The Gathering Storm by Robert Jordan, Brandon Sanderson Page A

with Alivia—there was an intensity to her that almost suggested a Whitecloak.
    He felt Min stiffen, and he felt her displeasure. Alivia would help Rand die, eventually. That had been one of Min’s viewings—and Min’s viewings were never wrong. Except that she’d said she’d been wrong about Moiraine. Perhaps that meant that he wouldn’t have to . . .
    No. Anything that made him think of living through the Last Battle, anything that made him hope, was dangerous. He had to be hard enough to accept what was coming to him. Hard enough to die when the time came.
    You said we could die,
Lews Therin said in the back of his mind.
You promised!
    Cadsuane said nothing as she walked across the room, helping herself to a cup of the spiced wine that sat on a small serving table beside the bed. Then she sat down in one of the red cedar chairs. At least she hadn’t demanded that he pour the wine for her. That sort of thing wasn’t beyond her.
    “Well, what did you learn?” he asked, walking from the window and pouring himself a cup of wine as well. Min walked to the bed—with its frame of cedar logs and a skip-peeled headboard stained deeply reddish brown—and sat down, hands in her lap. She watched Alivia carefully.
    Cadsuane raised an eyebrow at the sharpness in Rand’s voice. He sighed, forcing down his annoyance. He hadasked her to be his counselor, and he had agreed to her stipulations. Min said there was something important he would need to learn from Cadsuane—that was another viewing—and in truth, he had found her advice useful on more than one occasion. She was worth her constant demands for decorum.
    “How did the questioning go, Cadsuane Sedai?” he asked in a more moderate tone.
    She smiled to herself. “Well enough.”
    “Well enough?” Nynaeve snapped.
She
had made no promises to Cadsuane about civility. “That woman is infuriating!”
    Cadsuane sipped her wine. “I wonder what else one could expect from one of the Forsaken, child. She has had a great deal of time to practice being . . . infuriating.”
    “Rand, that . . . creature is a
stone
,” Nynaeve said, turning to him. “She’s yielded barely a single useful sentence despite days of questioning! All she does is explain how inferior and backward we are, with the occasional aside that she’s eventually going to kill us all.” Nynaeve reached up to her long, single braid—but stopped herself short of tugging on it. She was getting better about that. Rand wondered why she bothered, considering how obvious her temper was.
    “For all the girl’s dramatic talk,” Cadsuane said, nodding to Nynaeve, “she has a reasonable grasp on the situation. Phaw! When I said ‘well enough’ you were to interpret it as ‘as well as you might expect, given our unfortunate constraints.’ One cannot blindfold an artist, then be surprised when he has nothing to paint.”
    “This isn’t art, Cadsuane,” Rand said dryly. “It’s torture.” Min shared a glance with him, and he felt her concern. Concern for him? He wasn’t the one being tortured.
    The box,
Lews Therin whispered.
We should have died in the box. Then . . . then it would be over.
    Cadsuane sipped her wine. Rand hadn’t tasted his—he already knew that the spices were so strong as to render the drink unpalatable. Better that than the alternative.
    “You press us for results, boy,” Cadsuane said. “And yet you deny us the tools we need to get them. Whether you name it torture, questioning, or
baking
, I call it foolishness. Now, if we were allowed to—”
    “No!” Rand growled, waving a hand . . . a stump . . . at her. “You will
not
threaten or hurt her.”
    Time spent in a dark box, being pulled forth and being beaten repeatedly
. He would
not
have a woman in his power treated the same way. Not even one of the Forsaken. “You may question her, but some things I will not allow.”
    Nynaeve sniffed. “Rand, she’s one of the
Forsaken
, dangerous beyond