She would tell him what she meant if he asked. He remembered her as saying nothing of her viewings unless they concerned him, but if that was so, she had changed for some reason. She would view anyone he asked now, and tell him everything she saw. Yet doing so made her uncomfortable.
Shut up! he shouted at Lews Therin. Go away! You’re dead! It had no effect; it often did not, now. That voice went on mumbling, maybe about being betrayed by friends, maybe about betraying them.
“Did you see anything that concerns me?” he asked.
With a grateful grin, Min settled companionably against his chest—well, she probably meant it to be companionable; or then again; very likely not—and began talking between sips of punch. “When you two were together, I saw those fireflies and the darkness stronger than ever. Um. I like melon punch. But with the two of you in the same room, the fireflies were holding their own instead of being eaten faster than they can swarm, the way they do when you’re alone. And something else I saw when you were together. Twice he’s going to have to be there, or you. . . .” She peered into her goblet so he could not see her face. “If he’s not, something bad will happen to you.” Her voice sounded small and frightened. “Very bad.”
Much as he would have liked to know more—like when and where and what—she would have told him already had she known. “Then I’ll just have to keep him around,” he said, as cheerfully as he could. He did not like for Min to be frightened.
“I don’t know that that will be enough,” she mumbled into her punch. “It will happen if he is not there, but nothing I saw said it won’t because he is. It will be very bad, Rand. Just thinking of that viewing makes me. . . .”
He turned her face up, and was surprised to see tears leaking from her eyes. “Min, I didn’t know these viewings could hurt you,” he said gently. “I am sorry.”
“A fat lot you know, sheepherder,” she muttered. Plucking a lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve, she dabbed at her eyes. “It was just dust. You don’t make Sulin dust in here often enough.” The handkerchief went back with a flourish. “I should go back to The Crown of Roses. I just had to tell you what I saw about Perrin.”
“Min, be careful. Maybe you shouldn’t come so often. I can’t think Merana would be easy on you if she discovered what you are doing.”
Her grin looked very much her old self, and her eyes looked amused even if they did still shine from the tears. “You let me worry about me, sheepherder. They think I am gawking at the sights of Caemlyn like every other country simpleton. If I didn’t come every day, would you know they are meeting with the nobles?” She had glimpsed that by chance on her way to the Palace yesterday, Merana appearing for an instant at the window of a palace Min had learned belonged to Lord Pelivar. There was as much chance that Pelivar and his guests were the only ones as there was that Merana had gone to clear Pelivar’s drains.
“You be careful,” he told her firmly. “I don’t want you hurt, Min.”
For a moment she studied him silently, then rose up enough to kiss him lightly on the lips. At least. . . . Well, it was light, but this was a daily ritual when she left, and he thought maybe those kisses were getting a little less light every day.
Despite all his promises to himself, he said, “I wish you wouldn’t do that.” Letting her sit on his knee was one thing, but kisses were carrying the joke too far.
“No tears yet, farmboy,” she smiled. “No stammer.” Ruffling his hair as if he were ten, she walked to the door, but as she sometimes did, she moved in a gracefully swaying fashion that might not have produced tears and stammer but certainly did make him stare however hard he tried not to. His eyes whipped to her face as she turned around. “Why, sheepherder, your face is flushed. I thought the heat never touched you now. Never mind. I wanted to tell you, I will be careful. I’ll see you tomorrow. Be sure to put on clean stockings.”
Rand let out a long breath once the door was firmly shut behind her. Clean stockings? He put on clean every day! There were only two choices. He could keep pretending she was having no effect until she quit, or he could resign himself to stammering. Or maybe to begging; she might stop if he begged, but then she would have that to tease him with, and Min did like teasing. The only other option—keeping their time together short, being cold and distant—was out of the question. She was a friend; he could as well have been cold toward. . . . Aviendha and Elayne were the names that came to mind, and they did not fit. Toward Mat or Perrin. The only thing he did not understand was why he still felt so comfortable around her. He should not, with her taunting him in this way, but he did.
Lews Therin’s maundering had grown louder from the moment the Aes Sedai were mentioned, and now he said quite clearly, If they are plotting with the nobles, I have to do something about them.
Go away, Rand commanded.
Nine are too dangerous, even untrained. Too dangerous. Can’t allow them. No. Oh, no.
Go away, Lews Therin!
I am not dead! the voice howled. I deserve death, but I am alive! Alive! Alive!
You are dead! Rand shouted back in his head. You are dead, Lews Therin!
The voice dwindled, still howling Alive! when it faded from hearing.
Shaking, Rand got up and refilled his goblet, draining the punch in one long swallow. Sweat dripped from his face, and his shirt clung to him. Finding the concentration again was an effort. Lews Therin was growing more persistent. One thing was certain. If Merana was plotting with the nobles, especially the nobles ready to declare rebellion if he did not produce Elayne soon enough to satisfy them, then he did have to do something. Unfortunately, he had no idea what.
Kill them, Lews Therin whispered. Nine are too dangerous, but if I kill some, if I chase them away . . . kill them . . . make them fear me . . . I will not die again . . .
I deserve death, but I want to live. . . . He began to weep, but the whispered rambling continued.
Rand filled his goblet again and tried not to listen.
When the Origan Gate into the Inner City came into sight, Demira Eriff slowed. A number of men in the crowded street eyed her admiringly as they squeezed past, and for perhaps the thousandth time she made a note to stop wearing dresses from her native Arad Doman, and for the thousandth time promptly forgot it. Dresses were hardly important—she had been having the same six duplicated for years—and if a man who did not realize she was Aes Sedai became too impudent, it was always a simple matter to let him know who he was being saucy to. That got them out of her hair quickly enough, usually
