She was becoming increasingly worried. He had told her that he'd be back in a couple of days and that everything would be over soon. What everything was supposed to be, she did not know. That had been three weeks ago. Had something happened to him? He had almost died twice already, in the year she'd known him. Could he have actually died this time, or was he simply unable to come back here for some reason? She didn't know, and that annoyed her.

She tried to keep herself busy, playing the piano, reading, cleaning, practicing her sword forms. She was dusting the bedroom when she heard voices in the other room, a woman and a man. She was certain the man wasn't Elan, although she couldn't quite make out what they were saying. She stopped what she was doing, placing the duster carefully on the bed. Tsorovan was in the library, and she cursed herself silently for not keeping it close at hands. To be fair, there was no way she could have anticipated this. There had never been anyone else in here for as long as she'd been around. Should she hide? Where could she hide? Under the bed? That seemed silly. Surely they would find her. Before she could make up her mind, a decision was made for her.

A tall woman erupted in the bedroom, looking regal in a snow white dress. She was incredibly beautiful, with dark hair and ivory-pale skin. Mierin Eronaile. It had to be her.

The thought that Lanfear was standing a few feet away from her ought to have terrified her beyond sanity, but she remained oddly calm. Elan despised the other Forsaken, had called her a presumptuous hussy on several occasions. It never failed to make her laugh, and that was probably the reason why she found it difficult to conjure anything but disdain for the woman, who was presently eyeing her up and down.

"Who are you?" she demanded haughtily, voice cracking like a whip. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm Ishamael's pet," was the only answer she could think of. She tried to make her voice as neutral as she could.

Frowning, the Forsaken muttered something under her breath. The man who had arrived with her came to stand in the doorway. He was a tall man, if not quite as tall as Elan, with dark, deep-set eyes and long dark hair. Could that be Nessosin? She wasn't certain. Elan had been quite vague about the man who had once been his lover. For a very short while, as he never failed to add.

He eyed her quite thoroughly, smiling. "His pet, eh? Who would have thought?" His grin looked almost feral.

"Do shut your mouth, you fool." Mierin turned to him and said something in a low voice. The man looked startled, his grin slipping off his face, and he gave Neya a sharp glance. He replied something inaudible in return and they both looked at each other, nodding. Suddenly, Neya found herself unable to move. It had to be the One Power. She wondered who was channeling. Probably the man. Elan had told her she would be able to see another woman's weaves and she couldn't see anything, although Mierin seemed to be enveloped in a bright light. Was that what it looked like to be holding saidar?

"How long have you been here?" the other woman asked. "What do you know of Ishamael's plans?"

"I've been here for about a year, maybe more." The man looked even more astonished than he had a moment before. Lanfear looked on impassively. "I don't know anything about his plans."

"You expect me to believe that?" Mierin asked with a sneer. "A year, and you don't know anything? I suggest you try harder, pet, or you will regret it."

"I really don't, I swear. Great Mistress," she added after a brief hesitation. She thought that was what she was supposed to call her. "He told me nothing of what is happening. I didn't even know you were… ah… free. Great Mistress," she repeated for good measure.

The woman seemed to be considering her words. The man stared at Neya, as if trying to puzzle her out. He was the one who spoke first. "You don't even know that the Drag–" he started to say, but Lanfear cut him off.

"You spineless idiot, I told you I would do the talking!" The man recoiled slightly when she yelled at him. She said it in the Old Tongue, but Neya understood it, of course. She and Elan had spoken almost exclusively in the Old Tongue during the last few weeks. Mierin visibly struggled to calm herself, inhaling deeply and closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again she was all regal arrogance once more. "Ishamael is dead, girl," she said crisply. "For good, this time," she added with a bitter twist of her mouth.

It was exactly as she had feared, except that she hadn't really thought it could be true. He was supposed to be immortal! She could feel panic and grief and anger rising in her, but she had to maintain her composure. If Mierin noticed how badly she hurt her with that information, she would use it against her without a moment's hesitation. "I see," she said, and was relieved when her voice didn't shake. "Where does that leave me, then? Great Mistress," she added hastily. She had to be careful now. Without Elan to back her up, she was on her own, against two of the most powerful Forsaken.

"That leaves you to grovel at my feet, pet, and beg for your pathetic life!" Mierin said, her dark eyes blazing with scorn.

Neya fell to her knees and, doing her best to sound meek and subdued, she begged for her pathetic life.