cot; slivers of moonlight passing through the fluttering tent flaps were just enough to outline the figure’s form. It was clothed in an unnatural darkness, ribbons of black cloth fluttering behind it, the face obscured by a deep blackness. Sheriam gasped and threw herself from the cot, making obeisance on the canvas tent bottom. There was barely room enough for her to kneel. She cringed, expecting the pain to come upon her again.
“Ah . . .” a rasping voice said. “Very good. You are obedient. I am pleased.”
It wasn’t Halima. Sheriam had never been able to sense Halima, who it appeared had been channeling saidin all along. Also, Halima had never come in such a . . . dramatic way.
Such strength! It seemed likely that this was one of the Chosen. Either that, or at least a very powerful servant of the Great Lord, far above Sheriam. That worried her to the bone, and she trembled as she bowed. “I live to serve, Great Mistress,” Sheriam said quickly. “I, who am blessed to bow before you, to live during these times, to—”
“Stop your babbling,” the voice growled. “You are well placed in this camp, I understand?”
“Yes, Great Mistress,” Sheriam said. “I am the Keeper of the Chronicles.”
The figure sniffed. “Keeper to a ragged bunch of would-be Aes Sedai rebels. But that is no matter. I have need of you.”
“I live to serve, Great Mistress,” Sheriam repeated, growing more worried. What did this creature want of her?
“Egwene al’Vere. She must be deposed.”
“What?” Sheriam asked, startled. A switch of Air cracked against her back, and it burned. Fool! Did she want to get herself killed? “My apologies, Great Mistress,” she said quickly. “Forgive my outburst. But it was by orders from one of the Chosen that I helped raise her as Amyrlin in the first place!”
“Yes, but she has proven to have been a . . . poor choice. We needed a child, not a woman with merely the face of a child. She must be removed. You will make certain this group of foolish rebels stops supporting her. And end those blasted meetings in Tel’aran’rhiod. How is it so many of you get there?”
“We have ter’angreal,” Sheriam said, hesitantly. “Several in the shape of an amber plaque, several others in the shape of an iron disc. Then a handful of rings.”
“Ah, sleepweavers,” the figure said. “Yes, those could be useful. How many?”
Sheriam hesitated. Her first instinct was to lie or hedge—this seemed like information she could hold over the figure. But lying to one of the Chosen? A poor choice. “We had twenty,” Sheriam said truthfully. “But one was with the woman Leane, who was captured. That leaves us with nineteen.” Just enough for Egwene’s meetings in the World of Dreams—one for each of the Sitters and one for Sheriam herself.
“Yes,” the figure hissed, shrouded in darkness. “Useful indeed. Steal the sleepweavers, then give them to me. This rabble has no business treading where the Chosen walk.”
“I. . . .” Steal the ter’angreal? How was she going to manage that? “I live to serve, Great Mistress.”
“Yes you do. Do these things for me, and you will find yourself greatly rewarded. Fail me. . . .” The figure contemplated for a moment. “You have three days. Each of the sleepweavers you fail to acquire in that time will cost you a finger or a toe.” With that, the Chosen opened a gateway right in the middle of the room, then vanished through it. Sheriam caught a glimpse of the familiar tiled hallways of the White Tower on the other side.
Steal the sleepweavers! All nineteen of them? In three days? Darkness above! Sheriam thought. I should have lied about the number we had! Why didn’t I lie?
She remained kneeling, breathing in and out, for a long time, thinking about her predicament. Her period of peace was at an end, it appeared.
It had been brief.
“She will be tried, of course,” Seaine said. The soft-spoken White sat on a chair provided for her by the two Reds guarding Egwene’s cell.
The cell door was open, and Egwene sat on a stool inside—also provided by the Reds. Those two guards, plump Cariandre and stern Patrinda, watched carefully from the hallway, both holding the Source and maintaining Egwene’s shield. They looked as if they expected her to dart away, scrambling for freedom.
Egwene ignored them. Her two days of imprisonment had not been pleasant, but she would suffer them with dignity. Even if they locked her away in a