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Gulping air in horrified panic, Galina shied back from the woman. She could not take her eyes away from Therava’s, though, and she could not stop the words that chattered through her teeth. "I d-did, ag-g-gainst all of you! P-please p-punish me f-for it!" Would they kill her, now? After all of this, was she to die here?
"It seems this binder does as your friend claimed after all, Seva
The shield vanished, and Galina knelt there, staring hollowly. The Source shone just out of sight, tantalizing. And she could have sprouted wings as easily as she could stretch out for it.
Bracelets clattered as Seva
"There have been meetings among the Wise Ones," the stern-eyed woman told Seva
"Without me?" Seva
"One decision had to be reached without you," Tion said in a flat voice.
"As you so often point out, you speak as the clan chief," Emerys added, a mocking light in her big gray eyes. "Sometimes, Wise Ones must talk without a clan chief listening. Or someone who speaks as a chief."
"We decided," Therava said, "that just as a clan chief must have a Wise One to advise him, so must you have a Wise One’s advice. Iwill advise you."
Gathering her shawl around her, Seva
"My strong advice is that we move without delay," Therava replied, as cool as Seva
"We will move tomorrow." If Galina had not been sure she knew Seva
There was a long silence, then Therava nodded. "East." She said the word softly, the softness of silk laid over steel. "But remember that clan chiefs have lived to regret rejecting a Wise One’s advice too often. You may, as well." The threat on her face was plain as that in her voice, yet Seva
"Youremember, Therava! All of you remember! If I am left for the vultures, so will you be! I have made assurance of that."
The other women exchanged worried glances, all but Therava, and Modarra and Norlea frowned.
Slumped on her knees, whimpering and trying in vain to soothe her skin with her hands, Galina found herself wondering what these threats meant. It was a small thought, worming its way through bitterness and self-pity. Anything she could use against these women would be welcome. If she dared use it. A bitter thought.
Abruptly she realized that the sky was turning dark. Billowing clouds were rolling down from the north, streaked gray and black, obscuring the sun. And beneath the clouds fell flurries of snow, swirling in the air. None reached the ground – few fell as far as the treetops – but Galina gaped. Snow! Had the Great Lord loosened his grip on the world for some reason?
The Wise Ones stared at the sky, too, mouths hanging open as if they had never seen clouds, much less snow.
"What is this, Galina Casban?" Therava demanded. "Speak if you know!" She did not look away from the sky until Galina told her it was snow, and when she did it was to laugh. "I always thought the men who ran down Laman Treekiller lied about snow. This could not hamper a mouse!"
Galina clamped her jaws shut on explaining about snowfalls, aghast that her instinct had been to curry favor. Aghast as well at the small pang of pleasure that keeping the information back gave. I am the Highest of the Red Ajah!she reminded herself. I sit on the Supreme Council of the Black Ajah!They sounded like lies. This was not fair!
"If we are done here," Seva
"We will take care of the gai’shain" Therava told her just as smoothly. "Since you speak as the chief, you have a long day and most of the night ahead of you if we are to move tomorrow." For an instant, Seva
Head down, Galina scrambled to her feet and scurried after Therava and the other women who could cha
Chapter 12
(Snakey Square)
New Alliances
Graendal wished there had been even a simple transcriber among the things she had removed from Illian after Sammael’s death. This Age was frightful usually, primitive and uncomfortable. Still, some of it suited her. In a large bamboo cage at the far end of the room a hundred brightly plumaged birds sang melodiously, almost as beautiful in their multicolored flitting as her two pets in transparent robes who waited on either side of the door, their gazes locked on her, eager to serve her pleasure. If oil lamps did not give the same light as glowbulbs, aided by large mirrors on the walls they produced a certain barbaric splendor with the gilded fish-scale ceiling. It would have been nice to need only speak the words, but actually putting them on paper with her own hand produced a pleasure akin to that she felt in sketching. The script of this Age was quite simple, and learning to duplicate another’s style had been no more difficult.
Signing with a flourish – not her own name, of course – she sanded the thick page, then folded it and sealed it with one of the signet rings of various sizes that made a decorative line across the writing table. The Hand and Sword of Arad Doman impressed on an irregular circle of blue-and-green wax.