“We should not talk about that out here... uh... Mistress Nynaeve. Anyone might walk in.” Nynaeve doubted that. “I will tell you over a nice cup of tea. My best tea, did I say?”
Nynaeve exchanged looks with Elayne. If Mistress Macura was this reluctant to speak her news, it must be appalling indeed.
“If we may just step into the back,” Elayne said, “no one will hear but us.” Her regal tone made the seamstress stare. For a moment, Nynaeve thought it might cut through her nervousness, but the next instant the fool woman was babbling again.
“The tea will be ready in a moment. The water's already hot. We used to get Taraboner tea through here. That is why I am here, I suppose. Not the tea, of course. All the trade that used to be, and all the news that came both ways with the wagons. They — you are mainly interested in outbreaks of disease, or a new kind of illness, but I find that interesting myself. I dabble a little with —” She coughed and rushed on; if she smoothed her dress any harder, she would wear a hole in it. “Some about the Children, of course, but they — you — are not much interested in them, really.”
“The kitchen, Mistress Macura,” Nynaeve said firmly as soon as the other woman paused for breath. If .the woman's news made her this afraid, Nynaeve would brook no more delay in hearing it.
The door at the back opened enough to admit Luci's anxious head. “It's ready, Mistress,” she announced breathlessly.
“This way, Mistress Nynaeve,” the seamstress said, still rubbing the front of her dress. “Mistress Elayne.”
A short hallway led past narrow stairs to a snug, beamceilinged kitchen, with a steaming kettle sitting on the hearth and tall cupboards everywhere. Copper pots hung between the back door and a window that looked out into a small yard with a high wooden fence. The small table in the middle of the floor held a brilliant yellow teapot, a green honey jar, three mismatched cups in as many colors, and a squat blue pottery canister with the lid beside it. Mistress Macura snatched the canister, lidded it, and hastily put it into a cupboard that held more in two dozen shades and hues.
“Sit, please,” she said, filling the cups. “Please.”
Nynaeve took a ladderback chair next to Elayne, and the seamstress set cups in front of them, flitting to one of the cupboards for pewter spoons.
“The message?” Nynaeve said as the woman sat down across from them. Mistress Macura was too nervous to touch her own teacup, so Nynaeve stirred a little honey into hers and took a sip; it was hot, but had a cool, minty aftertaste. Hot tea might settle the woman's nerves, if she could be made to drink.
“A pleasant taste,” Elayne murmured over the edge of her cup. “What sort of tea is it?”
Good girl, Nynaeve thought.
But the seamstress' hands only fluttered beside her cup. “A Taraboner tea. From near the Shadow Coast.”
Sighing, Nynaeve took another swallow to settle her own stomach. “The message,” she said insistently. “You did not hang that signal to invite us for tea. What is your urgent news?”
“Ah. Yes.” Mistress Macura licked her lips, eyed them both, then said slowly, “It came near a month ago, with orders that any sister passing through heard it at all costs.” She wet her lips again. “All sisters are welcome to return to the White Tower. The Tower must be whole and strong.”
Nynaeve waited for the rest, but the other woman fell silent. This was the dire message? She looked at Elayne, but the heat seemed to be catching up to the girl; drooping in her chair, she was staring at her hands on the table. “Is that all of it?” Nynaeve demanded, and surprised herself by yawning. The heat must be reaching her, too.
The seamstress only watched her, intently.
“I said,” Nynaeve began, but suddenly her head felt too heavy for her neck. Elayne had slumped onto the table, she realized, eyes closed and arms hanging limply. Nynaeve stared at the cup in her hands with horror. “What did you give us?” she said thickly; that minty taste was still there, but her tongue felt swollen. “Tell me!” Letting the cup fall, she levered herself up against the table, knees wobbling. “The Light burn you, what?”
Mistress Macura scraped back her chair and stepped out of reach, but her earlier nervousness was now a look of quiet satisfaction.
Blackness rolled in on Nynaeve; the last thing she heard was the seamstress' voice. “Catch her, Luci!”
Chapter 10
(Harp)
Figs and Mice
Elayne realized that she was being carried upstairs by her shoulders and ankles. Her eyes opened, she could see, but the rest of her body might as well have belonged to someone else for all the control she had over it. Even blinking was slow. Her brain felt crammed full of feathers.
“She's awake, Mistress!” Luci shrilled, nearly dropping her feet. “She's looking at me!”
“I told you not to worry.” Mistress Macura's voice came from above her head. “She cannot channel, or twitch a muscle, not with forkroot tea in her. I discovered that by accident, but it has certainly come in handy.”
It was true. Elayne sagged between them like a doll with half the stuffing gone, bumping her bottom along the steps, and she could as well have run as channel. She could sense the True Source, but trying to embrace it was like trying to pick up a needle on a mirror with coldnumbed fingers. Panic welled up, and a tear slid down her cheek.
Perhaps these women meant to turn her over to the Whitecloaks for execution, but she could not make herself believe that the Whitecloaks had women setting traps in the hope that an Aes Sedai might wander in. That left Darkfriends, and almost certainly serving the Black Ajah right along with the Yellow. She would surely be put in the hands of the Black Ajah unless Nynaeve had escaped. But if she was to escape, she could not count on anyone else. And she could neither move nor channel. Suddenly she realized that she was trying to scream, and producing only a thin, gurgling mew! Halting it took all the strength she had left.
Nynaeve knew all about herbs, or claimed she did; why had she not recognized whatever that tea was? Stop this whining! The small, firm voice in the back of her head sounded remarkably like Lini. A shoat squealing under a fence just attracts the fox, when it should be trying to run. Desperately, she set herself to the simple task of embracing saidar. It had been a simple task, but now she might as well have been attempting to reach saidin. She kept on, though; it was the only thing she could do.