But al’Thor himself…his mind was full of daydreams about honor and virtue. This event would not sit easily within him, and speaking of him as Lews Therin to Moridin would reinforce that. These actions would tear at al’Thor, rip at his soul, lash his heart raw and bleeding. He would have nightmares, wear his guilt on his shoulders like the yoke of a heavily laden cart.
She could vaguely remember what it had been like, taking those first few steps toward the Shadow. Had she ever felt that foolish pain? Yes, unfortunately. Not all of the Chosen had. Semirhage had been corrupt to the bone from the start. But others of them had taken different paths to the Shadow, including Ishamael.
She could see the memories, so distant, in Moridin’s eyes. Once, she’d not been sure who this man was, but now she was. The face was different, but the soul the same. Yes, he knew exactly what al’Thor was feeling.
“You told me to hurt him,” Graendal said. “You told me to bring him anguish. This was the best way. Aran’gar helped me, though she did not flee when I suggested. That one always has confronted her problems too aggressively. But I’m certain the Great Lord can find other tools. We took a risk, and it was not without cost. But the gain…Beyond that, Lews Therin now thinks I am dead. That is a large advantage.”
She smiled. Not too much pleasure. Merely a little satisfaction. Moridin scowled, then hesitated, glancing to the side. At nothing. “I am to leave you without punishment, for now,” he finally said, though he didn’t sound pleased about it.
Had that been a communication directly from the Great Lord? As far as she knew, all Chosen in this Age had to go to him in Shayol Ghul to receive their orders. Or at least suffer a visit from that horrid creature Shaidar Haran. Now the Great Lord appeared to be speaking to the Nae’blis directly. Interesting. And worrisome.
It meant the end was very near. There would not be much time left for posturing. She would see herself Nae’blis and rule this world as her own once the Last Battle was done.
“I think,” Graendal said, “that I should—”
“You are to stay away from al’Thor,” Moridin said. “You are not to be punished, but I don’t see reason to praise you either. Yes, al’Thor may be hurt, but you still bungled your plan, costing us a useful tool.”
“Of course,” Graendal said smoothly, “I will serve as it pleases the Great Lord. I was not going to suggest that I move against al’Thor anyway. He thinks me dead, and so best to let him remain in his ignorance while I work elsewhere, for now.”
“Elsewhere?”
Graendal needed a victory, a decisive one. She sifted through the different plans she’d devised, selecting the most likely to succeed. She couldn’t move against al’Thor? Very well. She would bring to the Great Lord something he’d long desired.
“Perrin Aybara,” Graendal said. She felt exposed, having to reveal her intentions to Moridin. She preferred to keep her plots to herself. However, she doubted she’d be able to escape this meeting without telling him. “I will bring you his head.”
Moridin turned toward the fire, clasping his hands behind his back. He watched the flames.
With a shock, she felt sweat trickle down her brow. What? She was able to avoid heat and cold. What was wrong? She maintained her focus…it just didn’t work. Not here. Not near him.
That unsettled her deeply.
“He’s important,” Graendal said. “The prophecies—”
“I know the prophecies,” Moridin said softly. He did not turn. “How would you do it?”
“My spies have located his army,” Graendal said. “I have already set some plans in motion regarding him, just in case. I retain the group of Shadowspawn given me to cause chaos, and I have a trap prepared. It will break al’Thor, ruin him, if he loses Aybara.”
“It will do more than that,” Moridin said softly. “But you will never manage it. His men have gateways. He will escape you.”
“I—”
“He will escape you,” Moridin said softly.
The sweat trickled down her cheek, then to her chin. She wiped it casually, but her brow continued to bead.
“Come,” Moridin said, striding from the hearth and toward the hallway outside.
Graendal followed, curious but afraid. Moridin led her to a nearby door, set in the same black stone walls. He pushed it open.
Graendal followed him inside. The narrow room was lined with shelves. And on them were dozens—perhaps hundreds—of objects of Power. Darkness within! she thought. Where did he get so many?
Moridin walked to the end of the room, where he picked through objects on a shelf. Graendal entered, awed. “Is that a shocklance?” she asked, pointing to a long thin bit of metal. “Three binding rods? A rema’kar? Those pieces of a sho—”
“It is unimportant,” he said, selecting an item.
“If I could just—”
“You are close to losing favor, Graendal,” he said, turning and holding a long, spikelike piece of metal, silvery and topped with a large metal head set with golden inlay. “I have found only two of these. The other is being put to good use. You may use this one.”