There were unsettling implications in those claims, ramifications Sammael did not want to consider, but the thing that shoved itself to the front of his mind was the possibility that the Great Lord might really want to make al’Thor Nae’blis. It could not happen in a vacuum. Al’Thor would need help. Help—that could explain his supposed luck so far. “Have you learned where al’Thor is hiding Asmodean? Or anything of Lanfear’s whereabouts? Or Moghedien’s?” Of course, Moghedien always hid herself; the Spider was forever popping up just when you were sure she was finally dead.
“You know as much as I do,” Graendal said blithely, pausing for a sip from her goblet. “Myself, I think Lews Therin killed them. Oh, don’t grimace at me. Al’Thor, since you insist.” The thought did not seem to disturb her, but then, she would never find herself in open conflict with al’Thor. That had never been her way. If al’Thor ever discovered her, she simply would abandon everything and re-establish herself elsewhere—or else surrender before he could strike a blow, then begin convincing him that she was indispensable. “There are rumors out of Cairhien about Lanfear dying at Lews Therin’s hands the same day he killed Rahvin.”
“Rumors! Lanfear has been aiding al’Thor since the beginning, if you ask me. I would have had his head in the Stone of Tear except that someone sent Myrddraal and Trollocs to save him! That was Lanfear; I am certain. I’m done with her. The next time I see her, I’ll kill her! And why would he kill Asmodean? I would if I could find him, but he has gone over to al’Thor. He’s teaching him!”
“Always some excuse for your failures,” she whispered into her punch, again too softly for him to have heard without saidin. In a louder voice, she said, “Choose your own explanations, if you wish. You may even be right. All I know is that Lews Therin seems to be removing us from the game one by one.”
Sammael’s hand trembled with anger, nearly slopping punch from his goblet before he could still it. Rand al’Thor was not Lews Therin. He himself had outlived the great Lews Therin Telamon, handing out praise for victories he could not have won himself and expecting others to lap it up. His only regret was that the man had not left a grave for him to spit on.
Waving ringed fingers in time to a snatch of music from below, Graendal spoke absently, as though her real attention was on the tune. “So many of us have died confronting him. Aginor and Balthamel. Ishamael, Be’lal and Rahvin. And Lanfear and Asmodean, whatever you believe. Possibly Moghedien; she might be creeping about in the shadows waiting until the rest of us have fallen—she’s foolish enough. I do hope you have somewhere prepared to run. There doesn’t seem to be any doubt that he is going after you next. Soon, I would say. I’ll face no armies here, but Lews Therin is gathering quite a large one to hurl against you. The price you pay if you must be seen to wield power as well as wield it.”
He did have lines of retreat prepared, as it happened—that was only prudent—but hearing in her voice the certainty of his need infuriated him. “And if I destroy al’Thor then, it will violate none of the Great Lord’s command.” He did not understand, but there was no requirement to understand the Great Lord, only to obey. “As far as you’ve told it to me. If you have held back. . . .”
Graendal’s eyes hardened to blue ice. She might avoid confrontation, but she did not like threats. The next instant she was all inane smiles again. As changeable as the weather in M’jinn. “What Demandred told me that the Great Lord told him, I have passed on to you, Sammael. Every word. I doubt even he would dare lie in the Great Lord’s name.”
“But you’ve told me little enough of what he plans to do,” Sammael said softly, “him or Semirhage or Mesaana. Practically nothing.”
“I have told you what I know.” She sighed irritably. Perhaps she was telling the truth. She seemed to regret not knowing herself. Perhaps. With her, anything and everything could be show. “For the rest. . . . Think back, Sammael. We used to plot against one another almost as hard as we fought Lews Therin, yet we were winning before he caught us all gathered at Shayol Ghul.” She shuddered, and for a moment her face looked haggard. Sammael did not want to remember that day either, or what came after, a dreamless sleep while the world changed past recognition and all he had wrought vanished. “Now we have awakened in a world where we should stand so far above ordinary mortals as to be another species—and we are dying. For a moment forget who will be Nae’blis. Al’Thor—if you must call him by that name—al’Thor was as helpless as a babe when we woke.”
“Ishamael did not find him so,” he said—of course, Ishamael had been mad then—but she continued as if he had not spoken.
“We behave as if this is the world we knew, when nothing is what we knew. We die one by one, and al’Thor grows stronger. Lands and people gather behind him. And we die. Immortality is mine. I do not want to die.”
“If he frightens you, then kill him.” Before the words were well out of his mouth he would have swallowed them if he could.
Disbelief and scorn twisted Graendal’s face. “I serve the Great Lord and obey, Sammael.”
“As do I. As well as any.”
“So good of you to deign to kneel to our Master.” Her voice was as wintry as her smile, and his face darkened. “All I say is that Lews Therin is as dangerous now as he ever was in our own time. Frightened? Yes, I am frightened. I intend to live forever, not meet Rahvin’s fate!”
“Tsag!” The obscenity at least made her blink and truly look at him. “Al’Thor—al’Thor, Graendal! An ignorant boy, whatever Asmodean manages to teach him! A primitive lout who probably still believes that nine-tenths of what you and I take for granted is impossible! Al’Thor makes a few lords bow and thinks he has conquered a nation. He hasn’t the will to close his fist and truly conquer them. Only the Aiel—Bajad drovja! Who would have thought they could change so?”—he had to get a grip on himself; he never cursed like this; it was a weakness—“only they truly follow him, and not all of them. He hangs by a thread, and he will fall, one way or another.”
“Will he? What if he is . . . ?” She stopped, raising her goblet so rapidly that punch spilled onto her wrist, and gulped until the goblet was almost empty. The elegant serving woman came scurrying with the crystal pitcher. Graendal thrust out the goblet to be refilled and went on breathlessly. “How many of us will die before it is done? We must stand together as we