#cairhien really said: we're going to show you exactly why moiraine is Like That

[moiraineswife]

Taken and Paid - A Moiraine & Anvaere Fic

Title: Taken and Paid

Warnings: SPOILERS for episode 4 of season 2! And canon-typical continuation of the themes of abuse, manipulation, suicidal ideation, coping very badly with trauma, depression - the usual Moiraine stuff for this season, in a nutshell.

Summary: 

A continuation of the scene between Anvaere and Moiraine where her sister reveals that she knows the information Moiraine seeks, and that if Moiraine wants it, she must subject herself to the invitation she refused that morning, and sit and have tea.

Teaser:  So Moiraine took what she wanted, and paid the price that was owed.

She got down on her knees and lowered herself into the chair opposite her sister. She raised her hands in supplication and reached out to accept the extended cup. She tied a noose around the last remaining shreds of her dignity and pride and took a small sip. She let herself go as a tribute to the Dragon, who could never claim she was unfaithful, as she smiled in apparent enjoyment of sharing a warm drink on a cold night with a beloved family member.

Link: AO3 or Read Below:

“If you want to know about that redheaded boy from the inn you’re going to have to ask me very nicely… over tea.”

Looking into Anvaere’s quietly triumphant face as she delivered her final line, this little play that she had planned and set the stage for having just been performed to perfection in her eyes, given the ever-so subtle satisfaction that placed that perfect emphasis on the word ‘tea’; Moiraine felt for a moment as though she was at the Eye of the world once more. Trembling as Ishamael stared down upon her in exaltation of his power and his control as she lay stripped and vulnerable at his feet.

The stench of the Blight, fetid and inescapable as the twisted heart within her own chest, was thick in her mouth again. For a fleeting moment the room shifted, and the dark furniture became dark stone, the twisting patterns of the carved window frames the twisting patterns of Ishamael’s seal, the flickering fire-light the glow of her power before it was snuffed thoughtlessly like an insignificant candle. 

She was powerless again. She was on her knees again. She was backed into a corner, walls all around. She was convulsing with pain and violation as Ishamael lorded over her powerless form again.

Blinking, the memory cleared. It was something Moiriane had become rather well-practised at in the last few months. Everything, no matter how small, no matter how innocent, no matter how obviously well-intentioned, sent her back to that place. At times she had even wondered if the Forsaken was capable of haunting and shaping waking nightmares, as he had haunted the sleeping dreams of Rand and the others. But no. It was not the Forsaken. Moiraine did not matter enough to him for him to waste his time with her. It had only ever been her own weakness. A weakness she would overcome. Every day for the rest of her life, if that was what it took. The stubborn defiance faded to a shiver at the prospect, but she had control again.

Moiraine looked at Anvaere, looked at her, and truly saw her. So pleased with the success of her little scheme, so jubilant in her exaltant victory. The deliverance of her just punishment to the sister who had done the most unthinkable and unforgivable thing a Cairhien noble could ever do to rest of their pit of vipers: escaped. 

It struck her then, the reality of the situation, that while she had struggled, and fought, and desperately sought to find, and train, and save the Dragon Reborn so that he might save all of them in turn; Anvaere had sat and schemed and sought to forced Moiraine to accept her invitation to tea after scorning it that morning.

She wanted to laugh. To laugh, without humour, until she could not breathe, because of the absurdity, of the near hysterical way the Wheel seemed to be forcing her to confront what she might have become had she stayed here. 

She wanted to scream. Scream until her throat was raw and the pretty little porcelain of Anvaere’s neat little tea-set, and the vile glass in the judgemental mirror shattered and revealed how empty and pointless they all truly were. The Forsaken were being released, released because of her, because of the choices she had made, the plans that she had set in motion. Now this. This game she had always despised and now, more than ever, had no desire, and no damn time to play.

She wanted to fall to her knees and weep. Weep for the cruelty of the Wheel. For, time and again, when she was quite sure that she had lost everything a single person could lose, when she had nothing left to sacrifice, and nothing left to pledge to prove her loyalty, and her devotion: it asked for yet more. It took every last fragment of strength she had not to sink down the ground and sob because nothing was ever easy. Nothing was ever given. Everything had to be taken. Everything had to be paid for.

What she took was always the same: something to advance her mission. A scrap of knowledge, a prophecy, a scrap of lore, an artefact that may hold answers, a secret that may prove vital. The price changed with whom she needed to purchase from. Some wanted coin, some wanted information, some wanted secrets, or favours, or power. Today Anvaere wanted her pride. Served up to her on a silver platter, raw and bloody, as the prime cut of a kill should be.

Pride was all Moiraine had clung to after the Eye. It was all that had kept her from taking the dagger she had tempted Logain with and using it to cut free the last tether she had keeping her in place. Like snipping free the final tendon holding a severed and useless limb in place, too stubborn to let go, too stupid to realise that such stubbornness was utterly pointless. 

Pride was what had driven her, day by day, to wake up, to force herself to rise from bed with nothing to do and no purpose to strive towards, to put one foot in front of the other, even when the result was more a shamble or a stagger than a walk, to carry her water and try to clean off the feeling of being dirty and contaminated that she knew could not be scrubbed from her skin when it had sunk in and settled like scum on her bones and on her very soul, but that she did anyway.

Pride was what had stopped her from ever being able to let another person see her weakness, never willingly handing a vulnerability to a potential enemy, never being able to admit that it was sometimes agony just to breathe.

Pride was Anvaere’s price. And she knew there would be no negotiation, no haggling, no bargaining, no escape. For they both knew that Moiraine needed what her sister held, and that she had no other way of getting it, as her futile, exhausting efforts in the city that day had only served to underline.

So Moiraine took what she wanted, and paid the price that was owed. 

She got down on her knees and lowered herself into the chair opposite her sister. She raised her hands in supplication and reached out to accept the extended cup. She tied a noose around the last remaining shreds of her dignity and pride and took a small sip. She let herself go, hanged as a tribute to the Dragon, who could never claim she was unfaithful, as she smiled in apparent enjoyment of sharing a warm drink on a cold night with a  beloved family member.

“You really shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble,” Moiraine said, with the expected courtly perfection of a refined polite, slightly self-depreciating tone, as was appropriate when falsely humbling oneself to thank their host for providing the poison they now sipped on together, ���just to have a cup of tea with your sister,” she said, with a smile she was sure was uncannily like the one she had practised in the mirror that morning, revolted and slightly chilled to realise that, after all this time, the mask they’d held her down and sewn onto her face still slipped seamlessly and easily back over her features.

“Well,” Anvaere began, responding with the appropriate level of graciousness and deference to their honoured guest whom they hosted in their home with around the same level of reluctance they would hand over their jewels to an uncouth man with a dirty dagger at their neck, “I wouldn’t have been forced to do so had you not made me,” she crooned condescendingly, smiling as though Moiriane was a child she’d just had to slap for putting her hand too close to a fire.

And there it was. The dark undercurrent of drive that had shadowed her entire life and shaped her entire person: she had been made to be hurt. If she had not been foolish and cried at court when the maid she’d loved had been sentenced to death for stealing kitchen scraps from the noble’s meals, her Uncle would not have needed to punish her for it. 

If she had simply done as was expected of her, had perfected her steps at the first instance, as she should have done so, her dance instructor would not have been forced to snap at her bare feet with a cane until they were raw and bloody, for if she had done it right, she would have missed the blows, and would have pristine, perfect feet - as a Damodred should have.

If she had not been blocked in her channeling, she would not have needed her mentor to assault and beat her with the One Power until she finally broke through the pain to embrace the Source herself and fight back.

If she had not been so foolish, and so stupid, and so wrong she would not have let herself be Cut off from the Source at the Eye of the World.

Every failure was her fault, and was a reason for pain; every triumph was a result of that pain, and therefore ultimately attributable to those who had caused it, not to her.

Swallowing down the unseemly surge of bitterness that had threatened to mar her courtly poise, so like the expected Aes Sedai serenity, simply with its own purposes and quirks to suit the Cairhien society, rather than the Tower one, Moiraine took another drink of tea to force down the sour thoughts and smiled blandly over the rim at Anvaere.

“Are you enjoying your tea?” her sister asked, in a tone so sweet it had to be poisonous, and told Moiraine quite clearly that she had not been as swift in hiding her distasteful thoughts as she wished she had.

“It is a very pleasant blend,” Moiraine returned a little stiffly, forcing herself to take another grudging drink.

Anvaere’s eyes glinted at that, and she opened her mouth to say something else–

“So, sister,” Moiraine cut-in, breaking the formal flow of their conversation in a misstep that would have been considered near scandalous, had she actually cared, the pretence slipping, as did her patience. Sitting up a little straighter, she barreled forth before Anvaere could say something else and draw out this agony any further, “you clearly wished to take tea with me very much,” Moiraine noted, as though Anvaere’s obsessive dedication and aggressive reassertion of control over Moiraine’s slightest perceived flouting of that was an admirable trait, “was there something you wished to discuss with me in particular?”

“Well typically,” Anvaere replied, with a very mildly wounded inflection in her voice, almost playful in its insincerity, “when a beloved family member, especially one as close as a sister, is away for an extended period of time, as you have been,” she said, each little addition a perfectly shaped and sharpened knife designed to slide efficiently and ruthlessly between Moiraine’s ribs to stab directly into her heart, “it’s customary for them catch up as it were,” she said with a smile that would have been genuinely warm and full of sisterly affection had both of them not known very plainly that Moiraine despised doing this in all of its forms, “you’ve been gone so long,” she said with a mournful cast to her eyes, though the sharpness and shrewdness never left them for a moment, “I would so like to hear how you’re doing.”

“Of course you would,” Moiraine said, and her tone and expression, too, mirrored that expected sisterly warmth, as though they were at a table full of dinner guests they could not embarrass with the explosive fight they’d been having moments before walking through the doors to the banquet hall and now had to keep up appearances, and not sitting alone together in Moiraine’s old bedroom. “It’s only natural, after all,” she smiled, even though she now knew, having learned from Siuan and Lan, that the relationship and dynamic she had grown up with in her family was about as natural as a shark scenting the fresh blood of a wounded seal and choosing to to nurse the poor creature back to health rather than simply ripping it apart to feast as was its nature.

“I do still know you, sweet Moiraine,” Anvaere simpered, leaning forward to pat Moiraine’s hand. It took more self-control than she would ever admit not to instinctively pull back from the unwanted touch. “I know that doing things like this can make you feel a little awkward and uncomfortable,” she gave an entirely humourless little laugh, with a subtle undercurrent of mockery, audible only to her as she added, with false fondness, “our Moiraine, so humble, with such humility, never wanting to flaunt her accomplishments or her talents,” she side with a smile.

Moiraine reflected, with a twist of something that might have been true regret for the state of this relationship and what their world had forced them to become to one another, that if Anvaere were to ever learn about what had happened to Moiraine at the Eye, about how she could no more channel than her teapot could, while outwardly she might be able to put on a decent show of sorrow and pity, deep down she would feel nothing but satisfaction and vindication that the prized apple at the very peak of House Damodred’s family tree had toppled from her great heights and proved rotten and weak to the core.

“So to make it a little easier for you,” Anvaere was saying now, and Moiraine forced her focus back to her, even as her exhausted and already strained and stretched mind longed for nothing more than to swipe the cup from Anvaere’s hand against the wall and order her to get out and leave her be. “I thought we might make a little game out of it,” she said with a nostalgic little smile, glancing very pointedly at the large portrait that loomed above them, in pride of place above the mantle.

It had been a gift, a request of Moiraine’s, actually, for a nameday when she had been twelve, or perhaps thirteen. They had been close, once. There had been a true fondness and love between them at one time. When they had been children, and had still been sweet and blind enough to believe that they could be different, that they could be the siblings in Cairhien who never worried about backstabbing, or betrayal, or even assassination from the other. As they had grown, and their Uncle, more and more, had Moiraine groomed as heir, while Anvaere was groomed as little more than a broodmare had started to strain that relationship. Moiraine revealing she could channel had utterly broken it beyond repair. Yet she had kept the portrait, as a memory of things that, while they were not, and would never be again, had still been a small source of comfort, and joy; a reminder of better, happier times, short lived though they had been.

Now Moiraine would have happily torn the portrait from its place on the wall and cast it, and the judgemental eyes of its naive, foolish occupants into the fire until it was nothing but smoke and memory.

“You remember how we used to love games when we were girls?” Anvaere said, as though following Moiraine’s own path of thoughts, likely thinking very similarly to her, ironically.

“How could I forget?” Moiraine replied with a false little laugh that made the self-loathing lurking within her rise up and hiss its own cruel, malicious laughter in the back of her mind, knowing it would replay over and over again when sleep refused to claim her because the monsters in her mind had not yet had their say.

“Indeed,” Anvaere returned, not missing a beat in this little dance they did together now. “Well I thought that it could something like this,” she began, meaning, it will work exactly like this, or you won’t see so much as a scrap of information from me, “but I will ask you a question, likely about what you’ve been up to while you’ve been away from us,” she smiled, as though this was an exciting adventure she longed to hear about, and not the bitterest truth that had stirred hate in her heart for Moiraine as nothing else could have: the fact that she had escaped this world, while Anvaere had been chained to it so long she’d been forced to truly become it, not merely to live in it, “and then, if I’m happy with your answer,” she added, a slightly harder note entering as if to remind Moiraine that, in spite of all these niceties and politeness and pleasantries, Anvaere was still firmly in control of this interaction, “you can ask me a question in turn,” she smiled, “about anything at all that you wish to know.”

“That sounds like a very fair arrangement,” Moiraine said, hesitating just a fraction too long, long enough that they both knew Anvaere had seen her briefly falter and slip on a step, “and I believe that you should go first, as you were the one to propose it,” Moiraine said, graciously inclining her head and saluting her with a slight raise of her teacup, before bringing it to her mouth and swigging down too much of the still scalding liquid at once, feeling a strange satisfaction as it burned her throat and left it raw as it went down.

“How sweet of you,” Anvaere returned. Then she shifted in her chair, sitting up a little straighter, and Moiraine mentally braced herself for what was to come. “Truly, I have to confess, that what I have been simply dying to hear about more than anything at all simply has to be your husband,” she beamed, sitting with her chin propped on the hand that wore her wedding ring, which caught the firelight and gleamed almost threateningly between them.

Moiraine’s heart went tight. Well, at least she could say for Anvaere that, once she decided to finally get right down for it, she wasted no time in simply going straight for the killing blow. They both knew that this was a particularly sore point. As they both knew that, more than politics, or betrayals, poisoning or parties, assassinations or assaults, what Moiraine most feared and dreaded as a fact of her life was the idea of having to marry a man, to be forced to his bed, to bear his children, to become chained and beholden to him. They both knew that was a fate that she had escaped, fleeing from an arranged marriage to instead go to the White Tower and train. Anvaere had not been so lucky. Her husband had passed only a few years ago, with no love between them, and enough children that the mere thought made Moiraine feel slightly sick.

Moiraine took another sip of tea, to give herself time to regain her poise, but most of the liquid dribbled down her chin instead because of how her hand was shaking, and she had to duck to wipe it away, utterly ruining the intended effect.

“My husband?” she repeated with feigned confusion, frowning politely at her sister, quite sure that this little farce would not be believed, but that wasn’t really the point.

The point was she needed a moment to gather her wits and curse her sister. Why in the Light did it have to be about Lan? Why wouldn’t she have asked about almost anything else? But of course that was not the Cairhien way, was it? When one identified what was undoubtedly the best weapon to use for a current fight, one did not choose a less effective tool simply because it would have shown a hint of mercy. That might result in a loss, and a loss was unacceptable. It did not matter if something was gained by the purest and most noble methods, or the dirtiest and vilest of tricks that many a cutpurse would have flinched at. All that mattered was that you came out better than your opponent. By whatever means necessary.

“Oh, are you not married to him?” Anvaere said, continuing this painful little charade of pretence, just to draw it out, twist the knife and force it a little deeper before she withdrew it and allowed it to bleed freely for her own amusement, “I apologise for making the assumption,” she replied, very clearly slighting Moiraine by implying that it would have been wrong to assume she would be a decent, upstanding woman and marry the man she was bedding, as she would be expected to. 

Waving her fingers idly, Anvaere added carelessly, “but I’m sure you know well the one I mean,” and though this comment was only a stepping stone in passing for her, unseen and unknown, the damage it caused was deeper and more lasting than Anvaere could ever know. 

Yes. She had known him well, had known him better than anyone, in fact. Moiraine swallowed down tightly past the tight knot of emotion forming in her throat. She had not thought of Lan, had deliberately kept her thoughts on anything else, since leaving him, for every time she remembered his face, or heard his voice chide her for not eating or sleeping as much as she should be, it almost made her wish that she was back at the Eye with Ishamael, as that would have been far less painful to endure. She could not lose her composure now, could not reveal to Anvaere just how much of a weakness Lan was for her. Anvaere had told her that she saw Moiraine as a threat. And Moiraine well knew how threats were to be dealt with in Cairhien. Any weapon that could be used against an enemy would be, and any potential weapon would be found so that it could be held in reserve and used to threaten as needed. She would not allow Lan to suffer the consequences of her weakness and failures yet again.

Returning her full attention to her sister, she heard, with a clarity as sharp and cutting as freshly broken glass, as Anvaere said casually, “that brooding man who is always at your side,” she raised an eyebrow very slightly as she added pointedly, “well, usually at your side, in any case.” When Moiraine, jaw clenched, remaining silent and missing yet another beat of the dance, unable to trust herself with speaking when she was not sure she could open her mouth without screaming, Anvaere continued mercilessly, “he had eyes so hard and cold I would have bet they would chill the very fires of Dragonomount,” she said with a contemptuous twist to her mouth, “let alone a woman,” she added with an affected little shudder.

Moiraine’s hand, the one not currently strangling her teacup, clenched tightly on the arm of her chair, and she was quite sure, given Anvaere’s slight flicker as her own mask slipped, that she had not concealed the anger at this insult well at all.

“Regardless,” Anvaere said, licking her lips as though almost thinking better of this, side-stepping her rudeness as if it was as insignificant and beneath her notice as a dirty puddle in her way on the street, “do tell me all,” she pressed with a seemingly warm and inviting smile.

Her mouth did not say ‘or I will tell you nothing of what you want to know’ but her eyes could not have made it plainer where they peered expectantly at Moiraine over the rim of her own cup.

“Lan is not, and has never been,” Moiraine clarified swiftly, before Anvaere decided to twist the knife any further and force her to go over this again, “my husband. Nor were we ever involved that way,” she added, unable to stop a little of the exhaustion she felt bleed into her words.

It was not the tiredness of her body that was unbearable to her, though it was certainly beginning to weigh on her, but how simply exhausted she was by this entire culture and way of life in Cairhien. Where every phrase in a conversation with her sister had to be examined for loopholes to swiftly close lest they be taken advantage, as though she was eternally stuck making endless bargains with the Sea Folk. Every word out of her mouth was weighed, and judged, and measured, every breath was critiqued, every step taken drawing raised eyebrows and whispers behind hands. It had been less than a day and she felt strung up, skinned and gutted. How had she survived here for so long as a child?

“Yet you spent such time together,” Anvaere pressed, her eyes wide, as though Moiraine was sharing a juicy piece of scandalous gossip, “travelling alone together with only a man, sharing rooms at inns, if the rumours are to be believed.”

“He– He was my Warder,"Moiraine broke in, speaking too swiftly, wishing to simply shut Anvaere’s perfectly painted mouth. 

Only Anvaere could do this to her, get under her skin this way, provoke a temper she’d not had in years. And in doing so she had also forced Moiraine to stumble once more. She’d felt the slip herself as her Oath caught and gagged her when she'd briefly tried to say 'he is my Warder', for that was no longer true. Not after what she'd done. 

“Was?” Anvaere said, pouncing immediately upon the word like a rabid street dog upon an injured mouse attempting to scurry past it, “Did something happen?” she asked, with a very appropriate level of expected concern. ‘Did something happen?’ Light. What a question. With so many answers, and so much pain attached to it. Moiraine blinked and forced herself to take another too large gulp of tea, letting the blistering in her throat distract her, letting her draw herself back to the room, away from the Eye, so that she could hear Anvaere conclude with saccharine sweetness, “nothing too terrible, I hope?”

"No,” Moiraine answered mechanically,  “not at all.” Quite the opposite, in fact. Terrible would have been bringing him here, subjecting him to this vile place, wasting more of his life with her, until it was ultimately, pointlessly, cut short attempting to prolong the miserable excuse for existence hers had become. “I suppose you could say that he has…moved on to greener pastures,” she said with a forced smile, betraying nothing of the raging tempest of emotions within her.

"Ah," Anvaere sighed, with a look that would almost have been pitying, had Moiraine not caught the glint of satisfaction as she watched her sister come to her own conclusions about what exactly that meant. "A lesson for you, then," she said, "always marry them when they're still addled with lust for you and pliant. Uncle, for all his faults, was right about the fact that, when presented with the opportunity to make a killing blow, you should never hesitate."

Moiraine noted Anvaere’s assumption, in spite of her attempting to kill any possibility of thoughts in that direction, that Lan had only agreed to follow her initially because he’d wished to bed her, and decided it was not worth trying to scrape together more energy she frankly didn’t have to argue the point. Naturally she assumed that. It was how they were taught, and how the game was played. A woman’s sexuality is one of her only weapons, and hse must wield it accordingly to gain whatever power she can while she still has it at her disposal. She knew it would be almost impossible to explain the relationship she and Lan had to Anvaere, who simply came from such a different world that she could not even begin to imagine it, let alone accept it.

More impossible for her, still, was the sentiment behind why Moiraine had pushed Lan away. There was no greater sin in Cairhien than to not use every advantage you had. The idea of actively pushing away someone that you loved, worse, someone who was useful to you, simply for their sake? Unthinkable.  Moiraine would likely not have been able to conceive of it, either, not before Lan. For this had been his influence upon her, she knew. Ironic, given how hard he’d fought against accepting it. Sacrifice had been a language she spoke fluently and well, but letting someone go, letting them be free of the burden of duty or love so that they might be happier for it? That was a lesson that Lan had helped her to learn. Along with so many others on their journey together. And now–

“You seem to miss him,” Anvaere observed, giving voice to the very thoughts Moiraine had been working so hard to push down and ignore, lest they break her.

Her sister also betrayed a flicker of surprise in her expression for the first time, as she apparently uncovered something she had not already known was there, and was as such not expecting it. Learning things about Moiraine had never been the purpose of this little interrogation. Hurting her with things already known had been. Punishing her, in the most Cairhien of ways, showing her the consequences that came with refusing a polite invitation. Had she taken tea that morning perhaps they might have had a pleasant chat with one another. Since Moiraine had forced her to go to all of this trouble, well, now she had to pay the price.

Moiraine swallowed hard, drank her tea to give herself thinking time, for the simple truth was that she did. She had not expected it to be so much sharper and keener for the loss of his physical presence in her space. She had been missing the bond, and the emotional connection she had delivered held off, for months now, why should this have made it so much worse. Yet it had.

In the end she could come up with no way to talk around her First Oath and was forced to say, very quietly, throat painfully tight, “I do.”

Anvaere, at last, looked satisfied, and Moiraine decided not to let the opportunity presented to strike go to waste.

“Now,” she said firmly, leaning forward with clear intent, “about that redheaded boy at the inn,” she prompted and Anvaere raised an eyebrow slightly to indicate that, as hoped, she would permit Moiraine her first question, “how long has he been staying here in Cairhien?”

An hour later, Moiraine had what she needed, though she felt as though she’d been forced to let Anvaere flay her very soul until it was raw and bloody and exposed before her. Nothing she had asked had been dreadfully invasive, really, but that had not been the point. The act itself had been the price, and the punishment, of her earlier transgressions. As she moved from the room, she did so feeling hollow and empty. Like the old dollhouse, or the books untouched for years, or the dust that had lain thick upon the space, Moiraine was now but another old, unloved ghost, cold and despairing, and never able to find peace.

***

I'm friendly please feel free to yell thoughts/comments at me!! They fuel my angst and pain!!!!

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Great Hunt! Chapter 31: On the Scent

If you're on the scent for spoilers, keep reading! If you don't want to know everything about The Wheel of Time, including the books, show, comics, and card game all compressed into like, a couple thousand words inexplicably, definitely don't keep reading. The second you click that button everything will be psychically uploaded to your brain. I mean uh... something on theme... scentically uploaded to your nose.

We have a rising sun chapter as we're still in Cairhien and Thom's not around.

He gave one abrupt shudder and stopped laughing; she left him to crouch over Hurin.

Another not subtle thing to be doing. It's a good thing these Cairhienien are so politically suspicious that they miss the much greater threat right in front of them.

He said he didn’t know it, but he had a smile that shouted ‘lie’ a mile off.

Perrin could probably smell the lies on the dude before he opened his mouth.

I couldn’t hear what she said, but I didn’t know whether his eyes were going to pop out of his head or he was going to swallow his tongue first.

I'm sure that Verin just did the usual Aes Sedai thing and that the specifics aren't important, but it amuses me to imagine that she just told the dude the truth straight out.

He heard gasps from the Cairhienin listening, but he did not care. They could play their Great Game if they wanted, but Ingtar had come, and he was finished with it at last.

This is called dramatic irony and also counting your chickens before they hatch and whatnot.

Rand glanced at Perrin—He’s a sniffer?—and found Perrin studying him in return. He thought Perrin muttered something. Shadowkiller?

Have you boys tried talking to each other about your-

Nope. Can't even pretend to ask with a straight face.

Everyone was watching now—not even Cuale gave any attention to his own burning inn—and Rand thought a little caution might not be amiss after all.

Exactly Rand. You're surrounded by strangers in an immediate sense and surrounded by Darkfriends in a metaphorical sense. No point celebrating being free just yet.

Suddenly he noticed that the others were looking at him, Verin and Ingtar, Mat and Perrin. He realized what he had been doing, and his face colored. “I am sorry, Ingtar. It’s just that I’ve become used to being in charge, I suppose. I’m not trying to take your place.”

It's fascinating, how this boy has to be dragged kicking and screaming into everything, but once he accepts it he just takes to it instantly. A couple weeks' leadership and the boy completely forgets Ingtar's even there.

You can see why Demandred, Sammael, and Etcetera'al got so pissy.

She’s Moiraine’s eyes watching me, Moiraine’s hand trying to pull my strings. But I have cut the strings.

If only Rand had tried to learn about politics while he was here. He might have realized that Verin knowing things doesn't at all mean she's on Moiraine's side.

I guess that would probably have only made him more suspicious.

Also I forgot to mention her directly when taking these notes but Tiedra's plump so we know she's a good innkeeper.

It almost seemed to him that she was in the room with him, that he could smell her perfume, so much so that he looked around, and laughed to find himself alone.

It wouldn't surprise me at all if she had popped in invisibly somehow.

It was him, he thought. Rand is the Shadowkiller. Light, what’s happening to all of us? His hands tightened into fists, large and square. These hands were meant for a smith’s hammer, not an axe.

The duality that Perrin will be grappling with rears its ugly head. At last he already knows the answer. Though that really just makes his plot arc all the more frustrating.

Also, points to Perrin for pulling off having Rand in his POV instead of what usually happens (thus far in the series) and Rand hogging the spotlight. This isn't the first time this has happened (Egwene did it back in Fal Dara), but it does show the transition this series is slowly undergoing.

One of Mat’s eggs hit the floor and cracked. He did not look at it, though. He was looking at Rand, and Ingtar had turned around.

Mat, the so-called idiot, irresponsible fool: Has a tell about Rand's situation but volunteers nothing and doesn't cause any trouble.

Perrin realized he was staring, too. “Well, he did not fly,” he said. “I don’t see any wings. Maybe he has more important things to tell us.” Verin shifted her attention to him, just for a moment. He managed to meet her eyes, but he was the first to look away.

Perrin, the so-called quiet, responsible kid: Tries to get in a fight with a woman several decades his senior over his friend's honor.

“Interesting,” the Aes Sedai said, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I would very much like to meet this girl. If she can use a Portal Stone. . . . Even that name is not very widely known.”

Verin must suspect. How panicked does this make her?

Rand asked the innkeeper if there were any more books, and she brought him The Travels of Jain Farstrider. Perrin liked that one, too, with its stories of adventures among the Sea Folk and journeys to the lands beyond the Aiel Waste, where silk came from.

Is this our first real Shara reference? I think it might be.

The Shienaran played with a slashing, daring style. Perrin had always played doggedly, giving ground reluctantly, but he found himself placing the stones with as much recklessness as Ingtar. Most of the games ended in a draw, but he managed to win as many as Ingtar did.

Ignore the terrible pun and focus on how Perrin is being shifted by his experiences as well. Perhaps this is why he talked back to Verin earlier.

“There are Darkfriends among the high as well as the low,” Verin said smoothly. “The mighty give their souls to the Shadow as often as the weak.” Ingtar scowled as if he did not want to think of that.

Frankly Verin, if there weren't so few Aes Sedai I'd argue the Tower's horrible percentages make the mighty even more frequent donaters. And indeed note that Ingtar isn't "as if" anything. It's exactly the case that he doesn't want to think about noble Darkfriends.

“I know little of Cairhienin,” Ingtar told him, “but I’ve heard enough of Galldrian. He would feast us and thank us for the glory we had brought to Cairhien. He would stuff our pockets with gold and heap honors on our heads. And if we tried to leave with the Horn, he’d cut our honored heads off without pausing to take a breath.”

It's mind-boggling how actively detrimental to the cause of existence most of the modern day royalty proves to be. Like obviously they need to be toppled from their thrones and all that but damn.

There was a dignity to him that Perrin did not remember; Rand was looking at the Aes Sedai and the Shienaran lord as equals.

Well he's found the Horn of Valere twice now, so he's worthy of being a legendary hero even ignoring all the stuff he hasn't done yet. Selene's flirting sadly helped.

It will also help if you remember the way you behaved before the Amyrlin. If you are that arrogant, they will believe you are a lord if you wear rags.

Lan's training paying off in a dozen ways. He'd be so proud if he were here.

“A sa’angreal.” She sounded as if it were really not very important, but Perrin suddenly had the feeling the two of them had entered a private conversation, saying things no one else could hear.

For example, she's basically telling Rand what tools are available to him.

One by itself is powerful enough, but I can think of few women strong enough to survive the flow through the one on Tremalking. The Amyrlin, of course. Moiraine, and Elaida. Perhaps one or two others. And three still in training.

I guess Verin must think Cadsuane dead, since Lelaine and Romanda would make three if she were being counted. How terrifying that at this very point the White Tower has a total of eight, kind of nine women capable of using the Choedan Kal. It should be so much more.

As for Logain, it would have taken all his strength simply to keep from being burned to a cinder, with nothing left for doing anything.

Unless the male statue is quite different and only ever meant for Lews to use, Verin is very mistaken here. Logain is only a step below Rand, and there's sixteen tiers in between him and Moiraine.

She was talking to Rand. Perrin knew it, and from the queasy look in Mat’s eye, he did, too. Even Loial shifted nervously in his chair.

Thank goodness the empath is the POV to confirm that Loial is not blind or stupid but has in fact put two and two together.

Watching Verin’s smile, small and mysterious, Perrin felt a chill. He did not think Rand knew half what he thought he did. Not half.

Perrin you don't even know half of how right you are.

But we'll get to that next time, when our company visits The Huge Toad Crouching in the Night: Lord Barthanes's Manor! (Disclaimer: Toads may be metaphorical or even simileical)