Threads on the Fringe
by Iliana Sh'mur Sedai

The Amyrlin’s Plan

Qirien shifted the seven-striped stole of the Amyrlin Seat about her shoulders and sat down behind the desk. Sunlight streamed through the window of the Amyrlin’s study to fall upon the wall, illuminating two vulgar pieces of artwork left over from Elaida’s occupation of the room-- the three-paneled triptych of Bonwhin and the watercolor of the Dragon Reborn at Falme. She hadn’t gotten rid of the distasteful things yet; as a matter of fact, the desk, too, was Elaida’s, as were the red Power-touched roses and the miniature ivory figurines on the desk. It had been only a matter of hours since she had moved into the study, after all, and it would be good to pick through Elaida’s things before throwing them away. Some bits of information might have been missed when the Aes Sedai looked through the mirror of Elaida’s study in Tel’Aran’Rhiod.

A soft knock disturbed the morning peace, followed by a creak as the door opened. A coolly composed Aes Sedai slipped into the study. The Ebou Dari woman wore soft, tailored brown suede boots that ended above her knees and contrasted sharply with her elegant white silk dress. Unlike most Aes Sedai coming to see the Amyrlin, the Yellow sister had not donned her shawl. Her waist-length black hair was twisted up against the nape of her neck. "Shall I say Mother and kiss your ring?" Iliana asked, a faint smile forming on her lips.

This time, Qirien did roll her eyes. "I would greatly appreciate that," she replied sarcastically.

"Then I will not give you the pleasure," the other woman replied gravely. Looking around the study, Iliana made a disgusted face. "Aren’t you going to get rid of those things?" she asked, pointing to the triptych and watercolor. "It seems Elaida’s taste in art was a bit less than refined. Bonwhin, I would say. And of course the Dragon Reborn." She stopped before the vase of Power-touched roses. "Pretty," she murmured, pulling out a single red flower and turning it over in her hands.

Qirien put her elbows on the desk and pressed her palms together, touching her upright index fingers to her lips. Right down to the matter at hand. "How well do you know Chevalle Daraghan?" she asked, picking up a slip of paper.

Iliana blinked. "I was novice and Accepted with her. We haven’t spoken much since then-- not since we were raised."

"Not many sisters have," Qirien agreed. The Blue sister was Cairhienin, and Cairhienin were a secretive people. "You probably don’t know her whereabouts, then."

Iliana half shook her head. "She went away from the Tower while you and Mingar and I were in Andor."

"Mm." Qirien frowned. "Chevalle sent a pigeon from Tear, saying she was making her way back to Tar Valon with some information that was... dangerous. She even demanded an audience with the Amyrlin, saying she would be back in a matter of days." She handed the slip of paper to Iliana.

The Yellow sister took the paper and read it. "It has been three weeks," she said slowly. "Perhaps a party should be sent to Tear--"

Qirien leaned forward. "You have read my thoughts, Iliana," she said dramatically.

"I can gather a small group of sisters," Iliana continued, "sisters we both trust--"

"I will gather a small group of sisters," Qirien interrupted, lips breaking into a smile. "You have just been gathered."

Iliana smiled back.

To Understand Honor

Mingar, of the Jindo Sept of the Taardad Aiel and Warder to Qirien Dhaela Sedai, formerly of the Violet Ajah, now the Amyrlin Seat, put down his oilstone and experimentally threw his knife at the whitewashed wall. The newly sharpened blade sank deep into the plaster. Smiling briefly in satisfaction, he picked up the stone and went to work on his spears, leaving the knife in the wall.

A billowly blouse, a cloak, the Amyrlin’s stole, and a quarterstaff flew in rapid succession over his head across the room, landing atop the leather saddle already on the bed. Qirien Sedai stepped in through the door and, seeing Mingar’s beltknife sticking out of the wall, pursed her lips wryly. "I don’t mind your throwing knives at things," she said, her midnight blue eyes looking down upon him like a Wise One’s gaze, "but you are in my bedroom, and that’s my wall you just put a dent in."

Looking up, Mingar calmly grasped the male half of the True Source. The icy, red-hot Power with its revolting taint gnawed at his bones. He rode it, fought it, pulled in more. A flow of Air drew the knife out of the wall and carried it to his hand, while Earth and Water mended the narrow slit in the plaster.

One of Qirien Sedai’s eyebrows went up. "There is that, too," she said, sounding amused. "Some of the Ajahs have decided to send a representative with the Amyrlin on this journey, and they have chosen Mekoira Beltan. I thought it wise to leave the matter alone."

"Mekoira is Gray Ajah." He wasn’t sure what that implied, but it seemed a safe response. Aes Sedai seemed to attribute peculiarities to their Ajahs. And what matter was she leaving alone?

"She was a Red." Qirien shook the blouse, stole, cloak, and weapons off her saddle and began to stuff the pockets.

Mingar frowned. "She is Gray now, not Red."

"There is no way to be sure of her loyalties. You can be certain, though, she has every former Red behind her." The Aes Sedai frowned at one of her spearheads. Mingar’s skin tingled as she embraced the True Source. He tried to follow what she was doing, but once again, he could not see the weaves at all.

"If Mekoira is Gray Ajah but loyal to the Red, then she has no honor," Mingar pointed out. Wetlanders seemed to have very little honor, but Aes Sedai were even more puzzling than wetlanders. They did not seem to understand ji’e’toh at all.

"Reds and honor don’t belong in the same sentence together." Mingar frowned at that. She had just spoken the words in one sentence. Had she intentionally made the joke on herself? Aes Sedai had strange senses of humor. "One former Red is not much more than a biteme buzzing in your ear," Qirien continued seriously. "But thirteen together, with little enough honor...." She trailed off.

Mingar pulled his beltknife out again and examined its flawless edge. "I will get rid of her, then," he decided, standing up. If Mekoira Sedai was dangerous-- she was Aes Sedai, of course, but Mingar’s loyalty was to Qirien Sedai before others-- if Mekoira was dangerous, then she would have to be gotten rid of.

"Now that would really bring the Reds down," Qirien said dryly. "Right on our heads. No, Mingar, you will just have to stay low for now."

Mingar shrugged and squatted down again. "It will be as you say, Qirien Sedai." Aes Sedai were even stranger than Far Dareis Mai and Wise Ones put together.

To Tear

Aes Sedai and Warders milled restlessly around the Amyrlin Seat as she stood in the sun-browned grass just outside the Tower stables. There were three sisters, all sitting on their mounts. Restlessness had communicated itself to the animals; only Qirien’s own dark brown horse remained completely calm.

Iliana, Maralise, and Rwelean. Qirien examined each of them in turn. Irritation touched the corners of Iliana’s mouth, but there was something else in her face. The Ebou Dari Yellow radiated an aura of self-satisfaction-- probably the result of having just bonded her Warder, Qirien thought wryly. Her eyes went down to Jeren al’Mora in his dark, color-shifting cloak. Hazel of eye and light of hair, the man was Andoran, and had once been a Whitecloak, among other things.

Rwelean was probably not the Aes Sedai best equipped for such an excursion, but Qirien trusted her. She had been born Tuatha’an, and it was rumored she refused to use the Power even against Shadowspawn. The kind-faced Yellow sister had no Warder, and went from village to village Healing after Trollocs and Myrddraal committed their atrocities. Still, she would be of some help, and she was honest and trustworthy. Not many Aes Sedai were honest, whatever the Three Oaths said.

"It looks as though Mekoira is taking her time." Iliana twirled a rose in her hands-- the same rose, it appeared, she had taken from the Amyrlin’s study that morning.

"If she cannot come--" began Maralise, without finishing. The Violet sat with one leg up on her saddle, appearing idle. Her Warder, Lyrax, didn’t seem to be watching her at all. His hands reached into his cloak, up his sleeves, down his shirt, into his boots, pulling out knives and daggers and throwing them at a tree at lightning speed as he hummed an Ebou Dari tavern song and danced back and forth on his feet.

Qirien turned her head. "There she is." The fifth Aes Sedai, an olive-skinned, dark-haired Gray, came riding up at a slow walk. Qirien did not have to remind herself the woman was a former Red. Her face was cold and she had no Warder; her gait was haughty.

"We won’t have time for dallying on this trip," Iliana said, seeming to address all the Aes Sedai but looking sideways at Mekoira.

"No, we won’t." Qirien embraced the Source. A doorway opened in a revolving sliver of light. Mingar veiled himself and leapt through, followed by Jeren and Lyrax. Qirien went through last.

The gateway folded to a shut. Releasing the Source, Qirien turned and rode to the head of the party.

Brawls

Traces of sweat moistened Iliana’s face and neck, blackening the finer strands of her dark tresses along the hairline. Her temper was in a fine blaze. Had she stayed in Ebou Dar instead of running off to the White Tower to become Aes Sedai, she would likely have started a tavern brawl.

A faint smile touched her lips at the idea, and she pulled a knife from her boot and idly fingered its fine edge. It had been a while since she had enjoyed a good brawl.

Mekoira was not in a good mood either, it seemed. Iliana was glad. If the woman could light her temper by just being there, she did not deserve to be in a good mood. The former Red, now a Gray, wore a disgruntled expression on her face, and one hand toyed restlessly with the tiny silver bells in her hair. "We have already searched the forest," the Arafellin woman said irritably for the fourth time, bells jingling annoyingly as she spoke. "Chevalle is not here, and I do not believe she has been here."

Iliana’s fingers tightened on the knife for a moment before she quickly put it back in her boot. It would not do to slice the woman’s throat, after all. Mekoira was not Ebou Dari, so she wouldn’t understand; being sliced would likely offend her. "Perhaps not," she said, as calmly as she could manage. "But the Warders may still find something." Her spirits immediately lifted at the thought of Warders. Iliana could feel Jeren al’Mora off to the west, not too far away. He seemed incensed, frustrated, as if he were looking for something and there was nothing to be found. His face probably did not show it, though; he was usually reserved.

"Men." Mekoira sniffed. "As likely as not," she continued, "Chevalle has run off on her own, and we are wasting our time hunting wild geese. The best thing is to return to the city to meet Maralise and Rwelean and Travel back to Tar Valon."

A branch rustled softly, and Iliana turned to see Qirien stepping onto the road, out of the shrubbery. She had a feeling the faint noise had been intentional; the tall former Violet could be as silent and as invisible as any of the Gaidin. "Not a sign," said the Amyrlin, climbing onto her horse. "Not a single mark on the ground." Kneeing her mount, she led the way ahead.

"I tell you, Maralise and Rwelean have already searched this part of the forest. Mother," Mekoira added, as an afterthought. Impatience made her nose wrinkle, but didn’t detract from her face. The former Red was actually rather pretty, Iliana acknowledged, with large dark eyes and a red pouting mouth.

Iliana tugged Elaida’s Power-touched rose out of her sash and held it tightly in her fingers. Not the knife. Anything but the knife. "If it were up to you, Mekoira," she said lightly, "we would not find anything, not even if Chevalle came right in front of you."

"We are wasting our time," Mekoira replied peevishly. "At least if we return to Tear--"

"We are not returning to the city," Iliana interrupted. "Not until the Amyrlin says so." She cast a triumphant glance at Qirien.

"The Amyrlin will decide--"

"Mother," Iliana interrupted again. "There are parts of the forest that have not been thoroughly searched. If we should miss something--"

"Mother," Mekoira interrupted, "perhaps if we return to Tar Valon and start anew--"

"Mother--"

"Mother--"

Qirien turned around to regard both of them levelly.

"Mother," Iliana began again. "I believe we should--"

Qirien exhaled.

"--thoroughly comb the forest and then proceed to the--"

"--return to meet Maralise and Rwelean--"

The Amyrlin rolled her eyes. "Oh bother," she sighed, to no one in particular, spurring her horse and shooting ahead on the road.

Iliana smiled smugly. "You see? We are not leaving until the Amyrlin says so." Taking her own horse into a gallop, she rode after the Amyrlin.

A Random Killing

Three weeks, Mekoira said to herself, kneeing her horse and riding after Iliana. Three weeks riding back and forth in Tear, through city streets and country roads with the sun beating down on their heads, and they had not discovered a thing about Chevalle Daraghan’s whereabouts. The woman had run off, and she was not important enough for any of them, certainly not the Amyrlin Seat, to leave Tar Valon to search for her. Better just to return to the Tower and wait for Chevalle to reappear. The Reds-- the former Reds, Mekoira corrected herself-- would be happy to take her into custody for her punishment.

The Warders appeared so suddenly Mekoira very nearly embraced saidar. Jeren al’Mora wore the familiar color-shifting cloak, but Mingar was garbed in the grays and browns of the Aiel. Nevertheless, he blended nearly as well as Jeren.

"You have found something?" asked Iliana, lips curving into a smile. Mekoira supposed Iliana was pretty, although she never paid much attention to such things; Mekoira’s own face had always been rather plain.

"You will want to see it yourself, Aes Sedai." A smile touched the corners of Jeren’s mouth, but the rest of his face remained expressionless. Rumor said he had once been a Whitecloak. The very idea made Mekoira shiver; men were bad enough as they were, but even if she had been lunatic enough to bond one as Warder, she would certainly not have chosen a Whitecloak. As well choose a man who could channel. Or an Aielman, for that matter She glanced involuntarily at Mingar. Nothing was as bad as a man who could channel, of course, but an Aielman was little better than a Whitecloak.

"Mekoira!"

Mekoira started-- and realized she had opened herself to saidar and was holding as much as she could handle. The Power was singing within her, so resoundingly the sweetness touched the edge of pain. Iliana and the Amyrlin both stared at her; their Warders suddenly moved toward them.

Mekoira quickly released the Source.

"Is something the matter, Mekoira?" asked Qirien, raising one eyebrow.

"Nothing," Mekoira replied quickly. "I was just thinking, that is all." She blushed. Thinking, indeed. Embracing the Source like an Accepted, just at the thought of men-- and in front of the Amyrlin Seat! She was lucky she had not started weaving a shield. Besides, men who could channel could not be around for miles-- they had probably all gone to Caemlyn, to the Black Tower. "Well?" she continued breathlessly, looking at the Warders. "Show us what you have found."

Iliana’s eyes widened in surprise. "Yes," she said coolly. For some reason she gripped a red rose in her hand as though it were a knife. "Show us, Jeren."

"This way." Pushing aside some branches, Jeren led the way into the trees.

The Aielman ran ahead, disappearing into the shrubbery. The trees closed in rapidly. Thick underbrush covered the ground, forcing the Aes Sedai to dismount and lead their horses. The path wound back and forth; Mekoira lost track of the distance after the first six or seven complete turnarounds.

The sun was dipping down from its afternoon high when Mingar reappeared out of the bramble. The Warders led them across a small clearing. Moving ahead, Iliana and Qirien bent over at the side of the clearing, in front of a bush. Mekoira ran to catch up-- and, seeing what they were bending over, covered her mouth.

The body of a woman, dressed in the horizontal-barred silk of a Cairhienin House, lay twisted on the ground behind the shrubbery. There was no mistaking the Great Serpent ring on her finger, and the ageless face, even if it looked horribly wrong, was still recognizable as Chevalle Daraghan’s.

Arrows messily studded the corpse. Mingar bent over, snapped one off, and handed it to Jeren.

The Andorman examined the fletching. "Children of the Light," he said expressionlessly, meeting Iliana’s eyes as she took the broken shaft.

"Whitecloaks." The Amyrlin slowly exhaled. "She was murdered by Whitecloaks, then. Just a random killing." Taking the arrow from Iliana, she angrily threw it to the ground. "Well, all that is left to us is to give her a decent burial, now. Bother."

Iliana suddenly touched the Amyrlin’s arm. "No blood," she murmured suddenly, gingerly touching the body. Taking hold of the Power, Iliana ran a weave through the corpse. It seemed exploratory, although Mekoira herself barely knew enough to Heal a papercut.

"Blood or no blood," interrupted Mekoira impatiently, "let us bury her quickly now and ride back to Tear. We can be in Tar Valon by tonight." The entire search had been a waste of time, then. Why had the Amyrlin come so far away from the Tower, just to search for a missing sister killed by Whitecloaks?

Releasing the Source, Iliana stood up. "She... would have wanted to be buried in Cairhien, I think," the Yellow sister said slowly, looking at Qirien.

After a pause, the Amyrlin nodded. "We will take the body with us, then."

The Aielman vanished into the trees for a moment and returned with the body of a Warder slung over his shoulder. The color-shifting cloak still wrenched the eye, but it had been of little use to its owner. "Xadin Travoren," said Jeren, his face not changing at all. "Of Andor. He was a good man."

Qirien barely glanced at the body. "Bring them both," she commanded, and climbed onto her horse.

Good Spirits

The Tairen sun caressed Iliana’s face as she rode beside the hired wagon. This early in the morning, the warmth was still pleasant. The horses moved at a trot, slowly but fast enough for a breeze to comb through Iliana’s loose hair. The wagonwheels made a rhythmic crunching sound as they rolled along the dirt road. She looked up in concern as the cart bumped up and down. "Master Raldan, if you disturb the boxes--"

The hired teamster spat. "You mention boxes one more time and you can haul them yourself. I never heard tell of a woman carrying so many fancy clothes. Weigh as much as the dead, those flaming boxes of yours."

"Watch your tongue," Jeren snapped.

Raldan swallowed.

"Dresses," Iliana said carefully, meeting the teamster’s eyes, "can be rather delicate, and easily ruined if they are not treated well."

"Women," Raldan spat again. He opened his mouth to say more, but, glancing at the Warder, quickly closed it.

"You mind those boxes," Iliana reminded him gently, and rode ahead with Jeren.

The thought of the boxes brought a chill to her good mood. Chevalle and her Warder had not died at the hands of Whitecloaks-- at least, there was more to it than that. They had already been dead when they were shot with arrows. They had been killed with the Power-- she was sure of it. There were traces-- very minute, as if someone had carefully swept away the telltale signs. And the traces were not saidin. Iliana would have missed the clues if Chevalle had been killed with saidin.

Who then? The Black Ajah-- no one but Darkfriends would do such a thing. Or perhaps the Forsaken. "Nothing to be done about it now, though," she said aloud. "Not until we get back to Tar Valon. We will need time. It is a shame we could not remain at the inn." The thought of staying at the inn brought a faint smile to her lips.

Jeren glanced at her before returning his attention to the muddy Tairen streets. "Perhaps if you had not started a brawl in the common room--"

Iliana blushed. "Those women were Ebou Dari. I did not offend anyone."

"Perhaps not the Ebou Dari women. Aes Sedai, though," Jeren said dryly, looking at the four sisters riding briskly ahead on the road, "are not used to being thrown out of inns."

"Don’t be silly," Iliana murmured absently. If a woman did not stand up for what she believed in, she could go through life cowering or hiding behind her mother. "I cannot even remember how many times I was thrown out of common rooms in the Rahad when I was young."

"This is not the Rahad," Jeren reminded her.

Iliana made a face. "Of course not. I suppose next you’ll say I’m no longer young."

"I would not dare venture so far," the Warder replied wryly.

"That is well for you." Iliana laughed openly. "If that fat proprietor ever finds out he threw the Amyrlin Seat out of his inn, he would soil himself." She frowned suddenly. "But there is one thing. You should not have tried to restrain me. Why didn’t you grab her? She was the one who punched me in the eye." Iliana tentatively felt her eyelid. There was nothing wrong with it, of course. Rwelean had taken care of that.

"One of the innkeeper’s toughs was about to pick you up." The Andorman shrugged. "I didn’t want to hurt him."

Iliana sniffed. "You should not have interfered. Lyrax knew better."

Jeren glanced ahead at Maralise’s Warder. "I am not Ebou Dari."

"A week in the Rahad would teach you a few lessons." Iliana broke off as the marina came into view. Endless rows of ships small and large bobbed up and down in the water amid scraps of waste. The air was a mixture of odors-- saltwater, garbage, mud and fish seemed to be the most prevalent.

The Aes Sedai grouped together in a clump, surrounded by Warders. Mekoira looked none too pleased when Iliana pushed into the circle; being thrown out of an inn had offended her sense of dignity. Jeren led the way to a large Tairen vessel.

"A shame there are no Sea Folk rakers," commented Mekoira.

"This is the best we could find," said Jeren. "It took a good deal to find a captain willing to sail to Tar Valon."

Qirien glanced up at the vessel. "It is adequate. We are in no hurry to return," she added, glancing at Iliana. The Amyrlin’s deep blue eyes went to Mekoira. "Except for Mekoira, that is."

Strangely, Mekoira blushed at that.

Iliana frowned. Perhaps there was some truth to the rumors about the former Reds. She would look into it, once they were back in Tar Valon. Once she had the time. Time was too short. A few weeks sailing upriver would have to be enough.

Water and Wind

Captain Murdan was a stout man, with long hair and a beard that hid most of his face and eyes that shifted suspiciously. One of his blue eyes remained intently on the Aes Sedai, while the other pretended to be surveying the ship. The crew were sullen-eyed and unshaven. Some of the men cast leering eyes at the Aes Sedai with their fine silks and satin and velvet slippers; others alternated their belligerent stares between the Warders and the floor. The ones who knew better-- there were only two or three-- kept their gazes firmly downward, looking up nervously only now and then. Those, Qirien figured, had traveled enough to know Aes Sedai and Warders when they saw them.

"--make good speed, to go up the river in three weeks, Captain Murdan," Mekoira murmured.

Qirien turned to listen.

"We will travel as fast as the winds allow," the Tairen replied slowly, eyes flickering to the Warders. Rage touched Mekoira’s face as he turned his back to her. Standing at the helm, he returned to watching the passengers. He paused to consider each of them in turn. Qirien returned Murdan’s gaze coldly as the man looked her over.

"Something the matter, Captain?" she asked softly, raising her eyebrows.

Murdan quickly turned away.
*

The next few days passed uneventfully. Murdan continued to keep at least one blue eye on the Aes Sedai and Warders; when the passengers diverged to opposite sides of the ship, he used both eyes. Qirien was beginning to feel restless. She and Iliana needed time, of course, to decide what to do about Chevalle’s death, but it would be more than a month before they reached Tar Valon, at this rate.

The Tairen toughs continued to move sluggishly, casting secretive eyes back and forth amongst themselves. Jeren’s hand never strayed far from his sword. A permanent space cleared on the forward deck where Lyrax laid out an assortment of weapons. The long line of knives, daggers, darts, swords, spears, lances, slings, bows, arrows and maces served as well as a ward set with the Power. "You’ve heard of Trollocs, Murdan?" the Ebou Dari weapons master asked cheerfully. "Really stupid things, but they’re thick-skinned. Throwing knives won’t even pierce their hides, but a heavier weapon--" Picking up a pair of enormous maces, he swung them around to demonstrate. The end of a wooden mace passed inches in front of Murdan’s nose. The Tairen swallowed, backed off and glanced nervously at his crewmen.

Iliana’s spirits moved up from the antagonistic dip she had taken a few days earlier that had gotten them all thrown out of the inn. Strangely, Lyrax stayed away from her even when she was in a good mood, keeping his eyes carefully downcast and expressionless. Surely she was not as volatile as that, Qirien thought wryly, even if she was always a bit too ready to slice people.

"Captain Murdan," Qirien said on the fifth morning as she emerged from her cabin door. "Time is short. I must ask you to make a more reasonable speed." They were not really pressed for time, of course, but the rate Murdan had chosen was slow even for an old Tairen barge. She had a feeling Murdan was in no hurry to reach Tar Valon-- or perhaps he was planning not to get there, ever.

Murdan looked up to Qirien’s height with gleaming eyes that didn’t shift at all. "The weather will not allow it."

Qirien felt the air with her hand. "Weather is a tolerant thing," she replied pleasantly, keeping her eyes on Murdan’s.

The Tairen swallowed and looked away. "Perhaps we will hit a current of air," he promised vaguely.

Qirien smiled to herself and walked to the railing. True, time was needed to flush out Chevalle Daraghan’s killers. But a ship with thirty suspicious crewmen and a shifty-eyed captain was not the most comfortable way to spend it. She opened herself to saidar.

Cable-thick weaves of Wind stirred the heavy air into action. Mekoira watched in disbelief as the sails filled. Not many of the Aes Sedai, especially not the older sisters, had ever watched Windfinders.

The ship lurched forward.

The Way of the Leaf

Crisp air stirred the wisps of blond curls around Rwelean’s face. The Serpent of the West moved quickly now, driven by the wind Qirien had created with immense flows of Air. Rwelean smiled. Ships were as much a novelty to her now as when she had been a girl growing up amongst the Tuatha’an. She was not a Tinker anymore, of course; a woman could not be Tuatha’an and Aes Sedai both. The Way of the Leaf had remained with her, though. The dress she wore was plain gray, but a bright yellow shawl draped her shoulders, and a red sash decorated her waist. She still knew the Way of the Leaf was right; war and violence led to sorrow. Even some of the Aes Sedai quietly agreed with that, although they allowed violence to continue. Happiness could only be found in the Song. Whatever that might be.

Iliana was glaring fiercely, at the captain and at the sullen crew. The other Yellow leaned close to Rwelean’s ear. "They want to fight," she murmured, holding a short-bladed knife in one hand and absently touching its edge with the other.

Rwelean pursed her lips sadly. "Violence will not end violence," she answered softly. Iliana herself was filled with violence. Most people were, regardless of whether they were men or women, or whether they even knew weapons. The Amyrlin, the Warders, the Aes Sedai-- all of them were violent. "Have you not had enough?"

Iliana bit her lip. "If someone wrongs you, what can you do? You cannot let her have what is yours by right." She angrily stuffed the knife back into her boot.

"What is right?" Rwelean shrugged. "It is not right to hurt."

The Ebou Dari woman opened her mouth and closed it, then opened it again. "If a woman wants to cut your throat, she will not stop trying until you cut hers," Iliana said finally. "It is the only way to protect yourself," she explained, not looking at Rwelean. Pulling her thick blue cloak around herself as if to ward off a chill, she walked across the deck to Maralise and Lyrax.

Rwelean looked at the sky. It was quite warm. There was not a trace of cloud, and the sun fell heavily on the sea. Removing the yellow shawl from her shoulders, she draped it over her forearm and leaned over the railing to watch the gulls.

Spirit

Maralise removed her cloak and draped it over her forearm. "A rough crew," the young Violet observed, glancing at the sailors.

Iliana angrily stuffed the knife into her boot. "Not right to hurt," she muttered under her breath. "Look as though they’ll knife us before the sun sets today." Turning around abruptly, she found herself staring at a dark-haired young man with hard blue eyes set in a perpetually youthful face.

"What was that?"

Iliana glanced at Maralise. "I said, they probably will not attempt to knife us," she replied, glaring at the young rower. The boy-- he was little more than a boy, in her eyes, even if he was well-formed-- looked up at her and quickly looked away. As hard as a Warder, she mused. Rather curious, in one so young. It was a shame the Yellows did not have so liberal a bonding policy as the Greens.

She was conscious of saidar being channeled for a brief moment, before she was tossed to the deck floor by a lurch and an enormous roar. A wave of water launched high into the air and washed over the entire ship. Startled yells and screams came to her ears as the passengers and rowers struggled to their feet.

Spitting seawater out of her mouth and wiping it from her eyes, Iliana pulled herself up against the mast. Her soaked dress clung tightly to her skin, making it hard to move. "Qirien, what did you--" She broke off.

The glow of the Power emanated from Qirien as she stood up. "Not I," she said grimly, staring out beyond the railing.

Another jetstream of water shot up on the port side of the ship, nearly throwing her to the deck again. Looking beyond the Amyrlin, Iliana descried a large, square-rigged vessel, built for open sea, looming in the east. There was a glow on that ship-- a familiar glow. "The Power," she gasped.

"Seanchan." Dripping water, with her golden brown hair knocked loose and hanging to her waist and the glow of saidar shining brightly around her, Qirien angrily gripped the railing. "I was careless in Weaving the Winds." She shook her head. "I did not think they would be so near—"

The ship rocked again, tossing Iliana painfully against the mast on which she was bracing herself. Qirien abruptly turned around. "How many of them are there?" she gasped.

"Another ship to the west," said Mingar.

"There are four women on the other ship who can channel," added Maralise.

"Two damane on that ship, then, and one more." Qirien’s voice was flat as her eyes flickered rapidly back and forth between the two ships. "Three is not too many, if they do not tear this old barge apart.

"And if we cannot fight them off-- they either take us or we drown, like rats."

Behind his veil, Mingar laughed. *

The ship rocked and the deck lurched up, crumpling Iliana to her knees. "Iliana! Maralise!" Qirien’s holler came faint over the roaring sea from the other side of the barge. "We cannot lose the ship--" Her voice cut off as the main sail ballooned and ripped with an enormous tearing sound.

Iliana crawled up to the railing and clutched it tightly beside Maralise. "Flaming sul’dam and damane." She unconsciously reached into her boot for a dagger, but her hand caught Elaida’s Power-touched rose instead. Looking down, she muttered an oath and flung the thing aside. Saidar streamed through her as she rapidly spun a shield of the Power. "We must link. I will lead." The women on the other ship were not weak in the Power, but if they were only half-trained it would not be hard to--

The resonance jarred her to her toes. Maralise gasped, and Iliana let out a scream. The link between them shattered like glass. "We are not strong enough." The Violet sister shook her head and shuddered. "They train as well as the Tower itself."

Iliana raised her voice. "Mekoira!" she called desperately. Where was Mekoira? She turned her head-- just in time to see the Gray sister’s eyes roll up toward the back of her head in a dead faint. She sensed something else, too, but-- she shook her head. No time. "Rwelean!"

The Yellow sister remained in the doorway of the main cabin, clutching her knit shawl tight around her shoulders. Her gray eyes were bright. "I will do no violence," she whispered. She stood straight as an arrow, and the ship’s furious swaying seemed not to touch her. *

All around Rwelean the One Power was being channeled. Flows of Air and Water ripped the sails away and tossed the ship about wildly. Maralise and Iliana sliced many of the flows, but some of them hit home. Wood splintered, snapped like dry straw and caught flames, and the flames disappeared just as quickly, quelled by Air and Water. The flows emanating from Qirien were strange. They seemed incomplete; woven in with saidar were threads and patches of nothing. It was a weave that appeared to stop abruptly and start again in another place.

"Rwelean, you must help us. We need your strength."

Rwelean turned. Iliana and Maralise were on their knees, clutching the bottom of the railing. The glow of saidar was bright around both of them. Half of Maralise’s hair had been knocked out of its pinnings and hung dripping down one side of her face.

Rwelean shook her head slowly. "I will do no violence," she repeated sadly.

"Rwelean." Desperation touched Iliana’s olive-skinned face. "We must fight them. If they take us they will force us to do violence. We will have no choice."

"There is always a choice," replied Rwelean. Was there always a choice? What choice did they have now? Violence would only perpetuate violence. But if they did not fight, they would be taken and made damane. Damane fought, too. Damane were made to fight.

"Rwelean!" She felt a brief, tiny panic as the shield of Spirit slid down on her. But she did not try to break the shield or take hold of saidar. Her fear was gone as soon as the shield was in place. *

Spitting out the worst oath she could think of, Iliana turned away from Rwelean. "They are cutting us down one by one." She bit her words off.

"They are too strong to shield," said Maralise. "And I cannot open the collars. I have never touched one of those filthy things before. I do not know how to open them." Frustration was in her voice.

"At least there are not enough of them to shield us, not while we hold the Power ourselves." Iliana barked a laugh. "Slice every weave they try to make." She climbed grimly to her feet, brushing splinters of wood from the front of her dress. It was time to try something different, something they would not expect or know how to counter. Tossing back her loose sleeve, she fumbled at her wrist and pulled off her bracelet. "There is a trick I learned, before I went to the Tower," she murmured conversationally. "Renaiya taught me first. If Renaiya had made it past Acceptance she would have been among the best of the Yellows." Of course, Renaiya was not the only one she had learned this weave from. "But it is not Healing. It is... something else." Renaiya was cast from the Kin, as Aes Sedai were sometimes cast from the Tower. "Perhaps it can be used for diseases of the mind, which cannot be Healed." The trick lay in the Spirit part of the weave-- too much or too little, and it would do something else entirely. "Water and Spirit." She could no longer feel Qirien channeling. "The key," murmured Iliana, staring ahead, "the key lies in Spirit."

The sea became quiet. *

Mekoira gasped and shook to consciousness. She was lying on her back, on the deck. Rwelean hunched over her, holding one hand to each side of Mekoira’s head. The glow of saidar faded from the Yellow sister. Mekoira’s wet dress clung to her knees and elbows as she tried to push herself up. "What happened?" she asked weakly.

Iliana looked down with cool pity. "They shielded you. You fainted." Iliana was completely dry, but immense white streaks marred the surface of her red silk dress.

Mekoira’s memory came back slowly. She was on a ship traveling from Tear back to Tar Valon. On the way, there had been another ship, with square-rigged sails.... She sat up at once. "Are they gone?" She reached for the True Source and almost sobbed with relief as the Power filled her. She had been Red Ajah, had helped to shield and gentle many men, but nothing had prepared her for the sheer panic of being cut off from the Source.

"More or less. They will not bother us now." Maralise gazed uneasily into the distance.

A noise on the deck made Mekoira turn her head. Mingar tossed a ladder over the edge, and Qirien climbed up and over the railing. She was dripping water. "I tried to catch her, but she would not let me." Qirien shook her head. "No one can swim like that but the Atha’an Miere." The Amyrlin’s violet-colored eyes were regretful as she looked back over the water.

Jeren cleared his throat. "We should leave now, before others come."

Iliana touched the Amyrlin’s still-dripping sleeve. "They are watching us," she reminded her, pointing at the ship bobbing quietly in the distance. "They can do nothing now that they have lost their damane, but they will see where we are going." She twisted her mouth angrily around the word damane.

Bracing herself between the wall and Rwelean, carefully suppressing a shudder when Lyrax offered to help her, Mekoira pulled herself up to her feet. "Then you must destroy the ship," she said.

Qirien looked at Iliana. "What did you do to the other ship?"

For some reason, Iliana had red spots in her cheeks. "They are... asleep," she said. "Still standing up, every one of them, but-- asleep. They will stay that way until the weave unravels itself. It will be a few hours. And they have also... forgotten us, and perhaps forgotten all of today, and the day before, and...." She trailed off.

"I see." Qirien dried herself rapidly with a weave of Water.

"With your permission, Mother, I will take care of the ship," offered Mekoira.

The Amyrlin held up a hand. "Iliana will take care of the ship." She turned to the Ebou Dari woman. "Do what you did to the other. Make them forget. Mekoira, do whatever you can to fix the damage to the ship." She paused before turning to Murdan. "Captain Murdan."

The Tairen gulped and wrung his hands. "Yes, Aes Sedai?" he stammered.

"Up the river. To Tar Valon."

The Forgetting

The sun rose over the eastern horizon, transforming the sky from dark velvet to a bride’s iridescent white silk. The ship with the square-rigged sails floated aimlessly like a dropped feather.

Larawyn shook her head to clear her thoughts. She had a splitting headache. The sun was going down. Good, she would take to her bed. Pains in the head always went away with sleep. But no, there was something wrong about that thought. Dusk? The sun was setting, the sun was going down... She blinked. The sun was going down in the east?

A breeze stirred Larawyn’s blue-paneled dress with its streaking lightning bolts. It was morning. Why couldn’t she remember waking up? Or, for that matter, when had she gone to bed? She could not remember the night. They had been sailing east. She remembered sitting in the cabin eating fish when Ravone came in and said something about a ship to the south. She was in the cabin eating lunch. Yet for some reason she was standing on the deck.

She started suddenly. Mari was gone. The a’dam was still on her wrist, but the chain that seemed woven yet all one piece led to an open collar on the floor.

Fear rushed through Larawyn like hot fire. "Who opened it?" she demanded hoarsely, looking around the deck. The rowers stared down at the planks, pretending not to hear her. "Who opened the collar?" She raised her voice. "Ravone! Where is she?"

Ravone came rushing out of the cabin. He stopped, open-mouthed, at the sight of the uselessly hanging a’dam. "I do not know, sul’dam," he whispered, not looking at her. "I do not know." He stared sickly at the eastern horizon.

"Someone must have opened the collar," Larawyn snapped. "She could not have opened it herself. Where is she? I will turn all of you over to the High Lady." What would the High Lady do to Larawyn herself when it was discovered she had lost a valuable damane? "Mari!" she called out desperately. She tried to sound stern, as though she were barking an order in battle. She managed instead to sound rather shrill. "Mari, if you do not show yourself I will make you wish you were boiling in oil. Do you understand me?"

The air was cool but moist and gentle. There was no sound. Larawyn turned hopelessly to the prow and stared out over the water at the rising sun. How could the sun be rising? There was a ship to the south. What had happened to the ship? There was a ship. There was a... Pain rushed through her skull. This was the worst headache she ever had. She shook her head, pressed her palms to each side of it above her ears. What had she been thinking? It was gone. Perhaps it had not been important. *

Ravone walked up to Larawyn. Wordlessly he handed her the red rose drawn out of the sea. Droplets clung to the velvety petals, reflecting the light of the rising sun like fresh dew. Of how it had ended up floating in the sea Ravone had no idea, but saltwater seemed not to touch it.

The End