The Gathering Storm - By Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson Page 0,247

believed that he would kill Cadsuane if he saw her face again, and thinking of the moment still gave her shivers. Surely it had been her imagination, but the room had seemed to darken distinctly at that moment, as if a cloud had passed over the sun.

Rand al’Thor had grown unpredictable. His explosion of temper at Nynaeve herself a few days ago was just another example. Of course, he would never exile or threaten her, despite what he had said. He wasn’t that hard. Was he?

She reached the bottom of the stone steps, walking out onto a boardwalk stained with the mud of evening traffic. She pulled her shawl close. Huddled people clustered on the other side of the street. The shop entrances and alleyways there offered protection from the wind.

She heard a child cough among a distant group. She froze, then heard the cough again. It was not an easy sound. Muttering, she crossed the street, then forced her way through the refugees, holding up her lantern to illuminate one group of drowsy people after another. Many had the coppery skin of the Domani, but there were a fair number of Taraboners as well. And . . . were those Saldaeans? That was unexpected.

Most of the refugees lay in ragged blankets next to their meager possessions. A pot here, a quilt there. One young girl had a small cloth doll that might have once been fine, but had now lost one of its arms. Rand certainly was effective at subduing countries, but his kingdoms needed more than just handouts of grain. They needed stability, and they needed something—someone—they could believe in. Rand was getting increasingly bad at offering either one.

Where was the source of that cough? Few of the refugees spoke to her, and they were hesitant to answer her questions. When she finally found the boy, she was more than a little annoyed. His parents had made their beds in a hollow between two wooden shops, and as Nynaeve approached, the father stood up to confront her. He was a scruffy Domani with a dark, ragged beard and a thick mustache that might have once been trimmed to Domani fashion. He wore no coat, and his shirt was nearly in tatters.

Nynaeve stared him down with a look she had learned long before her days as an Aes Sedai. Honestly, men could be so foolish! His son was likely dying, and yet he confronted one of the few people in the city who could help. The wife had more sense, which was usually the case. She laid a hand on her husband’s leg, causing him to glance down. He finally turned away with a quiet mutter.

The wife’s features were difficult to see through the grime on her face. The dirt was streaked with tear lines on her cheeks; she had obviously had a difficult couple of nights.

Nynaeve knelt—ignoring the looming father—then pulled back the blanket from the face of the child in the woman’s arms. Sure enough, he was gaunt and pale, and his eyes fluttered open in some delusion.

“How long has he been coughing?” Nynaeve said, pulling a few packets of herbs out of the pouch at her side. She didn’t have much, but they would have to do.

“A week now, Lady,” the woman replied.

Nynaeve tsked in annoyance, pointing toward a nearby tin cup. “Fill that,” she snapped at the father. “You are lucky the boy has survived this long with the white shakes; he likely wouldn’t live the night without intervention.”

Despite his earlier reluctance, the father hastened to obey, filling the cup from a nearby barrel. At least there wasn’t a lack of water here, with the frequent rains.

Nynaeve took the cup and mixed the acem and feverbane in it, then wove a thread of Fire and heated the water. It started steaming faintly, and the father muttered some more. Nynaeve shook her head; she’d always heard that the Domani were pragmatic people when it came to use of the One Power. The unrest in the city must really be getting to them.

“Drink,” she said to the boy, kneeling down and using all five Powers in a complex weave of Healing that she used instinctively. Her ability had awed some of the other Aes Sedai, but had earned her scorn from others. Either way, her method worked, even if she couldn’t explain how she did what she did. That was one of the blessings and the curses of being a wilder; she could do things by instinct