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Lan's hands clenched into fists at his sides, and he forced them to relax. Horses were sensitive to their riders’ moods, Mandarb more so than most. No reason for the stallion to suffer his master’s frustration.
He grabbed the brush and stared at Mandarb's glistening flank, deliberately turning his back to the camp. What was he doing? Light. He was angry. Angry with Moiraine, and far too angry with himself. He fought the urge to enter the ko'di and rested one hand against Mandarb's neck, allowing warmth to suffuse his chilled fingers.
He reached for Moiraine’s bond, embracing her serenity to dispel the fiery haze clouding his senses. There. That was better. He remembered the brush, still clenched in his other hand. Easing his stance, he started running circles along Mandarb's coat, dislodging dirt and grime, wishing he could sweep the memory of their Whitecloak encounter away as easily.
Rage rose anew as he remembered how Moiraine made herself pleasant, how she held her ringless hands in front of her in a gesture of supplication. How she smiled, and how her shoulders sunk into subservience. The way her voice shifted higher. It could have been worse, he told himself in a feeble attempt to find calm again. She needed him, his focus and his steadfast support. Especially now, as her strength faded with each agonizing step.
Blood and ashes. As if managing four potential Dragons with the Dark One’s army at their heels wasn’t enough. They just had to run into a contingent of Whitecloaks. Of course, they did. Lan was sure that if he mentioned how low their odds had been, Moiraine would have given him one of her enigmatic smiles and told him that the Wheel willed it.
He tried to ignore the fact that his bloody Aes Sedai was at that moment taking exhaustion from everyone as the poison burned through her. How much longer would she endure? If the level of pain she was allowing to seep through the bond was any indication, not very long at all.
He gritted his teeth, wishing he could have wiped the Inquisitor’s smirk off his face. The sound those serpent rings made as the man dangled them in front of Moiraine had blasted through her with gale force, the intensity of it shocking them both. And then the Light-forsaken Whitecloak had the audacity to put his hands on her.
Mandarb shifted under the brush, reacting to his master's rising agitation, and Lan patted his neck soothingly. He had to get himself under control. Before his next failure, which could very well be their last. His free hand slipped inside his belt, making sure the ring was secure. It was only a bit of metal and stone. And yet. To a Whitecloak and so many others, it symbolized evil. The source of everything that was wrong with the world.
He felt for Moiraine again and found her pain less pronounced. Was it getting easier somehow? What a mercy it would be. Not for the first time, he wished that he could carry the pain for her, knowing that she would have refused even if such a thing were possible. In typical Moiraine fashion, the worse things were, the more distant the bond became, to the point of...
With a start, he realized that he could no longer feel even a shadow of her pain. Light, he could not feel her at all.
Fighting panic, he managed to stow the brush before sweeping the camp. Rand, Mat, Egwene, and Perrin. No sign of Moiraine. How did he allow this to happen?
Perrin lifted his head to meet his eyes. The blacksmith was carving a fallen branch with his knife. He raised one large hand and pointed. Lan nodded his thanks and walked briskly in that direction. She had better be fine. More than fine. Or, Light help him, he would give her a piece of his mind when he found her.
The bond was silent. Was she? No. He steeled himself. She was not yet dead. He would have known. How did he not notice the masking of their bond?
He picked his way through the undergrowth, stepping over fallen trunks, careful not to disturb the vegetation. His mind conjured up images of her, on the ground, unconscious, after she had brought down the Winespring Inn. She’d been so cold, her face dusted with ash and snow.
No. She was not. She was not. She couldn't be, for he still had a will to live.
He didn't think she would wander far from the camp, from the children, but without the bond, he had no way of knowing.
He spotted her after a few excruciating minutes. She was seated with her back to him, to the camp. He made noise now, each step snapping a twig or crunching on fallen leaves. No reaction. Serene. Unmoving. She slipped away without a word to him, and now she did not even turn to acknowledge his presence.
She did not look up when he walked around her to stand a few paces away. He frowned, then approached slowly, his eyes searching for any evidence of new injuries. Her legs were folded under her, and her left arm was wrapped around her waist, while her right rested on her lap.
"Moiraine?"
She was looking at him, or rather he was in her field of vision, but she did not acknowledge him. He stepped closer and had a good look at her face. Tears welled up in her eyes, sliding down her cheeks in silence.
"Moiraine? I'm here." He lifted her right hand, cold and limp, and began rubbing some warmth into it.
She blinked, trying to focus. "Lan."
"Yes." He resisted the urge to pull her close. "What are you doing?"
"Sitting."
He huffed. Of course. A perfect Moiraine answer. Accurate, succinct, and giving him bloody nothing to go on.
"Unmask the bond." He gritted his teeth. "Please."
"Soon."
"How soon?"
"I am nearly done, I suspect."
She was looking through him, and her voice sounded distant. Detached. If she’d been a blademaster, he would surmise that she had entered the ko'di.
"What are you nearly done with?"
"I'm crying faster."
They had been bonded for a lifetime, and this was the first time he heard her use the expression. He tried to keep his tone light, nonthreatening.
"You're what?"
She shifted slightly and pulled her hand from his grasp to touch her cheek. "I suspect I'm nearly done."
Did she realize that she had repeated herself? He reached into his pocket and pulled out a mostly clean handkerchief. She accepted it with a frown, turning the small square of fabric in her hand as if puzzled to what its purpose may be.
"For your face." He didn't think she was that far gone. How did he allow himself to get so wrapped in his own self-pity?
"Oh." She allowed him to take the handkerchief and pat her face with it.
"Cry faster?" he prompted.
"It was necessary."
"Why?"
He waited for an answer, but she was silent.
"Moiraine?"
She startled.
"Are you with me?"
She shifted position, rolled her shoulders, and winced at the sudden pain.
"Yes."
"Please umask the bond."
She nodded, and he had to brace himself against the onslaught of pain and exhaustion. And relief. The overwhelming relief of being able to feel her again.
"Why are you here? No obfuscation."
"I cannot grieve properly. For my Sisters."
"I'm sorry." He had no words to express what he felt, sending his grief through the bond instead. Raking through his memories, he tried to remember a time he saw her cry like this, but found nothing.
"When I was young, I learned that those who made me cry did not wish to bear witness to the aftermath. Once the entertainment value was exhausted."
Lan resisted an urge to let out a string of expletives. With the bond unmasked, Moiraine must have felt his intent, but she did not react. She plucked a long strand of grass from the ground and started rolling it between her fingers.
"It is too distressing to watch my face do this," she gestured toward herself, the stem flopping and waving about. "Afterwards."
"Excuse me?" Lan's blood was beginning to boil.
"I have to cry faster. It's practical for everyone involved." Her voice was quiet, level, with a touch of annoyance. As if she was explaining that fish had scales while birds wore feathers.
"Practical."
"Exactly." She moved her left hand away from her body and flexed the fingers, frowning. "This is worse than expected. What was I saying? Oh yes. The goal is to see if I could be made to cry. Not watch me. Or listen."
She used both hands to separate the blade of grass into four strands and started braiding. It was unconventional, Lan noted, as far as braids went. He had never seen her wear her hair that way.
"Once," she held three strands between her fingertips and folded the fourth over the top. "I was told that my breathing was objectionable."
"Have I done this to you?"
She shook her head, looking down at the grass braid forming under her fingers. "Never."
"Then why?"
"That was unexpected. I am sorry. I will try to do better." Her bond shifted, as if a layer of ice was forming over it.
"That is not... Moiraine. Please. I'm just trying to understand. Don't shut me out."
"That Whitecloak." A shiver went through her, and they both winced at the sharp, stabbing the pain in her shoulder. "I had to perform. For the ta'veren to live."
She dropped the braided grass and slowly rose to her feet, ignoring his offered hand. "We better get back. There is much to be done."