Lord Agelmar's council chamber was built for war.
Maps covered every wall — the Borderlands, the Blight, fortress positions and patrol routes marked in inks that had faded through decades of use. The table at the room's center was scarred with knife-marks where commanders had pointed out attack vectors and defensive fallbacks. The chairs around it were hard, uncomfortable, designed to keep soldiers alert.
Spencer sat in one of those chairs and watched fourteen threads converge.
The entire group was present: Moiraine and Lan, Rand and Mat and Perrin, Egwene and Nynaeve, Loial folded into a chair that was too small for his Ogier frame. Lord Agelmar sat at the table's head, his weathered face carved into the permanent alertness of a man who'd spent his life fighting the Shadow. The Shienaran guards at the door had threads of steel-gray readiness, soldiers who knew death could come at any moment.
And the messenger who'd ridden in yesterday had brought news that changed everything.
"The Amyrlin Seat," Agelmar said, "is coming to Fal Dara."
The words landed like stones in still water. Egwene's thread pulsed with sudden excitement — the Tower, the Amyrlin, everything she'd been working toward. Nynaeve's thread darkened with suspicion, the Wisdom's eternal distrust of Aes Sedai authority. Moiraine's silver-blue signature remained perfectly controlled, though Spencer caught the faintest flicker of something that might have been anticipation.
Or warning.
"Siuan Sanche herself," Moiraine said. It wasn't a question.
"With an embassy of fourteen sisters." Agelmar nodded. "They depart Tar Valon in three days. The dispatch estimates their arrival within a week."
Siuan. The Amyrlin who's been secretly searching for the Dragon Reborn alongside Moiraine for twenty years. The woman who will do anything to ensure the Last Battle is won.
And fourteen Aes Sedai, which means fourteen threads I need to analyze.
Spencer's Thread Sight had recovered enough to read the room clearly. Everyone's reaction was visible in their thread-signatures: Rand's gold pulsing with barely-concealed dread (the Amyrlin meant danger for a man who could channel), Mat's healed silver flickering with the paranoia he hadn't quite shed (more Aes Sedai, more problems), Perrin's green-gold steady with watchful patience.
"Why?" Rand's voice was sharper than Spencer had heard it since Four Kings. "Why would the Amyrlin Seat come here? To... to Fal Dara specifically?"
Because she knows you're here. Because Moiraine sent word. Because everything that happened at the Eye — the Dragon banner in the sky, the Horn of Valere recovered — has made you impossible to ignore.
But Moiraine answered before Spencer could speak.
"The Eye of the World held more than power," she said. "You saw what emerged when the pool drained. The Horn of Valere. The Dragon Banner. One of the seals on the Dark One's prison. These are Pattern-level artifacts. The Amyrlin comes to ensure they are properly secured."
"And to see the man who channeled," Egwene added quietly.
Rand flinched. His golden thread contracted, pulling inward like an animal protecting a wound. "I didn't ask for any of this."
"No one asks for destiny," Moiraine said. "It comes regardless."
Spencer watched the exchange and made calculations. Siuan's arrival meant opportunity — access to the highest levels of Aes Sedai power, potential allies, intelligence about the Tower's internal politics. But it also meant exposure. Fourteen sisters, each trained to see what didn't belong, each asking questions about the carpenter with the unusual Talent.
I need to know who's in that embassy. I need to know if any of them are Black Ajah.
And I need to test Thread Tracing at extreme range.
---
Spencer found an excuse to climb to the walls after the meeting ended.
The excuse was technically legitimate — fresh air, exercise, rebuilding strength after thread-burn. But the real reason stood behind his eyes, calculating distances and practicing the new ability he'd unlocked.
From Fal Dara's highest battlement, Spencer could see for miles. The Blight was visible to the north, a dark smear on the horizon where healthy land became corruption. To the south, the road snaked toward the interior of Shienar, and beyond that, toward Tar Valon.
The embassy was three days' ride away. Hundreds of miles. Far beyond any range he'd tested.
But ta'veren threads can be traced across continents. And Aes Sedai threads are silver — distinctive, strong, worth trying.
Spencer braced himself against the battlement, closed his eyes, and focused on Tar Valon's direction.
Thread Tracing activated.
---
The sensation was different at extreme range.
Instead of sliding smoothly along a single thread, Spencer's perception fragmented — touching dozens of faint signatures, distant echoes of the Pattern's weave. Most were mundane: white threads of travelers, merchants, farmers. Easy to dismiss.
But fourteen of them blazed silver.
The embassy. Still in Tar Valon, preparing for departure. Spencer couldn't identify individuals at this distance — the threads were too faint for faces, too blurred for names. But he could count them: fourteen Aes Sedai signatures, each one carrying the distinct shimmer of channeling ability.
And one of them was wrong.
Spencer focused harder, pushing Thread Tracing past its comfortable limits. The Codex protested — cost climbing from 8 to 10 to 12 Stamina — but he needed to see clearly. One of those fourteen silver threads carried corruption.
Not obvious corruption. Not the black-oily stain of a Darkfriend caught in the act. This was subtle: a flicker of darkness beneath the silver surface, like rot hidden under paint. The thread looked normal until you looked closely. Then the wrongness revealed itself.
Black Ajah. One of Siuan's embassy is Black Ajah.
I can't tell which one from here. But I know she exists.
The trace snapped back, and Spencer staggered against the battlement. His nose was bleeding — just a trickle, but the first nosebleed since the Eye.
[Thread Tracing exceeded recommended parameters. Stamina cost: 14. Current Stamina: 8/36. Pattern strain detected. Rest recommended.]
Spencer wiped his nose and stared south toward the road the embassy would travel. Somewhere in that group of fourteen Aes Sedai, a servant of the Shadow was wearing a mask of light. Walking among sisters who trusted her. Preparing to arrive at a fortress that held the Dragon Reborn, the Horn of Valere, and everything the Shadow wanted to destroy.
He couldn't tell Moiraine directly. "I traced the embassy's threads from hundreds of miles away" would reveal abilities he wasn't ready to explain. But he could give her something.
An impression. Another vague warning from the carpenter with the Talent.
Like Fain, but fainter, and wearing a mask.
Spencer descended from the walls with blood drying on his upper lip and a new urgency burning in his chest.
---
He found Moiraine in her guest chamber, alone except for Lan standing guard outside.
"I need to speak with you," Spencer said.
Moiraine's silver-blue thread pulsed with the controlled interest she always showed when Spencer approached voluntarily. Her ultimatum from days ago hung between them — "tell me everything" — but for now, she was willing to accept what he offered.
"Come in."
Spencer closed the door behind him and chose his words carefully. "The embassy. The Amyrlin's group. I've been sensing their approach."
"From here?" Moiraine's eyebrow rose fractionally. "That is a considerable range for impressions."
"Ta'veren stretch the Pattern. Strong channelers distort it. I can sometimes feel the distortion." Not quite a lie. Not quite the truth. "And something in that distortion feels wrong. One of them... one of the Aes Sedai in that embassy carries something dark."
Moiraine was silent for a long moment. Her thread churned with calculation — not disbelief, Spencer noted, but assessment. She was weighing his words against everything she knew about the Black Ajah, about her enemies, about the fragile web of trust that held the Tower together.
"Like Fain," she said finally.
"Fainter. More concealed. Like someone who's learned to hide what they are behind a perfect mask. But the wrongness is there. I can taste it."
"Can you identify who?"
"Not yet. Not from this distance." Spencer met her eyes. "But when they arrive — when I see them face to face — I might be able to tell."
Moiraine studied him with the patience of someone who'd been manipulating people for longer than his original body had been alive. "You're volunteering to examine the Amyrlin's embassy for Shadow-touched sisters. That is either remarkably brave or remarkably foolish."
"Both, probably." Spencer managed a wry smile. "But I thought you'd want to know."
"I do." Moiraine's thread settled into something that might have been respect. "Watch them when they arrive. Tell me what you see. And Aldan —" She paused, her ageless face holding something almost like warmth. "Thank you. For the warning."
Spencer nodded and left her chamber, Lan's gray eyes tracking him as he passed. The Warder said nothing, but his thread pulsed with the same watchfulness he always carried.
Six days until the embassy arrives. Six days to recover enough Stamina to examine fourteen Aes Sedai face to face.
And somewhere in that time, I need to find a way to get to Tar Valon.
He returned to his room and began planning his pitch.
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