Page 173 of The Gathering Storm (The Wheel of Time 12)

Once Milisair was safe, Nynaeve burst from the cell. “Stop!” she bellowed at the men. “Jorgin!”

Lurts, at the back, turned with surprise. He grabbed the jailer Jorgin by the arm and spun him around.

“Who prepares the prisoner’s food?” Nynaeve demanded, stalking toward him.

“The food?” Jorgin asked, looking confused. “That’s one of Kerb’s jobs. Why?”

“Kerb?”

“The lad,” Jorgin said. “Nobody important. An apprentice we found among the refugees a few months back. Quite a lucky find—our last apprentice ran off on us, and this one was already trained in—”

Nynaeve hushed him with a raised hand, suddenly anxious. “The boy! Where is he?”

“He was just here . . .” Lurts said, glancing up. “Went with—”

There was a sudden scrambling from above. Nynaeve cursed, calling for Triben to catch the boy. She shoved her way to the ladder and began climbing. She darted out into the shop above, her glowing light following. The two thugs stood cowering in the center room, looking confused, and a Saldaean guard stood with a sword pulled on them. He looked at her questioningly.

“The boy!” she said.

Triben glanced toward the shop door. It was open. Preparing weaves of Air, Nynaeve dashed out onto the street.

There, she found the boy, Kerb, in the muddy street, held down by the four dice-playing workers she’d brought from the mansion. Even as she stepped off the boardwalk onto the street, they pulled the struggling, frantic boy to his feet. The last Saldaean stood at the doorway, sword out, as if he’d been rushing in to see if she was in danger.

“He bolted out of the door, Aes Sedai,” one of the workers said, “as if the Dark One himself was chasing him. Your soldier ran over to see if you were in danger, but we figured it’d be best to snatch this lad before he could get away. Just in case.”

Nynaeve let out a breath to calm herself. “You did well,” she said. The youth struggled, weakly. “You did well indeed.”

CHAPTER 33

A Conversation with the Dragon

“This,” Rand declared, “had better be important.”

Nynaeve turned to find the Dragon Reborn standing in the doorway to the sitting room. He wore a dark red robe with black dragons embroidered up the arms. His stump was hidden in the folds of the left sleeve. Though his hair was tousled from sleep, his eyes were alert.

He strode into the sitting room, ever the king—even now, long after midnight and just awakened, he walked as if he were absolutely certain of himself. Some servants had brought a pot of hot tea, and he filled a cup as Min followed him into the room. She also wore a sleeping robe; the robes were one of the fashions of the Domani, and hers was of yellow silk, the weave far thinner than Rand’s. Aiel maidens took up positions by the door, lounging in their strangely dangerous way.

Rand took a gulp from his cup. It was getting harder and harder to see in him the boy Nynaeve had known in the Two Rivers. Had his jaw always been set with those lines of determination? When had his step grown so sure, his posture so demanding? This man almost seemed an . . . interpretation of the Rand she’d once known. Like a statue, carved from rock to look like him, but exaggerated in heroic lines.

“Well?” Rand demanded. “Who is this?”

The young apprentice, Kerb, sat tied in Air upon one of the room’s cushioned benches. Nynaeve glanced at him, then Embraced the Source and wove a ward against eavesdropping. Rand looked at her sharply. “You channeled?” he asked. He could sense when she did so without taking precautions; he felt goose bumps on the flesh, according to Egwene and Elayne’s investigations.

“A ward,” she said, refusing to be cowed. “Last I checked, I didn’t need your permission to channel. You’ve grown high and mighty, Rand al’Thor, but don’t forget that I paddled your backside when you were barely as tall as a man’s shins.”

Once that would have gotten a reaction from him, if only a huff of annoyance. Now he just looked at her. Those eyes of his seemed, at

times, the part of him that had changed the most.

He sighed. “Why have you wakened me, Nynaeve? Who is this spindly, terrified youth? If it had been anyone else who sent that message this time of night, I’d have sent them to Bashere for a flogging.”

Nynaeve nodded at Kerb. “I think this ‘spindly, terrified youth’ knows where the King is.”

That got Rand’s attention, and Min’s as well. She’d poured herself a cup of tea and was leaning against a wall. Why weren’t they married?

“The King?” Rand asked. “Graendal too, then. How do you know this, Nynaeve? Where did you find him?”

“At the dungeon where you sent Milisair Chadmar,” Nynaeve said, eyeing him. “It is terrible, Rand al’Thor. You have no right to treat a person in such a manner.”