Egwene wasted not a moment striding toward him. “What game are you playing at, Rand al’Thor?” She had taken half a dozen steps before a glimpse of her reflection in the mirrors made her realize she had walked right through his weave of saidin. At least she had not known when it touched her. “Well?”
“She’s one of Alviarin’s,” he said thoughtfully. “Galina. She is one of Alviarin’s friends. I’d bet on it.”
Planting herself in front of him, she sniffed. “You’d lose your coin and stick yourself in the foot with a pitchfork, too. Galina is a Red, or I never saw one.”
“Because she doesn’t like me?” He was looking at her now, and she almost wished he was not. “Because she’s afraid of me?” He was not grimacing or glaring, or even staring particularly hard, yet his eyes seemed to know things she did not. She hated that. His smile came so suddenly she blinked. “Egwene, do you expect me to believe you can tell a woman’s Ajah by her face?”
“No, but—”
“Anyway, even Reds might end following me. They know the Prophecies as well as anybody else. ‘The unstained tower breaks and bends knee to the forgotten sign.’ Written before there was a White Tower, but what else could ‘the unstained tower’ be? And the forgotten sign? My banner, Egwene, with the ancient symbol of Aes Sedai.”
“Burn you, Rand al’Thor!” The curse came more awkwardly than she could have wished; she was not accustomed to saying such things. “The Light burn you! You can’t really be thinking of going with them. You can’t!”
He showed his teeth in amusement. Amusement! “Didn’t I do what you wanted? What you told me to do and what you wanted.”
Her lips compressed indignantly. Bad enough that he knew, but throwing it in her face was just rude. “Rand, please listen to me. Elaida—”
“The question now is how to get you back to the tents without them finding out you were here. I expect they have eyes-and-ears in the Palace.”
“Rand, you have to—!”
“How about riding in one of those big laundry baskets? I can have a couple of Maidens carry it.”
She very nearly threw up her hands. He was as eager to be rid of her as he had been of the Aes Sedai. “My own feet will do well enough, thank you.” A laundry basket, indeed! “I wouldn’t have to worry if you told me how you step from Caemlyn to here whenever you want.” She did not understand why asking should rasp so, yet it did. “I know you can’t teach me, but if you told me how, maybe I could work out how to do it with saidar.”
Instead of the joke at her expense she more than half-expected, he took the end of her shawl in both hands. “The Pattern,” he said. “Caemlyn,” one finger on his left hand tented the wool, “and Cairhien.” A finger on the other hand made a tent, and he brought the two tents together. “I bend the Pattern and bore a hole from one to the other. I don’t know what I bore through, but there’s no space between one end of the hole and the other.” He let the shawl drop. “Does that help?”
Chewing her lip, she frowned at the shawl sourly. It did not help at all. Just the thought of tearing a hole in the Pattern made her queasy. She had hoped it would be like something she had worked out concerning Tel’aran’rhiod. Not that she ever meant to use it, of course, but she had had all that time on her hands, and the Wise Ones kept grumbling about the Aes Sedai asking how to enter in the flesh. She thought the way would be to create—a similarity seemed the only way to describe it—a similarity between the real world and its reflection in the World of Dreams. That should make a place where it was possible to simply step from one to the other. If Rand’s method of travel had seemed even slightly the same, she would have been willing to try, but this. . . . Saidar did as you wanted as long as you remembered it was infinitely stronger than you and had to be guided gently; try to force the wrong thing, and you were dead or burned out before you could scream.
“Rand, are you sure there isn’t any sense of making things the same . . . or. . . .” She did not know how to put it, but in any case, he shook his head before she trailed off.
“That sounds like changing the weave of the Pattern. I think it would tear me apart if I so much as tried. I bore a hole.” He poked a finger at her to demonstrate.
Well, there was no point in pursuing that. She shifted her shawl irritably. “Rand, about those Sea Folk. I don’t know any more than I’ve read”—she did, but she still was not going to tell him—“but it must be something important to bring them this far to see you.”
“Light,” he muttered absently, “you jump around like a drop of water on a hot griddle. I’ll see them when I have time.” For a moment he rubbed at his forehead, and his eyes seemed to see nothing. With a blink he was seeing her again. “Do you intend to stay until they come back?” He really did want to be rid of her.
At the door she paused, but he was already stalking up the room, hands clasped behind his back, talking to himself. Softly, but she could make out some. “Where are you hiding, burn you? I know you’re there!”
Shivering, she let herself out. If he really was going mad already, there was no changing it. The Wheel weaved as the Wheel willed, and its weaving must be accepted.
Realizing that she was eyeing the servants passing up and down the hall, wondering which might be Aes Sedai agents, she made herself stop. The Wheel weaved as the Wheel willed. With a nod for Somara, she squared her shoulders and tried very hard not to scuttle on her way to the nearest servants’ entrance.
There was little talk as Arilyn’s best coach lurched away from the Sun Palace followed by the wagon that had borne the chests, burdened now only with the serving women and driver. Steepling her fingers in the coach, Nesune tapped them thoughtfully against her lips. A fascinating young man. A fascinating subject for study. Her foot touched one of the specimen boxes under the seat; she never went anywhere without proper specimen boxes. One would think that the world must have been catalogued long since, yet since leaving Tar Valon she had tucked away fifty plants, twice as many insects, and the skins and bones of a fox, three sorts of lark, and no fewer than five species of ground squirrel that she was sure were nowhere in the records.
“I did not realize you were friendly with Alviarin,”
