The Gathering Storm by Robert Jordan, Brandon Sanderson

to the southwest, not with the Seanchan invasion.
    She would have a hidden retreat somewhere. That was how she operated. Probably in the mountains, secluded, somewhere here in the north. He couldn’t be sure she wasin Arad Doman, though it felt
right
to him, from what he knew of her. From what Lews Therin knew of her.
    But it was only a possibility. He would be careful, watching for her. Each of the Forsaken that he removed would make the Last Battle that much easier to fight. It would—
    Soft footsteps approached his closed door.
    Rand released Min and they both spun, Rand reaching for his sword—a useless gesture, now. The loss of his hand, though it wasn’t his primary sword hand, would leave him vulnerable if he were to face a skilled opponent. Even with
saidin
to provide a far more potent weapon, his first instinct was for the sword. He’d have to change that. It might get him killed someday.
    The door opened and Cadsuane strode in, as confident as any queen at court. She was a handsome woman, with dark eyes and an angular face. Her dark gray hair was up in a bun, a dozen tiny golden ornaments—each one a
ter’angreal
or
angreal
—hanging in their places atop it. Her dress was of a simple, thick wool, tied at the waist with a yellow belt, with more yellow embroidery across the collar. The dress itself was green, which was not uncommon, as that was her Ajah. Rand sometimes felt that her stern face—ageless, like that of any Aes Sedai who had worked long enough with the Power—would have fit better in the Red Ajah.
    He relaxed his hand on his sword, though he did not release it. He fingered the cloth-tied hilt. The weapon was long, slightly curved, and the lacquered scabbard was painted with a long, sinuous dragon of red and gold. It looked as if it had been designed specifically for Rand—and yet it was centuries old, unearthed only recently.
Howodd, that they should find this now,
he thought,
and make a gift of it to me, completely unaware of what they were holding.
 . . .
    He had taken to wearing the sword immediately. It felt
right
beneath his fingers. He had told no one, not even Min, that he had recognized the weapon. And not, oddly, from Lews Therin’s memories—but Rand’s own.
    Cadsuane was accompanied by several others. Nynaeve was expected; she often followed Cadsuane these days, like a rival cat she found encroaching on her territory. She did it for him, likely. The dark-haired Aes Sedai had never quite given up being Wisdom of Emond’s Field, no matter what she said, and she gave no quarter to anyone she thought was abusing one under her protection. Unless, of course, Nynaeve herself was the one doing the abusing.
    Today, she wore a dress of gray with a yellow sash at the waist over her belt—a new Domani fashion, he had heard—and had the customary red dot on her forehead. She wore a long gold necklace and slim gold belt, with matching bracelets and finger rings, both studded with large red, green and blue gems. The jewelry was a
ter’angreal
—or, rather, several of them and an
angreal
too—comparable to what Cadsuane wore. Rand had occasionally heard Nynaeve muttering that
her ter’angreal
, with the gaudy gems, were impossible to match to her clothing.
    Where Nynaeve wasn’t a surprise, Alivia was. Rand hadn’t been aware that the former
damane
had been involved in the . . . information gathering. Still, she was supposed to be even stronger than Nynaeve in the One Power, so perhaps she had been brought for support. One could never be too careful where the Forsaken were concerned.
    There were streaks of white in Alivia’s hair, and she was just a bit taller than Nynaeve. That white in her hair was telling—any white or gray on a woman who wielded the One Power meant age. A great deal of it. Alivia claimed to be four centuries old. Today, the former
damane
wore a strikingly red dress, as if in an attempt to be confrontational. Most
damane
, once unleashed, remained timid. Not so