Took your time, Therava, a familiar-sounding woman's voice said. The Aiel standing in a deep fold in the low, brown-grass hills seemed carved figures, ignoring sheets of dust sweeping ahead of a gusting wind. The ledge on which she lay projected above a black-mottled red lake of molten rock where flames the size of men danced and died and reappeared. Myrelle was one of Sheriam's lot, and apparently with a secret all her own.
By her tone, it should have been done. The gray-haired, square-jawed maid opened the door, fury suddenly painting her face when Elayne lowered her green mask. Probably another plea to go. Close your mouth, you Two Rivers hay-hair.
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