Unless Berisha was simply taking advantage of the circumstances, Faile thought. Also, there was the woman’s death. That wound in her stomach had not looked like one caused by the spikes. It had looked like a knife wound. As if someone had attacked Berisha once the Horn was through the gateway. To keep her from telling what she’d done?
Light, Faile thought. I am growing suspicious.
“So,” Harnan said, “what do we do?”
“That depends,” Faile said, looking toward Setalle. “Is there any way an Aes Sedai could tell where we’d been sent?”
Setalle hesitated, as if reluctant to reveal how much she knew. When she continued, however, she spoke with confidence. “Weaves leave behind a residue. So yes, an Aes Sedai could discover where we’d gone. The residue does not last long, however: a few days at most, for a powerful weave. And not all channelers can read residues—this is a rare talent.”
The way she spoke, so commanding and authoritative . . . the way she projected an immediate sense of being trustworthy. It wasn’t a relative, then, Faile thought. This woman trained in the White Tower. Was she, perhaps, like Queen Morgase? Too weak in the One Power to become Aes Sedai?
“We will wait one day,” Faile said. “If nobody has come for us by then, we will head south and try to escape the Blight as quickly as possible.”
“I wonder how far north we are,” Harnan said, rubbing his chin. “I don’t fancy going over mountains to get back home.”
“You’d rather remain in the Blight?” Mandevwin asked.
“Well, no,” Harnan said. “But it could take months to walk back to safety. Months traveling through the Blight itself. . ”
Light, Faile thought. Traveling months in a place where we’re lucky to have lost only two in one day. They’d never make it. Even without the wagons, the caravan would stand out in this landscape like a fresh wound on diseased skin. They’d be lucky to last another day or two.
She resisted the urge to glance back at the tent. What would happen if she didn’t bring it to Mat in time?
“There is another option,” Setalle said hesitantly.
Faile looked to her.
“That peak you see to the east of us,” Setalle said, speaking with obvious reluctance. “That is Shayol Ghul.”
Mandevwin whispered something quietly that Faile didn’t catch, squeezing his eyes shut. The others looked sick. Faile, however, caught Setalle’s implication.
“That is where the Dragon Reborn is making war against the Shadow,” Faile said. “One of our armies will be there. With channelers who could get us out.”
“Indeed,” Setalle said. “And the area just around Shayol Ghul is known as the Blasted Lands, lands that the horrors of the Blight are said to avoid.”
“Because it’s so terrible!” Arrela said. “If they don’t go there, it’s because they fear the Dark One himself!”
“The Dark One and his armies might have their attention on the fighting,” Faile said slowly, nodding her head. “We can’t survive long in the Blight—we’ll be dead before the week is out. But if the Blasted Lands are free of those horrors, and if we can reach our armies there . . .”
It seemed a far better hope—slim though it was—than trying to march for months in the most dangerous place in the world. She told the others she’d consider what to do and dismissed them.
Her advisors moved off to make their bedrolls, Mandevwin going to check the men on watch. Faile remained staring at the embers of the fire, feeling sick.
Someone did kill Berisha, she thought. I’m certain of it. The gateway’s location really could have been an accident. Accidents happened, even to Aes Sedai, no matter what Setalle thought. But if there was a Darkfriend in the caravan, one who had ducked through the opening and seen that it went to the Blight, they could have easily decided to kill Berisha in order to leave the Horn and the caravan stranded.
“Setalle,” Faile said as the woman passed, “a word.”
Setalle sat down beside Faile, wearing a composed expression. “I know what you’re going to ask.”
“How long has it been,” Faile asked, “since you were in the White Tower?”
“It has been decades now.”
“Are you capable of making a gateway?”
Setalle laughed. “Child, I couldn’t light a candle. I was burned out in an accident. I haven’t held the One Power in over twenty-five years.”
“I see,” Faile said. “Thank you.”
Setalle moved off, and Faile found herself wondering. How truthful was her story? Setalle had been very helpful in their days together, and Faile couldn’t blame the woman for keeping secret her ties to the White Tower. In any other situation, Faile wouldn’t have given the woman’s story a moment of doubt.
However, there was no way out here to confirm what she said. If Setalle was Black Ajah in hiding, her story about being burned out could simply be that—a story. Perhaps she could still channel. Or perhaps she couldn’t, but had been stilled as a punishment. Could this woman be an escaped prisoner of the most dangerous type, an agent who had waited decades for the right moment to strike?
Setalle had been the one to suggest they go to Shayol Ghul. Was she seeking to bring the Horn to her master?
Feeling cold, Faile entered her tent as several members of Cha Faile set up watch around it. Faile wrapped herself in her bedroll. She knew that she was being overly suspicious. But how else was she to be, considering the circumstances?
Light, she thought. The Horn of Valere, lost in the Blight. A nightmare.
Aviendha knelt on one knee beside the smoldering corpse, holding her angreal—the turtle brooch that Elayne had given her. She breathed through her mouth as she gazed down on the man’s face.
There were a surprising number of these red-veils. Whatever their origins, they were not Aiel. They did not follow ji’e’toh. During the night’s fighting, she had seen two Maidens take a man captive. He had acted like gai’shain, but had then killed one from behind with a hidden knife.
“Well?” Sarene asked, breathless. While those at the Field of Merrilor rested and prepared for their challenge ahead, this battle at Shayol Ghul continued. The red-veil attack had lasted all through the night, the following day and now into the night again.
“I think I knew him,” Aviendha said, disturbed. “He channeled for the first time when I was a child, making algode grow when it should not.” She let the veil fall down on his face. “His name was Soro. He was kind to me. I watched him run across the dry ground at sunset after vowing to spit in Sightblinder’s eye.”
“I'm sorry,” Sarene said, though her voice was uncolored by any sympathy. Aviendha was growing accustomed to that in the woman. It wasn’t that Sarene didn’t care; she just didn’t let caring distract her. At least, not when her Warder was elsewhere. The Aes Sedai would have made a fine Maiden.
“Let’s keep moving,” Aviendha said, taking off with her pack of channelers. During the days and nights of fighting, Aviendha’s team had shifted, melded and split as women needed rest. Aviendha herself had slept sometime during the day.
By common agreement, the one leading the circle avoided drawing on her own power—thus Aviendha was still at reasonable strength, despite so many hours of fighting. This allowed her to remain alert, on the hunt. The other women became wells of power to be drawn upon.
She had to be careful not to drain them too far. Tire a woman, and she could sleep for a few hours and be back up to fight again. Drain her completely, and she could be useless for days. At the moment, Aviendha had Flinn and three Aes Sedai with her. She had learned the weave to tell her when a man was channeling nearby—it was moving through the Aes Sedai and Wise Ones—but having a male channeler with her was far more useful.