Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
The infirmary of Fal Dara occupied several large rooms–understandable, for a fortress in the Borderlands, where the Blight was forever chewing up men and spitting them out again. The long rows of beds were now full of the city’s sick and wounded, barely a week after the great battle at Tarwin's Gap. Healers worked at all hours, assisted by women of all ranks, who took shifts carrying water or baskets of linen and sitting at bedsides to offer comfort.
It was an excellent place to hide.
Not that Nynaeve had been hiding. She was needed here, the one place in this strange city where she truly felt she belonged. It kept her too busy to dwell on the Eye, or the bruises on her throat that still showed as sickly yellow and green fingerprints, or the knowledge that she could never bring Rand home as she'd promised.
Not now.
And if it kept her out of the path of a certain man, that was merely an added benefit, and one she hardly needed, since he kept himself busy teaching swordsmanship to Rand or training alone, or keeping Mandarb in condition with hard rides through the surrounding countryside. He never went far, of course. Nynaeve had caught glimpses of the Warder when he was escorted through the women’s apartments where Moiraine, still recovering, was cloistered away in the privacy of her rooms.
Not that Nynaeve had been watching for him.
She paused in the act of scrubbing her hands again, staring down at the red-tinted water. When she'd heard stories of distant wars, filtered into the isolation of the Two Rivers through merchants and traders, she'd imagined faceless armies colliding, senseless slaughter over petty squabbles, spoiled lords and princes making trouble like the Congars and Coplins, but on a much larger scale. She'd considered her people well out of it all.
The reality in Shienar was different. It was a country devoted to raising warriors, not to fight each other, but to defend themselves and the rest of the world from the Shadow. They fought to protect their homes and families, just as she'd expect anyone from the Two Rivers to fight–as they had fought on Bel Tine, when the Trollocs came.
The thought sent a pang through her. She hadn't stayed to see if Bette's leg had healed, if Master Vimes had made it through the fever. It was true that she'd done all she could, and that any woman would be able to do what was needed, which was mostly waiting and watching. She'd left her people in capable hands.
But you still left them. And now it seemed she wouldn't be going back.
"Lady Nynaeve, I think you must never sleep."
She blinked down at the soldier in the cot beside her, and then at the window, where the moon was now high. Nynaeve shook her head, busying herself with the tray of ointments and bandages.
"You know I'm not a lady, Reizo," she scolded. "Mistress al'Meara will do. Or Wisdom." If she could still call herself a Wisdom.
"You traveled with the Dai Shan," he said. He couldn't be any older than Mat–a boy, by her reckoning, except for the braided leather band across his forehead. It marked him as a man of Malkier, she'd learned. "You spoke to the Green Man. I'm sure you are a great lady." He gave her a dimpled grin. "You must not deny a man his courtesies. 'Good manners are what make us men.'"
She shook her head, suppressing a smile at the sing-song cadence, so obviously instilled from childhood.
Up and down the rows of beds there were more men, young and old, with wounds that needed tending, who needed a drink of water or a hand on the forehead checking for fever. Sometimes she could do nothing, but almost always she could do something.
Except that a part of her was afraid to do anything. She'd been channeling all along, Moiraine had said–her skill at healing the work of the One Power, an accident, and not the result of careful herblore. Nynaeve had lain awake more than a few nights, wondering if she'd accidentally harmed any of her people that way, when she'd tried to help them. As tempted as she was to try to channel, when faced with the dire wounds all around her, she restricted herself to a Wisdom's skill with herb and needle.
Moiraine was recovering, slowly. Nynaeve had done what little she could for her wounds. They reminded her of the scars she'd seen as an apprentice, on an old man from Deven Ride who'd been struck by lightning. Red lines, twisting and branching like a complex root system. The lightning had burned him from the inside, Wisdom Barran said. Similar marks, still fresh and livid, covered the Aes Sedai's whole body. Nynaeve's skin prickled in sympathy as she imagined the pain.
At least pain could be treated.
She wondered if Moraine's Warder suffered as well.
Stupid, Nynaeve told herself, of course he does. She shook her head, reaching out for a basin–only for it to slip from clumsy fingers, clattering to the stones at her feet and wobbling on its dented side.
Lady Amalisa, her fine gown covered with a simple apron, appeared at Nynaeve's side, already offering a scrap of linen to mop up the water. "I'm so sorry," Nynaeve began, but the Lady waved the apology away.
"Mistress al'Meara, I'm told you've been here since early this morning," she scolded gently. "And I know you've come to the infirmary every day since your return. You must go and rest, I insist–all the ladies and healers take at least two days between shifts, and I beg you to do the same, if only for my sake."
Nynaeve was standing in the corridor by the time she realized that her hostess was herding her, politely but firmly, maneuvering as neatly as a sheepdog.
“Rest,” Lady Amalisa said. “Please. You might refresh yourself in the baths,” she added. “They’re very…peaceful at this time of night.”
Public baths, what a notion!
Nynaeve had thought she’d misheard, before the Ladies of the Keep had explained the custom. She and Egwene had naturally chosen to make do with the tiny washbasins in their otherwise palatial rooms. Sharing a bath with other women might be one thing, but mingling with men? She blushed down to her toes at the very idea. A cold wipedown was a small price to pay for modesty’s sake.
The boys had learned how to navigate the facility, Perrin had told her—accompanied by Moiraine’s Warder, determined to school them in the proper etiquette. The thought of encountering him there made her mouth run dry, her cheeks warm and her pulse race. With embarrassment, of course. But it was very late, and Nynaeve was glad she’d decided to chance it. She had scrubbed herself twice, and now the water’s blessed heat was seeping into her muscles. A balm to her body, soothing away knots and tension to which she'd long since become accustomed.
That moment of peace proved fleeting, however, broken by the creaking door that heralded the arrival of another bather. Nynaeve’s shoulders dropped beneath the water’s steaming surface at the sound of bare feet on the floor tiles. She ignored the tiny pang of disappointment as she peeked at the elderly woman who eased into the water beside her.
Thank the Light, she thought belatedly.
“I am Izumi,” the woman introduced herself with a slight nod of the head. “An honor to make your acquaintance.”
“I’m Nynaeve,” she copied Izumi’s motion. “The honor is mine.”
Izumi inhaled a few deep, rattling breaths. “You must be one of the young women who arrived with the Dai Shan and his Aes Sedai. I’ve already met one of your friends. ‘Ran,’ I think. The one who looks like an Aielman.”
“Rand,” Nynaeve corrected, emphasizing the ‘D’ as she fought to suppress the irritation that spiked at the words the Dai Shan and his Aes Sedai , focusing instead on the white dot painted on the woman’s forehead. “His name is Rand.”
"Indeed? I will remember."
The older woman coughed–a deep, wracking noise that shook her thin frame and made Nynaeve frown. "It is only the time of year," Izumi said, waving away Nynaeve’s concern once she caught her breath. "I thought nothing of the cold when I was young, but now any chill that takes hold sinks down to sit on my chest like a stone. It is a nuisance, but not dangerous. The hot water brings relief."
“Of course,” Nynaeve replied, her healer’s instinct immediately taking over. “I know a tea that should help clear your lungs. I can bring you some in the morning.”
I am a healer, she reminded herself. No matter what else I am, I will always be a healer.
“Your tea is well worth the taste,” Izumi remarked. “I can already feel the difference.”
"Your lungs sound much better." Nynaeve scooped the mixture of tea leaves and herbs into a neat parcel. She'd had to visit the infirmary's stores to find all the ingredients, but as in all other things the bundles of dried medicinal plants were kept in plentiful readiness. She planned to go out soon, to harvest replacements for what she'd borrowed. “Another week should see them fully clear. And you may add honey to sweeten the flavor–it is good for the throat.”
“Bitterness is part of life,” Izumi chuckled. “It should be savored, as much as the rest.”
Nynaeve smiled. “Another Malkieri saying?”
“Not Malkieri, no,” replied Izumi. “Although I wouldn't be surprised if one of us said it first. It is a truism to those of us raised in the Borderlands."
It made a pleasant change to spend her morning visiting with the elderly woman. Izumi had a wry sense of humor, and she was happy to share stories of the country she'd known in her youth before seeking refuge in Shienar. It was pure curiosity that made Nynaeve listen so closely. After all, she'd seen the remains of the Seven Towers. An interest in the surviving traditions of lost Malkier was only natural, like Izumi's explanation of the dot painted on her forehead—white, to denote her widowed status. Red marked a married woman, and blue for a woman of marriageable age. Not unlike a Two Rivers braid, the ki’sain marked a girl’s entry to the sisterhood of women.
“It has been so long,” Izumi smiled fondly. “I felt so mature when my mother gave me the paint for my ki’sain, and then my first pillowbook—”
“Pillowbook?” Nynaeve asked.
“Ah,” the old woman huffed. “I forget the customs of the Southlands are different. You do not have pillowbooks?”
Nynaeve shook her head. “There were not many books of any kind in the Two Rivers,” she said.
“I will show you mine! I still have it, even after all this time—” Izumi rose from her chair, steadying herself with one hand on the table before shuffling to a modest wall cabinet. After rifling around in the bottom of a creaky drawer, she returned with a leather-bound volume.
“Go on,” she gestured encouragingly. “Have a look.”
A couple, painted in graceful lines and muted colors, gazing at each other and holding hands. The woman wore the ki’sain and the man, the hadori. Nynaeve smiled. The next page showed them kissing in a close embrace, which brought a blush to her cheeks. She flipped through two more images before closing the book, her face now burning hot. And there were several more pages.
“Your mother gave you this?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice light. Different people, different customs. Some customs, it seemed, were very different. "For your marriage chest?”
“Marriage?" Izumi chuckled. “My dear, pillowbooks are given before a young woman chooses her carneira. What good would they be, otherwise?”
“Carneira?” Nynaeve repeated the strange word. “I’m not familiar with that, either.”
“No,” Izumi said thoughtfully. “I suppose not. The custom of the First Lover is unique to our people.” She raised her eyebrows as she noticed Nynaeve's pink cheeks, looking at her curiously. “Is it true, then, that women in the South enter marriage as maidens?”
“Of course,” Nynaeve replied primly. With the exception of a few Coplins, maybe…
“But that must be so strange! I cannot imagine taking it in all at once.” Izumi cocked her head at Nynaeve's wide-eyed expression, then burst into a hearty laugh that triggered another coughing fit. “Oh, dear, I didn’t mean that ,” catching her breath, the old woman wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I meant the lessons."
"Lessons?"
"In courtship and intimacy," Izumi explained. "Far too much to absorb along with a new husband and household…”
“So it’s…a kind of betrothal,” Nynaeve guessed, latching into the word courtship. An image of Lan overlayed the painted figure in her mind. She hastily pushed the thought away.
“Oh, no, it’s nothing of the sort!” Izumi said quickly. “The intimate relationship with your carneira is meant to last a year, two at most—though romance does blossom on occasion.” The old woman’s eyes twinkled as her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I did marry my carneira, but it was quite scandalous. It took him two years to gain my mother’s blessing!” She chuckled with warmth.
“But why?” Nynaeve’s head spun. “If it isn’t betrothal….”
“The carneira relationship endures beyond the time of intimacy,” Izumi explained. “It is a lifelong bond. A woman who's lost a husband may look to her carneira for the protection of her household, to train her sons for battle and bestow their hadori. Besides, the pillow arts are like any other skill, and it is quite practical to have a mentor.” She grinned, her wrinkled cheeks creasing along deep lines. “I cannot imagine what it would have been like, flailing about with an inexperienced man! The carneira is a trusted guide in all manner of…delicate matters.”
Nynaeve bit the inside of her lip. Such an appalling custom, and yet… perhaps there was something to be said for a trustworthy man. Not that she could think of one such. Certainly not. Her cheeks burned. Izumi seemed not to notice.
“At least, that’s how it was.” The old woman sighed. “Nowadays, more of our young people just take a lover, as across the rest of Borderlands, without consulting their mothers and aunts for guidance! It is all so much less orderly. Yet even among the few who still hold to tradition, standards are not what they were. The Dai Shan himself—” She cut off abruptly.
Nynaeve looked at Izumi expectantly, hanging on the old woman’s words. Lan had a carneira? Tension gripped her. Of course he does. He wears the hadori, he holds to tradition. “Did he make a poor choice?” She schooled her voice to a casual tone. Nothing more than idle curiosity, after all.
“Choice?” The old woman’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Oh, no dear—we raised our men properly! They know better than to approach a woman. A Malkieri man will not so much as meet your eyes before you open the conversation—unless he’s so inflamed as to seek an invitation. Even then only the boldest of men dare." She winked. "It is the woman who chooses, and who approaches the man, always–after being guided to him by her mother, naturally. As for the Dai Shan…” Izumi shook her head. “I'm sure he behaved honorably to his carneira, but the same could not be said of the lady. With no other women of rank to keep her in check–-" She clicked her tongue.
“Did he love her?” Nynaeve bit her lip hard, but too late to keep the question from slipping out.
“The last Lord of the Seven Towers? Light, I’m sure not even his shoulders are broad enough to bear the weight of love alongside his Oath. But her?” Izumi shook her head sadly. “I should not speak ill of the dead,” she said. "But she would never have been permitted to cut his hair in the old days."
Nynaeve’s eyes widened. Who was this woman, she wanted to ask. What did she do? But she couldn't voice the questions, and Izumi was already shifting to a new subject.
“So how is it that a pretty young woman like yourself has not yet taken a husband?” Izumi’s eyes flicked from Nynaeve to the book.
“Wisdoms seldom marry,” Nynaeve said, looking aside as her cheeks coloured. It was true, after all. A Wisdom needed to give all her heart to her people, and whatever circumstances brought women to the craft, a solitary life was far from the worst fate one could suffer. “We are—I was wedded to my work. But I am headed to the White Tower now.”
“Ah.” The old woman looked thoughtful. “I had thought to introduce you to one of my grandsons, but the Aes Sedai have their own traditions.”
Nynaeve smiled weakly. “Yes, I suppose they do.”
“Undoubtedly you will find yourself a handsome Warder like the Dai Shan. He’s a hard man now, much like his father, but in his youth—“ Izumi’s eyes twinkled. “He was a beautiful young man. Set all the womens’ hearts aflutter.”
Was? Age must have dulled the old woman’s senses a little. Lan had a hard face, yes, but he was certainly still handsome, with his broad shoulders and those blue eyes…Nynaeve cleared her throat.
“Well,” she murmured, “the afternoon is getting on. I'll come again in a few days, to see how you're feeling.”
As the gong rang the change of the Watch, Nynaeve stared at the canopy over her bed. Her restless mind had been replaying Izumi’s words for hours.
A woman chooses her carneira.
Lan had already rejected her, hadn’t he? If she had an ounce of sense, she’d put him out of her mind for good. But her belly knotted as she recalled the times she’d caught his gaze across the campfire. Based on what Izumi had said about Malkieri men, those looks meant more than she’d thought. Inflamed. Nynaeve bit her lip as her cheeks heated.
She found herself remembering the shocking advice Dorral Barran dispensed to her on her sixteenth nameday.
She’d been apprenticed to the Wisdom for a little over a year. A year that had brought her to the cusp of her womanhood. As if losing her parents hadn’t been hard enough, the apprenticeship had transformed her overnight in the eyes of the other villagers from gawky tomboy to prematurely wizened crone.
“One day, Nynaeve, you’ll meet a man who knows what’s what. Mark my words.” Wisdom Barran sat at her table, grinding boneknit and willowbark for salve. “Sensible men are few and far between, but they do exist. There’s nothing and no one to say you can’t bed down with one, so long as he keeps to his duties and doesn’t interfere with yours. Just be sure he’s discreet. Beyond the example you set for the women, you must hold the respect of the Village Council. And those fools will give you no quarter if your reputation is tarnished.”
She had no Village Council to concern herself with now, and no Women’s Circle watching over her shoulder. True, she expected there would be no shortage of women watching her every move once she entered the White Tower…but that was in the future. In Fal Dara she was a stranger, and whatever reputation she had would be left behind soon enough. A loose thread, left dangling free.
He wouldn’t, seemingly couldn’t, marry. But would he agree to…? A lifelong bond… Would it be enough, to have at least something of him?
Her choice.
She turned her pillow, letting the smooth fabric cool her burning cheek as she curled around it, but Nynaeve was still blushing faintly when she slipped at last into sleep.
She rose early, out of habit, but also because restlessness prickled under her skin. She reached–also out of habit–for her practical, sturdy wool dress, only to stop with it in her hands.
It was a good dress, worn soft and comfortable but not to the point of patching yet. The stout wool kept out the chill, the dark dye hid stains, the cut gave her ample room to move. There were buttons on the narrow sleeves so they could be rolled up. The seams were neat, with no raw edges to fray. There were years of wear left in it before she’d need another.
She draped it back over the chair and crossed to the wardrobe.
The contents of that wardrobe had appeared just the day before, along with a note from Lady Amalisa. A gift, the flowing script said, in gratitude for Mistress al'Meara's service to Fal Dara’s battle-wounded. Half a dozen gowns, when Nynaeve had been glad to have just two for most of her life.
And such dresses!
Not suitable at all for work in an infirmary, but she couldn't work there today without insulting her hosts, so…she pulled one of the gowns out at random. Nynaeve had never worn anything like it before. Had never even seen a dress like it. Pale blue silk, impossibly soft against her skin, embroidered in snowdrop blossoms around the neck and down the sleeves.
Not even feastday clothes from back home could compare. It felt like a dream. It would be a shame to leave it hanging unseen.
With no purpose to guide her steps, Nynaeve found herself on the walls, near the tower where Rand had taken to training. But it was still early–surely not training time yet. The high battlements were the perfect spot to take in the view, perhaps enjoy the breeze. The sound of the wind accompanied her as she climbed the steps of the west tower, free from the clacking of practice swords.
Well. That was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it?
Yet as she reached the top, her stomach dropped. Lan’s sword traced a flashing pattern in the air, the sweat-slicked skin of his muscular back gilded by the morning sun. She spun silently, her foot dropping back down the first step before the velvet baritone of his voice seized her.
“Nynaeve.”
Caught. Slowly, she turned to face him. His blade swung upwards, twisting to rest its reverse against the bare skin of his chiseled shoulder. Her mouth ran dry.
“Lan.” She reached for a cool tone, affecting a calm she did not feel. She had braved the baths, after all. She could face his bare chest. Her cheeks warmed. “I did not expect to find you here.”
One eyebrow rose. "No?"
"No." Nynaeve smoothed her skirt. "I was just taking a walk. I didn't mean to interrupt." She shivered. Well, the breeze was a little chilly up here—it had nothing to do with the ice of his blue eyes trailing over her.
"The dress of a Borderwoman suits you," he said softly. "You look beautiful."
Heat blazed across her face as her back stiffened. Hurt, anger and shame all flared at once, knotting tightly in her chest. "You shouldn't speak like that to me."
"Like what?"
"Like you aren't a king!" she snapped. "Like I'm not a common village woman."
He glared, jaw tightening. "You are not–"
“We said all we needed to say in the Blight,” Nynaeve interrupted, proud of how steady her voice held. “I overreached. You put me in my place, and I didn't come up here to shame myself again.”
As she turned back to the stairs, his hand caught her elbow.
"Wisdom–"
That brought her chin up. "I'm not even a Wisdom, now, Dai Shan," she said curtly. He growled in frustration and Nynaeve found herself pinned by his gaze as blue eyes met hers, as intent as a hawk fixed on prey.
Inflamed. The word rose out of her jumbled thoughts.
"A title you earned cannot be taken from you, Wisdom al'Meara. And I did not–” Lan took in a sharp breath. "I told you," he grated, "that I could offer you nothing but grief. If I had anything to give you other than widows' weeds, it would be yours."
"Then be my carneira.”
The brazen words tumbled out before she could think to stop them. Lan’s eyes widened, his right foot scuffing half a step backwards. Her stomach lurched.
“Where… who…” He shook his head. “It doesn't matter. You cannot ask this of me,” he rasped.
“Why not?” Her spine stiffened. “I was told the woman did the choosing.”
“And no man would refuse such an honor,” he acknowledged. “From a woman who understands what she is asking.”
Except, he hadn’t answered. And he hadn’t moved away.
“You said that you had nothing to give, but…” her voice caught. “But you can give me this,” she whispered.
Silence stretched between them. Nynaeve felt her hands clench in her skirts—she must be wrinkling the fabric, she thought vaguely. She blinked hard to banish the stinging in her eyes. She was an idiot. On their way to what might very well have been their deaths, surrounded by the evil of the Blight, he’d already rejected her. Why would it be different here, on the top of a tower while a breeze carried the scent of cherry blossoms and stirred the skirts of her pretty dress?
Nynaeve tensed, stiffening her spine. She would simply step around him and retreat down the stairs, she would keep her dignity, and she would not cry in front of him–
Callused fingertips grazed her cheek, tilting her face up to his. Nynaeve forced herself to meet his eyes.
“Tell me this, Wisdom. This runs contrary to the customs of the Two Rivers. Will you look back and feel shame?”
“Only if you send me away.” The unspoken again hovering between them.
"And I will never shame you.” Lan stepped back, bowing slightly. "If you are sure," he said, "then come to my room tonight, and we will begin."