Al'Thor was going mad, or he already was. That was a fact.
The way he'd drawn on the Power, the day of the attack on Lord Algarin's manor… What would have happened if Logain hadn't been there? The Dragon, like his namesake, had nearly destroyed himself – and everyone else present. A few more seconds, and a new Dragonmount would have sprouted out of the earth to swallow the whole place and the surrounding area.
Logain shook his head, somewhat dispelling the sense of dread suffusing through his body. If al'Thor went mad before the Last Battle… Focus, burn you! He couldn't afford to be distracted, not after what had just happened.
Belatedly, it came to him that he'd just faced Semirhage in battle – although there was precious little he'd been able to contribute to the fight. Of course, Semirhage wasn't the first Forsaken Logain had encountered, but the 'meeting' had rattled him. He couldn't tell how much of the shock and dismay he felt came from Gabrelle and Toveine, and how much was his.
Al'Thor had barely reacted to having his hand destroyed. Even Nynaeve hadn't been able to Heal that.
Neya might have. Logain had seen her reattach a man's forearm, once. He hadn't thought much about it then, but if the ability was beyond even Nynaeve, the woman who'd Healed stilling…
Well, it was no use crying over spilled milk, as his governess used to say. But still, al'Thor's utter lack of emotion was disturbing. Was he still entirely himself? Logain had caught him muttering about Lews Therin – or talking to Lews Therin, Logain couldn't say for certain. The fact that the Dragon was muttering to himself was, in itself, quite alarming, but if he had imaginary conversations with a dead madman… Given that, Semirhage's bleak words regarding al'Thor's incipient madness weren't encouraging.
There was nothing Logain could do about it, however. He'd done what he could – he'd dispatched Asha'man to Arad Doman and Illian, as commanded, and he'd successfully come to an agreement with the Sea Folk. He'd helped during the battle at Algarin's manor, copying al'Thor deadly weaves, destroying hordes of Trollocs and Myrddraal.
Days like these, Logain was grateful that he hadn't turned out to be the Dragon Reborn after all – and even more so that Taim hadn't. If al'Thor was insane, Taim was something else entirely. At least the Dragon tried to conceal it. Hopefully, the sheepherder would manage to keep the madness at bay a while longer – preferably until he fulfilled the prophecies.
And then Logain felt cowardly for feeling like this. If he had been the Dragon Reborn, at least he would know for sure that the Dragon was sane. Had he declared himself too soon? Perhaps his time simply hadn't come yet. Perhaps it was his destiny to pick up where al'Thor left off after he went mad. Perhaps Logain could yet become the Dragon – provided that no one else rose up to the task.
It was about time Logain returned to the Black Tower.
Natael paused in front of the Aes Sedai who stood guard outside the tent. He couldn't remember her name, but she was rather pretty. He gave her his most winning smile. "I'd like to have a word with the prisoner," he said in a mellow voice. That usually did the trick when applied to pretty serving maids, but he'd never tried it on an Aes Sedai.
Her face remained impassive. She was silent for so long that Natael wondered if she was going to ignore him and pretend he didn't exist. "The Lord Dragon said that no one was to approach her," she replied coldly. Elza Penfell! Her name came back to him suddenly.
"The Lord Dragon sent me to question her, Elza Sedai." Strictly speaking, that wasn't true – they had discussed it, without coming to an agreement – but would the woman call his bluff? Natael was an experienced liar, more experienced than any living so-called Aes Sedai – with the possible exception of Cadsuane but, thankfully, the old harpy wasn't around.
"Why would the Lord Dragon send a gleeman to question one of the Forsaken?" she scoffed, disbelief now plain on her ageless face.
Natael stiffened. "I am al'Thor's personal court bard, Aes Sedai," he corrected her. The nerve of the woman! Who did she think she was? She was just another lackey, and no better than he was.
Penfell rolled her eyes. "Same difference." They engaged in a staring contest. Natael stood his ground, not blinking once. "Oh, very well," she gave in eventually. "On your head be it. I suppose I don't need to tell you that she is dangerous and manipulative." She arched an eyebrow. Aes Sedai were very good at conveying emotions with their eyebrows, Natael had come to realise. This particular gesture somehow managed to convey irritation, superiority and disdain.
Natael ignored her, eyebrows and all, and stepped inside the tent.
It had been months since he'd seen her last, and only briefly at that, but Semirhage hadn't changed a bit since she'd been sealed inside the Bore. She stood almost as tall as Natael did. Her raven hair was in disarray, but otherwise you might think she was receiving him in her throne room. She looked as regal as any queen, and behaved like one.
"Nemene," Natael greeted her politely.
"Worm," she shot back. Semirhage was usually cold and collected, no matter the circumstances, but Natael had always had a knack for irking her – her and most of the other Chosen, in fact. Semirhage was infamous for her ability to cause pain, but Natael's special talent was that he could annoy anyone by simply existing.
"Tsk tsk. And you were always my favourite," he said sarcastically.
"Whereas no one ever appreciated you, Joar." The sarcasm was apparently lost on her. The blasted woman never had a sense of humour. "You were ever the useless one. I never understood why Ishamael decided to promote you."
Neither did I, Natael thought. Elan and he hadn't seen each other in over a hundred years when Natael decided to join the Shadow. He'd assumed his former lover would laugh in his face and send him away, or blast him where he stood – although in those days, Natael had been cocky enough to believe himself a match for Ishamael. Elan hadn't exactly welcomed him with open arms, but neither had he dismissed Natael out of hand. He'd stared at him appraisingly, measuring him, weighing up the pros and cons. The pros had somehow prevailed.
"Perhaps your little fling had something to do with it," Semirhage added judiciously.
Natael laughed bitterly. If she only knew. They'd parted on very bad terms. And it had not been a fling, burn her. Elan had insulted his art, his talent, his very reason to live. Natael would have laughed it off, coming from anyone else, but from Elan, whom he respected and admired above anyone else… From the man he loved, it had cut deeper than he thought possible. Even now, thousands of years later, Natael still resented him for it. Knowing he would have to go to him, to humble himself in front of him, to obey him, had almost been enough to dissuade him to pledge his soul to the Shadow. Almost.
"I like to think that my natural talents and impressive set of skills led to my becoming one of the Chosen," Natael said with a shrug. "But that's beside the point. Tell me about your plans, my dear. Where are the others? I'd especially like to know-"
Semirhage laughed almost as rarely as Demandred, but when she did, it was a profoundly disturbing sight. "Why should I tell you anything, vermin? You do not frighten me, Joar. Far from it. If anything, I am mildly amused by your… antics."
Natael smiled, showing teeth. "You think they'll come for you, don't you? That your darling Demandred will rescue you?"
"He's not my darling," she snapped. Oh, he'd struck a chord. Another fling gone sour, it appeared. "But of course they will come. Moridin would never allow-"
"Who's Moridin?" Natael asked offhandedly. He hadn't really expected to gather any useful information, but…
Semirhage's beautiful face went utterly blank.
"Getting under your skin, am I?" Natael gloated. He began to pace the small space of the tent. Who was this Moridin? He'd never heard of him. "Death. Your latest recruit?" he mused. "I suppose you'll be needing new blood, considering the havoc al'Thor has already wreaked amongst your ranks." Semirhage remained silent, her mouth set in a thin line. "They didn't come for me, you know. Why would they come for you? You failed as miserably as I did, Nemene."
"My name," she seethed, "is Semirhage! You rat! You vain, pathetic-"
Natael channeled a trickle of saidin to silence her. None of the Asha'man stood nearby; no one would know. "Yes, yes, I get your point, dearest." He eyed her with affected boredom. "You were about to tell me who that Moridin person is, I believe."
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. With a smirk, Natael released her voice from its saidin-weaved prison. "You've recuperated your full strength, haven't you?" she asked out of the blue.
Natael frowned. Curse him for a fool! Of course she would know; he'd failed to consider that. "Does al'Thor know?" Nemene went on sweetly, almost coyly.
Burn the bloody woman! He ought to silence her right then. Permanently. But he couldn't – if Semirhage died, the Aes Sedai would remember Natael's visit. He could simply dispose of them, of course, make it look like Nemene had attempted to escape… No. Too risky. If the Aes Sedai died, their Warders would be alerted. Natael may have regained his former strength, but he couldn't fight off that many Asha'man at once, on his own. They were deadlier than he had initially assumed – a dangerous underestimation on his part.
He could also kill Semirhage and disappear, but that was even riskier. If al'Thor caught him… He shuddered. There was a time when the thought of al'Thor being cross with him had amused him, when he'd have preferred to be caught by the farm boy rather than any of the Chosen. But now… Neither option was pleasant to consider.
"Tell you what," Natael said through gritted teeth, "I'll forget all about that Moridin fellow if you swear not to tattle-"
"Don't be ridiculous," Semirhage sneered. "The day I make a deal with you is the day I return to the Light, maggot. Besides, it matters little. Moridin will not keep to the shadows much longer."
"Then you won't mind telling me more about him," Natael prompted her.
She flashed him a dazzling, utterly terrifying smile. "Al'Thor doesn't know you're here, does he? You want the knowledge for yourself, to use at your own convenience. To use against al'Thor, should you need it. The boy still doesn't trust you." It wasn't a question, he could tell from her smug undertone. "Do his followers even know who you truly are?" She barely paused before she answered her own question. "Evidently not. They would never allow you anywhere near me if they did – if they even suspected."
"Farshaw knows," he muttered. "Cadsuane, too, I believe."
"That crumbly fossil?" Semirhage said with a snide twitch of her mouth. "You're scared of her, aren't you, Joar? They're all wary of her, even the boy." She shook her head. "You miserable wretch. What have you become?" She snorted. "Well, to be fair, you weren't much to begin with."
"That will be quite enough," a firm voice announced behind Natael. He nearly jumped out of his skin. "I don't think you're supposed to be here, Master Natael," Min Farshaw went on when he turned to face her.
"I…I thought she might be more…amenable if I spoke to her," Natael stammered. Blast! How had the girl sneaked up on them like that?
"Any luck?" Farshaw asked with a mocking half-smile.
"I'm afraid not," he grumbled.
"Out," the girl commanded. "Now." She didn't spare a glance in Semirhage's direction as she followed Natael out of the tent. She nodded to the Aes Sedai in passing but waited until they were out of earshot to berate him. "What were you thinking? She could have exposed you! Blood and ashes, she still might," she fumed. "Rand will be furious," she warned him.
"Will he?" Natael asked crookedly. "Has he recovered his ability to feel, then?"
If Farshaw's eyes had been shocklances – a weapon of Natael's Age – he would have been incinerated on the spot. "Don't you dare," she said threateningly. He caught a flash of silver from a semi-concealed blade in her sleeve.
"You don't have to tell him," Natael offered, somewhat subdued. The girl was deadly with those knives, he knew.
"I'm the only person he still trusts," Farshaw said crisply. "I have no intention of keeping things from him, let alone lie to him."
Natael sighed in defeat. "Very well. I'll tell him myself, then. Perhaps he'll be more lenient." He hesitated. "Do you know a man named Moridin?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Never heard of him. Why?" she asked suspiciously.
"Nemene – that is, Semirhage – mentioned him. I suspect he may be a new Chosen – ah, Forsaken." He usually had no trouble remembering the correct terms, but the girl had placed her hands on her hips. That was rarely a good sign.
Farshaw considered this. "So you did learn something," she said eventually. She huffed in exasperation. "Come with me. We'll talk to Rand together. Perhaps he'll allow you to interrogate her further if you…" She cut off, staring at his…right ear? Oh. Another viewing, most likely. What could it be this time? A banana peel? A bear in a tutu? It wouldn't be any stranger than the monkey thing. Sometimes Natael wondered if the girl didn't come up with random images just to confuse him.
"What do you see?" he asked impatiently when she'd been silent for a whole minute, her brow furrowed.
"I don't…" She hesitated, chewing on her lower lip. "A glass filled with blood?"
Well, that didn't make any sense. As usual. "Thank you for sharing this valuable piece of information," he sneered. "Blood's too thick to drink, anyway. I'll stick to wine."
Farshaw appeared to consider how she would murder him. "I don't know why I bother," she muttered under her breath. "Come. Let's find Rand. If there's a new pawn in the game, I'm sure he'll want to know."