, you must come back with me. The others are waiting. The others. And Mother Guenna.”
“Why are you so nervous? You did not let them discover your interest?” she said sharply. “What has frightened you?”
“No! No, mistress. I — I did not reveal myself.” His eyes darted again, and he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a breathy, urgent whisper. “These women you seek, they are in the Stone! Guests of a High Lord! The High Lord Samon! Why did you call them thieves? The High Lord Samon!” he almost squeaked. There was sweat on his face.
Inside the Stone! With a High Lord! Light, how do we reach them now? She suppressed her impatience with an effort. “Be easy,” she said soothingly. “Be at ease, Master Sandar. We can explain everything to your satisfaction.” I hope we can. Light, if he goes running to the Stone to tell this High Lord we are searching for them... “Come with me to Mother Guenna's house. Joslyn, Caryla, and I will explain it all to you. Truly. Come.”
He gave a short, uneasy nod, and walked alongside her, keeping his pace to what she could manage with the clogs. He looked as if he wanted to run.
At the Wise Woman's house, she hurried around to the back. No one ever used the front door, that she had seen, not even Mother Guenna herself. The horses were tied to a bamboo hitching rail, now — well away from Ailhuin's new figs as well as her vegetables — with their saddles and bridles stored inside. For once she did not stop to pat Gaidin's nose and tell him he was a good boy, and more sensible than his namesake. Sandar halted to scrape mud from his clogs with the butt of his staff, but she hurried inside.
Ailhuin Guenna was sitting in one of her highbacked chairs pulled out into the room, her arms at her sides. The grayhaired woman's eyes were bulging with anger and fear, and she struggled furiously without moving a muscle. Nynaeve did not need to sense the subtle weaving of Air to know what had happened. Light, they've found us! Burn you, Sandar!
Rage flooded her, washed away the walls inside that usually kept her from the Power, and as the basket fell from her hands, she was a white blossom on a blackthorn bush, opening to embrace saidar, opening... It was as if she had run into another wall, a wall of clear glass; she could feel the True Source, but the wall stopped everything except the ache to be filled with the One Power.
The basket hit the floor, and as it bounced, the door behind her opened and Liandrin stepped in, followed by a blackhaired woman with a white streak above her left ear. They wore long, colorful silk dresses cut to bare their shoulders, and the glow of saidar surrounded them.
Liandrin smoothed her red dress and smiled with that pouting rosebud mouth. Her doll's face was filled with amusement. “You see, do you not, wilder,” she began, “you have no — ”
Nynaeve hit her in the mouth as hard as she could. Light, I have to get away. She backhanded Rianna so hard the blackhaired woman fell on her silkcovered rump with a grunt. They must have the others, but if I can make it out the door, if I can get far enough away they can't shield me, I can do something. She pushed Liandrin hard, shoving her away from the door. Just let me escape their shielding, and I'll...
Blows hit her from every side, like fists and sticks, pummeling her. Neither Liandrin, blood trickling from a corner of her nowgrim mouth, nor Rianna, her hair as disarrayed as her green dress, lifted a hand. Nynaeve could feel the flows of Air weaving about her as well as she could feel the blows themselves. She still struggled to reach the door, but she realized that she was on her knees, now, and the unseen blows would not stop, invisible sticks and fists striking at her back and her stomach, her head and her hips, her shoulders, her breasts, her legs, her head. Groaning, she fell into her side and curled into a ball, trying to protect herself. Oh, Light, I tried. Egwene! Elayne! I tried! I will not cry out! Burn you, you can beat me to death, but I won't cry!
The blows stopped, but Nynaeve could not stop quivering. She felt bruised and battered from crown to toe.
Liandrin crouched beside her, arms around her knees, silk rustling against silk. She had wiped the blood away from her mouth. Her dark eyes were hard, and there was no amusement on her face now. “Perhaps you are too stupid to know when you are defeated, wilder. You fought almost as wildly as that other foolish girl, that Egwene. She almost went mad. You must all learn to submit. You wi