outside an Ajah knew for certain who within it led, but
apparently the leaders knew each other. What could they be up
to? What? It was unfortunate that she could not simply ask
Ferane, but even had Ferane been tolerant of anyone's
questions, she did not dare. Not now.
Concentrate as she would, Seaine could not keep her mind on
the question. She knew she was staring at the door and
worrying at puzzles she could not solve just to avoid looking
over her shoulder. Toward the source of those stifled
whimpers and snuffling groans.
As if thinking of the sounds compelled her, she looked back
slowly to her companions, her breath growing more uneven as
her head moved by inches. Snow was falling heavily on Tar
Valon, far overhead, but the room seemed unaccountably hot.
She made herself see!
Brown-fringed shawl looped on her elbows, Saerin stood with
her feet planted apart, fingering the hilt of the curved
Altaran dagger thrust behind her belt. Cold anger darkened
her olive complexion enough to make the scar along her jaw
stand out in a pale line. Pevara appeared calmer, at first
glance, yet one hand gripped her red-embroidered skirts
tightly and the other held the smooth white cylinder of the
Oath Rod like a foot-long club she was ready to use. She
might be ready; Pevara was far tougher than her plumb exterior
suggested, and determined enough to make Saerin seem a
shirker.
On the other side of the chair of remorse, tiny Yukiri had
her arms rapped tightly around herself; the long silvery-grey
fringe on her shawl trembled with her shivers. Licking her
lips, Yukiri cast a worried glance at the woman standing
beside her. Doesine, looking more like a pretty boy than a
Yellow sister of considerable repute, displayed no reaction to
what they were doing. She was the one actually manipulating
the weaves that stretched into the Chair, and she stared at
the ter'angreal, focusing so hard on her work that
perspiration beaded on her pale forehead. They were all
Sitters, including the tall woman writhing on the Chair.
Sweat drenched Talene, matting her golden hair, soaking her
linen shift till it clung to her. The rest of her clothes
made a jumbled pile in the corner. Her closed eyelids
fluttered, and she let out a constant stream of strangled
moans and mewling, half-uttered pleas. Seaine felt ill, but
could not drag her eyes away. Talene was a friend. Had been
a friend.
Despite its name, the terвangreal looked nothing like a
chair, just a large rectangular block of marbled gray. No one
knew what it was made of, but the material was hard as steel
everywhere except the slanted top. The statuesque Green sank
a little into that, and somehow it molded itself to her no
matter how she twisted. Doesineвs weavings flowed into the
