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The Aes Sedai outside saw what she was doing, of course, but none said anything. Even though two of them—Elza and Erian—were among the group of fools who had sworn fealty to the al'Thor boy, they stepped lightly around her; they knew how she regarded them. Idiot women. At times, it seemed that half of her allies were only determined to make her job harder.

Sarene continued her interrogation inside. Most of the Aes Sedai in the manor had now given questioning a try. Brown, Green, White and Yellow—all had failed. Cadsuane herself had yet to address any questions to the Forsaken personally. The other Aes Sedai looked at her as an almost mythic figure, a reputation she had nurtured. She'd stayed away from the White Tower for many decades at a time, ensuring that many would assume she was dead. When she reappeared, it made a stir. She'd gone hunting false Dragons, both because it was necessary and because each man she captured added to her reputation with the other Aes Sedai.

All of her work pointed at these final days. Light blind her if she was going to let that al'Thor boy ruin it all now!

She covered her scowl by taking a sip of her tea. She was slowly losing control, thread by thread. Once, something as dramatic as the squabbles at the White Tower would have drawn her immediate attention. But she couldn't begin to work on that problem. Creation itself was unraveling, and her only way to fight that was to turn all her efforts on al'Thor.

And he resisted her every attempt to aid him. Step by step he was becoming a man with insides like stone, unmoving and unable to adapt. A statue with no feelings could not face the Dark One.

Blasted boy! And now there was Semirhage, continuing to defy her. Cadsuane itched to go in and confront the woman, but Merise had asked the very questions Cadsuane would have, and she had failed. How long would Cadsuane's image remain intact if she proved herself as impotent as the others?

Sarene began to talk again.

"The Aes Sedai, you should not treat them so," Sarene said, voice calm.

"Aes Sedai?" Semirhage responded, chuckling. "Don't you feel ashamed, using that term to describe yourselves? Like a puppy calling itself a wolf!"

"We may not know everything, I admit, but—"

"You know nothing," Semirhage replied. "You are children playing with your parents' toys."

Cadsuane tapped the side of her tea cup with her index finger. Again, she was struck by the similarities between herself and Semirhage—and again, those similarities made her insides itch.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a slender serving woman climb the steps carrying a plate of beans and steamed radishes for Semirhage's midday meal. Time already? Sarene had been interrogating the Forsaken for three hours, and she had been talked neatly in circles the entire time. The serving woman approached and Cadsuane waved for her to enter.

A moment later, the tray crashed to the floor. At the sound, Cadsuane leaped to her feet, embracing saidar, quite nearly rushing into the room. Semirhage's voice made Cadsuane hesitate.

"I will not eat that," the Forsaken said, in control, as always. "I have grown tired of your swill. You will bring me something appropriate."

"If we do," Sarene's voice said, obviously snatching for any advantage, "will you answer our questions?"

"Perhaps," Semirhage replied. "We shall see if it fits my mood."

There was silence, Cadsuane glanced at the other women in the hall, all of whom had leaped to their feet at the sound, although they couldn't hear the voices. She motioned them to sit down.

"Go and fetch her something else," Sarene said, speaking inside the room to the serving woman. "And send someone to clean this up." The door opened, then shut quickly as the servant hurried away.

Sarene continued, "This next question, it will determine if you actually get to eat that meal or not." Despite the firm voice, Cadsuane could hear a quickness to Sarene's words. The sudden drop of the tray of food had startled her. They were all so jumpy around the Forsaken. They weren't deferential, but they did treat Semirhage with a measure of respect. How could they not? She was a legend. One did not enter the presence of such a creature—one of the most evil beings ever to live—and not feel at least a measure of awe. Measure of awe. . . .

"That's our mistake," Cadsuane whispered. She blinked, then turned and opened the door into the room.

Semirhage stood in the center of the small chamber. She had been retied in Air, the weaves likely woven the moment that she'd dropped her tray. The brass platter lay discarded, the beans soaking juice into the aged wooden boards. This room had no window; it had been a storage chamber at one point, converted into a "cell" to hold the Forsaken. Sarene—dark hair in beaded braids, beautiful face surprised at the intrusion—sat in a chair before Semirhage. Her Warder, Vitalien, broad-shouldered and ashen-faced, stood in the corner.

Semirhage's head was not bound, and her eyes nicked toward Cadsuane.