Nynaeve shivered and reached for saidar again. It was not that she had any real hope, but she had to do something. Forcing through her pain, she reached out... and struck that invisible shield. Liandrin did have amusement back in her eyes, now, the grim mirth of a nasty child who pulls the wings off flies.
“We have no use for this one, at least,” Rianna said, standing beside Ailhuin. “I will stop her heart.” Ailhuin's eyes nearly came out of her head.
“No!” Liandrin's short, honeycolored braids swung as her head snapped around. “Always you kill too quickly, and only the Great Lord can make use of the dead.” She smiled at the woman held to the chair by invisible bonds. “You saw the soldiers who came with us, old woman. You know who waits for us in the Stone. The High Lord Samon, he will not be pleased if you speak of what happened inside your house today. If you hold your tongue, you will live, perhaps to serve him again one day. If you speak, you will serve only the Great Lord of the Dark, from beyond the grave. Which do you choose?”
Suddenly Ailhuin could move her head. She shook her gray curls, working her mouth. “I... I will hold my tongue,” she said dejectedly, then gave Nynaeve an embarrassed, shamed look. “If I speak, what good will it do? A High Lord could have my head by raising an eyebrow. What good can I do you, girl? What good?”
“It is all right,” Nynaeve said wearily. Who could she tell? All she could do is die. “I know you would help if you could.” Rianna threw back her head and laughed. Ailhuin slumped, released completely, but she only sat there, staring at her hands in her lap.
Between them, Liandrin and Rianna pulled Nynaeve to her feet and pushed her toward the front of the house. “You give us any trouble,” the blackhaired woman said in a hard voice, “and I will make you peel off your own skin and dance in your bones.”
Nynaeve almost laughed. What trouble could I give? She was shielded from the True Source. Her bruises ached so much she could barely stand. Anything she might do, they could handle like a child's tantrum. But my bruises will heal, burn you, and you'll make a slip yet! And when you do...
There were others in the front room of the house. Two big soldiers in rimmed, round helmets and shiny breastplates over those puffysleeved red coats. The two men had sweat on their faces, and their dark eyes rolled as if they were as afraid as she. Amico Nagoyin was there, slender and pretty with her long neck and pale skin, locking as innocent as a girl gathering flowers. Joiya Byir had a friendly face despite that smoothcheeked calm of a woman who had worked long with the Power, almost a grandmother's face in its welcoming appearance, though her age had put no touch of gray in her dark hair, any more than it had wrinkled her skin. Her gray eyes looked more like those of the stepmother in the stories, the one who murdered the children of her husband's first wife. Both women shone with the Power.
Elayne stood between the two Black sisters, with a bruised eye and a swollen cheek and a split lip, one sleeve of her dress torn halfway off. “I am sorry, Nynaeve,” she said thickly, as if her jaw hurt. “We never saw them until it was too late.”
Egwene lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, her face swollen with bruises, almost unrecognizable. As Nynaeve and her escort came in, one of the big soldiers hoisted Egwene over his shoulder. She dangled there as limply as a halfempty barley sack.
“What did you do to her?” Nynaeve demanded. “Burn you, what—!” Something unseen struck her across the mouth hard enough to make her eyes go blank for a moment.
“Now, now,” Joiya Byir said with a smile that her eyes belied. “I will not stand for demands, or bad language.” She sounded like a grandmother, too. “You speak when you are spoken to.”
“I told you the girl, she would not stop fighting, yes?” Liandrin said. “Let it be a lesson to you. If you try to cause any trouble, you will be treated no more gently.”
Nynaeve ached to do something for Egwene, but she let herself be pushed out into the street. She made them push her; it was a small way of fighting back, refusing to cooperate, but it was all she had at the moment.
There were few people in the muddy street, as if everyone had decided it was much better to be somewhere else, and those few scurried by on the other side without a glance at the shiny, blacklacquered coach standing behind a team of six matched whites with tall white plumes on their bridles. A coachman dressed like the soldiers, but without armor or sword, sat on the seat, and another opened the door as they appeared from the house. Before he did, Nynaeve saw the sigil painted there. A silvergauntleted fist clutching jagged lightning bolts.
She supposed it was High Lord Samon's sign — A Darkfriend, he must be, if he deals with the Black Ajah. The Light burn him! — but she was more interested in the man who dropped to his knees in the mud at their appearance. “Burn you, Sandar, why —?” She jumped as something that felt like a stick of wood struck her across the shoulders.
Joiya Byir smiled chidingly and waggled a finger. “You will be respectful, child. Or you might lose that tongue.”
Liandrin laughed. Tangling a hand in Sandar's black hair, she wrenched his head back. He stared up at her with the eyes of a faithful hound — or of a cur expecting a kick. “Do not be too hard on this man.” She even made “man” sound like “dog.” “He had to be... persuaded... to serve. But I am very good at persuading, no?” She laughed again.
Sandar turned a confused stare on Nynaeve. “I had to do it, Mistress Maryim. I... had to.” Liandrin twisted his hair, and his eyes went back to her, the anxious hound's once more.
Light! Nynaeve thought. What did they do to him? What are they going to do to us?
She and Elayne were bundled roughly into the coach, with Egwene slumped between them, her head lolling, and Liandrin and Rianna climbed in and took the seat facing forward. The glow of saidar still surrounded them. Where the others went, Nynaeve did not much care at that moment. She wanted to reach Egwene, to touch her, to comfort her hurts, but she could not move a muscle below her neck except to writhe. Flows of Air bound the three of them like layers of tightly wrapped blankets. The coach lurched into motion, swaying hard in the mud despite its leather springs.
“If you have hurt her...” Light, I can see they've hurt her. Why don't I say what I mean? But it was almost as hard to force the words out as it would have been to lift a hand. “If you have killed her, I won't rest till you are all hunted d
