“The White Tower is abuzz these days with returning sisters and new Warders,” Sleete said softly. “How would anyone—no matter how stealthy—travel the upper levels wearing black without drawing attention?”
“Gray Men are supposed to be able to avoid notice,” Gawyn said. “I think this is more proof. I mean, it seems odd that nobody has actually seen these Black sisters. We’re making a lot of assumptions.”
Sleete nodded, eyeing a trio of novices who had gathered to gawk at the guards. They saw Sleete looking and chittered to one another before scampering away.
“Egwene knows more than she’s saying,” Gawyn said. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Assuming she’ll see you,” Sleete said.
Gawyn grunted irritably. They walked down a series of ramps to the level of the Amyrlin’s study. Sleete remained with him—his Aes Sedai, a Green named Hattori, rarely had duties for him. She still had her eyes on Gawyn for a Warder; Egwene was being so infuriating, Gawyn had half a mind to let Hattori bond him.
No. No, not really. He loved Egwene, though he was frustrated with her. It had not been easy to decide to give up Andor—not to mention the Younglings—for her. Yet she still refused to bond him.
He reached her study, and approached Silviana. The woman sat at her neat, orderly Keeper’s desk in the antechamber before Egwene’s study. The woman inspected Gawyn, her eyes unreadable behind her Aes Sedai mask. He suspected that she didn’t like him.
“The Amyrlin is composing a letter of some import,” Silviana said. “You may wait.”
Gawyn opened his mouth.
“She asked not to be interrupted,” Silviana said, turning back to the paper she had been reading. “You may wait.”
Gawyn sighed, but nodded. As he did so, Sleete caught his eye and gestured that he was going. Why had he accompanied Gawyn down here in the first place? He was an odd man. Gawyn waved farewell, and Sleete vanished into the hallway.
The antechamber was a grand room with a deep red rug and wood trim on the stone walls. He knew from experience that none of the chairs were comfortable, but there was a single window. Gawyn stepped up to it for some air and rested his arm on the recessed stone, staring out over the White Tower grounds. This high up, the air felt crisper, newer.
Below, he could see the new Warder practice grounds. The old ones were dug up where Elaida had begun building her palace. Nobody was sure what Egwene would end up doing with the construction.
The practice grounds were busy, a bustle of figures sparring, running, fencing. With the influx of refugees, soldiers and sell-swords, there were many who presumed themselves Warder material. Egwene had opened the grounds to any who wanted to train and try to prove themselves, as she intended to push for as many women as were ready to be raised over the next few weeks.
Gawyn had spent a few days training, but the ghosts of men he had killed seemed more present down there. The grounds were a part of his past life, a time before everything had gone wrong. Other Younglings had easily—and happily—returned to that life. Already Jisao, Rajar, Durrent and most of his other officers had been chosen as Warders. Before long, nothing would remain of his band. Except for Gawyn himself.
The inner door clicked, followed by hushed voices. Gawyn turned to find Egwene, dressed in green and yellow, walking over to speak with Silviana. The Keeper glanced at him, and he thought he caught a trace of a frown on her face.
Egwene saw him. She kept her face Aes Sedai serene—she’d grown good at that so quickly—and he found himself feeling awkward.
“There was another death this morning,” he said quietly, walking up to her.
“Technically,” Egwene said, “it was last night.”
“I need to talk to you,” Gawyn blurted.
Egwene and Silviana shared a look. “Very well,” Egwene said, gliding back into her study.
Gawyn followed, not looking at the Keeper. The Amyrlin’s study was one of the grandest rooms in the Tower. The walls were paneled with a pale striped wood, carved to show fanciful scenes, marvelously detailed. The hearth was marble, the floor made of deep red stone cut into diamond blocks. Egwene’s large, carved desk was set with two lamps. They were in the shape of two women raising their hands to the air, flames burning between each set of palms.
One wall had bookcases filled with books arranged—it seemed—by color and size rather than by subject. They were ornamental, brought in to trim the Amyrlin’s study until Egwene could make her own selections.
“What is it you find so necessary to discuss?” Egwene said, sitting down at her desk.
“The murders,” Gawyn said.
“What about them?”
Gawyn shut the door. “Burn me, Egwene. Do you have to show me the Amyrlin every time we speak? Once in a while, can’t I see Egwene?”
“I show you the Amyrlin,” Egwene said, “because you refuse to accept her. Once you do so, perhaps we can move beyond that.”
“Light! You’ve learned to talk like one of them.”