The Gathering Storm - By Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson Page 0,49

called. Rand turned toward the sound and saw one of Bashere’s scouts running up the hill. The Maidens cautiously allowed the youthful, dark-haired man to approach.

“My Lord,” the scout said, saluting. “There are Aiel on the outskirts of the camp. We saw two of them prowling through the trees about half a mile down the slope.”

The Maidens immediately began to move their hands, speaking in their clandestine handtalk.

“Did any of those Aiel wave at you, soldier?” Rand asked dryly.

“My Lord?” the man asked. “Why would they do that?”

“They’re Aiel. If you saw them, that means they wanted you to—and that means they’re allies, not foes. Inform Bashere that we’ll be meeting with Rhuarc and Bael shortly. It is time to secure Arad Doman.”

Or maybe it was time to destroy it. Sometimes, it was difficult to tell the difference.

Merise spoke. “Graendal’s plans. Tell me again what you know of them.” The tall Aes Sedai—of the Green Ajah, like Cadsuane herself—maintained a stern expression, arms folded beneath her breasts, a silver comb slid into the side of her black hair.

The Taraboner woman was a good choice to lead the interrogation. Or, at least, she was the best choice Cadsuane had. Merise didn’t show a bit of discomfort at being so near to one of the most feared beings in all of creation, and she was relentless in her questioning. She did try a little too hard to prove how stern she was. The way she kept her hair pulled back into its bun with such force, for instance, or the way she flaunted her Asha’man Warder.

The room was on the second floor of Rand al’Thor’s Domani mansion, the outer wall made of thick round pine logs, the inner walls of wood planks, all stained a matching dark color. This chamber, which had once been a bedroom, had been emptied of nearly all furniture; there was not even a rug on the sanded wood floor. In fact, the only furniture in it now was the stout chair Cadsuane sat in.

Cadsuane sipped her tea, intentionally projecting an air of composure. That was important, especially if one wasn’t anything near composed on the inside. At the moment, for instance, Cadsuane wanted to crush the teacup between her hands, then perhaps spend an hour or so stamping on the shards.

She took another sip.

The source of her frustration—and the object of Merise’s questioning—hung in the air, held upside down by weaves of Air with her arms tied behind her back. The captive had short wavy hair and dark skin. Her face matched Cadsuane’s own for composed serenity, despite her circumstances. Wearing a simple brown dress—the hem held up around her legs by a weave of Air to keep it from obscuring her face—held bound and shielded, the prisoner somehow seemed the one in control.

Merise stood in front of the prisoner. Narishma leaned against the wall, the only other one in the room.

Cadsuane did not control the questioning herself, not yet. Letting another lead the interrogation worked to her advantage; it let her think and plan. Outside the room, Erian, Sarene, and Nesune held the prisoner’s shield, two more than were normally considered necessary.

One did not take chances with the Forsaken.

Their prisoner was Semirhage. A monster who many thought was simply a legend. Cadsuane did not know how many of the stories about the woman were true. She did know that Semirhage was not easily intimidated, unsettled or manipulated. And that was a problem.

“Well?” Merise demanded. “My question: you have an answer?”

Semirhage regarded Merise, icy contempt in her voice as she spoke. “Do you know what happens to a man when his blood is replaced with something else?”

“I did not—”

“He dies, of course,” Semirhage said, cutting Merise off with words like knives. “The death often happens instantly, and quick deaths are of little interest. With experiment, I discovered that some solutions can replace blood more effectively, allowing the subject to live for a short time after the transfusion.”

She fell silent.

“Answer the question,” Merise said, “or out the window you will hang again and—”

“The transfusion itself requires use of the Power, of course,” Semirhage interrupted again. “Other methods are not quick enough. I invented the weave myself. It can suddenly and instantly pull the blood from a body and deposit it in a bin, while at the same time taking a solution and pressing it into the veins.”

Merise gritted her teeth, glancing at Narishma. The Asha’man wore a coat and trousers of black, as usual, his long dark hair