The Gathering Storm - By Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson Page 0,58

wasn’t her Warder yet, but she meant to have him as soon as possible. He was already her husband, after all. It still angered her that Myrelle had the bond.

“I might be able to help, Daigian,” Nynaeve said, leaning forward, laying her hand on the other woman’s knee. “If I were to attempt a Healing, perhaps. . . .”

“No,” the woman said curtly.

“But—”

“I doubt you could help.”

“Anything can be Healed,” Nynaeve said stubbornly, “even if we don’t know how yet. Anything save death.”

“And what would you do, dear?” Daigian asked. Nynaeve wondered if she refused to call her by name on purpose, or if it was an unconscious effect of their relationship. She couldn’t use “child,” as she would with an actual Accepted, but to call her “Nynaeve” might imply equality.

“I could do something,” Nynaeve said. “This pain you feel, it has to be an effect of the bond, and therefore something to do with the One Power. If the Power causes your pain, then the Power can take that pain away.”

“And why would I want that?” Daigian asked, in control once again.

“Well . . . well, because it’s pain. It hurts.”

“It should,” Daigian said. “Eben is dead. Would you want to forget your pain if you lost that hulking giant of yours? Have your feelings for him cut away like some spoiled chunk of flesh in an otherwise good roast?”

Nynaeve opened her mouth, but stopped. Would she? It wasn’t that simple—her feelings for Lan were genuine, and not due to a bond. He was her husband, and she loved him. Daigian had been possessive of her Warder, but it had been the affection of an aunt for her favored nephew. It wasn’t the same.

But would Nynaeve want that pain taken away? She closed her mouth, suddenly realizing the honor in Daigian’s words. “I see. I’m sorry.”

“It is nothing, dear,” Daigian continued. “The logic of it seems simple to me at times, but I fear that others do not accept it. Indeed, some might argue that the logic of the issue depends on the moment and the individual. Shall I show you the next weave?”

“Yes, please,” Nynaeve said, frowning. She herself was so strong in the Power—one of the strongest alive—that she often took little thought for her ability. It was much as a very tall man rarely paid attention to other people’s heights; everyone else was shorter than he, and so their different heights didn’t matter much.

What was it like to be this woman, who had spent longer as an Accepted than anyone else in memory? A woman who had barely attained the shawl, doing so—many said—by an eyelash and a whisper? Daigian had to show deference to all other Aes Sedai. If two sisters met, Daigian was always the lesser. If more than two sisters met, Daigian served them tea. Before the more powerful sisters, she was expected to scrape and grovel. Well, not that, she was Aes Sedai, but still. . . .

“There is something wrong with this system, Daigian,” Nynaeve said absently.

“With the testing? It seems appropriate that there should be some kind of test to determine worthiness, and the performing of difficult weaves under stress strikes me as fulfilling that need.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Nynaeve said, “I mean the system that determines how we are treated. By each other.”

Daigian flushed. It was inappropriate to refer to another’s power, in any way. But, well, Nynaeve had never been very good at conforming to other people’s expectations. Particularly when they expected foolishness. “There you sit,” she said, “knowing as much as any other Aes Sedai—knowing more than many, I’d wager—and the moment any Accepted just off apron strings gains the shawl, you have to do what she says.”

Daigian’s blush deepened. “We should move on.”

It just wasn’t right. Nynaeve let the matter drop, however. She’d stepped in this particular pit once before in teaching the Kinswomen to stand up for themselves in front of Aes Sedai. Before long, they’d been standing up to Nynaeve too, which had not been her intention. She wasn’t certain she wanted to attempt a similar revolution among the Aes Sedai themselves.

She tried to turn back to the tutoring, but that sense of an impending storm kept drawing her eyes to the window. The room was on the second floor and had a good view of the camp outside. It was by pure happenstance that Nynaeve caught a glimpse of Cadsuane; that gray bun set with innocent-looking ter’angreal was obvious even from a distance.