Chapter Text
Three days. Three days since they’d arrived in Tar Valon, and all this time Nynaeve had been confined to this cell.
The Mistress of Novices had escorted her to a room identical to Egwene’s, with promises of more spacious accommodation—and, more importantly, a window—as soon as she passed to Accepted.
It couldn’t come soon enough.
Not that Nynaeve had unreasonable expectations. Her home in Emond’s Field had been modest, her needs few. But finding one’s world shrunk to three short paces from wall to white plastered wall, was rather an adjustment.
The bed was nice though, she had to admit, even as small as it was. Although it could not compare to the women’s apartments in Fal Dara, months of sleeping rough had elevated her appreciation for any mattress.
A slim wardrobe, small desk with three-legged stool, and a narrow hearth rounded out the amenities of the Novices’ quarters. Functional, perhaps, for those who between lessons and chores, spent little time in their rooms. But for a new arrival left waiting, sparse indeed.
Nynaeve’s notional freedom to wander the grounds, amounted to little with Sheriam’s warning not to stray far, lest she miss the summons to her test.
“The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills,” the blue Sister had said. “And when it wills. Patience is a virtue that must be learned.”
So here she was, effectively confined with naught but her thoughts.
Which invariably returned to Lan.
She fished his ring out of her dress, lifting the leather cord on which it was threaded over her head to better study the object. A man’s ring, heavy and almost large enough to fit over her two thumbs together. The gold shone at the edges where it was worn smooth, while the rest held the patina of age. Tiny flecks of coloured wax could still be seen embedded in the tight crevices of the finely wrought signet—the crane in flight over a lance and crown.
The ring of Malkieri kings. Even now, the thought made her shiver, but not from some silly, romantic notion of noblesse. What missives or decrees might it have sealed? What lives shaped, shortened or forever altered? What responsibility carried by its bearers?
How often had Lan held it, studied it as she did now? Did he ponder the same questions? Or was the weight of the family he’d lost, thoughts of the father he could not remember, too much to bear?
That made her heart ache. Of course he’d understood the pain of her losses. Her pride in the skills she’d learned from her father. To think, even a small village Wisdom had been richer than a King in the most important of ways.
For a King he was, no matter that he denied his birthright. Their brief time in Shienar had revealed just how much Lan still shouldered the duty and honour of his fallen nation. If that did not make a King, surely nothing did.
She exhaled an audible sigh. Denial had proven his coping mechanism. Maddening though it was, the realization was oddly comforting. For Lan’s stalwart denial of any possibility of a future together, stood in good company with his attitude towards his regal heritage.
She’d make him accept it. There had to be a way.
His feelings had become clear enough. Weeks of considering looks, his words of encouragement and support—no one could mistake Lan Mandragoran for a loquacious man—and the tiny, fleeting brushes of skin that had driven her mind to a silent frenzy. All culminating in her declaration in the Blight.
Those fervent hopes had been dashed on the hard angles and stony plains of his refusal, what with his ridiculous talk of widow’s weeds. And though he might have hesitated at the Eye, momentarily torn by indecision over which woman most needed his protection—well, that was of little consequence. If Moiraine’s Warder could not remain focused on his duty, he’d nonetheless made his decision clear. It was no concern of hers.
She’d wasted a full month nursing her wounded pride, finding succour in the purpose that had set her on this blasted journey in the first place. Watching over her young townsfolk, worrying for Egwene’s intent to pursue training with those witches and, especially Rand, who was grappling with his newfound identity. A dangerous secret—one with dire consequences, especially if those same women got their hooks into him.
Egwene she’d spent ample time with, finally deciding to accompany the young woman on her journey to the White Tower. Someone had to watch out for her, after all, to protect her interests amidst that den of snakes.
Rand, she’d not attended to as she would have preferred. Ever the considerate young man, he’d pulled away from the others with his newfound awareness of who and what he was. She couldn’t fault him for that. He still found comfort in her presence, though. Even welcomed her company.
But the young shepherd had also invested much of his time training with the Warder, who had taken up the task in earnest. And Nynaeve simply could not bear his presence.
Fal Dara was a fortress, rife with arrow slits and ramparts that provided a plethora of vantage points that left an accidental observer unseen. And so she had chanced to see the two men training together, at times close enough to overhear what they were discussing. Not that she’d been listening.
“In the Borderlands, sheepherder, if a man has the raising of a child, that child is his, and none can say different.”
What snippets the wind carried to her, had revealed Lan’s willingness to impart practical wisdom as well as sword skills. As much as it pained her, Nynaeve realized the Warder could mentor Rand in ways she could not. And he needed all the support he could get. Thus she’d left them to it, seizing chance encounters to take stock of Rand’s wellbeing.
The Amyrlin’s arrival had been their turning point. From the moment the horns signalled the arrival of the party from Tar Valon, the rhythms and patterns of daily life in the fortress had shifted. Lan finally caught Nynaeve unawares.
His gift had been most unexpected, thrust upon her with such conflicted, careless determination that the impossibly stoic Warder had finally revealed his innermost being to her. Lan Mandragoran, the battle-hardened warrior and uncrowned King of Malkier, still harboured a shy and vulnerable orphan boy deep in his soul. One unaccustomed to love.
Reeling from the shock of the encounter after he’d fled, Moiraine was really the last person Nynaeve had wanted to see. Yet that encounter had been equally revealing—offering up another critical piece of the puzzle that was Lan.
The Aes Sedai’s considering look confirmed Nynaeve’s suspicion that she had seen—and heard—their exchange. Beneath that, though, the Wisdom detected the first-ever ripple in Moiraine’s seemingly imperturbable calm. That ageless face betrayed a glimmer of… unease, perhaps. Surely not fear, nor jealousy, but a wariness over what she had just witnessed.
In that moment, Nynaeve found for the first time a kernel of common ground with Moiraine. For although she despised how this secretive, powerful woman had turned their world on its ear before stealing away with her four young townsfolk, the Aes Sedai’s humanity was now clear. Evidently she had vulnerabilities of her own. And the vacillation in Lan’s innermost being had set both of them off-kilter.
How like a man, to sow discord unawares.
Her own frustration with his indecision had boiled over that first night after leaving Fal Dara, when he’d come to the tent she shared with Egwene, coaxing her beyond the ears of the camp to continue their conversation.
Back to his blasted talk of unwinnable wars and inevitable death and widow’s clothes.
“Enough of this, Lan. I’m tired of it,” she’d snapped. “You can’t declare yourself in one breath and reject any future together with the next.”
“I’m an honest man, Nynaeve,” he’d countered. “I’ll not have you thinking I do not care for you.” He’d stood so close as his hand cupped her face, that his scent enveloped her. The notes of leather and horse and sweet tabac, so familiar from long weeks of travel, layered over fresh, green undertones from the wash he must’ve used in the baths. His warm breath had ghosted over her lips as her neck craned to meet those impossible blue eyes. He’d broken free of that spell, shaking his head like a horse fighting the rein, just as he redoubled his efforts to unravel the fast-tightening knot their threads seemed to be forming in the Pattern.
“You’ll reach Tar Valon soon, where you’ll find many young aspiring Warders,” his words, delivered in with a rasp, had sparked her ire. “Hammar Gaidin selects only the best, and trains them well. And the city certainly boasts no shortage of worthy suitors—”
She was ashamed now of the blinding rage that had seized her so forcefully, bringing his words to a halt with a slap so loud it must’ve been heard by half the camp. That stone face remained impassive, unmoved by the blistering sting of her strike.
“How dare you,” she hissed. “However unsure you might be of your own feelings, Lan Mandragoran, don’t you ever dare question the depth and the steadfastness of mine.” Her eyes welled with hot tears of frustration.
“I’m not some silly girl chasing after suitors,” her voice rose, words punctuated with deliberate pulls on her braid.
“I’m a woman, one who happened to have plenty of options back in the Two Rivers—had that been what I wanted,” she glowered. “I didn’t come here to chase after a Warder, a husband,” the tears spilled freely down her cheeks now.
“I was content with my life, until you came along,” her voice fell to a whisper. “You and that—” her eyes shot towards the camp, before returning to fix his with an unyielding glare.
“You make up your mind, about what you want,” she drew herself upright. “Don’t waste my time until you’ve figured that out. I don’t want to discuss this again.”
She’d turned on her heel, leaving him there in the dark. And had not seen him since.
Where is he now? Moiraine had quietly slipped away from the travelling party soon after, taking her Warder with her, followed by Liandrin and Verin, apparently to the Amyrlin’s displeasure. Whatever inscrutable purposes they were up to, she couldn’t even begin to guess. Leaving her to pray for his safety, with only the bitterness of regret over her last harsh words before their parting.
Be safe, Lan, she willed. Come back to me.
The knock at the door startled her from her reminiscence. She hastily pulled the cord back over her head and tucked the ring away, before answering.
“Come, child.” The flame-haired Mistress of Novices stood before her. “It is time.”