the cell door on Milisair Chadmar. Nynaeve would see that the woman’s conditions were improved. Despicable human being or not, she should not be treated this way. Rand would have to understand that when she explained it to him. Why, Milisair looked so pale she might be coming down with the shakes! Absently, Nynaeve walked to the viewing slit at the top of the cell door, then wove a Delving of Spirit to make certain the woman was not ill.
As soon as she began the Delving, Nynaeve froze. She had expected to find Milisair’s body taxed by exhaustion. She had expected to find disease, perhaps hunger.
She had not expected to find poison.
Cursing, suddenly alert, Nynaeve threw open the cell door and rushed inside. Yes, she could see it easily through the Delving. Tarchrot leaf. Nynaeve herself had given that to a hound who had needed to be put down. It was a common enough plant, and had a very bitter flavor. Not the best poison, as it had such an unpleasant taste, and yet had to be ingested.
Yes, it was a bad poison—unless the person you were poisoning was already captive and had no choice but to eat the food you gave her. Nynaeve began a Healing, weaving all five Powers, strangling the poison and strengthening Milisair’s body. It was a relatively easy Healing, as tarchrot leaf wasn’t particularly strong. You either had to use a lot of it—as she had with the hound—or you had to administer it several times for it to take effect. But if you did it slowly like that, the person you killed with it would seem to die naturally.
Once Milisair was safe, Nynaeve burst from the cell. “Stop!” she bellowed at the men. “Jorgin!”
Lurts, at the back, turned with surprise. He grabbed the jailer Jorgin by the arm and spun him around.
“Who prepares the prisoner’s food?” Nynaeve demanded, stalking toward him.
“The food?” Jorgin asked, looking confused. “That’s one of Kerb’s jobs. Why?”
“Kerb?”
“The lad,” Jorgin said. “Nobody important. An apprentice we found among the refugees a few months back. Quite a lucky find—our last apprentice ran off on us, and this one was already trained in—”
Nynaeve hushed him with a raised hand, suddenly anxious. “The boy! Where is he?”
“He was just here . . .” Lurts said, glancing up. “Went with—”
There was a sudden scrambling from above. Nynaeve cursed, calling for Triben to catch the boy. She shoved her way to the ladder and began climbing. She darted out into the shop above, her glowing light following. The two thugs stood cowering in the center room, looking confused, and a Saldaean guard stood with a sword pulled on them. He looked at her questioningly.
“The boy!” she said.
Triben glanced toward the shop door. It was open. Preparing weaves of Air, Nynaeve dashed out onto the street.
There, she found the boy, Kerb, in the muddy street, held down by the four dice-playing workers she’d brought from the mansion. Even as she stepped off the boardwalk onto the street, they pulled the struggling, frantic boy to his feet. The last Saldaean stood at the doorway, sword out, as if he’d been rushing in to see if she was in danger.
“He bolted out of the door, Aes Sedai,” one of the workers said, “as if the Dark One himself was chasing him. Your soldier ran over to see if you were in danger, but we figured it’d be best to snatch this lad before he could get away. Just in case.”
Nynaeve let out a breath to calm herself. “You did well,” she said. The youth struggled, weakly. “You did well indeed.”
CHAPTER 33
A Conversation with the Dragon
“This,” Rand declared, “had better be important.”
Nynaeve turned to find the Dragon Reborn standing in the doorway to the sitting room. He wore a dark red robe with black dragons embroidered up the arms. His stump was hidden in the folds of the left sleeve. Though his hair was tousled from sleep, his eyes were alert.
He strode into the sitting room, ever the king—even now, long after midnight and just awakened, he walked as if he were absolutely certain of himself. Some servants had brought a pot of hot tea, and he filled a cup as Min followed him into the room. She also wore a sleeping robe; the robes were one of the fashions of the Domani, and hers was of yellow silk, the weave far thinner than Rand’s. Aiel maidens took up positions by the door, lounging in their strangely dangerous way.
Rand