Page 166 of The Gathering Storm (The Wheel of Time 12)

These incidents weren’t caused by the ghosts, but the people had begun to blame the apparitions. Better than them blaming Rand, she supposed.

“This waiting in the city, it is frustrating,” Merise continued.

“Our time in this city does seem to lack fruit,” Corele agreed. “We should be moving on. You’ve heard that he is proclaiming that the Last Battle will begin soon.”

Nynaeve felt a stab of worry for Lan, then anger toward Rand. He still thought that if he could stage his assault at the same time as Lan’s attack on Tarwin’s Gap, he could confuse his enemies. Lan’s attack could very well be the beginning of the Last Battle. Why, then, wouldn’t Rand commit troops to help?

“Yes,” Cadsuane said, musingly, “he is probably right.” Why did she keep that hood up? Rand obviously wasn’t around.

“Then we have all the greater reason to move on,” Merise said sternly. “Rand al’Thor, he is a fool! And Arad Doman, it is irrelevant. A king or no king? What does it matter?”

“The Seanchan are not irrelevant,” Nynaeve said, sniffing. “What of them? You would have us march to the Blight and leave our kingdoms open to invasion?”

Merise didn’t react. Corele smiled and shrugged, then looked toward Damer Flinn, who leaned against the wall behind them, his arms folded. The leathery old man’s casual posture suggested that he saw the procession of ghosts as nothing special. And these days, he might be right.

Nynaeve looked back out at the ghost procession, who were walking in an arc, rounding the city wall. The other Aes Sedai resumed their conversation, Merise and Corele taking further opportunity to voice their displeasure with Rand in their separate ways—one dour, the other congenial.

It made Nynaeve want to defend him. Though he had been difficult and erratic lately, there was important work for him to do in Arad Doman. The meeting with the Seanchan in Falme was only a short time away. Beyond that, Rand was right to worry about filling the Domani throne. And what if Graendal really was here, as he seemed to think? The others thought he must be mistaken about the Forsaken, but Rand had discovered Forsaken in nearly every other kingdom. Why not Arad Doman? A missing king, a land seething with confusion, famine and strife? These things sounded exactly like the kinds of trouble one would discover near one of the Forsaken.

The others continued to talk. Nynaeve started to leave, and as she did so she noticed that Cadsuane was watching her. Nynaeve hesitated, turning t

oward the cloaked woman. Cadsuane’s face was barely visible by torchlight, but Nynaeve caught a grimace in the shadows, as if Cadsuane were displeased with Merise’s and Corele’s complaints. Nynaeve and Cadsuane stared at each other for a moment; then Cadsuane nodded curtly. The aged Aes Sedai turned and began to walk away, right in the middle of one of Merise’s tirades about Rand.

The other Aes Sedai bustled to catch up. What had that look been for? Cadsuane had a habit of treating other Aes Sedai as if they were less worthy of respect than a common mule. It was as if all the rest of them were mere children in her eyes.

But, well, considering the way many Aes Sedai had been acting lately. . . .

Frowning to herself, Nynaeve left in the other direction, nodding to the wall guards. That nod of Cadsuane’s couldn’t possibly have been given out of respect. Cadsuane was far too self-righteous and arrogant for that.

What to do about Rand, then? He didn’t want Nynaeve’s help—or anyone’s help—but that was nothing new. He’d been just as stubborn as a sheepherder back in the Two Rivers, and his father had been nearly as bad. That had never stopped Nynaeve the Wisdom, so it certainly wouldn’t stop Nynaeve the Aes Sedai. She’d wrangled Coplins and Congars; she could do the same for trumped-up Rand al’Thor. She had half a mind to stride to his new “palace” and give him an earful.

Except . . . Rand al’Thor wasn’t just any Coplin or Congar. Stubborn folks back in the Two Rivers hadn’t had Rand’s strangely menacing aura.

She’d dealt with dangerous men before. Her own Lan was as dangerous as a wolf on the prowl, and could be as prickly, too, even if he was good at hiding it from most people. But as threatening and as intimidating as Lan could be, he’d sooner chop off his own hand than raise it to harm her.

Rand was different. Nynaeve reached the steps leading off the wall into the city and headed down them, waving away a guard’s suggestion that she take one of them in escort. It was night and there were a lot of refugees about, but she was hardly helpless. She did accept a lantern from another guard, however. Using the One Power to craft light would make the passersby uncomfortable.

Rand. Once, she’d thought him as gentle as Lan. His devotion to protecting women had been almost laughable in its innocence. That Rand was gone. Nynaeve saw again the moment when he had exiled Cadsuane. She’d believed that he would kill Cadsuane if he saw her face again, and thinking of the moment still gave her shivers. Surely it had been her imagination, but the room had seemed to darken distinctly at that moment, as if a cloud had passed over the sun.

Rand al’Thor had grown unpredictable. His explosion of temper at Nynaeve herself a few days ago was just another example. Of course, he would never exile or threaten her, despite what he had said. He wasn’t that hard. Was he?

She reached the bottom of the stone steps, walking out onto a boardwalk stained with the mud of evening traffic. She pulled her shawl close. Huddled people clustered on the other side of the street. The shop entrances and alleyways there offered protection from the wind.

She heard a child cough among a distant group. She froze, then heard the cough again. It was not an easy sound. Muttering, she crossed the street, then forced her way through the refugees, holding up her lantern to illuminate one group of drowsy people after another. Many had the coppery skin of the Domani, but there were a fair number of Taraboners as well. And . . . were those Saldaeans? That was unexpected.

Most of the refugees lay in ragged blankets next to their meager possessions. A pot here, a quilt there. One young girl had a small cloth doll that might have once been fine, but had now lost one of its arms. Rand certainly was effective at subduing countries, but his kingdoms needed more than just handouts of grain. They needed stability, and they needed something—someone—they could believe in. Rand was getting increasingly bad at offering either one.

Where was the source of that cough? Few of the refugees spoke to her, and they were hesitant to answer her questions. When she finally found the boy, she was more than a little annoyed. His parents had made their beds in a hollow between two wooden shops, and as Nynaeve approached, the father stood up to confront her. He was a scruffy Domani with a dark, ragged beard and a thick mustache that might have once been trimmed to Domani fashion. He wore no coat, and his shirt was nearly in tatters.

Nynaeve stared him down with a look she had learned long before her days as an Aes Sedai. Honestly, men could be so foolish! His son was likely dying, and yet he confronted one of the few people in the city who could help. The wife had more sense, which was usually the case. She laid a hand on her husband’s leg, causing him to glance down. He finally turned away with a quiet mutter.

The wife’s features were difficult to see through the grime on her face. The dirt was streaked with tear lines on her cheeks; she had obviously had a difficult couple of nights.

Nynaeve knelt—ignoring the looming father—then pulled back the blanket from the face of the child in the woman’s arms. Sure enough, he was gaunt and pale, and his eyes fluttered open in some delusion.

“How long has he been coughing?” Nynaeve said, pulling a few packets of herbs out of the pouch at her side. She didn’t have much, but they would have to do.

“A week now, Lady,” the woman replied.