“Forgive me if I’m interrupting,” Vandene began, then frowned. The white-haired Green’s face somehow gave an impression of age despite her Aes Sedai features. Those could have been twenty, or forty, or anything in between: that seemed to change at every blink. Perhaps it was her dark eyes, luminous and deep and pained, which had seen so much. There was an air of tiredness about her, too. Her back was straight, but she still looked weary. “It is none of my business, of course,” she said delicately, “but is there a reason you are holding so much of the Power? I thought you must be weaving something very complex when I felt you in the corridor.”
With a start, Elayne realized that she held nearly as much of saidar as she could contain safely. How had that happened? She did not recall drawing any deeper. Hastily, she released the Source, regret filling her as the Power drained away and the world became . . . ordinary again. On the instant, her mood bounced sideways.
“You aren’t interrupting anything,” she said peevishly, setting her book down on the table in front of her. She had not finished three pages of the thing anyway.
“May I make us private, then?”
Elayne gave a curt nod—it was none of the woman’s bloody business how much of the Power she held; she knew the protocols as well as Elayne, or better—and told Sephanie to wait in the anteroom while Vandene wove a ward against eavesdropping.
Ward or no ward, Vandene waited until the door closed behind the maid before speaking. “Reanne Corly is dead, Elayne.”
“Oh, Light, no.” Temper vanished into sobs, and she hastily snatched a lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve to blot the tears suddenly streaming down her cheeks. Her cursed shifting moods at work, yet Reanne surely deserved tears. She had so wanted to become a Green. “How?” Burn her, she wished she could stop blubbering!
There were no tears from Vandene. Perhaps there were no more tears in her. “She was smothered with the Power. Whoever did it used much more than was needed. The residues of saidar were thick on her and in the room where she was found. The murderer wanted to be sure no one would miss seeing how she died.”
“That makes no sense, Vandene.”
“Perhaps it does. Zarya?”
The Saldaean woman laid her small bundle on the table and unwrapped it to reveal an articulated wooden doll. It was very old, the simple dress threadbare, the painted face flaking and missing an eye, half of its long dark hair gone.
“This belonged to Mirane Larinen,” Zarya said. “Derys Nermala found it behind a cupboard.”
“I don’t see what Mirane leaving a doll behind has to do with Reanne’s death,” Elayne said, wiping her eyes. Mirane was one of the Kinswomen who had run away.
“Only this,” Vandene answered. “When Mirane went to the Tower, she hid this doll outside because she had heard that everything she owned would be burned. After she was put out, she retrieved it and always carried it with her. Always. She had a quirk, though. Wherever she stopped for a time, she hid the doll again. Do not ask me why. But she would not have run away and abandoned it.”
Still dabbing at her eyes, Elayne leaned back in her chair. Her weeping had dwindled to sniffles, but her eyes still leaked tears. “So Mirane didn’t run away. She was murdered and . . . disposed of.” A grisly way to put it. “The others, too, you think? All of them?”
Vandene nodded, and for a moment her slender shoulders slumped. “I very much fear so,” she said, straightening. “I expect clues were left among the things they left behind, treasured keepsakes like this doll, a favorite piece of jewelry. The murderer wanted us to think she was being clever at hiding her crimes but not clever enough, only we weren’t clever enough to find those clues, so she decided to become more blatant.”
“To frighten the Kinswomen into fleeing,” Elayne muttered. That would not cripple her, but it would throw her back on the mercies of the Windfinders, and those seemed to be growing mingy. “How many of them know of this?”
“All, by now, I should think,” Vandene said dryly. “Zarya told Derys to keep quiet, but that woman likes the sound of her own voice.”
“This seems aimed at me, at helping Arymilla gain the throne, but why would a Black sister have any interest in that? I can’t think we have two murderers among us. At least this settles the question of Merilille. Speak with Sumeko and Alise, Vandene. They can make sure the rest don’t panic.” Sumeko ranked next after Reanne, as the Kin ordered their hierarchy, and while Alise stood much lower, she was a woman of great influence. “From now on, none of them is to be alone, not ever. Always at least two together, and three or four would be better. And warn them to be careful of Careane and Sareitha.”
“I’d advise against that,” Vandene said quickly. “They should be safe in groups, and word would reach Careane and Sareitha. Warned against Aes Sedai? The Kin would give themselves away in a minute.” Kirstian and Zarya nodded solemnly.
After a moment, Elayne reluctantly agreed to the continued secrecy. The Kin should be safe in groups. “Let Chanelle know about Reanne and the others. I can’t imagine the Windfinders are in any danger—losing them wouldn’t hurt me the way losing the Kin would—but wouldn’t it be wonderful if they did decide to leave?”
She did not expect that they would—Chanelle feared returning to the Sea Folk with the bargain unfulfilled—yet it would be a bright spot in an otherwise miserable day if they did. At least it seemed unlikely anything could darken the day further. The thought sent a chill through her. The Light send nothing would darken it more.
Arymilla pushed her plate of stew away with a grimace. She had been offered her choice of beds for the night—Arlene, her maid, was making the choice now; the woman knew what she liked—and the least she had expected was a decent meal, but the mutton was fatty, and definitely beginning to go rancid besides. There had been too much of that lately. This time the cook was going to be flogged! She was unsure which of the nobles in this camp employed him, just that he was supposed to be the best at hand—the best!—but that did not matter. He would be flogged to make an example. And then sent away, of course. You could never trust a cook after he had been punished.
The mood in the tent was far from lively. Several of the nobles in the camp had hoped for invitations to dine with her, but none stood high enough. She was beginning to regret not asking one or two, even some of Naean’s or Elenia’s people. They might have been entertaining. Her closest allies at table together, and you might have thought they sat over funeral meats. Oh, scrawny old Nasin, his thinning white hair uncombed, was eating away heartily, apparently not noticing that the meat was nearly rotten, and giving her fatherly pats on the hand. She met his smiles like a dutiful daughter. The fool was wearing one of his flower-embroidered coats tonight. The thing could have passed for a woman’s dressing robe! Happily, his leers were all directed down the table at Elenia; the honey-haired woman flinched, her foxlike face paling whenever she glanced at him. She controlled House Sarand as if she were the High Seat instead of her husband, yet she feared that Arymilla would still let Nasin have his way with her. That threat was unneeded, now, but it was well to have it to hand just in case. Yes, Nasin was happy enough in his futile pursuit of Elenia, but the others were sunk in gloom. Their plates were abandoned barely touched, and they kept her two serving men trotting to refill wine cups. She never liked trusting others’ servants. At leas