“Ah, to see the M’Hael, is it? And of what Ajahs should I say?”
“The Red,” Pevara replied and watched him blink. Very satisfying. But not very helpful.
“The Red,” he said flatly. He had not remained startled very long. “Well, then. Enkazin, al’Seen, you keep watch while I see what the M’Hael has to say to this.”
He turned his back, and the vertical silvery slash of a gateway appeared in front of him, widening into an opening no larger than a door. Was that as large as he could make? There had been some discussion whether to bond men who were as strong as possible or those who were weak. The weak might be more easily controlled, while the strong might—would definitely—be more useful. They had reached no consensus; each sister would have to decide for herself. He darted through the gateway and closed it before she had a chance to see more than a white stone platform with steps leading up one side and a squared-off black stone that might have been one of the building blocks for the wall, polished till it shone in the sun, sitting atop it.
The two who remained stayed in the middle of the double arch as if to bar the sisters from riding in. One was a Saldaean, a skinny broad-nosed man just short of his middle years who had something of the look of a clerk about him, a bit of a stoop as from hunching for long hours over a writing table, the other a boy, little more than a child, who raked dark hair out of his eyes with his fingers though the breeze quickly put it back again. Neither seemed the slightest uneasy over confronting six sisters alone. If they were alone. Were there others in those towers? Pevara refrained from glancing at the tower tops.
“You there, boy,” Desala said in a voice like chimes. Chimes tinged with anger. The surest way to set off her temper was to harm a child. “You should be at home with your mother studying your letters. What are you doing here?” The boy flushed bright red and raked hair from his face again.
“Saml’s all right, Aes Sedai,” the Saldaean said, patting the boy’s shoulder. “He’s a quick learner, and you don’t need to show him anything twice before he knows it.” The boy stood up very straight, pride on his face, and tucked his thumbs behind his sword belt. A sword, at his age! True, a noble’s son would have been learning the sword for several years at Saml al’Seen’s age, but he would not be allowed to wear the thing about!
“Pevara,” Tarna said coolly, “no children. I knew they had children here, but no children.”
“Light!” Melare breathed. Her white mare sensed her agitation and tossed her head. “Certainly no children!” “That would be an abomination,” Jezrail said.
“No children,” Pevara agreed quickly. “I think we should wait to say more until we see Master . . . the M’Hael.” Javindhra sniffed.
“No children what, Aes Sedai?” Enkazin asked, frowning. “No children what?” he said again when no one answered.
He no longer appeared so much like a clerk. The stoop remained, but something in his tilted eyes suddenly seemed . . . dangerous. Was he holding the male half of the Power? The possibility sent a chill down Pevara’s spine, but she resisted the desire to embrace saidar. Some men who could channel seemed able to sense when a woman was holding the Power. Enkazin looked like he might be hasty, now.
They waited in silence except for the occasional stamp of a hoof, Pevara schooling herself to patience, Javindhra grumbling under her breath. Pevara could not make out the words, but she knew grumbling when she heard it. Tarna and Jezrail took books from their saddlebags and read. Good. Let these Asha’man see that they were unconcerned. Only, not even the boy seemed impressed. He and the Saldaean just stood there in the middle of the gate watching, hardly blinking.
After perhaps half an hour, a larger gateway opened and the Murandian strode through. “The M’Hael will be receiving you at the palace, Aes Sedai. Go on through.” He jerked his head toward the opening.
“You will show us the way?” Pevara said, dismounting. The gateway was larger, but she would have had to crouch to ride through.
“There’ll be someone the other side to guide you.” He barked a laugh. “The M’Hael doesn’t associate with the likes of me.” Pevara filed that away to chew over later.
As soon as the last of them was through, near the white stone platform with its mirror-bright black stone, the gateway winked shut, but they were not alone. Four men and two women in rough woolens took the reins of their horses, and a dark, heavyset man with both the silver sword and a sinuous red-and-gold figure, a dragon, on his tall black collar gave them a minimal bow.
“Follow me,” he said curtly in a Tairen accent. His eyes were like augers.
The palace the Murandian had spoken of was just that, two stories of white marble topped with pointed domes and spires in the style of Saldaea, separated from a large space of bare, hard-packed ground by the white platform. It was not large among palaces, but most nobles lived in buildings far smaller and less grand. Broad stone stairs rose to a wide landing in front of tall twinned doors. Each bore a gauntleted fist gripping three lightning bolts, carved large and gilded. Those doors swung open before the Tairen reached them, but there were no servants in evidence. The man must have channeled. Pevara felt that chill again. Javindhra muttered under her breath. With a sound of prayer, this time.
The palace might have belonged to any noble with a taste for tapestries showing battles and red-and-black floor tiles, except that there were no servants in evidence. He had servants, though unfortunately no Red Ajah eyes-and-ears among them, but did he expect them to remain out of sight when not needed or had he ordered them from the halls? Perhaps to avoid having anyone see six Aes Sedai arrive. That line of reasoning ran toward thoughts she would rather not consider. She had acknowledged the dangers before leaving the White Tower. There was no point dwelling on them.
The chamber the Tairen led them to was a throne room, where a ring of spiral-cut black columns supported what must have been the palace’s largest dome, its interior layered with gilt and half filled with gilded lamps hanging on gilded chains. Tall mirrored stand-lamps stood along the curved walls, too. Perhaps a hundred men in black coats were standing to either side of the room. Every man she could see wore the sword and the dragon, men with hard faces, leering faces, cruel faces. Their eyes focused on her and the other sisters.
The Tairen did not announce them, but rather simply joined the mass of Asha’man and left them to make their own way across the room. The floor tiles were red and black here, too. Taim must particularly like those colors. The man himself was lounging on what could only be called a throne, a massive chair as heavily carved and gilded as any throne she had seen, atop a white marble dais. Pevara focused on him, and not only to avoid feeling all those eyes of men who co