That was more than Nynaeve was willing to promise; her memories of the Seanchan were not fond ones. And yet... A Seanchan helped you when you needed it. They are not all evil. Only most of them.
Cerandin let out a long sigh, and sagged a little. It was as if a tension so old that she was no longer aware of it had gone. “Very few people I have met know anything approaching the truth of The Return, or Falme. I have heard a hundred tales, each more fanciful than the last, but never the truth. As well for me. I was left behind, and many of the s'redit, also. These three were all I could gather. I do not know what happened to the rest. The bull is Mer, the cow Sanit, and the calf Nerin. She is not Sanit's.”
“Is that what you did?” Elayne asked. “Train s'redit?”
“Or were you a sul'dam?” Nynaeve added before the other woman could speak.
Cerandin shook her head. “I was tested, as all girls are, but I could do nothing with the a'dam. I was glad to be chosen to work with s'redit. They are magnificent animals. You know a great deal, to know of sul'dam and damane. I have encountered no one before who knows of them.” She showed no fear. Or perhaps it had been used up since finding herself abandoned in a strange land. Then again, maybe she was lying.
The Seanchan were as bad as Amadicians when it came to women who could channel, perhaps worse. They did not exile or kill; they imprisoned and used. By means of a device called an a'dam — Nynaeve was sure it must be a sort of ter'angreal — a woman who had the ability to wield the One Power could be controlled by another woman, a sul'dam, who forced the damane to use her talents for whatever the Seanchan wanted, even as a weapon. A damane was no better than an animal, if a welltended one. And they made damane of every last woman found with the ability to channel or the spark born in her; the Seanchan had scoured Toman Head more thoroughly than the Tower had ever dreamed of. The mere thought of a'dam and sul'dam and damane made Nynaeve's stomach chum.
“We know a little,” she told Cerandin, “but we want to know more.” The Seanchan were gone, driven away by Rand, but that was not to say they would not return one day. It was a distant danger beside everything else they had to face, yet just because you had a thorn in your foot did not mean that a briar scratch on your arm would not fester eventually. “You would do well to answer our questions truthfully.” There would be time on the journey north.
“I promise that nothing will happen to you,” Elayne added. “I will protect you, if need be.”
The palehaired woman's eyes shifted from one of them to the other, and suddenly, to Nynaeve's amazement, she prostrated herself on the ground in front of Elayne. “You are a High Lady of this land, just as you told Luca. I did not realize. Forgive me, High Lady. I submit myself to you.” And she kissed the ground in front of Elayne's feet. Elayne's eyes looked ready to leap out of her face.
Nynaeve was sure she was no better. “Get up,” she hissed, looking around frantically to see if anyone was watching. Luca was — curse him! — and Latelle, still wearing that scowl, but there was nothing to be done. “Get up!” The woman did not stir.
“Stand on your feet, Cerandin,” Elayne said. “No one requires people to behave that way in this land. Not even a ruler.” As Cerandin scrambled erect, she added, “I will teach you the proper way to behave in return for your answers to our questions.”
The woman bowed, hands on her knees and head down. “Yes, High Lady. It will be as you say. I am yours.”
Nynaeve sighed heavily. They were going to have a fine time traveling to Ghealdan.
Chapter 18
(Female Silhouettes)
A Hound of Darkness
Liandrin guided her horse through the crowded streets of Amador, the sneer on her rosebud lips hidden by her deep, curving bonnet. She had hated to give up her multitude of braids, and hated even more the ludicrous fashions of this ludicrous land; the reddish yellow of hat and riding dress she rather liked, but not the large velvet bows on both. Still, the bonnet hid her eyes — combined with honeyyellow hair, brown eyes would have named her Taraboner in an instant, not a good thing in Amadicia just now — and it hid what would have been even worse to show here, an Aes Sedai's face. Safely hidden, she could smirk at the Whitecloaks, who seemed to be every fifth man in the streets. Not that the soldiers who made another fifth would have been any better. None of them ever thought to look inside the bonnet, of course. Aes Sedai were outlawed here, and that meant there were none.
Even so, she felt a little better when she turned in at the elaborate iron gates in front of Jorin Arene's house. Another fruitless trip looking for word from the White Tower; there had been nothing since she had learned that Elaida thought she was in control of the Tower, and that the Sanche woman had been disposed of. Siuan had escaped, true, but she was a useless rag now.
The gardens behind the gray stone fence were full of plants going rather brown from lack of rain, but trimmed and trained into cubes and balls, though one was shaped like a leaping horse. Only one, of course. Merchants like Arene mimicked their betters, but they dared not go too far lest someone think their conceit too high. Elaborate balconies decorated the large wooden house with its redtiled roofs, and even a colonnade of carved columns, but unlike the lord's dwelling it was meant to copy, it stood on a stone foundation no more than ten feet tall. A childish pretense at a noble's manor.
The stringy, grayhaired man who scurried out deferentially to hold her stirrup while she dismounted, and take her reins, was clad all in black. Whatever colors a merchant chose for livery, they were sure to be some real lord's colors, and even a minor lord could cause trouble for the richest seller of goods. People in the streets called black “merchant's livery,” and snickered when they said it. Liandrin despised the groom's black coat as much as she did Arene's house and Arene himself. She would have true manors, one day. Palaces. They had been promised to her, and the power that went with them.
Stripping off her riding gloves, she stalked up the ridiculous ramp that slanted along the foundations to the vinecarved front doors. The lords' fortress manors had ramps, so of course a merchant who thought well of himself could not have steps. A blackclad young serving girl took gloves and hat in the round entrance hail, with its many doors and carved and brightly painted columns and its encircling balcony. The ceiling was lacquered in imitation of a mosaic, stars within stars in gold and black. “I will have my bath in one hour,” she told the woman. “It will be the proper temperature this time, yes?” The maid went pale as she curtsied, stammering agreement before scurrying away.
Amellia Arene, Jorin s wife, came through one of the doors deep in conversation with a fat balding man in a spotless white apron. Liandrin breathed contemptuously. The woman had pretensions, yet she not only spoke to the cook herself, she brought the man out of his kitchens to discuss meals. She treated the servant like — like a friend!
Fat Evon saw her first and gulped, his piggy eyes darting away immediately. She did not like men looking at her, and she had spoken sharply to him on her first day here about the way his gaze sometimes lingered. He had tried to deny it, but she knew men's vile habits. Without waiting to be dismissed by his mistress, Evon all but ran back the way he had come.
The graying merchant's wife had been a sternfaced woman when Liandrin and the others came. Now she licked her lips and smoothed her bowdraped green silk needlessly. “There is someone upstairs with the others, my Lady,” she said diffidently. She had thought that she could use Liandrin's name that first day. “In the front withdrawing room. From Tar Valon, I believe.”
Wondering who it could be, Liandrin started for the nearest of the curving staircases. She knew few others of the Black Ajah, of course, for safety's sake; what others did not know, they could not betray. In the Tower she had known only one of the twelve who went with her when she left. Two of the twelve were dead, and she knew at whose feet to lay the blame. Egwene al'Vere, Nynaeve al'Meara, and Elayne Trakand. Everything had gone so badly in Tanchico that she would have thought those three upstart Accepted had been there, except that they were fools who had twice walked tamely into traps she had set. That they had escaped each was of no consequence. Had they been in Tanchico, they would have fallen into her hands, whatever Jeaine claimed to have seen. The next time she found them, they would never escape anything again. She would be done with them whatever her orders.
“My Lady,” Amellia stammered. “My husband, my Lady. Jorin. Please, will one of you help him? He did not mean it, my Lady. He has learned his lesson.”
Liandrin paused with one hand on the carved banister, looking back over her shoulder. “He should not have thought that his oaths to the Great Lord could be conveniently forgotten, no?”
“He has learned, my Lady. Please. He lies beneath blankets all day — in this heat — shivering. He weeps when anyone touches him, or speaks above a whisper.”
Liandrin paused as if considering, then nodded graciously. “I will ask Chesmal to see what she can do. Yet you understand that I make no promises.” The woman's unsteady thanks followed her up, but she paid them no mind. Temaile had let herself be carried away. She had been Gray Ajah before becoming Black, and she always made a point of spreading the pain evenly when she mediated; she had been very successful as a mediator, for she liked spreading pain. Chesmal said he might be able to do small tasks in a few months, so long as they were not too hard and no one raised a voice. She had been one of the best Healers in generations among the Yellow, so she should know.
The front withdrawing room startled her when she went in. Nine of the ten Black sisters who had come with her stood around the room against the carved and painted paneling, though there were plenty of silkcushioned chairs on the goldfringed carpet. The tenth, Temaile Kinderode, was handing a delicate porcelain cup of tea to a darkhaired, sturdily handsome woman in a bronzecolored gown of unfamiliar cut. The seated woman looked vaguely familiar, though she was not Aes Sedai; she was plainly approaching her middle years, and despite smooth cheeks there was nothing of agelessness about her.