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The Wisdom never complained.
Well, Lan had to admit, she complained frequently, but only about Moiraine’s habitual secrecy. Nynaeve, despite her woodscraft, had not a cunning bone in her body—she might be able to move silently through the trees, but she couldn’t help wearing her every thought on her face. Her honest nature found his Aes Sedai’s extreme subtlety aggravating. He couldn’t blame her, and he at least had the benefit of sensing Moiraine’s moods, and of trusting her motives.
The Wisdom rode hard and slept rough without a murmur, pushing herself to match his stamina. He had been impressed by her skill in tracking him, and amused by her attempts to first out maneuver Moiraine, and then to simply break Moiraine’s calm. Only his bond made it possible for him to know how well Nynaeve had succeeded in annoying the Aes Sedai. He had admired her devotion to her people, her determination to find the four young Emond’s Fielders. She was a woman who understood duty. There was no doubt that her courage matched her beauty—and he grew more aware of both with each passing day.
It was when they paused in a village with an inn, however, that he realized the depth of the Wisdom’s strength.
They stopped more for the sake of the horses than anything—Moiraine didn’t like it, Nynaeve didn’t like it, and Lan himself didn’t like it, not with the fate of the world resting on the shoulders of a boy who was getting farther and farther ahead (or possible a different boy, who was lost in another direction entirely), but losing a horse to lameness would only slow them down even more. One night, it was decided. They had arrived in the town late enough in the evening that they were not losing much time, and the horses would have a good night of rest and careful care, while their riders could sleep on something other than cold dirt. The small inn only had a few rooms, most of them occupied by farmers sleeping off market-day hangovers, but there was a room with two beds for Moiraine and Nynaeve to share. That was all that was necessary—Lan intended to sleep in the stable, where he could keep a watchful eye on the horses and their gear.
In the morning, after carefully currying and checking hooves on all three animals, Lan found Moiraine coming down the inn stairs alone.
“Is the Wisdom still sleeping?”
The question came from Moiraine, accompanied by one slightly arched brow as the only outward sign of the amusement he felt through the bond. Lan was left with his mouth half open, the same question dying on his tongue. Moiraine felt the shift in his mood and her amusement vanished.
“She is not upstairs,” he said, voice flat.
Moiraine shook her head, then paused. “She did not spend the night in our room,” she clarified. “The other bed was not slept in.” Another pause. “I was quite tired,” Moiraine added, “and slept more deeply than usual.” Unspoken was the Aes Sedai’s assumption that the other woman had spent the night in Lan’s company, relying on her fatigue to give them a measure of privacy from the bond. It had been a common enough arrangement in the past, during times of hard travel—one of the ways they complemented each other as companions, seeking rejuvenation in different kinds of embraces.
Also unspoken was the possibility that the Wisdom had spent the night in one of the inn’s other rooms, in the company of one of its other guests. Lan’s eyes narrowed as he glanced up the stairs, then turned to sweep over the common room, remembering the handsome young farmer who had tried to catch her eye last night. Even the innkeeper had taken an interest in such a young and pretty guest—he’d heard the title ‘Wisdom’ and paused at their table to ask if that was the same as a Wise Woman, as local healers were called.
“I’ll ask the serving girl,” Moiraine said, “but we cannot delay—“
Lan was spared the need to contemplate her meaning as Nynaeve emerged from the hallway that led to the kitchens, storerooms, and back entrance, as well as the narrow staircase up to the private rooms of the innkeeper’s family. A cluster of other women surrounded her, all of them fussing and speaking over one another. One red-eyed girl held an infant, limp with sleep and drooling on her shoulder. The Wisdom shook her head at something, gesturing, then gave the young mother a reassuring smile as she stroked her fingers over the baby’s round cheek.
She still wore her woolens, creased and dusty from the day before, her long braid mussed, and when she turned towards him Lan saw dusky shadows under her large dark eyes. Nynaeve met his glance. Her hands came up to smooth a few loose tendrils back from her face, then dropped to fold firmly across her waist as her chin lifted.
“Have I kept you waiting?” she asked. Lan repressed the smile that nearly rose to his lips—he wondered if she realized the way she’d begun to mimic Moiraine’s dry, cool tones. He bowed slightly instead.
“Not at all, Wisdom.”
“I hope everything is all right,” Moiraine said, and Lan felt his lips twitch again at the way Nynaeve bristled.
“The innkeeper’s grandchild was ill,” she said shortly. “And their local wisdom—wise woman—has been away at one of the distant farms and couldn’t leave her patients there. But it was nothing I haven't treated before. The baby’s fever broke just before dawn.”
“Illness is always dangerous in the very young.” Moiraine smiled politely. “They’re fortunate that you were here. Still, we must depart as soon as possible. Can you safely manage to ride by yourself?”
Lan didn’t need the thread of mischief in the bond to guess what the Aes Sedai was hinting at—that the Wisdom might need to ride with him, since Mandarb was the only horse strong enough to carry two for any length of time—but he could also anticipate Nynaeve’s response before she had even opened her mouth.
“I can manage perfectly well,” she snapped. And she did, at first. They ate breakfast as they rode—fresh bread, cheese, and boiled eggs, thanks to the innkeeper, who rushed out to press a bundle into the Wisdom’s hands—and made good time through the morning. Lan circled back frequently, keeping a watchful eye on Nynaeve, which earned him glares from her and suppressed amusement from Moiraine. It was when the Wisdom failed to scowl at him that he knew she was fading.
He reigned Mandarb to a walk beside her mare, considering. As much as the thought of having her ride double with him appealed—and Lan had not been able to put thoughts of that out of his mind, imagining her slim form pressed to his back, her arms around his waist…or even better in front of him, where he could hold her, letting her sleep against his chest—he knew that in the event of an attack it would hamper his ability to fight, putting both women in far more danger. Instead he leaned down to her, speaking softly.
“If you are too fatigued, Wisdom, Moiraine Sedai would be glad to offer Healing.”
That sparked the glare he was looking for, her chin up, one hand gripping her braid as if she imagined strangling him with it.
“I’m fine ,” she sniffed. “I certainly don’t need any help from her .”
“As you like, Wisdom al’Meara.”
He felt her glower follow him as he rode forward to scout ahead.
Lan didn’t need to repeat the suggestion—he only needed to glance questioningly from the Wisdom to the Aes Sedai, cocking an eyebrow, for Nynaeve’s lips to flatten and her spine to straighten. No matter if she had been swaying with fatigue a moment before, letting her horse trail behind, she would be upright and riding briskly to catch up with Moiraine. His satisfaction in his success, however, ended when it grew too dark to ride and they stopped to make camp.
Nynaeve nearly fell when she dismounted. He'd been ready, stepping forward as her knees buckled to catch her. For a moment her weight rested against him–easy to hold in the curve of one arm, slight as she was–but then she jerked away.
“I can manage, thank you,” she said crisply, and went to gather firewood with grim determination on her face.
He tied up the horses, leaving them for the moment so that he could help with the fire before Nynaeve fell asleep in it. She didn’t resist beyond a dark look when he took the flint and steel with a murmured “Permit me,” but when he looked up from the kindling it was to see her struggling with the girth of her saddle. Nynaeve’s hands were shaking, and once she had the buckle loose she paused, resting her forehead against the mare’s shoulder. Then she took a fortifying breath and pulled, trying to heave the saddle up. The horse snorted when Nynaeve’s fingers lost their grip and the saddle dropped back. Lan caught her arm, steadying her as she staggered.
“Wisdom, I will see to the horses. You should rest.”
She stiffened, glaring up at him with dark eyes—eyes that looked bruised in a face pale exhaustion. “I can look after my own horse,” she said, ignoring the evidence to the contrary.
“I’m sure you can.” He kept his voice mild, and suppressed the smile that tugged at his lips when her chin lifted and her eyes narrowed. “I would never suggest otherwise.”
“You never seem to sleep,” Nynaeve muttered, turning to struggle with the cord lashing her blanket roll in place.
"One of the gifts of the warder bond." Lan busied himself with his own bedroll. Her slim fingers were trembling and he ached to simply untie the knots for her–except he knew she wouldn't thank him for interfering. More than likely she would bite his hand if he tried it. He suppressed a smile at the thought.
“I won’t have it said that I’m a dead weight.” The bitterness in the words made his eyebrows go up. It reminded him of her defiant, challenging look when she’d first caught up to them—daring him to question her skill, expecting his scorn. She’d been discomfited by his admiration. What fools did they grow in the Two Rivers, that this woman wasn’t used to being admired?
“No one could call you that,” he said.
Nynaeve snorted. “Do they have another name for orphan girls with no dowry where you come from?”
“There are no dowries for women. In the borderlands, it is the man who must provide for his bride, to offer her a home.”
She frowned. “Do women not bring property of their own?”
“Of course. Any wealth or property she has remains hers, for herself and her children, if her husband falls.” He reached over her to lift the saddle off the mare.
“A rare breed, these borderland men,” she murmered.
Lan collected their gear and slung the saddlebags over his shoulder—pretending not to see Nynaeve’s hand reaching for hers.
“We ask much of borderland women,” he said. “To swear their husbands and sons to fight against the shadow, and to be the last reserve. When the men fail, it is the women who hold.” He glanced down at her. “Our women are treasured,” he added.
He didn’t know what possessed him to say such a thing while looking down into the dark well of her eyes, but at least it prompted one of those rosy blushes he so loved. It brought out the dusting of minute freckles on her nose and cheeks. Tiny constellations in a warm sunset sky.
“Oh,” she said.
Lan separated her bedroll from the other baggage and held it out, nodding to the fire. “You’ve more than earned your rest, Wisdom,” he said. “I’ll see to the horses.”
She wanted to protest—he could almost see her lips shaping the words—but then she bit her lip, sagging ever so slightly. “All right.”
When Lan returned to the fireside Nynaeve was asleep, laying on top of her bedroll and her cloak, with nothing to cover her from the cooling night air. She had curled on her side, one arm folded under her head, the other tucked against her stomach, and she frowned in her sleep, lips pouting like a child. So young . The reminder made a knot tighten behind his breastbone.
Lan glanced up, and met Moiraine’s speculative look across the fire. He could feel her curiosity, but he kept a tight leash on his emotions. She wouldn’t use the bond to rummage, just as she wouldn’t ask about anything he didn’t choose to volunteer.
He tugged at his cloak—plain brown, since he hadn’t troubled to change it after leaving the village—and let it drape over Nynaeve gently. It would smell like horse, but everything did, and it would keep her warm for the night.