Knife of Dreams by Robert Jordan Read Free Book Online Page A

really trusted any
sul’dam
, but perhaps
Atha’an Shadar
could be trusted more than the rest.
    “Light two lamps, then bring me a robe and slippers,” she said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
    Liandrin scrambled to the table that held the lidded sand bowl on itsgilded tripod and hissed when she found it with a careless hand, but she quickly used the tongs to lift out a hot coal, puffed it to a glow, and lit two of the silvered lamps, adjusting the wicks so the flames held steady and did not smoke. Her tongue might suggest that she felt herself Suroth’s equal rather than a possession, yet the strap had taught her to obey commands with alacrity.
    Turning with one of the lamps in her hand, she gave a start and a choked cry at the sight of Almandaragal looming in the corner, his dark, ridge-ringed eyes focused on her. You would think she had never seen him before! Yet he was a fearsome sight, ten feet tall and near two thousand pounds, his hairless skin like reddish brown leather, flexing his six-toed forepaws so his claws extended and retracted, extended and retracted.
    “Be at ease,” Suroth told the
lopar
, a familiar command, but he stretched his mouth wide, showing sharp teeth before settling back to the floor and resting his huge round head on his paws like a hound. He did not close his eyes again, either.
Lopar
were quite intelligent, and plainly he trusted Liandrin no more than she did.
    Despite fearful glances at Almandaragal, the
da’covale
was quick enough to fetch blue velvet slippers and a white silk robe intricately embroidered in green, red and blue from the tall, carved wardrobe, and she held the robe for Suroth to thrust her arms into the sleeves, but Suroth had to tie the long sash herself, and to thrust out a foot before Liandrin remembered to kneel and fit the slippers on. Her eyes, but the woman was incompetent!
    By the dim light, Suroth examined herself in the gilded stand-mirror against the wall. Her eyes were hollow and shadowed with weariness, the tail of her crest hung down her back in a loose braid for sleeping, and doubtless her scalp required a razor. Very well. Galgan’s messenger would think her grief-stricken over Tuon, and that was true enough. Before learning the general’s message, though, she had one small matter to take care of.
    “Run to Rosala and beg her to beat you soundly, Liandrin,” she said.
    The
da’covale
’s tight little mouth dropped open and her eyes widened in shock. “But why?” she whined. “Me, I have done nothing!”
    Suroth busied her hands with knotting the sash tighter to keep from striking the woman. Her eyes would be lowered for a month if it was learned that she had struck a
da’covale
herself. She certainly owed no explanations to property, yet once Liandrin did become completely trained, she would miss these opportunities to grind the woman’s face in how far she had fallen.
    “Because you delayed telling me of the general’s messenger. Because you still call yourself ‘I’ rather than ‘Liandrin.’ Because you meet my eyes.” Shecould not help hissing that. Liandrin had huddled in on herself with every word, and now she directed her eyes to the floor, as if that would mitigate her offense. “Because you questioned my orders instead of obeying. And last—last, but most importantly to you—because I wish you beaten. Now, run, and tell Rosala each of these reasons so she will beat you well.”
    “Liandrin hears and obeys, High Lady,” the
da’covale
whimpered, at last getting something right, and flung herself at the door so fast that she lost one of her white slippers. Too terrified to turn back for it, or perhaps even to notice—and well for her that she was—she clawed the door open and ran. Sending property for discipline should not bring a sense of satisfaction, but it did. Oh, yes, it did.
    Suroth took a moment to control her breathing. To appear to be grieving was one thing, to appear to be agitated quite another.