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 in braids woven with bells on the ends. He lounged against the log wall. He had a boyish face, but displayed a growing edge of danger. Perhaps that came from training with Merise's other Warders. Perhaps it came from associating with people who would put one of the Forsaken to the question.
"My warning—" Merise began again.
"I had one subject survive an entire hour after the transfusion," Semi-rhage said in a calm, conversational tone. "I count it as one of my greatest victories. He was in pain the entire time, of course. True pain, agony that he could feel in every vein of his body, right down to the near-invisible ones in his fingers. I know of no other way to bring such suffering to every part of the body at once."
She met Merise's eyes. "I will show you the weave someday."
Merise paled just slightly.
With a whip of her hand, Cadsuane wove a shield of Air around Semi-rhage's head to block her from hearing, then wove Fire and Air into two small balls of light, which she placed directly in front of the Forsaken's eyes. The lights weren't bright enough to blind or damage her eyes, but they would keep her from seeing. That was a particular trick of Cadsuane's; too many sisters would think to deafen a captive, yet leave them capable of watching. One never knew who had learned to read lips, and Cadsuane had little inclination to underestimate her current captive.
Merise glanced at Cadsuane, a flash of annoyance in her eyes.
"You were losing control of her," Cadsuane said firmly, setting her tea on the floor beside her chair.
Merise hesitated, then nodded, looking truly angry. Likely at herself. "This woman, nothing works on her," she said. "She never changes the tone of her voice, no matter what we do to her. Every punishment I can think of only creates more threats. Each one more gruesome than the last! Light!" She gritted her teeth again, refolding her arms and breathing deeply through her nose. Narishma straightened as if to walk over to her, but she waved him back. Merise was appropriately firm with her Warders, though she did snap at anyone else who tried to keep them in their places.
"We can break her," Cadsuane said.
"Can we, Cadsuane?"
"Phaw! Of course we can. She is human, just like anyone else."
"True," Merise said. "Though she's lived for three thousand years. Three thousand, Cadsuane."
"She spent the bulk of that time imprisoned," Cadsuane said with a dismissive sniff. "Centuries locked up in the Dark One's prison, likely in a trance or hibernation. Subtract those years, and she'd no older than any of us. A fair sight younger than some, I would imagine."
It was a subtle reminder of her own age, something rarely discussed among Aes Sedai. The entire conversation about age was, in fact, a sign of how uncomfortable the Forsaken made Merise. Aes Sedai were practiced at appearing calm, but there was a reason that Cadsuane had kept those holding the shield outside the room. They gave away too much. Even the normally unflappable Merise lost control far too often during these interrogations.
Of course, Merise and the others—like all the women in the Tower these days—still fell short of what an Aes Sedai should be. These younger Aes Sedai had been allowed to grow soft and weak, prone to bickering. Some had allowed themselves to be bullied into swearing fealty to Rand al'Thor. Sometimes, Cadsuane wished she could simply send them all to penance for a few decades.
Or maybe that was just Cadsuane's age speaking. She was old, and that was making her increasingly intolerant of foolishness. Over two centuries ago, she'd sworn to herself that she'd live to attend the Last Battle, no matter how long that took. Using the One Power lengthened one's years, and she'd found that determination and grit could stretch those years even further. She was one of the oldest people alive.