For now, Cadsuane had to work with what she had. That included these Wise Ones, poorly trained in using weaves but never lacking in grit. Useful. Like Sorilea, despite her weakness in the One Power, who sat farther back in the tent, watching.
“I have made some inquiries, child,” Cadsuane said to Aviendha. “What this woman does is indeed Traveling. However, the only fragments of documents mentioning it date back to the War of Power.”
Aviendha frowned. “I saw no weaves, Cadsuane Sedai.”
Cadsuane masked a smile at the respectful tone. The al’Thor boy had put this girl in command—and, in truth, better her than some others. However, he should have chosen Cadsuane, and Aviendha likely knew it.
“That is because the woman was not weaving the One Power,” Cadsuane replied.
“What else would it be?”
“Do you know why the Dark One was originally freed?”
Aviendha looked as if remembering something. “Ah . . . yes. Then they are channeling the Dark One’s power?”
“It is called the True Power,” Cadsuane said. “The accounts say that Traveling by True Power works in the way you have seen this woman move. Few saw it happen. The Dark One was miserly with his essence during the War of Power, and only the most favored were granted access. I surmise from this fact that this is most definitely one of the Forsaken. From your description of what she did to poor Sarene, I would suspect it is Graendal.”
“The stories never mentioned Graendal being so ugly,” Sorilea said softly.
“If you were one of the Forsaken, easily recognized by description, would you not wish to change your appearance to remain unknown?”
“Perhaps,” Sorilea said. “But then I would not use this . . . True Power, as you name it. That would defeat the purpose of my disguise.”
“From what Aviendha has told us,” Cadsuane noted, “the woman did not have much of a choice. She had to escape quickly.”
Cadsuane and Sorilea met eyes, and each nodded in agreement. They would hunt this Forsaken, the two of them.
I won’t have you dying on me now, boy, Cadsuane thought, glancing over her shoulder toward where al’Thor, Nynaeve and Moiraine continued their work. Every channeler in the camp could feel that pulsing. At least, not until you’ve done what you need to do. Cadsuane had expected the Forsaken to be here. It was why she’d come to this battlefront.
Wind shook the tent, chilling Cadsuane down deep. This place was awful, even when the battle slowed. The dread that hung here was like that of a funeral for a child. It stifled laughter, killed smiles. The Dark One watched. Light, but it would be good to leave this place.
Aviendha drank her tea. The woman still looked haunted, although she had obviously lost allies in battle before.
“I left them to die,” she whispered.
“Phaw,” Cadsuane said to her. “You are not to blame for what one of the Forsaken did, child.”
“You don’t understand,” Aviendha said. “We were in a circle, and they tried to break free—I felt them—but I didn’t know what was happening. I held on to their Power, and so they couldn’t fight her. I left them helpless.”
“Well, from now on don’t leave those in your circle behind,” Cadsuane said briskly. “You could not have known what would happen.”
“If you suspect this one is nearby, Aviendha,” Sorilea said, “you will send word to Cadsuane, me or Amys. There is no shame in admitting that another is too strong to face alone. We will defeat this woman together and protect the Car’a’carn”
“Very well,” Aviendha said. “But you will do the same for me. All of you.”
She waited. Cadsuane reluctantly agreed, as did Sorilea.
Faile crouched in a dark tent. The air had grown even colder, now that they were close to Thakan’dar. She ran her thumb along the hilt of her knife, breathing in slowly and evenly, then releasing the breath in the same manner. She stared at the tent flaps, unblinking.
She’d placed the Horn’s chest there with one corner sticking out into the night. She felt more alone here on the border of the Blasted Lands—surrounded by supposed allies—than she had in the Shaido camp.
Two nights ago, she’d been called out of her tent to inspect some odd tracks that had worried the men. They hadn’t lost anyone since drawing so close to the Blasted Lands—that part of the plan was working—but tensions were still high. She’d been gone only a few minutes, but when she’d returned, the Horn’s chest in her tent had been moved just slightly.
Someone had tried to open it. Light. Fortunately, they hadn’t managed to break the lock, and the Horn had still been there when she’d looked.
The traitor could be anyone. One of the Redarms, a wagon driver, a member of Cha Faile. Faile had spent the past two nights being extra—even obviously—vigilant with the chest to frustrate the thief. Then, tonight, she’d complained of a headache and allowed Setalle to fix her some tea to help her sleep. She’d brought the tea back to her tent, had not taken a sip and now crouched, waiting.
The chest’s corner would be obvious, poking out into the night. Would they try again? As a precaution, she’d removed the Horn from the chest and taken it when she went out to answer the call of nature. She’d hidden it there in a cubby of rock and, upon returning, had put Cha Faile on patrol duty for the night, away from her tent. They had not liked leaving her unguarded, but Faile had made it clear that she was worried about tensions among the men.
That would be enough. Light, let it be enough.
Hours passed with Faile crouched in that same position, ready to leap up and call the alarm the moment someone tried to enter her tent. Surely they would try again tonight, when she was supposedly ill.
Nothing. Her muscles ached, but she didn’t move. The thief could be out there, in the dark, waiting. Wondering if this was the right moment to strike, to grab the Horn and run off to his or her masters. It—
A scream shattered the night.
Faile wavered. A distraction?
That scream, she thought, judging the direction. It came. . . from just west of here.
Near where she’d hidden the Horn. Faile cursed, making a snap decision. The chest was empty. If she took the bait and it really was just a distraction, then she would not lose anything. If, on the other hand, the thief had anticipated her . . . She darted from the tent as others scrambled from bedrolls. Members of Cha Faile raced through the camp. The yell came again.
It was accompanied by a haunting screech, a type that had been following them in the distance.
She crashed through some thin, Blight-stained weeds. Running through them was a foolish move in a place where a twig could kill, but she was not thinking clearly.
She arrived first on the scene, reaching the area where she’d hidden the Horn. There stood not only Vanin, but Harnan as well. Vanin clutched the Horn of Valere in thick arms while Harnan fought against some kind of beast with dark fur, shouting and swinging his sword.
Vanin looked at Faile and grew as pale as a Whitecloak’s shirt.
“Thief!” Faile shouted. “Stop him! He has stolen the Horn of Valere!”
Vanin cried out, tossing the Horn as if it had bitten him, then dashing away. Light, but he could move quickly for one of his bulk! He grabbed Harnan by the shoulder, pulling him to the side as the beast screamed that haunting wail.
Other roars came in the distance. Faile skidded to the ground, grabbing the Horn and clutching it close. These men were no common thieves. They had not only seen through her plan, but anticipated exactly where she’d hidden the Horn. She felt like a farmgirl who had just fallen for a townsman’s three-cup scam.
Those who had come running with her stood stunned, either by the sight of the Horn or the monster. The creature screeched—it looked like some kind of bear with too many arms, though it was larger than any bear Faile had seen. She stumbled to her feet. There was no time to look for the thieves as the beast smashed its way into Faile’s guards. It ripped the head off a member of Cha Faile, screeching.