Pevara was still thinking about her family. She had been telling the truth; she did hate the Darkfriends. All of them. It was a measured hate, not out of control, but it was still strong after all of these years.
He would not have suspected that in this woman who seemed so often to smile. He could sense that she hurt. And, oddly, that she felt . . . lonely.
“My father killed himself,” Androl said, without really intending to.
She looked at him.
“My mother pretended it was an accident for years,” Androl continued. “He did it out in the woods, leaped from a cliff. He’d sat down with her the night before and explained what he was going to do.”
“She didn’t try to stop him?” Pevara asked, aghast.
“No,” Androl said. “Only a few years before she found the mother’s last embrace, I was able to pry some answers out of her. She was frightened of him. That was shocking to me; he’d always been so gentle. What had changed, in those last few years, to make her fear him?” Androl turned to Pevara. “She said that he saw things in the shadows. That he’d started to go mad.”
“Ah . . .”
“You asked me why I came to the Black Tower. You wanted to know why I asked to be tested. Well this thing that I am, it answers a question for me. It tells me who my father was, and why he did what he felt he needed to do.
“I can see the signs now. Our business did too well. Father could find quarries of stone and veins of metal when nobody else could. Men hired him to find valuable deposits for them. He was the best. Uncannily good. I could . . . see it in him at the end, Pevara. I was only ten, but I remember.
“The fear in his eyes. I know that fear now.” He hesitated. “My father jumped off that cliff to save his family’s lives.”
“I’m sorry,” Pevara said.
“Knowing what I am, what he was, helps.”
It had started raining again, fat drops hitting the window like pebbles. The door into the shop opened, and Emarin, finally, peered in. He saw Dobser, hanging there, and looked relieved. Then he saw the other two and started. “What have you two done?”
“What needed to be done,” Androl said, standing. “What took you so long?”
“I nearly started another confrontation with Coteren,” Emarin said, still staring at the two captive Asha’man. “I think our time is short, Androl. We didn’t let them goad us, but Coteren seemed annoyed—more so than normal. I don’t think they’re going to tolerate us much longer.”
“Well, these captives put us on a countdown anyway,” Pevara said, moving Dobser over to make room for Emarin. “You really think you can make this man talk? I’ve tried interrogating Darkfriends before. They can be tough to crack.”
“Ah,” Emarin said, “but this is not a Darkfriend. This is Dobser.”
“I don’t think it’s really him,” Androl said, studying the man floating in his bonds. “I can’t accept that someone can be made to serve the Dark One.” He could sense Pevara’s disagreement; she really did think that was how it happened. Anyone who could channel could be Turned, she’d explained. The old texts spoke of it.
The idea made Androl want to sick up. Forcing someone to be evil? That shouldn’t be possible. Fate moved people about, put them in terrible positions, cost them their lives, sometimes their sanity. But the choice to serve the Dark One or the Light . . . surely that one choice could not be taken from a person.
The shadow he saw behind Dobser’s eyes was enough proof for Androl. The man he’d known was gone, killed, and something else—something evil—had been put into his body. A new soul. It had to be that.
“Whatever he is,” Pevara said, “I’m still skeptical that you can force him to speak.”
“The best persuasions,” Emarin said, hands clasped behind his back, “are those that aren’t forced. Pevara Sedai, if you would be so kind as to remove the weaves blocking his ears so that he can start to hear—but only remove them in the most minor way, as if the weave has been tied off and is failing. I want him to overhear what I’m about to say.”
She complied. At least, Androl assumed she did. Being double-bonded didn’t mean they could see one another’s weaves. He could feel her anxiety, however. She was thinking of Darkfriends she’d interrogated, was wishing for . . . something. A tool she’d used against them?
“I do think we can hide at my estates,” Emarin said in a haughty voice.
Androl blinked. The man held himself taller, more proudly, more . . . authoritatively. His voice became powerful, dismissive. Just like that, he had become a nobleman.
“No one will think to look for us there,” Emarin continued. “I will accept you as my associates, and the lesser among us—young Evin, for instance—can enter my employ as servants. If we play our hand correctly, we can build up a rival Black Tower.”
“I . . . don’t know how wise that would be,” Androl said, playing along.
“Silence,” Emarin said. “I will ask your opinion when it is required. Aes Sedai, the only way we will rival the White and Black Towers is if we create a place where male and female channelers work together. A . . . Gray Tower, if you will.”
“It is an interesting proposal.”
“It is the only thing that makes sense,” Emarin said, then turned to their captive. “He cannot hear what we say?”
“No,” Pevara said.
“Release him, then. I would speak to him.”
Pevara hesitantly did as instructed. Dobser dropped to the floor, barely catching himself. He stumbled for a moment, unsteady on his feet, then immediately glanced toward the exit.
Emarin reached behind his back, pulled something from his belt and tossed it to the floor. A small sack. It clinked as it hit. “Master Dobser,” Emarin said.
“What’s this?” Dobser asked, tentatively crouching down, taking the sack. He peeked into it, and his eyes widened noticeably.
“Payment,” Emarin said.
Dobser narrowed his eyes. “To do what?”
“You mistake me, Master Dobser,” Emarin said. “I’m not asking you to do anything, I’m paying you in apology. I sent Androl here to request your aid, and he seems to have . . . overstepped the bounds of his instructions.
“I merely wished to speak with you. I did not intend to see you wrapped up in Air and tormented.”
Dobser glanced about himself, suspicious. “Where’d you find money like this, Emarin? What makes you think you can start giving orders? You’re just a soldier . . .” He looked at the pouch’s contents again.
“I see that we understand each other,” Emarin said, smiling. “You’ll maintain my front for me, then?”
“I . . .“ Dobser frowned. He looked at Welyn and Leems, lying unconscious on the floor.
“Yes,” Emarin said. “That is going to be a problem, isn’t it? You don’t suppose we could just give Androl to Taim and blame him for this?”
“Androl?“ Dobser said, snorting. “The pageboy? Taking down two Ashaman? Nobody would believe it. Nobody.”
“A valid point, Master Dobser,” Emarin said.
“Just give em the Aes Sedai,” Dobser said, jerking a finger toward her.
“Alas, I have need of her. A mess, this is. A pure mess.”
“Well,” Dobser said, “maybe I could talk to the M’Hael for you. You know, straighten it out.”
“That would be much appreciated,” Emarin said, taking a chair from beside the wall and setting it down, then placing another before it. He sat, waving for Dobser to sit down. “Androl, make yourself useful. Find something for Master Dobser and me to drink. Tea. You like sugar?”
“No,” Dobser said. “Actually, I heard there was wine round here somewhere . . .”
“Wine, Androl,” Emarin said, snapping his fingers.
Well, Androl thought, best to play the part. He bowed, shooting Dobser a calculated glare, then fetched some cups and wine from the storeroom. When he returned, Dobser and Emarin were chatting amicably.