She felt only the smallest surprise when a sword blade flashed over her shoulder to pierce the Draghkar’s breast, and little more when a second crossed her other shoulder to strike beside the first.
Dazed, swaying, she watched as if from a great distance as the creature was pushed back, away from her. Lan came into her view, then Jaem, the grayhaired Warder’s bony arms holding his blade as straight and true as the younger man’s. The Draghkar’s pale hands bloodied as they tore at the sharp steel, wings buffeting the two men with thunderclaps. Suddenly, wounded and bleeding, it began to croon again. To the Warders.
With an effort, Moiraine gathered herself; she felt almost as drained as if the thing had managed its kiss. No time to be weak. In an instant she opened herself to saidar and, as the Power filled her, steeled herself to touch the Shadowspawn directly. The two men were too close; anything else would harm them, as well. Even using the One Power, she knew she would feel soiled by the Draghkar.
But even as she began, Lan cried out, “Embrace death!” Jaem echoed him firmly. “Embrace death!” And the two men stepped within reach of the Draghkar’s touch, drove home their blades to the hilt.
Throwing back its head, the Draghkar bellowed, a shriek that seemed to pierce Moiraine’s head with needles. Even wrapped in saidar she could feel it. Like a tree falling, the Draghkar toppled, one wing knocking Jaem to his knees. Lan sagged as if exhausted.
Lanterns hurried from the house, borne by Vandene and Adeleas.
“What was that noise?” Adeleas demanded. She was almost a mirror image of her sister. “Has Jaem gone and …” The lantern light fell on the Draghkar; her voice trailed off.
Vandene took Moiraine’s hands. “It did not … ?” She left the question unfinished as, to Moiraine’s eyes, a nimbus surrounded her. Feeling strength flowing into her from the other woman, Moiraine wished, not for the first time, that Aes Sedai could do as much for themselves as they could for others.
“It did not,” she said gratefully. “See to the Gaidin.”
Lan looked at her, mouth tight. “If you had not made me so angry I had to go work forms with Jaem, so angry I gave it up to come back to the house …”
“But I did,” she said. “The Pattern takes everything into the weaving.” Jaem was muttering, but still allowing Vandene to see to his shoulder. He was all bone and tendon, yet looked as hard as old roots.
“How,” Adeleas demanded, “could any creature of the Shadow come so close without us sensing it?”
“It was warded,” Moiraine said.
“Impossible,” Adeleas snapped. “Only a sister could —” She stopped, and Vandene turned from Jaem to look at Moiraine.
Moiraine said the words none of them wanted to hear. “The Black Ajah.” Shouts drifted from the village. “Best you hide this— ”she gestured to the Draghkar, sprawled across a flower bed — “quickly. They will be coming to ask if you need help, but seeing this will start talk you will not like.”
“Yes, of course,” Adeleas said. “Jaem, go and meet them. Tell them you don’t know what made the noise, but all is well here. Slow them down.” The grayhaired Warder hurried into the night toward the sound of approaching villagers. Adeleas turned to study the Draghkar as if it were a puzzling passage in one of her books. “Whether Aes Sedai are involved or not, whatever could have brought it here?” Vandene regarded Moiraine silently.
“I fear I must leave you,” Moiraine said. “Lan, will you ready the horses?” As he left, she said, “I will leave letters with you to be sent on to the White Tower, if you will arrange it.” Adeleas nodded absently, her attention still on the thing on the ground.
“And will you find your answers where you are going?” Vandene asked.
“I may already have found one I did not know I sought. I only hope I am not too late. I will need pen and parchment.” She drew Vandene toward the house, leaving Adeleas to deal with the Draghkar.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 23
(Flame of Tar Valon) The Testing
Nynaeve warily eyed the huge chamber, far beneath the White Tower, and eyed Sheriam, at her side, just as warily. The Mistress of Novices seemed expectant, perhaps even a little impatient. In her few days in Tar Valon, Nynaeve had seen only serenity in the Aes Sedai, and a smiling acceptance of events coming in their own time.
The domed room had been carved out of the bedrock of the island; the light of lamps on tall stands reflected from pale, smooth stone walls. Centered under the dome was a thing made of three rounded, silver arches, each just tall enough to walk under, sitting on a thick silver ring with their ends touching each other. Arches and ring were all of one piece. She could not see what lay inside; there the light flickered oddly, and made her stomach flutter with it if she looked too long. Where arch touched ring, an Aes Sedai sat crosslegged on the bare stone of the floor, staring at the silvery construction. Another stood nearby, beside a plain table on which sat three large silver chalices. Each, Nynaeve knew — or at least, she had been told — was filled with clear water. All four Aes Sedai wore their shawls, as Sheriam did; bluefringed for Sheriam, red for the swarthy woman by the table, green, white, and gray for the three around the arches. Nynaeve still wore one of the dresses she had been given in Fal Dara, pale green embroidered with small white flowers.
“First you leave me to stare at my thumbs from morning to night,” Nynaeve muttered, “and now it’s all in a rush.”
“The hour waits on no woman,” Sheriam replied. “The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, and when it wills. Patience is a virtue that must be learned, but we must all be ready for the change of an instant.”
Nynaeve tried not to glare. The most irritating thing she had yet discovered about the flamehaired Aes Sedai was that she sometimes sounded as if she were quoting sayings even when she was not. “What is that thing?”
“A ter’angreal.”
“Well, that tells me nothing. What does it do?”
“Ter’angreal do many things, child. Like angreal and sa’angreal, they are remnants of the Age of Legends that use the One Power, though they are not quite so rare as the other two. While some ter’angreal must be made to work by Aes Sedai, as this one must, others will do what they do simply with the presence of any woman who can channel. There are even supposed to be some that will function for anyone at all. Unlike angreal and sa’angreal, they were made to do specific things. One other we have in the Tower makes oaths binding. When you are raised to full sisterhood, you will take your final vows holding that ter’angreal. To speak no word that is not true. To make no weapon for one man to kill another. Never to use the
One Power as a weapon except against Darkfriends or Shadowspawn, or in the last extreme of defending your own life, that of your Warder, or that of another sister.”
Nynaeve shook her head. It sounded either like too much to swear or too little, and she said so.
“Once, Aes Sedai were not required to swear oaths. It was known what Aes Sedai were and what they stood for, and there was no need for more. Many of us wish it were so still. But the Wheel turns, and the times change. That we swear these oaths, that we are known to be bound, allows the nations to deal with us without fearing that we will throw up our own power, the One Power, against them. Between the Trolloc Wars and the War of the Hundred Years we made these choices, and because of them the White Tower still stands, and we can still do what we can against the Shadow.” Sheriam drew a deep breath. “Light, child, I am trying to teach you what any other woman standing where you are would have learned over the course of years. It cannot be done. Ter’angreal are what must concern you, now. We don’t know why they were made. We dare use only a handful of them, and the ways in which we do dare to use them may be nothing like the purposes the makers intended. Most, we have learned to our cost to avoid. Over the years, no few Aes Sedai have been killed or had their Talent burned out of them, learning that.”
Nynaeve shivered. “And you want me to walk into this one?” The light inside the arches flickered less, now, but she could see what lay in it no better.
“We know what this one does. It will bring you facetoface with your greatest fears.” Sheriam smiled pleasantly. “No one will ask you what you have faced; you need tell no more than you wish. Every woman’s fears are her own property.”
Vaguely, Nynaeve thought about her nervousness concerning spiders, especially in the dark, but she did not think that was what Sheriam meant. “I just walk through one arch and out another? Three times through, and it’s done?”
The Aes Sedai adjusted her shawl with an irritated hitch of her shoulder. “If you wish to boil it down that far, yes,” she said dryly. “I told you on the way here what you must know about the ceremony, as much as anyone is allowed to know beforehand. If you were a novice come to this, you would know it by heart, but don’t worry about making mistakes. I will remind you, if necessary. Are you sure you are ready to face it? If you want to stop now, I can still write your name in the novice book.”
“No!”
“Very well, then. Two things I will tell you now that no woman hears until she is in this room. The first is this. Once you begin, you must continue to the end. Refuse to go on, and no matter your potential, you will be very kindly put out of the Tower with enough silver to support you for a year, and you will never be allowed back.” Nynaeve opened her mouth to say she would not refuse, but Sheriam cut her off with a sharp gesture. “Listen, and speak when you know what to say. Second. To seek, to strive, is to know danger. You will know danger here. Some women have entered, and never come out. When the ter’angreal was allowed to grow quiet, they
— were — not — there. And they were never seen again. If you will survive, you must be steadfast. Falter, fail, and …” Her silence was more eloquent than any words. “This is your last chance, child. You may turn back now, right now, and I will put your name in the novice book, and you will have only one mark against you. Twice more you will be allowed to come here, and only at the third refusal will you be put out of the Tower. It is no shame to refuse. Many do. I myself could not do it, my first time here. Now you may speak.”
Nynaeve gave the silver arches a sidelong look. The light in them no longer flickered; they were filled with a soft, white glow. To learn what she wanted to learn, she needed the freedom of the Accepted to question, to study on her own, with no more guidance than she asked for. I must make Moiraine pay for what she has done to us. I must. “I am ready.”
Sheriam started slowly into the chamber. Nynaeve went beside her.
As if that were a signal, the Red sister spoke in loud, formal tones. “Whom do you bring with you, Sister?” The three Aes Sedai around the ter’angreal continued their attentions to it.
“One who comes as a candidate for Acceptance, Sister,” Sheriam replied just as formally.
“Is she ready?”
“She is ready to leave behind what she was, and, passing through her fears, gain Acceptance.”
“Does she know her fears?”
“She has never faced them, but now is willing.” “Then let her face what she fears.”
Sheriam stopped, two spans from the arches, and Nynaeve stopped with her. “Your dress,” Sheriam whispered, not looking at her.
Nynaeve’s cheeks colored at forgetting already what Sheriam had told her on the way down from her room. Hastily she removed her clothes, her shoes and stockings. For a moment she could almost forget the arches in folding her garments and putting them neatly to one side. She tucked Lan’s ring carefully under her dress; she did not want anyone staring at that. Then she was done, and the ter’angreal was still there, still waiting.
The stone felt cold under her bare feet, and she broke out all over in goose bumps, but she stood straight and breathed slowly. She would not let any of them see she was afraid.
“The first time,” Sheriam said, “is for what was. The way back will come but once. Be steadfast.”
Nynaeve hesitated. Then she stepped forward, through the arch and into the glow. It surrounded her, as if the air itself were shining, as if she were drowning in light. The light was everywhere. The light was everything.
Nynaeve gave a start when she realized she was naked, then stared in amazement. A stone wall stood to either side of her, twice as tall as she was and
smooth, as if carved. Her toes wriggled on dusty, uneven stone paving. The sky above seemed flat and leaden, for all the lack of clouds, and the sun hung overhead swollen and red. In both directions were openings in the wall, gateways marked by short, square columns. The walls narrowed her field of view, but the ground sloped down from where she stood, both in front and behind. Through the gateways she could see more thick walls, and passages between. She was in a gigantic maze.
Where it this? How did I come here? Like a different voice, another thought came. The way out will come but once.
She shook her head. “If there’s only one way out, I’ll not find it standing here.” At least the air was warm and dry. “I hope I find some clothes before I find people,” she muttered.
Dimly, she remembered playing mazes on paper as a child; there had been a trick to finding your way out, but she could not bring it to mind. Everything in the past seemed vague, as if it had happened to someone else. Trailing a hand along the wall, she started out, dust rising in puffs beneath her bare feet.
At the first opening in the wall, she found herself peering down another passage that seemed indistinguishable from the one she was in already. Taking a deep breath, she went on straight, through more passages that all looked exactly alike. Presently she came to something different. The way forked. She took the left turning, and eventually it forked again. Once more she went left. At the third fork, left brought her to a blank wall.
Grimly she walked back to the last fork and went right. This time it took four turnings right to bring her to a dead end. For a moment, she stood glaring at it. “How did I get here?” she demanded loudly. “Where is this place?” The way out will come but once.
Once more she turned back. She was sure there had to be a trick to the maze. At the last fork, she went left, then right at the next. Determined, she kept on. Left, then right. Straight until she came to a fork. Left, then right.
It seemed to her to be working. At least, she had gone past a dozen forkings this time without finding an end. She came to another.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker of motion. When she turned to look, there was only the dusty passage between smooth stone walls. She started to take the left fork … and spun around at another glimpse of movement. There was nothing there, but this time she was sure. There had been someone behind her. Was someone. She broke into a nervous trot in the opposite direction.
Again and again, now, just at the edge of vision down this side passage or that, she saw something move, too quick to make out, gone before she could turn her head to see it plainly. She broke into a run. Few boys had been able to outrun her when she was a girl in the Two Rivers. The Two Rivers? What is that?
A man stepped out from an opening ahead of her. His dark clothes had a musty, halfrotted look, and he was old. Older than old. Skin like crazed parchment covered his skull too tightly, as if there were no flesh beneath. Wispy tufts of brittle hair
covered a scabbed scalp, and his eyes were so sunken they seemed to peer out of two caves.
She skidded to a stop, the uneven paving stones rough under her feet. “I am Aginor,” he said, smiling, “and I have come for you.”
Her heart tried to leap out of her chest. One of the Forsaken. “No. No, it cannot be!”
“You are a pretty one, girl. I will enjoy you.”
Suddenly Nynaeve remembered she wore not a stitch. With a yelp and a face red only partly from anger, she darted away down the nearest crossing passage. Cackling laughter pursued her, and the sound of a shuffling run that seemed to match her best speed, and breathy promises of what he would do when he caught her, promises that curdled her stomach even only half heard.
Desperately she searched for a way out, peering frantically as she ran with fists clenched. The way out will come but once. Be steadfast. There was nothing, only more of the endless maze. As hard as she could run, his filthy words came always right behind her. Slowly, fear turned completely to anger.
“Burn him!” she sobbed. “The Light burn him! He has no right!” Within her she felt a flowering, an opening up, an unfolding to light.
Teeth bared, she turned to face her pursuer just as Aginor appeared, laughing, in a lurching gallop.
“You have no right!” She flung her fist toward him, fingers opening as if she were throwing something. She was only half surprised to see a ball of fire leave her hand.
It exploded against Aginor’s chest, knocking him to the ground. For only an instant he sprawled there, then rose, staggering. He seemed unaware of the smoldering front of his coat. “You dare? You dare!” He quivered, and spittle leaked down his chin.
Abruptly there were clouds in the sky, threatening billows of gray and black.
Lightning leaped from the cloud, straight for Nynaeve’s heart.
It seemed to her, just for a heartbeat, as if time had suddenly slowed, as though that heartbeat took forever. She felt the flow inside her — saidar, came a distant thought — felt the answering flow in the lightning. And she altered the direction of the flow. Time leaped forward.
With a crash, the bolt shattered stone above Aginor’s head. The Forsaken’s sunken eyes widened, and he tottered back. “You cannot! It cannot be!” He leaped away as lightning struck where he had stood, stone erupting in a fountain of shards.
Grimly Nynaeve started toward him. And Aginor fled.
Saidar was a torrent racing through her. She could feel the rocks around her, and the air, feel the tiny, flowing bits of the One Power that suffused them, and made them. And she could feel Aginor doing… something, as well. Dimly she felt it, and far distant, as if it were something she could never truly know, but around her she saw the effects and knew them for what they were.
The ground rumbled and heaved under her feet. Walls toppled in front of her, piles of stone to block her way. She scrambled over them, uncaring if sharp rock cut hands and feet, always keeping Aginor in sight. A wind rose, howling down the passages against her, raging till it flattened her cheeks and made her eyes water, trying to knock her down; she changed the flow, and Aginor tumbled along the passageway like an uprooted bush. She touched the flow in the ground, redirected it, and stone walls collapsed around Aginor, sealing him in. Lightning fell with her glare, striking around him, stone exploding ever closer and closer. She could feel him fighting to push it back at her, but foot by foot the dazzling bolts moved toward the Forsaken.
Something gleamed off to her right, something uncovered by the collapsing walls.
Nynaeve could feel Aginor weakening, feel his efforts to strike at her grow more feeble and more frantic. Yet somehow she knew he had not given up. If she let him go now, he would chase after her as strongly as before, convinced she was too weak to defeat him after all, too weak to stop him from doing with her as he wished.
A silver arch stood where stone had been, an arch filled with soft silver radiance. The way back…
She knew when the Forsaken abandoned his attack, the moment when all his efforts were given over to staving her off. And his power was not enough, he could no longer deflect her blows. Now he had to fling himself away from the leaping gouts of stone thrown up by her lightning, the explosions flinging him down again.
The way back will come but once. Be steadfast.
The lightning no longer fell. Nynaeve turned from the scrabbling Aginor to look at the arch. She looked back at Aginor, just in time to see him crawl out of sight over the mounded stone and disappear. She hissed in frustration. Much of the maze still stood, and a hundred new places to hide in the rubble she and the Forsaken had made. It would take time to find him again, but she was sure if she did not find him first, he would find her. In his full strength, he would come on her when she least expected him.
The way back will come but once.
Frightened, she looked again and was relieved to see the arch still there. If she could find Aginor quickly …
Be steadfast.
With a cry of thwarted anger, she climbed over the tumbled stone toward the arch. “Whoever’s responsible for me being here,” she muttered, “I’ll make them wish they had gotten what Aginor got. I’ll — ” She stepped into the arch, and the light overwhelmed her.
“I’ll — ” Nynaeve stepped out of the arch and stopped to stare. It was all as she remembered — the silver ter’angreal, the Aes Sedai, the chamber — but remembering was like a blow, absent memories crashing back into her head. She
had come out of the same arch by which she went in.
The Red sister raised one of the silver chalices high and poured a stream of cool, clear water over Nynaeve’s head. “You are washed clean of what sin you may have done,” the Aes Sedai intoned, “and of those done against you. You are washed clean of what crime you may have committed, and of those committed against you. You come to us washed clean and pure, in heart and soul.”
Nynaeve shivered as the water ran down her body, dripping on the floor.
Sheriam took her arm with a relieved smile, but the Mistress of Novices’ voice gave no hint of past worry. “You do well so far. Coming back is doing well. Remember what your purpose is, and you will continue to be well.” The redhead began to lead her around the ter’angreal to another arch.
“It was so real,” Nynaeve said in a whisper. She could remember everything, remember channeling the One Power as easily as lifting her hand. She could remember Aginor, and the things the Forsaken wanted to do to her. She shivered again. “Was it real?”
“No one knows,” Sheriam replied. “It seems real in memory, and some have come out bearing the actual wounds of hurts taken inside. Others have been cut to the bone inside, and come back without a mark. It is all of it different every time for every woman who goes in. The ancients said there were many worlds. Perhaps this ter’angreal takes you to them. Yet if so, it does so under very stringent rules for something meant just to take you from one place to another. I believe it is not real. But remember, whether what happens is real or not, the danger is as real as a knife plunging into your heart.”
“I channeled the Power. It was so easy.”
Sheriam missed a step. “That isn’t supposed to be possible. You should not even remember being able to channel.” She studied Nynaeve. “And yet you are not harmed. I can still sense the ability in you, as strong as it ever was.”“You sound as if it were dangerous,” Nynaeve said slowly, and Sheriam hesitated before answering.
“It isn’t thought necessary to give a warning, since you shouldn’t be able to remember it, but … This ter’angreal was found during the Trolloc Wars. We have the records of its examination in the archives. The first sister to enter was warded as strongly as she could be, since no one knew what it would do. She kept her memories, and she channeled the One Power when she was threatened. And she came out with her abilities burned to nothing, unable to channel, unable even to sense the True Source. The second to go in was also warded, and she, too, was destroyed in the same way. The third went unprotected, remembered nothing once she was inside, and returned unharmed. That is one reason why we send you completely unprotected. Nynaeve, you must not channel inside the ter’angreal again. I know it is hard to remember anything, but try.”
Nynaeve swallowed. She could remember everything, could remember not remembering. “I won’t channel,” she said. If I can remember not to. She wanted to
laugh hysterically.
They had reached the next arch. The glow still filled them all. Sheriam gave Nynaeve a last warning look, and left her standing alone.
“The second time is for what is. The way back will come but once. Be steadfast.”
Nynaeve stared at the shining silver arch. What is in there this time? The others were waiting, watching. She stepped firmly through into the light. Nynaeve stared down at the plain brown dress she wore with surprise, then gave a start. Why was she staring at her own dress? The way back will come but once.
Looking around her, she smiled. She stood on the edge of the Green in Emond’s Field, with thatchroofed houses all around, and the Winespring Inn right in front of her. The Winespring itself rose in a gush from the stone outcrop thrusting up through the grass of the Green, and the Winespring Water rushed off east under the willows beside the inn. The streets were empty, but most people would be at their chores this time of the morning.
Looking at the inn, her smile faded. There was more than an air of neglect about it, whitewash faded, a shutter hanging loose, the rotted end of a rafter showing at a gap in the roof tiles. What’s gotten into Bran? Is he spending so much time being Mayor he’s forgetting to take care of his inn?
The inn door swung open, and Cenn Buie came out, stopping dead when he saw her. The old thatcher was as gnarled as an oak root, and the look he gave her was just as friendly. “So you’ve come back, have you? Well, you might as well be off again.”
She frowned as he spat at her feet and hurried on past her; Cenn was never a pleasant man, but he was seldom openly rude. Never to her, at least. Never to her face. Following him with her eye, she saw signs of neglect all through the village, thatch that should have been mended, weeds filling yards. The door on Mistress al’Caar’s house hung aslant on a broken hinge.
Shaking her head, Nynaeve pushed into the inn. I’ll have more than one word with Bran about this.
The common room was empty except for a lone woman, her thick, graying braid pulled over her shoulder. She was wiping a table, but from the way she stared at the tabletop, Nynaeve did not think she was aware of what she doing. The room seemed dusty.
“Marin?”
Marin al’Vere jumped, one hand clutching her throat, and stared. She looked years older than Nynaeve remembered. Worn. “Nynaeve? Nynaeve! Oh, it is you. Egwene? Have you brought Egwene back? Say you have.”
“I …” Nynaeve put a hand to her head. Where is Egwene? It seemed she should be able to remember. “No. No, I haven’t brought her back.” The way back will come but once.
Mistress al’Vere sagged into one of the straightbacked chairs. “I was so hoping.
Ever since Bran died …”
“Bran is dead?” Nynaeve could not imagine it; that broad, smiling man had always seemed as if he would go on forever. “I should have been here.”
The other woman jumped to her feet and hurried to peer anxiously through a window at the Green and the village. “If Malena knows you’re here, there will be trouble. I just know Cenn went scurrying off to find her. He’s the Mayor, now.”
“Cenn? How did even those woolheaded men choose Cenn?”
“It was Malena. She had the whole Women’s Circle after their husbands for him.” Marin pressed her face almost against the window, trying to look every way at once. “Silly men don’t talk about whose name they’re putting in the box beforehand; I suppose every man who voted for Cenn thought he was the only one whose wife had badgered him into it. Thought one vote would make no difference. Well, they learned better. We all did.”
“Who is this Malena who has the Women’s Circle doing her bidding? I’ve never heard of her.”
“She’s from Watch Hill. She’s the Wis … ” Marin turn from the window wringing her hands. “Malena Aylar’s the Wisdom, Nynaeve. When you didn’t come back … Light, I hope she doesn’t find out you’re here.”
Nynaeve shook her head in wonder. “Marin, you’re afraid of her. You are shaking. What kind of woman is she? Why did the Women’s Circle ever choose someone like her?”
Mistress al’Vere gave a bitter laugh. “We must have been mad. Malena came down to see Mavra Mallen the day before Mavra had to go back to Deven Ride, and that night some children took sick, and Malena stayed to look after them, and then the sheep started dying, and Malena took care of that, too. It just seemed natural to choose her, but … She’s a bully, Nynaeve. She browbeats you into doing what she wants. She keeps at you, and keeps at you, until you’re too tired to say no anymore. And worse. She knocked Alsbet Luhhan down.”
A picture flashed in Nynaeve’s head of Alsbet Luhhan and her husband, Haral, the blacksmith. She was nearly as tall as him, and stoutly built, though handsome. “Alsbet’s almost as strong as Haral. I can’t believe …”
“Malena’s not a big woman, but she’s — she’s fierce, Nynaeve. She beat Alsbet all around the Green with a stick, and none of us who saw had the nerve to try to stop it. When they found out, Bran and Haral said she had to go, even if they were interfering in Women’s Circle business. I think some of the Circle might have listened, but Bran and Haral both took sick the same night, and died within a day of each other.” Marin bit her lip and looked around the room as if she thought someone might be hiding there. Her voice lowered. “Malena mixed medicine for them. She said it was her duty even if they had spoken against her. I saw… I saw gray fennel in what she took away with her.”
Nynaeve gasped. “But … Are you sure, Marin? Are you certain?” The other woman nodded, her face wrinkling on the point of tears. “Marin, if you even
suspected this woman might have poisoned Bran, how could you not go to the Circle?”
“She said Bran and Haral didn’t walk in the Light,” Marin mumbled, “talking against the Wisdom the way they did. She said that was why they died; the Light abandoned them. She talks about sin all the time. She said Paet al’Caar sinned, talking against her after Bran and Haral died. All he said was she didn’t have the way with Healing you did, but she drew the Dragon’s Fang on his door, right out where everyone could see her with the charcoal in her hand. Both his boys were dead before the week was out — just dead when their mother went to wake them. Poor Nela. We found her wandering, laughing and crying all at the same time, screaming that Paet was the Dark One, and he’d killed her boys. Paet hung himself the next day.” She shuddered, and her voice went so soft Nynaeve could barely hear it. “I have four daughters still living under my roof. Living, Nynaeve. Do you understand what I’m saying. They’re still alive, and I want to keep them alive.”
Nynaeve felt cold to her bones. “Marin, you can’t allow this.” The way back will come but once. Be steadfast. She pushed it away. “If the Women’s Circle stands together, you can be rid of her.”
“Stand together against Malena?” Marin’s laugh was nearer a sob. “We’re all afraid of her. But she’s good with the children. There are always children sick these days, it seems, but Malena does the best she can. Almost no one ever died of sickness when you were Wisdom.”
“Marin, listen to me. Don’t you see why there are always children sick? If she can’t make you afraid of her, she makes you think you need her for the children. She’s doing it, Marin. Just as she did it to Bran.”
“She couldn’t,” Marin breathed. “She, wouldn’t. Not the little ones.”
“She is, Marin.” The way back — Nynaeve suppressed the thought ruthlessly. “Is there anyone in the Circle who isn’t afraid? Anyone who will listen?”
The other woman said, “No one who isn’t afraid. But Corin Ayellin might listen. If she does, she might bring two or three more. Nynaeve, if enough of the Circle listens, will you be our Wisdom again? I think you may be the only one who won’t back down to Malena, even if we all know. You don’t know what she’s like.”
“I will.” The way back — No! These are my people! “Get your cloak, and we’ll go to Corin.”
Marin was hesitant about leaving the inn, and once Nynaeve had her outside she slunk along from doorstep to doorstep, crouching and watching.
Before they were halfway to Corin Ayellin’s house, Nynaeve saw a tall, scrawny woman striding down the other side of the Green toward the inn, slashing the heads off weeds with a thick willow switch. Bony as she was, she had a look of wiry strength, and a set, determined slash of a mouth. Cenn Buie scuttled along in her wake.
“Malena.” Marin pulled Nynaeve into the space between two houses, and whispered as if afraid the woman might hear across the Green. “I knew Cenn would
go to her.”
Something made Nynaeve look over her shoulder. Behind her stood a silver arch, reaching from house to house, glowing whitely. The way back will come but once. Be steadfast.
Marin gave a soft scream. “She’s seen us. Light help us, she’s coming this way!” The tall woman had turned across the Green, leaving Cenn standing uncertainly.
There was no uncertainty on Malena’s face. She walked slowly, as if there were no hope of escape, a cruel smile growing with every step.
Marin tugged at Nynaeve’s sleeve. “We have to run. We have to hide. Nynaeve, come on. Cenn will have told her who you are. She hates anyone even to speak of you.”
The silver arch pulled Nynaeve’s eyes. The way back… She shook her head, trying to remember. It is not real. She looked at Marin; stark terror twisted the woman’s face. You must be steadfast to survive.
“Please, Nynaeve. She’s seen me with you. She—has—seen—me! Please, Nynaeve! ”
Malena came closer, implacable. My people. The arch shone. The way back. It is not real.
With a sob, Nynaeve tore her arm out of Marin’s grasp and plunged toward the silvery glow.
Marin’s shriek hounded her. “For the love of the Light, Nynaeve, help me!
HELP ME!”
The glow enveloped her.
Staring, Nynaeve staggered out of the arch, barely aware of the chamber or the Aes Sedai. Marin’s last cry still rang in her ears. She did not flinch when cold water was suddenly poured over her head.
“You are washed clean of false pride. You are washed clean of false ambition. You come to us washed clean, in heart and soul.” As the Red Aes Sedai stepped back, Sheriam came to take Nynaeve’s arm.
Nynaeve gave a start, then realized who it was. She seized the collar of Sheriam’s dress in both hands. “Tell me it was not real. Tell me!”
“Bad?” Sheriam pried her hands loose as if she were used to this reaction. “It is always worse, and the third is the worst of all.”
“I left my friend … I left my people … in the Pit of Doom to come back.” Please, Light, it was not real. I didn’t really … I have to make Moiraine pay. I have to!
“There is always some reason not to return, something to prevent you, or distract you. This ter’angreal weaves traps for you from your own mind, weaves them tight and strong, harder than steel and more deadly than poison. That is why we use it as a test. You must want to be Aes Sedai more than anything else in the whole world, enough to face anything, fight free of anything, to achieve it. The White Tower cannot accept less. We demand it of you.”
“You demand a great deal.” Nynaeve stared at the third arch as the red haired
Aes Sedai took her toward it. The third is the worst. “I’m afraid,” she whispered. What could be worse than what I just did?
“Good,” Sheriam said. “You seek to be Aes Sedai, to channel the One Power. No one should approach that without fear and awe. Fear will keep you cautious; caution will keep you alive.” She turned Nynaeve to face the arch, but she did not step back immediately. “No one will force you to enter a third time, child.”
Nynaeve licked her lips. “If I refuse, you’ll put me out of the Tower and never let me come back.” Sheriam nodded. “And this is the worst.” Sheriam nodded again. Nynaeve drew breath. “I am ready.”
“The third time,” Sheriam intoned formally, “is for what will be. The way back will come but once. Be steadfast.”
Nynaeve threw herself at the arch in a run.
Laughing, she ran through swirling clouds of butterflies rising from wildflowers that covered the hilltop meadow with a kneedeep blanket of color. Her gray mare danced nervously, reins dangling, at the edge of the meadow, and Nynaeve stopped running so as not to frighten the animal more. Some of the butterflies settled on her dress, on flowers of embroidery and seed pearls, or flittered around the sapphires and moonstones in her hair, hanging loose about her shoulders.
Below the hill, the necklace of the Thousand Lakes spread through the city of Malkier, reflecting the cloudbrushing Seven Towers, with Golden Crane banners flying at their heights in the mists. The city had a thousand gardens, but she preferred this wild garden on the hilltop. The way back will come but once. Be steadfast.
The sound of hooves made her turn.
Al’Lan Mandragoran, King of Malkier, leaped from the back of his charger and strolled toward her through the butterflies, laughing. His face had the look of a hard man, but the smiles he wore for her softened the stony planes.
She gaped at him, taken by surprise when he gathered her into his arms and kissed her. For a moment she clung to him, lost, kissing him back. Her feet dangled a foot in the air, and she did not care.
Suddenly she pushed at him, pulled her face back. “No.” She pushed harder. “Let me go. Put me down.” Puzzled, he lowered her until her feet touched ground; she backed away from him. “Not this,” she said. “I cannot face this. Anything but this. ” Please, let me face Aginor again. Memory swirled. Aginor? She did not know where that thought had come from. Memory lurched and tilted, shifting fragments like broken ice on a flooding river. She clawed for the pieces, clawed for something to hang on to.
“Are you well, my love?” Lan asked worriedly.
“Do not call me that! I am not your love! I cannot marry you!”
He startled her by throwing back his head and roaring with laughter. “Your implication that we are not married might upset our children, wife. And how are you not my love? I have no other, and will have no other.”
“I must go back.” Desperately she looked for the arch, found only meadow and sky. Harder than steel and more deadly than poison. Lan. Lan’s babies. Light, help me! “I must go back now.”
“Go back? Where? To Emond’s Field? If you wish it. I’ll send letters to Morgase, and command an escort.”
“Alone,” she muttered, still searching. Where is it? I have to go. “I won’t be tangled up in this. I couldn’t bear it. Not this. I have to go now!”
“Tangled up in what, Nynaeve? What is it you couldn’t bear? No, Nynaeve. You can ride alone here if you wish it, but if the Queen of the Malkieri came to Andor without a proper escort, Morgase would be scandalized, if not offended. You don’t want to offend her, do you? I thought you two were friends.”
Nynaeve felt as if she had been hit in the head, blow after dazing blow. “Queen?” she said hesitantly. “We have babies?”
“Are you certain you’re well? I think I had better take you to Sharina Sedai.” “No.” She backed away from him again. “No Aes Sedai.” It isn’t real. I won’t be
pulled into it this time. I won’t!
“Very well,” he said slowly. “As my wife, how could you not be Queen? We are Malkieri here, not southlanders. You were crowned in the Seven Towers at the same time we exchanged rings.” Unconsciously he moved his left hand; a plain gold band encircled his forefinger. She glanced at her own hand, at the ring she knew would be there; she clasped her other hand over it, but whether to deny its presence by hiding it or to hold it, she could not have said. “Do you remember, now?” he went on. He stretched out a hand as if to brush her cheek, and she went back another six steps. He sighed. “As you wish, my love. We have three children, though only one can properly be called a baby. Maric is almost to your shoulder and can’t decide if he likes horses or books better. Elnore has already begun practicing how to turn boys’ heads, when she is not pestering Sharina about when she’ll be old enough to go to the White Tower.”
“Elnore was my mother’s name,” she said softly. “So you said when you chose it. Nynaeve — ”
“No. I will not be pulled into it this time. Not this. I won’t!” Beyond him, among the trees beside the meadow, she saw the silver arch. The trees had hidden it before. The way back will come but once. She turned toward it. “I must go.” He caught her hand, and it was as if her feet had become rooted in stone; she could not make herself pull away.
“I do not know what is troubling you, wife, but whatever it is, tell me and I will make it right. I know I am not the best of husbands. I was all hard edges when I found you, but you’ve smoothed some of them away, at least.”
“You are the very best of husbands,” she murmured. To her horror, she found herself remembering him as her husband, remembering laughter and tears, bitter arguments and sweet making up. They were dim memories, but she could feel them growing stronger, warmer. “I cannot.” The arch stood there, only a few steps away.
The way back will come but once. Be steadfast.
“I do not know what is happening, Nynaeve, but I feel as if I were losing you. I could not bear that.” He put a hand in her hair; closing her eyes, she pressed her cheek against his fingers. “Stay with me, always.”
“I want to stay,” she said softly. “I want to stay with you.” When she opened her eyes, the arch was gone … come but once. “No. No!”
Lan turned her to face him. “What troubles you? You must tell me if I’m to help.”
“This is not real.”
“Not real? Before I met you, I thought nothing except the sword was real. Look around you, Nynaeve. It is real. Whatever you want to be real, we can make real together, you and I.”
Wonderingly, she did look around. The meadow was still there. The Seven Towers still stood over the Thousand Lakes. The arch was gone, but nothing else had changed. I could stay here. With Lan. Nothing has changed. Her thoughts turned. Nothing has changed. Egwene is alone in the White Tower. Rand will channel the Power and go mad. And what of Mat and Perrin? Can they take back any shred of their lives? And Moiraine, who tore all our lives apart, still walks free.
“I must go back,” she whispered. Unable to bear the pain on his face, she pulled free of him. Deliberately she formed a flower bud in her mind, a white bud on a blackthorn branch. She made the thorns sharp and cruel, wishing they could pierce her flesh, feeling as if she already hung in the blackthorn’s branches. Sheriam Sedai’s voice danced just out of hearing, telling her it was dangerous to attempt to channel the Power. The bud opened, and saidar filled her with light.
“Nynaeve, tell me what is the matter.”
Lan’s voice slid across her concentration; she refused to let herself hear it. There had to be a way back still. Staring at where the silver arch had been, she tried to find some trace of it. There was nothing.
“Nynaeve …”
She tried to picture the arch in her mind, to shape it and form it to the last detail, curve of gleaming metal filled with a glow like snowy fire. It seemed to waver there, in front of her, first there between her and the trees, then not, then there …
“… I love you …”
She drew at saidar, drinking in the flow of the One Power till she thought she would burst. The radiance filling her, shining around her, hurt her own eyes. The heat seemed to consume her. The flickering arch firmed, steadied, stood whole before her. Fire and pain seemed to fill her; her bones felt as if they were burning; her skull seemed a roaring furnace.
“… with all my heart.”
She ran toward the silver curve, not letting herself look back. She had been sure the bitterest thing she would ever hear was Marin al’Vere’s cry for help as Nynaeve abandoned her, but that was honey beside the sound of Lan’s anguished voice
pursuing her. “Nynaeve, please don’t leave me.” The white glow consumed her.
Naked, Nynaeve staggered through the arch and fell to her knees, slackmouthed and sobbing, tears streaming down her cheeks. Sheriam knelt beside her. She glared at the redhaired Aes Sedai. “I hate you!” she managed fiercely, gulping. “I hate all Aes Sedai!”
Sheriam gave a small sigh, then pulled Nynaeve to her feet. “Child, almost every woman who does this says much the same thing. It is no small thing to be made to face your fears. What is this?” she said sharply, turning Nynaeve’s palms up.
Nynaeve’s hands quivered with a sudden pain she had not felt before. Driven through the palm of each hand, right in the center, was a long black thorn. Sheriam drew them out carefully; Nynaeve felt the cool Healing of the Aes Sedai’s touch. When each thorn came free, it left only a small scar on front and back of the hand.
Sheriam frowned. “There shouldn’t be any scarring. And how did you only get two, and both placed so precisely? If you tangled yourself in a blackthorn bush, you should be covered with scratches and thorns.”
“I should,” Nynaeve agreed bitterly. “Maybe I thought I had already paid enough.”
“There is always a price,” the Aes Sedai agreed. “Come, now. You have paid the first price. Take what you have paid for.” She gave Nynaeve a slight push forward.
Nynaeve realized there were more Aes Sedai in the chamber. The Amyrlin in her striped stole was there, with a shawled sister from each Ajah ranged to either side of her, all of them watching Nynaeve. Remembering Sheriam’s instruction, Nynaeve tottered forward and knelt before the Amyrlin. It was she who held the last chalice, and she tipped it slowly over Nynaeve’s head.
“You are washed clean of Nynaeve al’Maera from Emond’s Field. You are washed clean of all ties that bind you to the world. You come to us washed clean, in heart and soul. You are Nynaeve al’Maera, Accepted of the White Tower.” Handing the chalice to one of the sisters, the Amyrlin drew Nynaeve to her feet. “You are sealed to us, now.”
The Amyrlin’s eyes seemed to hold a dark glow. Nynaeve’s shiver had nothing to do with being naked and wet.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 24
(Flame of Tar Valon)
New Friends and Old Enemies
Egwene followed the Accepted through the halls of the White Tower. Tapestries and paintings covered walls as white as the outside of the tower; patterned tiles made the floor. The Accepted’s white dress was exactly like hers, except for seven narrow bands of color at hem and cuffs. Egwene frowned, looking at that dress. Since yesterday Nynaeve had worn an Accepted’s dress, and she seemed to have no joy of it, nor of the golden ring, a serpent eating its own tail, that marked her level. The few times Egwene had been able to see the Wisdom, Nynaeve’s eyes had seemed shadowed, as if she had seen things she wished with all her heart not to have seen.
“In here,” the Accepted said curtly, gesturing to a door. Named Pedra, she was a short, wiry woman, a little older than Nynaeve, and with a briskness always in her voice. “You’re given this time because it is your first day, but I’ll expect you in the scullery when the gong sounds High, and not one moment later.”
Egwene curtsied, then stuck out her tongue at the Accepted’s retreating back. It might have been only the evening before that Sheriam had finally put her name in the novice book, but already she knew she did not like Pedra. She pushed open the door and went in.
The room was plain and small, with white walls, and there was a young woman, with reddish gold hair spilling around her shoulders, sitting on one of two hard benches. The floor was bare; novices did not get much use of rooms with carpets. Egwene thought the girl was about her own age, but there was a dignity and selfpossession about her that made her seem older. The plainly cut novice dress appeared somehow more, on her. Elegant. That was it.
“My name is Elayne,” she said. She tilted her head, studying Egwene. “And you are Egwene. From Emond’s Field, in the Two Rivers.” She said it as if it had some significance, but went right on anyway. “Someone who has been here a little while is always assigned to a new novice for a few days, to help her find her way. Sit, please.”
Egwene took the other bench, facing Elayne. “I thought the Aes Sedai would teach me, now that I’m finally a novice. But all that’s happened so far is that Pedra woke me a good two hours before first light and put me to sweeping the halls. She says I have to help wash dishes after dinner, too.”
Elayne grimaced. “I hate washing dishes. I never had to — well, that doesn’t matter. You will have training. From now on, you will be at training at this hour every day, as a matter of fact. From breakfast until High, then again from dinner to Trine. If you are especially quick or especially slow, they may take you from supper to Full, as well, but that is usually for more chores.” Elayne’s blue eyes took on a thoughtful expression. “You were born with it, weren’t you?”
Egwene nodded. “Yes, I thought I felt it. So was I, born with it. Do not be disappointed if you did not know. You will learn to feel the ability in other women. I had the advantage of growing up around an Aes Sedai.”
Egwene wanted to ask about that — Who grows up with Aes Sedai? — but Elayne went on.
“And also do not be disappointed if it takes you some time before you can achieve anything. With the One Power, I mean. Even the simplest thing takes a little time. Patience is a virtue that must be learned.” Her nose wrinkled. “Sheriam Sedai always says that, and she does her best to make us all learn it, too. Try to run when she says walk, and she’ll have you in her study before you can blink.”
“I’ve had a few lessons already,” Egwene said, trying to sound modest. She opened herself to saidar — that part of it was easier now — and felt the warmth suffuse her body. She decided to try the biggest thing she knew how to do. She stretched out her hand, and a glowing sphere formed over it, pure light. It wavered
— she still could not manage to hold it steady — but it was there.
Calmly, Elayne held out her hand, and a ball of light appeared above her palm.
Hers flickered, too.
After a moment, a faint light glowed all around Elayne. Egwene gasped, and her ball vanished.
Elayne giggled suddenly, and her light went out, both the sphere and the light around her. “You saw it around me?” she said excitedly. “I saw it around you. Sheriam Sedai said I would, eventually. This was the first time. For you, too?”
Egwene nodded, laughing along with the other girl. “I like you, Elayne. I think we’re going to be friends.”
“I think so, too, Egwene. You are from the Two Rivers, from Emond’s Field. Do you know a boy named Rand al’Thor?”
“I know him.” Abruptly Egwene found herself remembering a tale Rand had told, a tale she had not believed, about falling off a wall into a garden and meeting… “You’re the DaughterHeir of Andor,” she gasped.
“Yes,” Elayne said simply. “If Sheriam Sedai as much as heard I’d mentioned it, I think she would have me into her study before I finished talking.”
“Everyone talks about being called to Sheriam’s study. Even the Accepted. Does she scold so fiercely? She seems kindly to me.”
Elayne hesitated, and when she spoke it was slowly, not meeting Egwene’s eye. “She keeps a willow switch on her desk. She says if you can’t learn to follow the rules in a civilized way, she will teach you another way. There are so many rules for novices, it is very hard not to break some of them,” she finished.
“But that’s – that’s horrible! I’m not a child, and neither are you. I won’t be treated as one.”
“But we are children. The Aes Sedai, the full sisters, are the grown women. The Accepted are the young women, old enough to be trusted without someone looking over their shoulders every moment. And novices are the children, to be protected
and cared for, guided in the way they should go, and punished when they do what they should not. That is the way Sheriam Sedai explains it. No one is going to punish you over your lessons, not unless you try something you’ve been told not to. It is hard not to try, sometimes; you will find you want to channel as much as you want to breathe. But if you break too many dishes because you are daydreaming when you should be washing, if you’re disrespectful to an Accepted, or leave the Tower without permission, or speak to an Aes Sedai before she speaks to you, or … The only thing to do is the best you can. There isn’t anything else to do.”
“It sounds almost as if they’re trying to make us want to leave,” Egwene protested.
“They aren’t, but then again, they are. Egwene, there are only forty novices in the Tower. Only forty, and no more than seven or eight will become Accepted. That is not enough, Sheriam Sedai says. She says there are not enough Aes Sedai now to do what needs to be done. But the Tower will not … cannot … lower its standards. The Aes Sedai cannot take a woman as a sister if she does not have the ability, and the strength, and the desire. They can’t give the ring and the shawl to one who cannot channel the Power well enough, or who will allow herself to be intimidated, or who will turn back when the road turns rough. Training and testing take care of the channeling, and for strength and desire… Well, if you want to go, they will let you. Once you know enough that you won’t die of ignorance.”
“I suppose,” Egwene said slowly, “Sheriam told us some of that. I never thought about there not being enough Aes Sedai, though.”
“She has a theory. She says we have culled humankind. You know about culling? Cutting out of the herd those animals that have traits you don’t like?” Egwene nodded impatiently; no one could grow up around sheep without knowing about culling the flock. “Sheriam Sedai says that with the Red Ajah hunting down men who could channel for three thousand years, we are culling the ability to channel out of us all. I would not mention this around any Reds, if I were you. Sheriam Sedai has been in more than one shouting match over it, and we are only novices.”
“I won’t.”
Elayne paused, and then said, “Is Rand well?”
Egwene felt a sudden stab of jealousy — Elayne was very pretty — but over it came a stronger stab of fear. She went over the little she knew of Rand’s one meeting with the DaughterHeir, reassuring herself: Elayne could not possibly know that Rand could channel.
“Egwene?”
“He is as well as he can be.” I hope he is, the woolheaded idiot. “He was riding with some Shienaran soldiers the last I saw him.”
“Shienarans! He told me he was a shepherd.” She shook her head. “I find myself thinking of him at the oddest times. Elaida thinks he is important in some way. She didn’t come right out and say so, but she ordered a search for him, and she was in a
fury when she learned he had left Caemlyn.” “Elaida?”
“Elaida Sedai. My mother’s councilor. She is Red Ajah, but Mother seems to like her despite that.”
Egwene’s mouth felt dry. Red Ajah, and interested in Rand. “I — I don’t know where he is, now. He left Shienar, and I don’t think he was going back.”
Elayne gave her a level look. “I would not tell Elaida where to find him if I knew, Egwene. He has done no wrong that I know, and I fear she wants to use him in some manner. Anyway, I’ve not seen her since the day we arrived, with Whitecloaks dogging our trail. They are still camped on the Dragonmount side.” Abruptly she bounded to her feet. “Let us talk of happier things. There are two others here who know Rand, and I would like you to meet one of them.” She took Egwene’s hand and pulled her out of the room.
“Two girls? Rand seems to meet a lot of girls.”
“Ummm?” Still drawing Egwene down the corridor, Elayne studied her. “Yes. Well. One of them is a lazy chit named Else Grinwell. I don’t think she will be here long. She shirks her chores, and she is always sneaking off to watch the Warders practice their swords. She says Rand came to her father’s farm, with a friend of his. Mat. It seems they put notions of the world beyond the next village into her head, and she ran away to come be an Aes Sedai.”
“Men,” Egwene muttered. “I dance a few dances with a nice boy, and Rand goes around looking like a dog with a sore tooth, but he — ” She cut off as a man stepped into the hall ahead of them. Beside her, Elayne stopped, too, and her hand tightened on Egwene’s.
There was nothing alarming about him, aside from the suddenness of his appearance. He was tall and handsome, short of middle years, with long, dark curling hair, but his shoulders sagged, and there was sadness in his eyes. He made no move toward Egwene and Elayne, only stood looking at them until one of the Accepted appeared at his shoulder.
“You should not be in here,” she said to him, not unkindly.
“I wanted to walk.” His voice was deep, and as sad as his eyes.
“You can walk out in the garden, where you are supposed to be. The sunshine will be good for you.”
The man rumbled a bitter laugh. “With two or three of you watching my every move? You’re just afraid I’ll find a knife.” At the look in the Accepted’s eyes, he laughed again. “For myself, woman. For myself. Lead me to your garden, and your watching eyes.”
The Accepted touched his arm lightly, and led him away. “Logain,” Elayne said when he was gone.
“The false Dragon!”
“He has been gentled, Egwene. He is no more dangerous than any other man, now. But I remember seeing him before, when it took six Aes Sedai to keep him
from wielding the Power and destroying us all.” She shivered.
Egwene did, too. That was what the Red Ajah would do to Rand.
“Do they always have to be gentled?” she asked. Elayne stared at her, mouth agape, and she quickly added, “It is just that I’d think the Aes Sedai would find some other way to deal with them. Anaiya and Moiraine both said the greatest feats of the Age of Legends required men and women working together with the Power. I just thought they’d try to find a way.”
“Well, do not let any Red sister hear you thinking it aloud. Egwene, they did try. For three hundred years after the White Tower was built, they tried. They gave up because there was nothing to find. Come on. I want you to meet Min. Not in the garden where Logain is going, thank the Light.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar to Egwene, and when she saw the young woman, she knew why. There was a narrow stream in the garden, with a low stone bridge over it, and Min sat crosslegged on the wall of the bridge. She wore a man’s tight breeches and baggy shirt, and with her dark hair cut short she could almost pass for a boy, though an uncommonly pretty one. A gray coat lay beside her on the coping.
“I know you,” Egwene said. “You worked at the inn in Baerlon.” A light breeze riffled the water beneath the bridge, and graywings warbled in the trees of the garden.
Min smiled. “And you were one of those who brought the Darkfriends down on us to burn it down. No, don’t worry. The messenger who came to fetch me brought enough gold that Master Fitch is building it back again twice as big. Good morning, Elayne. Not slaving over your lessons? Or over some pots?” It was said in a bantering tone, as between friends, as Elayne’s answering grin proved.
“I see Sheriam has not yet managed to get you into a dress.”
Min’s laugh was wicked. “I’m no novice.” She made her voice squeaky. “Yes, Aes Sedai. No, Aes Sedai. May I sweep another floor, Aes Sedai? I,” she said, resuming her own low voice, “clothe myself the way I want.” She turned to Egwene. “Is Rand well?”
Egwene’s mouth tightened. He should wear ram’s horns like a Trolloc, she thought angrily. “I was sorry when your inn caught fire, and I am glad Master Fitch was able to rebuild. Why have you come to Tar Valon? It’s clear you do not mean to be an Aes Sedai.” Min arched an eyebrow in what Egwene was sure was amusement.
“She likes him,” Elayne explained.
“I know.” Min glanced at Egwene, and for an instant Egwene thought she saw sadness — or regret? — in her eyes. “I am here,” Min said carefully, “because I was sent for, and was given the choice between riding and coming tied in a sack.”
“You always exaggerate it,” Elayne said. “Sheriam Sedai saw the letter, and she says it was a request. Min sees things, Egwene. That’s why she’s here; so the Aes Sedai can study how she does it. It isn’t the Power.”
“Request,” Min snorted. “When an Aes Sedai requests your presence, it’s like a command from a queen with a hundred soldiers to back it up.”
“Everybody sees things,” Egwene said.
Elayne shook her head. “Not like Min. She sees — auras — around people. And images.”
“Not all the time,” Min put in. “Not around everybody.”
“And she can read things about you from them, though I’m not sure she always tells the truth. She said I’d have to share my husband with two other women, and I’d never put up with that. She just laughs, and says it was never her idea of how to run things, either. But she said I would be a queen before she knew who I was; she said she saw a crown, and it was the Rose Crown of Andor.”
Despite herself, Egwene asked, “What do you see when you look at me?”
Min glanced at her. “A white flame, and … Oh, all sorts of things. I don’t know what it means.”
“She says that a great deal,” Elayne said dryly. “One of the things she said she saw looking at me was a severed hand. Not mine, she says. She claims she does not know what it means, either.”
“Because I don’t,” Min said. “I don’t know what half of it means.”
The crunch of boots on the walk brought them around to look at two young men with their shirts and coats across their arms, leaving sweaty chests bare, and scabbarded swords in their hands. Egwene found herself staring at the most handsome man she had ever seen. Tall and slim, but hard, he moved with a catlike grace. She suddenly realized he was bowing over her hand — she had not even felt him take it in his — and fumbled in her mind for the name she had heard.
“Galad,” she murmured. His dark eyes stared back into hers. He was older than she. Older than Rand. At the thought of Rand, she gave a start and came to herself.
“And I am Gawyn” — the other young man grinned — “since I don’t think you heard the first time.” Min was grinning, too, and only Elayne wore a frown.
Egwene abruptly remembered her hand, still held by Galad, and freed it.
“If your duties allow,” Galad said, “I would like to see you again, Egwene. We could walk, or if you obtain permission to leave the Tower, we could picnic outside the city.”
“That — that would be nice.” She was uncomfortably aware of the others, Min and Gawyn still with their amused grins, Elayne still with her scowl.
She tried to settle herself, to think of Rand. He’s so … beautiful. She gave a jump, half afraid she had spoken aloud.
“Until then.” Finally taking his eyes from hers, Galad bowed to Elayne. “Sister.” Lithe as a blade, he strolled on across the bridge.
“That one,” Min murmured, peering after him, “will always do what is right. No matter who it hurts.”
“Sister?” Egwene said. Elayne’s scowl had lessened only slightly. “I thought he was your … I mean, the way you’re frowning …” She had thought Elayne was
jealous, and she still was not sure.
“I am not his sister,” Elayne said firmly. “I refuse to be.”
“Our father was his father,” Gawyn said dryly. “You cannot deny that, unless you want to call Mother a liar, and that, I think, would take more nerve than we have between us.”
For the first time Egwene realized that he had the same reddish gold hair as Elayne, though darkened and curled by sweat.
“Min is right,” Elayne said. “Galad has not the smallest part of humanity in him.
He takes right above mercy, or pity, or … He is no more human than a Trolloc.”
Gawyn’s grin came back. “I do not know about that. Not from the way he was looking at Egwene, here.” He caught her look, and his sister’s, and held up his hands as if to fend them off with his sheathed sword. “Besides, he has the best hand with a sword I’ve ever seen. The Warders only need show him something once, and he’s learned it. They sweat me nearly to death to learn half what Galad does without trying.”
“And being good with a sword is enough?” Elayne sniffed. “Men! Egwene, as you may have guessed, this disgracefully unclothed lummox is my brother. Gawyn, Egwene knows Rand al’Thor. She is from the same village.”
“Is she? Was he really born in the Two Rivers, Egwene?”
Egwene made herself nod calmly. What does he know? “Of course, he was. I grew up with him.”
“Of course,” Gawyn said slowly. “Such a strange fellow. A shepherd, he said, though he never looked or acted like any shepherd I ever saw. Strange. I have met all sorts of people, and they’ve met Rand al’Thor. Some do not even know his name, but the description could not be anyone else, and he’s shifted every one of their lives. There was an old farmer who came to Caemlyn just to see Logain, when Logain was brought through on his way here; yet the farmer stayed to stand for Mother when the riots started. Because of a young man off to see the world, who made him think there was more to life than his farm. Rand al’Thor. You could almost think he was ta’veren. Elaida is certainly interested in him. I wonder if meeting him will shift our lives in the Pattern?”
Egwene looked at Elayne and Min. She was sure they could not have a clue that Rand really was ta’veren. She had never really thought about that part of it before; he was Rand, and he had been cursed with the ability to channel. But ta’veren did move people, whether they wanted to be moved or not. “I really do like you,” she said abruptly, including both girls in her gesture. “I want to be your friend.”
“And I want to be yours,” Elayne said.
Impulsively, Egwene hugged her, and then Min jumped down, and the three of them stood there on the bridge hugging one another all together.
“We three are tied together,” Min said, “and we cannot let any man get in the way of that. Not even him.”
“Would one of you mind telling me what this is all about?” Gawyn inquired
gently.
“You would not understand,” his sister said, and the three girls all caught a fit of the giggles.
Gawyn scratched his head, then shook it. “Well, if it has anything to do with Rand al’Thor, be sure you don’t let Elaida hear of it. She has been at me like a Whitecloak Questioner three times since we arrived. I do not think she means him any — ” He gave a start; there was a woman crossing the garden, a woman in a redfringed shawl. “’Name the Dark One,’” he quoted, “’and he appears.’ I do not need another lecture about wearing my shirt when I’m out of the practice yards. Good morning to you all.”
Elaida spared a glance for the departing Gawyn as she came up the bridge. She was a handsome woman rather than beautiful, Egwene thought, but that ageless look marked her as surely as her shawl; only the newestmade sisters lacked it. When her gaze swept over Egwene, pausing only a moment, Egwene suddenly saw a hardness in the Aes Sedai. She had always thought of Moiraine as strong, steel under silk, but Elaida dispensed with the silk.
“Elaida,” Elayne said, “this is Egwene. She was born with the seed in her, too.
And she has already had some lessons, so she is as far along as I am. Elaida?”
The Aes Sedai’s face was blank and unreadable. “In Caemlyn, child, I am councilor to the Queen your mother, but this is the White Tower, and you, a novice.” Min made as if to go, but Elaida stopped her with a sharp, “Stay, girl. I would speak with you.”
“I’ve known you all my life, Elaida,” Elayne said incredulously. “You watched me grow up, and made the gardens bloom in winter so I could play.”
“Child, there you were the DaughterHeir. Here you are a novice. You must learn that. You will be great one day, but you must learn!”
“Yes, Aes Sedai.”
Egwene was astounded. If someone had snubbed her so before others, she would have been in a fury.
“Now, off with both of you.” A gong began to toll, deep and sonorous, and Elaida tilted her head. The sun stood halfway to its pinnacle. “High,” Elaida said. “You must hurry, if you do not want further admonishment. And Elayne? See the Mistress of Novices in her study after your chores. A novice does not speak to Aes Sedai unless bidden to. Run, both of you. You will be late. Run!”
They ran, holding their skirts up. Egwene looked at Elayne. Elayne had two spots of color in her cheeks and a determined look on her face.
“I will be Aes Sedai,” Elayne said softly, but it sounded like a promise.
Behind them, Egwene heard the Aes Sedai begin, “I am given to understand, girl, that you were brought here by Moiraine Sedai.”
She wanted to stay and listen, to hear if Elaida asked about Rand, but High rang through the White Tower, and she was summoned to chores. She ran as she had been commanded to run.
“I will be Aes Sedai,” she growled. Elayne flashed a quick smile of understanding, and they ran faster.
Min’s shirt clung to her when she finally left the bridge. Not sweat from the sun, but from the heat of Elaida’s questions. She looked over her shoulder to make sure the Aes Sedai was not following her, but Elaida was nowhere in sight.
How did Elaida know that Moiraine had summoned her? Min had been sure that was a secret known only to her, Moiraine, and Sheriam. And all those questions about Rand. It had not been easy keeping a smooth face and a steady eye while telling an Aes Sedai to her face that she had never heard of him and knew nothing of him. What does she want with him? Light, what does Moiraine want with him? What is he? Light, I don’t want to fall in love with a man I’ve only met once, and a farmboy at that.
“Moiraine, the Light blind you,” she muttered, “whatever you brought me here for, come out from wherever you’re hiding and tell me so I can go!
The only answer was the sweet song of the graywings. With a grimace she went in search of a place to cool off.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 25
(Rising Sun) Cairhien
The city of Cairhien lay across hills against the River Alguenya, and Rand’s first sight of it came from the hills to the north, by the light of the midday sun. Elricain Tavolin and the fifty Cairhienin soldiers still seemed like guards to him — the more since crossing the bridge at the Gaelin; they became more stiff the further south they rode — but Loial and Hurin did not appear to mind, so he tried not to. He studied the city, as large as any he had seen. Fat ships and broad barges filled the river, and tall granaries sprawled along the far bank, but Cairhien seemed to be laid out in a precise grid behind its high, gray walls. Those walls themselves made a perfect square, with one side hard along the river. In just as exact a pattern, towers rose within the walls, soaring as much as twenty times the height of the wall, yet even from the hills Rand could see that each one ended in a jagged top.
Outside the city walls, surrounding them from riverbank to riverbank, lay a warren of streets, crisscrossing at all angles and teeming with people. Foregate, Rand knew it was called, from Hurin; once there had been a market village for every city gate, but over the years they had all grown into one, a hodgepodge of streets and alleys growing up every which way.
As Rand and the others rode into those dirt streets, Tavolin put some of his soldiers to clearing a path through the throng, shouting and urging their horses forward as if to trample any who did not get out of the way quickly. People moved aside with no more than a glance, as if it were an everyday occurrence. Rand found himself smiling, though.
The Foregate people’s clothes were shabby more often than not, yet much of it was colorful, and there was a raucous bustle of life to the place. Hawkers cried their wares, and shopkeepers called for people to examine the goods displayed on tables before their shops. Barbers, fruitpeddlers, knifesharpeners, men and women offering a dozen services and a hundred things for sale, wandered through the crowds. Music drifted through the babble from more than one structure; at first Rand thought they were inns, but the signs out front all showed men playing flutes or harps, tumbling or juggling, and large as they were, they had no windows. Most of the buildings in Foregate seemed to be wood, however big they were, and a good many looked new, if poorly made. Rand gaped at several that stood seven stories or more; they swayed slightly, though the people hurrying in and out did not seem to notice.
“Peasants,” Tavolin muttered, staring straight ahead in disgust. “Look at them, corrupted by outland ways. They should not be here.”
“Where should they be?” Rand asked. The Cairhienin officer glared at him and spurred his horse forward, flogging at the crowd with his quirt.
Hurin touched Rand’s arm. “It was the Aiel War, Lord Rand.” He looked to
make sure none of the soldiers were close enough to hear. “Many of the farmers were afraid to go back to their lands near the Spine of the World, and they all came here, near enough. That’s why Galldrian has the river full of grain barges up from Andor and Tear. There’s no crops coming from farms in the east because there aren’t any farms anymore. Best not to mention it to a Cairhienin though, my Lord. They like to pretend the war never happened, or at least that they won it.”
Despite Tavolin’s quirt, they were forced to halt while a strange procession crossed their path. Half a dozen men, beating tambours and dancing, led the way for a string of huge puppets, each half again as tall as the men who worked them with long poles. Giant crowned figures of men and women in long, ornate robes bowed to the crowd amid the shapes of fanciful beasts. A lion with wings. A goat, walking on its hind legs, with two heads, both of which were apparently meant to be breathing fire, from the crimson streamers hanging from the two mouths. Something that seemed to be half cat and half eagle, and another with a bear’s head on a man’s body, which Rand took to be a Trolloc. The crowd cheered and laughed as they pranced by.
“Man who made that never saw a Trolloc,” Hurin grumbled. “Head’s too big, and it’s too skinny. Likely didn’t believe in them, either, my Lord, any more than in those other things. The only monsters these Foregate folk believe in are Aiel.”
“Are they having a festival?” Rand asked. He did not see any sign of it other than the procession, but he thought that there must be a reason for that. Tavolin ordered his soldiers forward again.
“No more than every day, Rand,” Loial said. Walking alongside his horse, the blanketwrapped chest still strapped to his saddle, the Ogier drew as many looks as the puppets had. Some even laughed and clapped as they had for the puppets. “I fear Galldrian keeps his people quiet by entertaining them. He gives gleemen and musicians the King’s Gift, a bounty in silver, to perform here in the Foregate, and he sponsors horse races down by the river every day. There are fireworks many nights, too.” He sounded disgusted. “Elder Haman says Galldrian is a disgrace.” He blinked, realizing what he had said, and looked around hurriedly to see if any of the soldiers had heard. None seemed to have.
“Fireworks,” Hurin said, nodding. “The Illuminators have built a chapter house here, I’ve heard, the same as in Tanchico. I didn’t half mind seeing the fireworks, when I was here before.”
Rand shook his head. He had never seen fireworks elaborate enough to require even one Illuminator. He had heard they only left Tanchico to put on displays for rulers. It was a strange place he was coming to.
At the tall, square archway of the city gate, Tavolin ordered a halt and dismounted by a squat stone building just inside the walls. It had arrowslits instead of windows, and a heavy, ironbound door.
“A moment, my Lord Rand,” the officer said. Tossing his reins to one of the soldiers, he disappeared inside.
With a wary look at the soldiers — they sat their horses rigidly in two long files; Rand wondered what they would do if he and Loial and Hurin tried to leave — he took the opportunity to study the city that lay before him.
Cairhien proper was a sharp contrast to the chaotic bustle of the Foregate. Broad, paved streets, wide enough to make the people in them seem fewer than they were, crossed each other at right angles. Just as in Tremonsien, the hills had been carved and terraced to straight lines. Closed sedan chairs, some with small pennants bearing the sigil of a House, moved with deliberateness, and carriages rolled down the streets slowly. People went silently in dark clothes, with no bright colors except here and there slashes across the breast of coat or dress. The more slashes, the more proudly the wearer moved, but no one laughed, or even smiled. The buildings on their terraces were all of stone, and the ornamentation was straightlined and sharpangled. There were no hawkers or peddlers in the streets, and even the shops seemed subdued, with only small signs and no wares displayed outside.
He could see the great towers more clearly, now. Scaffolds of lashed poles surrounded them, and workmen swarmed on the scaffolding, laying new stones to push the towers higher still.
“The Topless Towers of Cairhien,” Loial murmured sadly. “Well, they were tall enough to warrant the name, once. When the Aiel took Cairhien, about the time you were born, the towers burned, and cracked, and fell. I don’t see any Ogier among the stonemasons. No Ogier could like working here — the Cairhienin want what they want, without embellishment — but there were Ogier when I was here before.” Tavolin came out, trailing another officer and two clerks, one carrying a large, woodbound ledger and the other a tray with writing implements. The front of the officer’s head was shaven like Tavolin’s, though advancing baldness seemed to have taken more hair than the razor. Both officers looked from the Rand to the chest hidden by Loial’s striped blanket and back again. Neither asked what was under the blanket. Tavolin had looked at it often on the way from Tremonsien, but he had never asked, either. The balding man looked at Rand’s sword, too, and pursed his
lips for an instant.
Tavolin gave the other officer’s name as Asan Sandair, and announced loudly, “Lord Rand of House al’Thor, in Andor, and his man, called Hurin, with Loial, an Ogier of Stedding Shangtai.” The clerk with the ledger opened it across his two arms, and Sandair wrote the names in a round hand.
“You must return to this guardhouse by this same hour tomorrow, my Lord,” Sandair said, leaving the sanding to the second clerk, “and give the name of the inn where you are staying.”
Rand looked at the staid streets of Cairhien, then back at the liveliness of the Foregate. “Can you tell me the name of a good inn out there?” He nodded to the Foregate.
Hurin made a frantic hsst and leaned close. “It would not be proper, Lord Rand,” he whispered. “If you stay in the Foregate, being a lord and all, they’ll be
sure you are up to something.”
Rand could see the sniffer was right. Sandair’s mouth had dropped open and Tavolin’s brows had risen at his question, and they were both still watching him intently. He wanted to tell them he was not playing their Great Game, but instead he said, “We will take rooms in the city. We can go now?”
“Of course, my Lord Rand.” Sandair made a bow. “But … the inn?”
“I will let you know when we find one.” Rand turned Red, then paused. Selene’s note crackled in his pocket. “I need to find a young woman from Cairhien. The Lady Selene. She is my age, and beautiful. I don’t know her House.”
Sandair and Tavolin exchanged looks, then Sandair said, “I will make inquiries, my Lord. Perhaps I will be able to tell you something when you come tomorrow.”
Rand nodded and led Loial and Hurin into the city. They attracted little notice, though there were few riders. Even Loial attracted almost none. The people seemed nearly ostentatious about minding their own business.
“Will they take it the wrong way,” Rand asked Hurin, “my asking after Selene?” “Who can say with Cairhienin, Lord Rand? They seem to think everything has
to do with Daes Dae’mar.”
Rand shrugged. He felt as if people were looking at him. He could not wait to get a good, plain coat again, and stop pretending to be what he was not.
Hurin knew several inns in the city, though his time in Cairhien had been spent mainly in the Foregate. The sniffer led them to one called The Defender of the Dragonwall, the sign bearing a crowned man with his foot on another man’s chest and his sword at the man’s throat. The fellow on his back had red hair.
A hostler came to take their horses, darting quick looks at Rand and at Loial when he thought he was not observed. Rand told himself to stop having fancies; not everyone in the city could be playing this Game of theirs. And if they were, he was no part of it.
The common room was neat, with the tables laid out as strictly as the city, and only a few people at them. They glanced up at the newcomers, then back to their wine immediately; Rand had the feeling they were still watching, though, and listening. A small fire burned in the big fireplace, though the day was warming.
The innkeeper was a plump, unctuous man with a single stripe of green across his dark gray coat. He gave a start at his first sight of them, and Rand was not surprised. Loial, with the chest in his arms under its striped blanket, had to duck his head to make it in through the door, Hurin was burdened with all their saddlebags and bundles, and his own red coat was a sharp contrast to the somber colors the people at the tables wore.
The innkeeper took in Rand’s coat and his sword, and his oily smile came back. He bowed, washing his smooth hands. “Forgive me, my Lord. It was just that for a moment I took you for — Forgive me. My brain is not what it was. You wish rooms, my Lord?” He added another, lesser bow for Loial. “I am called Cuale, my Lord.”
He thought I was Aiel, Rand thought sourly. He wanted to be gone from Cairhien. But it was the one place Ingtar might find them. And Selene had said she would wait for him in Cairhien.
It took a little time for their rooms to be readied, Cuale explaining with too many smiles and bows that it was necessary to move a bed for Loial. Rand wanted them all to share a room again, but between the innkeeper’s scandalized looks and Hurin’s insistence — “We have to show these Cairhienin we know what’s right as well as they do, Lord Rand” — they ended with two, one for him alone, with a connecting door.
The rooms were much the same except that theirs had two beds, one sized for an Ogier, while his had only one bed, and that almost as big as the other two, with massive square posts that nearly reached the ceiling. His tallbacked, padded chair and the washstand were square and massive, too, and the wardrobe standing against his wall was carved in a heavy, rigid style that made the thing look ready enough to fall over on him. A pair of windows siding his bed looked out on the street, two floors below.
As soon as the innkeeper left, Rand opened the door and admitted Loial and Hurin into his room. “This place gnaws at me,” he told them. “Everybody looks at you as if they think you’re doing something. I’m going back to the Foregate, for an hour anyway. At least the people laugh, there. Which of you is willing to take the first watch on the Horn?”
“I will stay,” Loial said quickly. “I’d like a chance to do a little reading. Just because I didn’t see any Ogier does not mean there are no stonemasons down from Stedding Tsofu. It is not far from the city.”
“I’d think you would want to meet them.”
“Ah … no, Rand. They asked enough questions the last time about why I was outside alone as it was. If they’ve had word from Stedding Shangtai … Well, I will just rest here and read, I think.”
Rand shook his head. He often forgot that Loial had run away from home, in effect, to see the world. “What about you, Hurin? There’s music in the Foregate, and people laughing. I’ll wager no one is playing Daes Dae’mar there.”
“I would not be so certain of that myself, Lord Rand. In any case, I thank you for the invitation, but I think not. There’s so many fights — and killings, too — in Foregate, that it stinks, if you know what I mean. Not that they’re likely to bother a lord, of course; the soldiers would be down on them if they did. But if it pleases you, I would like to have a drink in the common room.”
“Hurin, you don’t need my permission for anything. You know that.” “As you say, my Lord.” The sniffer gave a suggestion of a bow.
Rand took a deep breath. If they did not leave Cairhien soon, Hurin would be bowing and scraping left and right. And if Mat and Perrin saw that, they would never let him forget it. “I hope nothing delays Ingtar. If he doesn’t come quickly, we’ll have to take the Horn back to Fal Dara ourselves.” He touched Selene’s note
through his coat. “We will have to. Loial, I’ll come back so you can see some of the city.”
“I’d rather not risk it,” Loial said.
Hurin accompanied Rand downstairs. As soon as they reached the common room, Cuale was bowing in front of Rand, pushing a tray at him. Three folded and sealed parchments lay on the tray. Rand took them, since that was what the innkeeper seemed to intend. They were a fine grade of parchment, soft and smooth to his touch. Expensive.
“What are these?” he asked.
Cuale bowed again. “Invitations, of course, my Lord. From three of the noble Houses.” He bowed himself away.
“Who would send me invitations?” Rand turned them over in his hand. None of the men at the tables looked up, but he had the feeling they were watching just the same. He did not recognize the seals. None was the crescent moon and stars Selene had used. “Who would know I was here?”
“Everyone by now, Lord Rand,” Hurin said quietly. He seemed to feel eyes watching, too. “The guards at the gate would not keep their mouths closed about an outland lord coming to Cairhien. The hostler, the innkeeper … everybody tells what they know where they think it will do them the most good, my Lord.”
With a grimace, Rand took two steps and hurled the invitations into the fire. They caught immediately. “I am not playing Daes Dae’mar, ” he said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. Not even Cuale looked at him. “I’ve nothing to do with your Great Game. I am just here to wait for some friends.”
Hurin caught his arm. “Please, Lord Rand.” His voice was an urgent whisper. “Please don’t do that again.”
“Again? You really think I’ll receive more?”
“I’m certain. Light, but you mind me of the time Teva got so mad at a hornet buzzing round his ears, he kicked the nest. You’ve likely just convinced everyone in the room you are in some deep part of the Game. It must be deep, as they’ll see it, if you deny playing at all. Every lord and lady in Cairhien plays it.” The sniffer glanced at the invitations, curling blackly in the fire, and winced. “And you have surely made enemies of three Houses. Not great Houses, or they’d not have moved so quickly, but still noble. You must answer any more invitations you receive, my Lord. Decline if you will — though they’ll read things into whose invitations you do decline. And into whose you accept. Of course, if you decline them all, or accept them all — ”
“I’ll have no part of it,” Rand said quietly. “We are leaving Cairhien as soon as we can.” He thrust his fists into his coat pockets, and felt Selene’s note crumple. Pulling it out, he smoothed it on his coat front. “As soon as we can,” he muttered, putting it back in his pocket again. “Have your drink, Hurin.”
He stalked out angrily, not sure whether he was angry with himself, or with Cairhien and its Great Game, or Selene for vanishing, or Moiraine. She had started
it all, stealing his coats and giving him a lord’s clothes instead. Even now that he called himself free of them, an Aes Sedai still managed to interfere in his life, and without even being there.
He went back through the same gate by which he had entered the city, since that was the way he knew. A man standing in front of the guardhouse took note of him
— his bright coat marked him out, as well as his height among the Cairhienin — and hurried inside, but Rand did not notice. The laughter and music of the Foregate were pulling him on.
If his goldembroidered red coat made him stand out inside the walls, it fit right into the Foregate. Many of the men milling through the crowded streets were dressed just as darkly as those in the city, but just as many wore coats of red, or blue, or green, or gold—some bright enough to be a Tinker’s clothes—and even more of the women had embroidered dresses and colored scarves or shawls. Most of the finery was tattered and illfitting, as if made for someone else originally, but if some of those who wore it eyed his fine coat, none seemed to take it amiss.
Once he had to stop for another procession of giant puppets. While the drummers beat their tambours and capered, a pigfaced Trolloc with tusks fought a man in a crown. After a few desultory blows, the Trolloc collapsed to laughter and cheers from the onlookers.
Rand grunted. They don’t die so easily as that.
He glanced into one of the large, windowless buildings, stopping to look through the door. To his surprise, it seemed to be one huge room, open to the sky in the middle and lined with balconies, with a large dais at one end. He had never seen or heard of anything like it. People jammed the balconies and the floor watching people perform on the dais. He peeked into others as he passed them, and saw jugglers, and musicians, any number of tumblers, and even a gleeman, with his cloak of patches, declaiming a story from The Great Hunt of the Horn in sonorousvoice High Chant.
That made him think of Thom Merrilin, and he hurried on. Memories of Thom were always sad. Thom had been a friend. A friend who had died for him. While I ran away and let him die.
In another of the big structures, a woman in voluminous white robes appeared to make things vanish from one basket and appear in another, then disappear from her hands in great puffs of smoke. The crowd watching her oohed and aahed loudly.
“Two coppers, my good Lord,” a ratty little man in the doorway said. “Two coppers to see the Aes Sedai.”
“I don’t think so.” Rand glanced back at the woman. A white dove had appeared in her hands. Aes Sedai? “No.” He gave the ratty man a small bow and left.
He was making his way through the throng, wondering what to see next, when a deep voice, accompanied by the plucking of a harp, drifted out from a doorway with the sign of a juggler over it.
“… cold blows the wind down Shara Pass; cold lies the grave unmarked. Yet
every year at Sunday, upon those piled stones appears a single rose, one crystal teardrop like dew upon the petals, laid by the fair hand of Dunsinin, for she keeps fast to the bargain made by Rogosh Eagleeye.”
The voice drew Rand like a rope. He pushed through the doorway as applause rose within.
“Two coppers, my good Lord,” said a ratfaced man who could have been twin to the other. “Two coppers to see —”
Rand dug out some coins and thrust them at the man. He walked on in a daze, staring at the man bowing on the dais to the clapping of his listeners, cradling his harp in one arm and with the other spreading his patchcovered cloak as if to trap all the sound they made. He was a tall man, lanky and not young, with long mustaches as white as the hair on his head. And when he straightened and saw Rand, the eyes that widened were sharp and blue.
“Thom.” Rand’s whisper was lost in the noise of the crowd.
Holding Rand’s eye, Thom Merrilin nodded slightly toward a small door beside the dais. Then he was bowing again, smiling and basking in the applause.
Rand made his way to the door and through it. It was only a small hallway, with three steps leading up to the dais. In the other direction from the dais Rand could see a juggler practicing with colored balls, and six tumblers limbering themselves.
Thom appeared on the steps, limping as though his right leg did not bend as well as it had. He eyed the juggler and the tumblers, blew out his mustaches disdainfully, and turned to Rand. “All they want to hear is The Great Hunt of the Horn. You would think, with the news from Haddon Mirk and Saldaea, one of them would ask for The Karaethon Cycle. Well, maybe not that, but I’d pay myself to tell something else.” He looked Rand up and down. “You look as if you’re doing well, boy.” He fingered Rand’s collar and pursed his lips. “Very well.”
Rand could not help laughing. “I left Whitebridge sure you were dead. Moiraine said you were still alive, but I … Light, Thom, it’s good to see you again! I should have gone back to help you.”
“Bigger fool if you had, boy. That Fade” — he looked around; there was no one close enough to hear, but he lowered his voice anyway — “had no interest in me. It left me a little present of a stiff leg and ran off after you and Mat. All you could have done was die.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “Moiraine said I was still alive, did she? Is she with you, then?”
Rand shook his head. To his surprise, Thom seemed disappointed.
“Too bad, in a way. She’s a fine woman, even if she is …” He left it unsaid. “So it was Mat or Perrin she was after. I won’t ask which. They were good boys, and I don’t want to know.” Rand shifted uneasily, and gave a start when Thom fixed him with a bony finger. “What I do want to know is, do you still have my harp and flute? I want them back, boy. What I have now are not fit for a pig to play.”
“I have them, Thom. I’ll bring them to you, I promise. I can’t believe you are alive. And I can’t believe you aren’t in Illian. The Great Hunt setting out. The prize
for the best telling of The Great Hunt of the Horn. You were dying to go.”
Thom snorted. “After Whitebridge? Likely I’d die if I did go. Even if I could have reached the boat before it sailed, Domon and his whole crew would be spreading the tale all over Illian about how I was being chased by Trollocs. If they saw the Fade, or heard of it, before Domon cut his lines … Most Illianers think Trollocs and Fades are fables, but enough others might want to know why a man was pursued by them to make Illian somewhat more than uncomfortable.”
“Thom, I have so much to tell you.”
The gleeman cut him off. “Later, boy.” He was exchanging glares down the length of the hall with the narrowfaced man from the door. “If I don’t go back and tell another, he will no doubt send the juggler out, and that lot will tear the hall down around our heads. You come to The Bunch of Grapes, just beyond the Jangai Gate. I have a room there. Anyone can tell you where to find it. I’ll be there in another hour or so. One more tale will have to satisfy them.” He started back up the steps, flinging over his shoulder, “And bring my harp and my flute!”
The Great Hunt
Chapter 26
(Harp) Discord
Rand darted through the common room of The Defender of the Dragonwall and hurried upstairs, grinning at the startled look the innkeeper had given him. Rand wanted to grin at everything. Thom’s alive!
He flung open the door to his room and went straight to the wardrobe.
Loial and Hurin put their heads in from the other room, both in their shirtsleeves and with pipes in their teeth trailing thin streams of smoke.
“Has something happened, Lord Rand?” Hurin asked anxiously.
Rand slung the bundle made from Thom’s cloak on his shoulder. “The best thing that could, next to Ingtar coming. Thom Merrilin’s alive. And he’s here, in Cairhien.”
“The gleeman you told me about?” Loial said. “That is wonderful, Rand. I would like to meet him.”
“Then come with me, if Hurin’s willing to keep watch awhile.”
“It would be a pleasure, Lord Rand. ” Hurin took the pipe out of his mouth. “That lot in the common room kept trying to pump me — without letting on what they were doing, of course — about who you are, my Lord, and why we’re in Cairhien. I told them we were waiting here to meet friends, but being Cairhienin, they figured I was hiding something deeper.”
“Let them think what they want. Come on, Loial.”
“I think not.” The Ogier sighed. “I really would rather stay here.” He raised a book with a thick finger marking his place. “I can meet Thom Merrilin some other time.”
“Loial, you can’t stay cooped up in here forever. We do not even know how long we’ll be in Cairhien. Anyway, we didn’t see any Ogier. And if we do, they would not be hunting for you, would they?”
“Not hunting, precisely, but … Rand, I may have been too hasty in leaving Stedding Shangtai the way I did. When I do go home, I may be in a great deal of trouble.” His ears wilted. “Even if I wait until I’m as old as Elder Haman. Perhaps I could find an abandoned stedding to stay in until then.”
“If Elder Haman won’t let you come back, you can live in Emond’s Field. It’s a pretty place.” A beautiful place.
“I am sure it is, Rand, but that would never work. You see —”
“We will talk about it when it comes to that, Loial. Now you are coming to see Thom.”
The Ogier stood half again as tall as Rand, but Rand pushed him into his long tunic and cloak and down the stairs. When they came pounding through the common room, Rand winked at the innkeeper, then laughed at his startled look. Let him think I’m off to play his bloody Great Game. Let him think what he wants.
Thom’s alive.
Once through the Jangai Gate, in the east wall of the city, everyone seemed to know The Bunch of Grapes. Rand and Loial quickly found themselves there, on a street that was quiet for the Foregate, with the sun halfway down the afternoon sky.
It was an old threestory structure, wooden and rickety, but the common room was clean and full of people. Some men were playing at dice in one corner, and some women at darts in another. Half had the look of Cairhienin, slight and pale, but Rand heard Andoran accents as well as others he did not know. All wore the clothes of the Foregate, though, a blend of the styles of half a dozen countries. A few looked around when he and Loial came in, but they all turned back to what they had been doing.
The innkeeper was a woman with hair as white as Thom’s, and sharp eyes that studied Loial as well as Rand. She was not Cairhienin, by her dark skin and her speech. “Thom Merrilin? Aye, he has a room. Top of the stairs, first door on the right. Likely Dena will let you wait for him there” — she eyed Rand’s red coat, with its herons on the high collar and golden brambles embroidered up the sleeves, and his sword — “my Lord.”
The stairs creaked under Rand’s boots, let alone Loial’s. Rand was not sure if the building would stand up much longer. He found the door and knocked, wondering who Dena was.
“Come in,” a woman’s voice called. “I cannot open it for you.”
Rand opened the door hesitantly and put his head in. A big, rumpled bed was shoved against one wall, and the rest of the room was all but taken up by a pair of wardrobes, several brassbound trunks and chests, a table and two wooden chairs. The slender woman sitting crosslegged on the bed with her skirts tucked under her was keeping six colored balls spinning in a wheel between her hands.
“Whatever it is,” she said, looking at her juggling, “leave it on the table. Thom will pay you when he comes back.”
“Are you Dena?” Rand asked.
She snatched the balls out of the air and turned to regard him. She was only a handful of years older than he, pretty, with fair Cairhienin skin and dark hair hanging loose to her shoulders. “I do not know you. This is my room, mine and Thom Merrilin’s.”
“The innkeeper said you might let us wait here for Thom,” Rand said. “If you’re Dena?”
“Us?” Rand moved into the room so Loial could duck inside, and the young woman’s eyebrows lifted. “So the Ogier have come back. I am Dena. What do you want?” She looked at Rand’s coat so deliberately that the failure to add “my Lord” had to be purposeful, though her brows went up again at the herons on his scabbard and sword hilt.
Rand hefted the bundle he carried. “I’ve brought Thom back his harp and his flute. And I want to visit with him,” he added quickly; she seemed on the point of
telling him to leave them. “I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
She eyed the bundle. “Thom always moans about losing the best flute and the best harp he ever had. You would think he was a courtbard, the way he carries on. Very well. You can wait, but I must practice. Thom says he will let me perform in the halls next week.” She rose gracefully and took one of the two chairs, motioning Loial to sit on the bed. “Zera would make Thom pay for six chairs if you broke one of these, friend Ogier.”
Rand gave their names as he sat in the other chair — it creaked alarmingly under even his weight — and asked doubtfully, “Are you Thom’s apprentice?”
Dena gave a small smile. “You might say that.” She had resumed her juggling, and her eyes were on the whirling balls.
“I have never heard of a woman gleeman,” Loial said.
“I will be the first.” The one big circle became two smaller, overlapping circles. “I will see the whole world before I am done. Thom says once we have enough money, we will go down to Tear.” She switched to juggling three balls in each hand. “And then maybe out to the Sea Folk’s islands. The Atha’an Miere pay gleemen well.”
Rand eyed the room, with all the chests and trunks. It did not look like the room of someone intending to move on soon. There was even a flower growing in a pot on the windowsill. His gaze fell on the single big bed, where Loial was sitting. This is my room, mine and Thom Merrilin’s. Dena gave him a challenging look through the large wheel she had resumed. Rand’s face reddened.
He cleared his throat. “Maybe we ought to wait downstairs,” he began when the door opened and Thom came in with his cloak flapping around his ankles, patches fluttering. Cased flute and harp hung on his back; the cases were reddish wood, polished by handling.
Dena made the balls disappear inside her dress and ran to throw her arms around Thom’s neck, standing atiptoe to do it. “I missed you,” she said, and kissed him.
The kiss went on for some time, so long that Rand was beginning to wonder if he and Loial should leave, but Dena let her heels drop to the floor with a sigh.
“Do you know what that lackwit Seaghan’s done now, girl?” Thom said, looking down at her. “He’s taken on a pack of louts who call themselves ‘players.’ They walk around pretending to be Rogosh Eagleeye, and Blaes, and Gaidal Cain, and… Aaagh! They hang a scrap of painted canvas behind them, supposed to make the audience believe these fools are in Matuchin Hall, or the high passes of the Mountains of Dhoom. I make the listener see every banner, smell every battle, feel every emotion. I make them believe they are Gaidal Cain. Seaghan will have his hall torn down around his ears if he puts this lot on to follow me.”
“Thom, we have visitors. Loial, son of Arent son of Halan. Oh, and a boy who calls himself Rand al’Thor.”
Thom looked over her head at Rand, frowning. “Leave us for a while, Dena.
Here.” He pressed some silver coins into her hand. “Your knives are ready. Why don’t you go pay Ivon for them?” He brushed her smooth cheek with a gnarled knuckle. “Go on. I’ll make it up to you.”
She gave him a dark look, but she tossed her cloak around her shoulders, muttering, “Ivon better have the balance right.”
“She’ll be a bard one day,” Thom said with a note of pride after she was gone. “She listens to a tale once — once only, mind! — and she has it right, not just the words, but every nuance, every rhythm. She has a fine hand on the harp, and she played the flute better the first time she picked it up than you ever did.” He set the wooden instrument cases atop one of the larger trunks, then dropped into the chair she had abandoned. “When I passed through Caemlyn on the way here, Basel Gill told me you’d left in company with an Ogier. Among others.” He bowed toward Loial, even managing a flourish of his cloak despite the fact that he was sitting on it. “I am pleased to meet you, Loial, son of Arent son of Halan.”
“And I to meet you, Thom Merrilin.” Loial stood to make his bow in return; when he straightened, his head almost brushed the ceiling, and he quickly sat down again. “The young woman said she wants to be a gleeman.”
Thom’s head shake was disparaging. “That’s no life for a woman. Not much of a life for a man, for that. Wandering from town to town, village to village, wondering how they’ll try to cheat you this time, half the time wondering where your next meal is coming from. No, I’ll talk her around. She’ll be Courtbard to a king or a queen before she’s done. Aaaah! You didn’t come here to talk about Dena. My instruments, boy. You’ve brought them?”
Rand pushed the bundle across the table. Thom undid it hurriedly — he blinked when he saw it was his old cloak, all covered with colorful patches like the one he wore — and opened the hard leather flute case, nodding at the sight of the goldandsilver flute nestled inside.
“I earned my bed and meals with that after we parted,” Rand said.
“I know,” the gleeman replied dryly. “I stopped at some of the same inns, but I had to make do with juggling and a few simple stories since you had my — You didn’t touch the harp?” He pulled open the other dark leather case and took out a goldandsilver harp as ornate as the flute, cradling it in his hands like a baby. “Your clumsy sheepherder’s fingers were never meant for the harp.”
“I didn’t touch it,” Rand assured him.
Thom plucked two strings, wincing. “At least you could have kept it in tune,” he muttered.
Rand leaned across the table toward him. “Thom, you wanted to go to Illian, to see the Great Hunt set out, and be one of the first to make new stories about it, but you couldn’t. What would you say if I told you you could still be a part of it? A big part?”
Loial stirred uneasily. “Rand, are you sure … ?” Rand waved him to silence, his eyes on Thom.
Thom glanced at the Ogier and frowned. “That would depend on what part, and how. If you’ve reason to believe one of the Hunters is coming this way … I suppose they could have left Illian already, but he’d be weeks reaching here if he rode straight on, and why would he? Is this one of the fellows who never went to Illian? He’ll never make it into the stories without the blessing, whatever he does.”
“It doesn’t matter if the Hunt has left Illian or not.” Rand heard Loial’s breath catch. “Thom, we have the Horn of Valere.”
For a moment there was dead silence. Thom broke it with a great guffaw of laughter. “You two have the Horn? A shepherd and a beardless Ogier have the Horn of …” He doubled over, pounding his knee. “The Horn of Valere!”
“But we do have it,” Loial said seriously.
Thom drew a deep breath. Small aftershocks of laughter still seemed to catch him unaware. “I don’t know what you found, but I can take you to ten taverns where a fellow will tell you that he knows a man who knows the man who’s already found the Horn, and he will tell you how it was found, too — as long as you buy his ale. I can take you to three men who will sell you the Horn, and swear their souls under the Light it’s the real one and true. There is even a lord in the city has what he claims is the Horn locked up inside his manor. He says it’s a treasure handed down in his House since the Breaking. I don’t know if the Hunters will ever find the Horn, but they will hunt down ten thousand lies along the way.”
“Moiraine says it’s the Horn,” Rand said.
Thom’s mirth was cut short. “She does, does she? I thought you said she was not with you.”
“She isn’t, Thom. I have not seen her since I left Fal Dara, in Shienar, and for a month before that she said no more than two words together to me.” He could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. And when she did talk, I wished she’d kept on ignoring me. I’ll never dance to her tune again, the Light burn her and every other Aes Sedai. No. Not Egwene. Not Nynaeve. He was conscious of Thom watching him closely. “She isn’t here, Thom. I do not know where she is, and I do not care.”
“Well, at least you have sense enough to keep it secret. If you hadn’t, it would be all over the Foregate by now, and half a Cairhien would be lying in wait to take it away. Half the world.”
“Oh, we’ve kept it secret, Thom. And I have to bring it back to Fal Dara without Darkfriends or anyone else taking it away. That’s story enough for you right there, isn’t it? I could use a friend who knows the world. You’ve been everywhere; you know things I can’t even imagine. Loial and Hurin know more than I do, but we’re all three floundering in deep water.”
“Hurin … ? No, don’t tell me how. I do not want to know. ” The gleeman pushed back his chair and went to stare out of the window. “The Horn of Valere. That means the Last Battle is coming. Who will notice? Did you see the people laughing in the streets out there? Let the grain barges stop a week, and they won’t laugh. Galldrian will think they’ve all become Aiel. The nobles all play the Game of
Houses, scheming to get close to the King, scheming to gain more power than the King, scheming to pull down Galldrian and be the next King. Or Queen. They will think Tarmon Gai’don is only a ploy in the Game.” He turned away from the window. “I don’t suppose you are talking about simply riding to Shienar and handing the Horn to — who? — the King? Why Shienar? The legends all tie the Horn to Illian.”
Rand looked at Loial. The Ogier’s ears were sagging. “Shienar, because I know who to give it to, there. And there are Trollocs and Darkfriends after us.”
“Why does that not surprise me? No. I may be an old fool, but I will be an old fool in my own way. You take the glory, boy.”
“Thom —”
“No!”
There was a silence, broken only by the creaking of the bed as Loial shifted. Finally, Rand said, “Loial, would you mind leaving Thom and me alone for a bit? Please?”
Loial looked surprised — the tufts on his ears went almost to points — but he nodded and rose. “That dice game in the common room looked interesting. Perhaps they will let me play.” Thom eyed Rand suspiciously as the door closed behind the Ogier.
Rand hesitated. There were things he needed to know, things he was sure Thom knew — the gleeman had once seemed to know a great deal about a surprising number of things — but he was not sure how to ask. “Thom,” he said at last, “are there any books that have The Karaethon Cycle in them?” Easier to call it that than the Prophecies of the Dragon.
“In the great libraries,” Thom said slowly. “Any number of translations, and even in the Old Tongue, here and there.” Rand started to ask if there was any way for him to find one, but the gleeman went on. “The Old Tongue has music in it, but too many even of the nobles are impatient with listening to it these days. Nobles are all expected to know the Old Tongue, but many only learn enough to impress people who don’t. Translations don’t have the same sound, unless they’re in High Chant, and sometimes that changes meanings even more than most translations. There is one verse in the Cycle — it doesn’t scan well, translated word for word, but there’s no meaning lost — that goes like this.
“Twice and twice shall he be marked, twice to live, and twice to die.
Once the heron, to set his path. Twice the heron, to name him true.
Once the Dragon, for remembrance lost. Twice the Dragon, for the price he must pay.”
He reached out and touched the herons embroidered on Rand’s high collar.
For a moment, Rand could only gape at him, and when he could speak, his voice was unsteady. “The sword makes five. Hilt, scabbard, and blade.” He turned
his hand down on the table, hiding the brand on his palm. For the first time since Selene’s salve had done its work, he could feel it. Not hurting, but he knew it was there.
“So they do.” Thom barked a laugh. “There’s another comes to mind. “Twice dawns the day when his blood is shed.
Once for mourning, once for birth.
Red on black, the Dragon’s blood stains the rock of Shayol Ghul.
In the Pit of Doom shall his blood free men from the Shadow.”
Rand shook his head, denying, but Thom seemed not to notice. “I don’t see how a day can dawn twice, but then a lot of it doesn’t really make much sense. The Stone of Tear will never fall till Callandor is wielded by the Dragon Reborn, but the Sword That Cannot Be Touched lies in the Heart of the Stone, so how can he wield it first, eh? Well, be that as it may. I suspect Aes Sedai would want to make events fit the Prophecies as closely as they can. Dying somewhere in the Blasted Lands would be a high price to pay for going along with them.”
It was an effort for Rand to make his voice calm, but he did it. “No Aes Sedai are using me for anything. I told you, the last I saw of Moiraine was in Shienar. She said I could go where I wanted, and I left.”
“And there’s no Aes Sedai with you now? None at all?” “None.”
Thom knuckled his dangling white mustaches. He seemed satisfied, and at the same time puzzled. “Then why ask about the Prophecies? Why send the Ogier out of the room?”
“I … didn’t want to upset him. He’s nervous enough about the Horn. That’s what I wanted to ask. Is the Horn mentioned in the — the Prophecies?” He still could not make himself say it all the way out. “All these false Dragons, and now the Horn is found. Everybody thinks the Horn of Valere is supposed to summon dead heroes to fight the Dark One in the Last Battle, and the … the Dragon Reborn … is supposed to fight the Dark One in the Last Battle. It seemed natural enough to ask.”
“I suppose it is. Not many know that about the Dragon Reborn fighting the Last Battle, or if they do, they think he’ll fight alongside the Dark One. Not many read the Prophecies to find out. What was that you said about the Horn? ‘Supposed to’?”
“I’ve learned a few things since we parted, Thom. They will come for whoever blows the Horn, even a Darkfriend.”
Bushy eyebrows rose nearly to Thom’s hairline. “Now that I didn’t know. You have learned a few things.”
“It doesn’t mean I would let the White Tower use me for a false Dragon. I don’t want anything to do with Aes Sedai, or false Dragons, or the Power, or …” Rand bit his tongue. Get mad and you start babbling. Fool!
“For a time, boy, I thought you were the one Moiraine wanted, and I even
thought I knew why. You know, no man chooses to channel the Power. It is something that happens to him, like a disease. You cannot blame a man for falling sick, even if it might kill you, too.”
“Your nephew could channel, couldn’t he? You told me that was why you helped us, because your nephew had had trouble with the White Tower and there was nobody to help him. There’s only one kind of trouble men can have with Aes Sedai.”
Thom studied the tabletop, pursing his lips. “I don’t suppose there is any use in denying it. You understand, it is not the kind of thing a man talks about, having a male relative who could channel. Aaagh! The Red Ajah never gave Owyn a chance. They gentled him, and then he died. He just gave up wanting to live . . .” He exhaled sadly.
Rand shivered. Why didn’t Moiraine do that to me? “A chance, Thom? Do you mean there was some way he could have dealt with it? Not gone mad? Not died?”
“Owyn held it off almost three years. He never hurt anyone. He didn’t use the Power unless he had to, and then only to help his village. He …” Thom threw up his hands. “I suppose there was no choice. The people where he lived told me he was acting strange that whole last year. They did not much want to talk about it, and they nearly stoned me when they found out I was his uncle. I suppose he was going mad. But he was my blood, boy. I can’t love the Aes Sedai for what they did to him, even if they had to. If Moiraine’s let you go, then you are well out of it.”
For a moment Rand was silent. Fool! Of course there’s no way to deal with it. You’re going to go mad and die whatever you do. But Ba’alzamon said — “No!” He colored under Thom’s scrutiny. “I mean … I am out of it, Thom. But I still have the Horn of Valere. Think of it, Thom. The Horn of Valere. Other gleemen might tell tales about it, but you could say you had it in your hands.” He realized he sounded like Selene, but all that did was make him wonder where she was. “There’s nobody I’d rather have with us than you, Thom.”
Thom frowned as if considering it, but in the end he shook his head firmly. “Boy, I like you well enough, but you know as well as I do that I only helped before because there was an Aes Sedai mixed in it. Seaghan doesn’t try to cheat me more than I expect, and with the King’s Gift added in, I could never earn as much in the villages. To my very great surprise, Dena seems to love me, and — as much a surprise — I return the feeling. Now, why should I leave that to go be chased by Trollocs and Darkfriends? The Horn of Valere? Oh, it is a temptation, I’ll admit, but no. No, I will not get mixed up in it again.”
He leaned over to pick up one of the wooden instrument cases, long and narrow. When he opened it, a flute lay inside, plainly made but mounted with silver. He closed it again and slid it across the table. “You might need to earn your supper again someday, boy.”
“I might at that,” Rand said. “At least we can talk. I will be in — ”
The gleeman was shaking his head. “A clean break is best, boy. If you’re always
coming around, even if you never mention it, I won’t be able to get the Horn out of my head. And I won’t be tangled in it. I won’t.”
After Rand left, Thom threw his cloak on the bed and sat with his elbows on the table. The Horn of Valere. How did that farmboy find … He shut off that line of thought. Think about the Horn too long, and he would find himself running off with Rand to carry it to Shienar. That would make a story, carrying the Horn of Valere to the Borderlands with Trollocs and Darkfriends pursuing. Scowling, he reminded himself of Dena. Even if she had not loved him, talent such as hers was not to be found every day. And she did love, even if he could not begin to imagine why.
“Old fool,” he muttered.
“Aye, an old fool,” Zera said from the door. He gave a start; he had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he had not heard the door open. He had known Zera for years, off and on in his wanderings, and she always took full advantage of the friendship to speak her mind. “An old fool who’s playing the Game of Houses again. Unless my ears are failing, that young lord has the sound of Andor on his tongue. He’s no Cairhienin, that’s for certain sure. Daes Dae’mar is dangerous enough without letting an outland lord mix you in his schemes.”
Thom blinked, then considered the way Rand had looked. That coat had surely been fine enough for a lord. He was growing old, letting things like that slip by him. Ruefully, he realized he was considering whether to tell Zera the truth or let her continue thinking as she did. All it takes is to think about the Great Game, and I start playing it. “The boy is a shepherd, Zera, from the Two Rivers.”
She laughed scornfully. “And I’m the Queen of Ghealdan. I tell you, the Game has grown dangerous in Cairhien the last few years. Nothing like what you knew in Caemlyn. There are murders done, now. You’ll have your throat cut for you, if you don’t watch out.”
“I tell you, I am not in the Great Game any longer. That’s all twenty years in the past, near enough.”
“Aye.” She did not sound as if she believed it. “But be that as it may, and young outland lords aside, you’ve begun performing at the lords’ manors.”
“They pay well.”
“And they’ll pull you into their plots as soon as they see how. They see a man, and think how to use him, as naturally as breathing. This young lord of yours won’t help you; they will eat him alive.”
He gave up on trying to convince her he was out of it. “Is that what you came up to say, Zera?”
“Aye. Forget playing the Great Game, Thom. Marry Dena. She’ll take you, the more fool her, bony and whitehaired as you are. Marry her, and forget this young lord and Daes Dae’mar.”
“I thank you for the advice,” he said dryly. Marry her? Burden her with an old husband. She’ll never be a bard with my past hanging around her neck. “If you don’t mind, Zera, I want to be alone for a while. I perform for Lady Arilyn and her guests
tonight, and I need to prepare.”
She gave him a snort and a shake of her head and banged the door shut behind
her.
Thom drummed his fingers on the table. Coat or no coat, Rand was still only a
shepherd. If he had been more, if he had been what Thom once suspected — a man who could channel — neither Moiraine nor any other Aes Sedai would ever have let him walk away ungentled. Horn or no Horn, the boy was only a shepherd.
“He is out of it,” he said aloud, “and so am I.”
The Great Hunt
Chapter 27
(Horned Skull)
The Shadow in the Night
“I do not understand it,” Loial said. “I was winning, most of the time. And then Dena came in and joined the game, and she won it all right back. Every toss. She called it a little lesson. What did she mean by that?”
Rand and the Ogier were making their way through the Foregate, The Bunch of Grapes behind them. The sun sat low in the west, a red ball half below the horizon, throwing long shadows behind them. The street was empty save for one of the big puppets, a goathorned Trolloc with a sword at its belt, coming toward them with five men working the poles, but sounds of merriment drifted still from other parts of the Foregate, where the halls of entertainment and the taverns stood. Here, doors were already barred and windows shuttered.
Rand stopped fingering the wooden flute case and slung it on his back. I suppose I couldn’t expect him to throw over everything and come with me, but at least he could talk to me. Light, I wish Ingtar would show up. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and felt Selene’s note.
“You don’t suppose she …” Loial paused uncomfortably. “You don’t suppose she cheated, do you? Everybody was grinning as if she were doing something clever.”
Rand shrugged at his cloak. I have to take the Horn and go. If we wait for Ingtar, anything can happen. Fain will come sooner or later. I have to stay ahead of him. The men with the puppet were almost to them.
“Rand,” Loial said suddenly, “I don’t think that’s a —”
Abruptly the men let their poles clatter to the packed dirt street; instead of collapsing, the Trolloc leaped for Rand with outstretched hands.
There was no time to think. Instinct brought the sword out of its sheath in a flashing arc. The Moon Rises Over the Lakes. The Trolloc staggered back with a bubbling cry, snarling even as it fell.
For an instant everyone stood frozen. Then the men — the Darkfriends, they had to be — looked from the Trolloc lying in the street to Rand, with the sword in his hands and Loial at his side. They turned and ran.
Rand was staring at the Trolloc, too. The void had surrounded him before his hand touched hilt; saidin shone in his mind, beckoning, sickening. With an effort, he made the void vanish, and licked his lips. Without the emptiness, fear crawled on his skin.
“Loial, we have to get back to the inn. Hurin’s alone, and they—” He grunted as he was lifted into the air by a thick arm long enough to pin both of his to his chest. A hairy hand grabbed his throat. He caught sight of a tusked snout just over his head. A rank smell filled his nose, equal parts sour sweat and pigsty.
As quickly as it had seized him, the hand at his throat was torn away. Stunned, Rand stared at it, at the thick Ogier fingers clutching the Trolloc’s wrist.
“Hold on, Rand.” Loial’s voice sounded strained. The Ogier’s other hand came around and took hold of the arm still holding Rand above the ground. “Hold on.”
Rand was shaken from side to side as Ogier and Trolloc struggled. Abruptly he fell free. Staggering, he took two steps to get clear and turned back with sword raised.
Standing behind the boarsnouted Trolloc, Loial had it by wrist and forearm, holding its arms spread wide, breathing hard with the effort. The Trolloc snarled gutturally in the harsh Trolloc tongue, throwing its head back in efforts to catch Loial with a tusk. Their boots scuffled across the dirt of the street.
Rand tried to find a place to put his blade in the Trolloc without hurting Loial, but Ogier and Trolloc spun in their rough dance so much that he could find no opening.
With a grunt, the Trolloc pulled its left arm free, but before it could loose itself completely, Loial snapped his own arm around its neck, hugging the creature close. The Trolloc clawed at its sword; the scythelike blade hung on the wrong side for lefthanded use, but inch by inch the dark steel began sliding out of the scabbard. And still they thrashed about so that Rand could not strike without risking Loial.
The Power. That could do it. How, he did not know, but he knew nothing else to try. The Trolloc had its sword half unsheathed. When the curved blade was bare, it would kill Loial.
Reluctantly, Rand formed the void. Saidin shone at him, pulled at him. Dimly, he seemed to recall a time when it had sung to him, but now it only drew him, a flower’s perfume drawing a bee, a midden’s stench drawing a fly. He opened himself up, reached for it. There was nothing there. He could as well have been reaching for light in truth. The taint slid off onto him, soiling him, but there was no flow of light inside him. Driven by a distant desperation, he tried again and again. And again and again there was only the taint.
With a sudden heave, Loial threw the Trolloc aside, so hard that the thing cartwheeled against the side of a building. It struck, headfirst, with a loud crack, and slid down the wall to lie with its neck twisted at an impossible angle. Loial stood staring at it, his chest heaving.
Rand looked out of the emptiness for a moment before he realized what had happened. As soon as he did, though, he let void and tainted light go, and hurried to Loial’s side.
“I never … killed before, Rand.” Loial drew a shuddering breath.
“It would have killed you if you hadn’t,” Rand told him. Anxiously, he looked at the alleys and shuttered windows and barred doors. Where there were two Trollocs, there had to be more. “I’m sorry you had to do it, Loial, but it would have killed both of us, or worse.”
“I know. But I cannot like it. Even a Trolloc.” Pointing toward the setting sun, the Ogier seized Rand’s arm. “There’s another of them.”
Against the sun, Rand could not make out details, but it appeared to be another
group of men with a huge puppet, coming toward Loial and him. Except that now he knew what to look for, the “puppet” moved its legs too naturally, and the snouted head rose to sniff the air without anyone lifting a pole. He did not think the Trolloc and Darkfriends could see him among the evening shadows, or what lay in the street around him; they moved too slowly for that. Yet it was plain they were hunting, and coming closer.
“Fain knows I am out here somewhere,” he said, hastily wiping his blade on a dead Trolloc’s coat. “He’s set them to find me. He is afraid of the Trollocs being seen, though, or he wouldn’t have them disguised. If we can reach a street where there are people, we’ll be safe. We have to get back to Hurin. If Fain finds him, alone with the Horn …”
He pulled Loial along to the next corner and turned toward the nearest sounds of laughter and music, but long before they reached it, another group of men appeared ahead of them in the otherwise empty street with a puppet that was no puppet. Rand and Loial took the next turning. It led east.
Every time Rand tried to reach the music and laughter, there was a Trolloc in the way, often sniffing the air for a scent. Some Trollocs hunted by scent. Sometimes, here where there were no eyes to see, a Trolloc stalked alone. More than once he was sure it was one he had seen before. They were closing in, and making sure he and Loial did not leave the deserted streets with their shuttered windows. Slowly the two of them were forced east, away from the city and Hurin, away from other people, along narrow, slowly darkening streets that ran in all directions, uphill and down. Rand eyed the houses they passed, the tall buildings closed up tight for the night, with more than a little regret. Even if he pounded on a door until someone opened it, even if they took Loial and him in, none of the doors he saw would stop a Trolloc. All that would do would be to offer up more victims with Loial and himself.
“Rand,” Loial said finally, “there is nowhere else to go.”
They had reached the eastern edge of the Foregate; the tall buildings to either side of them were the last. Lights in windows on the upper stories mocked him, but the lower floors were all shut tight. Ahead lay the hills, cloaked in first twilight and bare of so much as a farmhouse. Not entirely empty, though. He could just make out pale walls surrounding one of the larger hills, perhaps a mile away, and buildings inside.
“Once they push us out there,” Loial said, “they won’t have to worry who sees them.”
Rand gestured to the walls around the hill. “Those should stop a Trolloc. It must be a lord’s manner. Maybe they’ll let us in. An Ogier, and an outland lord? This coat has to be good for something sooner or later. ” He looked back down the street. No Trollocs in sight yet, but he drew Loial around the side of the building anyway.
“I think that is the Illuminators’ chapter house, Rand. Illuminators guard their secrets tightly. I don’t think they would let Galldrian himself inside there.”
“What trouble have you gotten yourself into now?” said a familiar woman’s voice. There was suddenly a spicy perfume in the air.
Rand stared: Selene stepped around the corner they had just rounded, her white dress bright in the dimness. “How did you get here? What are you doing here? You have to leave immediately. Run! There are Trollocs after us.”
“So I saw.” Her voice was dry, yet cool and composed. “I came to find you, and I find you allowing Trollocs to herd you like sheep. Can the man who possesses the Horn of Valere let himself be treated so?”
“I don’t have it with me,” he snapped, “and I don’t know how it could help if I did. The dead heroes are not supposed to come back to save me from Trollocs. Selene, you have to get away. Now!” He peered around the corner.
Not more than a hundred paces away, a Trolloc was sticking its horned head cautiously into the street, smelling the night. A large shadow by its side had to be another Trolloc, and there were smaller shadows, too. Darkfriends.
“Too late,” Rand muttered. He shifted the flute case to pull off his cloak and wrap it around her. It was long enough to hide her white dress entirely, and trail on the ground besides. “You’ll have to hold that up to run,” he told her. “Loial, if they won’t let us in, we will have to find a way to sneak in.”
“But, Rand —”
“Would you rather wait for the Trollocs?” He gave Loial a push to start him, and took Selene’s hand to follow at a trot. “Find us a path that won’t break our necks, Loial.”
“You’re letting yourself become flustered,” Selene said. She seemed to have less trouble following Loial in the failing light than Rand did. “Seek the Oneness, and be calm. One who would be great must always be calm.”
“The Trollocs might hear you,” he told her. “I don’t want greatness.” He thought he heard an irritated grunt from her.
Stones sometimes turned underfoot, but the way across the hills was not hard despite the twilight shadows. Trees, and even brush, had long since been cleared from the hills for firewood. Nothing grew except kneehigh grass that rustled softly around their legs. A night breeze came up softly. Rand worried that it might carry their scent to the Trollocs.
Loial stopped when they reached the wall; it stood twice as high as the Ogier, the stones covered with a whitish plaster. Rand peered back toward the Foregate. Bands of lighted windows reached out like spokes of a wheel from the city walls.
“Loial,” he said softly, “can you see them? Are they following us?”
The Ogier looked in the direction of the Foregate, and nodded unhappily. “I only see some of the Trollocs, but they are coming this way. Running. Rand, I really don’t think—”
Selene cut him off. “If he wants to go in, alantin, he needs a door. Such as that one.” She pointed to a dark patch a little down the wall. Even with her telling him, Rand was not certain it was a door, but when she strode to it and pulled, it opened.
“Rand,” Loial began.
Rand pushed him to the door. “Later, Loial. And softly. We’re hiding, remember?” He got them inside and closed the door behind them. There were brackets for a bar, but no bar to be seen. It would not stop anyone, but maybe the Trollocs would hesitate to come inside the walls.
They were in an alleyway leading up the hill between two long, low windowless buildings. At first he thought they were stone, too, but then he realized the white plaster had been laid over wood. It was dark enough now for the moon reflecting from the walls to give a semblance of light.
“Better to be arrested by the Illuminators than taken by Trollocs,” he murmured, starting up the hill.
“But that is what I was trying to tell you,” Loial protested. “I’ve heard the Illuminators kill intruders. They keep their secrets hard and fast, Rand.”
Rand stopped dead and stared back at the door. The Trollocs were still out there. At the worst, humans had to be better to deal with than Trollocs. He might be able to talk the Illuminators into letting them go; Trollocs did not listen before they killed. “I’m sorry I got you into this, Selene.”
“Danger adds a certain something,” she said softly. “And so far, you handle it well. Shall we see what we find?” She brushed past him up the alleyway. Rand followed, the spicy smell of her filling his nostrils.
Atop the hill, the alleyway opened onto a wide expanse of smoothly flattened clay, almost as pale as the plaster and nearly surrounded by more white, windowless buildings with the shadows of narrow alleys between, but to Rand’s right stood one building with windows, light falling onto the pale clay. He pulled back into the shadows of the alley as a man and a woman appeared, walking slowly across the open space.
Their clothes were certainly not Cairhienin. The man wore breeches as baggy as his shirt sleeves, both in a soft yellow, with embroidery on the legs of his breeches and across the chest of his shirt. The woman’s dress, worked elaborately across the breast, seemed a pale green, and her hair was done in a multitude of short braids.
“All is in readiness, you say?” the woman demanded. “You are certain, Tammuz? All?”
The man spread his hands. “Always you check behind me, Aludra. All is in readiness. The display, it could be given this very moment.”
“The gates and doors, they are all barred? All of the … ?” Her voice faded as they moved on to the far end of the lighted building.
Rand studied the open area, recognizing almost nothing. In the middle of it, several dozen upright tubes, each nearly as tall as he and a foot or more across, sat on large wooden bases. From each tube, a dark, twisted cord ran across the ground and behind a low wall, perhaps three paces long, on the far side. All around the open space stood a welter of wooden racks with troughs and tubes and forked sticks and a score of other things.
All the fireworks he had ever seen could be held in one hand, and that was as much as he knew, except that they burst with a great roar, or whizzed along the ground in spirals of sparks, or sometimes shot into the air. They always came with warnings from the Illuminators that opening one could cause it to go off. In any case, fireworks were too expensive for the Village Council to have allowed anybody unskilled to open one. He could well remember the time when Mat had tried to do just that; it was nearly a week before anyone but Mat’s own mother would speak to him. The only thing that Rand found familiar at all was the cords—the fuses. That, he knew, was where you set the fire.
With a glance back at the unbarred door, he motioned the others to follow and started around the tubes. If they were going to find a place to hide, he wanted to be as far from that door as he could.
It meant making their way between the racks, and Rand held his breath every time he brushed against one. The things in them shifted with the slightest touch, rattling. All of them seemed to be made of wood, without a piece of metal. He could imagine the racket if one were knocked over. He eyed the tall tubes warily, remembering the bang made by one the size of his finger. If those were fireworks, he did not want to be this close to them.
Loial muttered to himself continually, especially when he bumped one of the racks, then started back so fast that he bumped another. The Ogier crept along in a cloud of clatters and muttering.
Selene was no less unnerving. She strode as casually as if they were on a city street. She did not bump anything, did not make a sound, but she also made no effort to keep the cloak closed. The white of her dress seemed brighter than all the walls together. He peered at the lighted windows, waiting for someone to appear. All it would take was one; Selene could not fail to be seen, the alarm given.
The windows remained empty, though. Rand was just breathing a sigh of relief as they approached the low wall — and the alleys and buildings behind it — when Loial brushed against another rack, standing right beside the wall. It held ten softlooking sticks, as long as Rand’s arm, with thin streams of smoke rising from their tips. The rack made hardly a sound when it fell, the smoldering sticks sprawling across one of the fuses. With a crackling hiss, the fuse burst into flame, and the flame raced toward one of the tall tubes.
Rand goggled for an instant, then he tried to whisper a shout. “Behind the wall!”
Selene made an angry noise when he bore her to the ground behind the wall, but he did not care. He tried to spread himself over her protectively as Loial crowded beside them. Waiting for the tube to burst, he wondered if there would be anything left of the wall. There was a hollow thump that he felt through the ground as much as heard. Cautiously, he lifted himself off of Selene enough to peer around the edge of the wall. She fisted him in the ribs, hard, and wriggled out from under him with an oath in a language he did recognize, but he was beyond noticing.
A trickle of smoke was leaking from the top of one of the tubes. That was all.
He shook his head wonderingly. If that’s all there is to it …
With a crash like thunder, a huge flower of red and white bloomed high in the now dark sky, then slowly began drifting away in sparkles.
As he goggled at it, the lighted building erupted with noise. Shouting men and women filled the windows, staring and pointing.
Rand longingly eyed the dark alleyway, only a dozen steps away. And the first step would be in full view of the people at the windows. Pounding feet poured from the building.
He pressed Loial and Selene back against the wall, hoping they looked like just another shadow. “Be still and be silent,” he whispered. “It’s our only hope.”
“Sometimes,” Selene said quietly, “if you are very still, no one can see you at all.” She did not sound the least bit worried.
Boots thumped back and forth on the other side of the wall, and voices were raised in anger. Especially the one Rand recognized as Aludra.
“You great buffoon, Tammuz! You great pig, you! Your mother, she was a goat, Tammuz! One day you will kill us all.”
“I am not to blame for this, Aludra,” the man protested. “I have been sure to put everything where it belonged, and the punks, they were—”
“You will not speak to me, Tammuz! A great pig does not deserve to speak like a human!” Aludra’s voice changed in answer to another man’s question. “There is no time to prepare another. Galldrian, he must be satisfied with the rest for tonight. And one early. And you, Tammuz! You will set everything right, and tomorrow you will leave with the carts to buy the manure. Does anything else go wrong this night, I will not trust you again even with so much as the manure!”
Footsteps faded back toward the building to the accompaniment of Aludra’s muttering. Tammuz remained, growling under his breath about the unfairness of it all.
Rand stopped breathing as the man came over to right the toppled stand. Pressed back in the shadows against the wall, he could see Tammuz’s back and shoulder. All the man had to do was turn his head, and he could not miss seeing Rand and the others. Still complaining to himself, Tammuz arranged the smoldering sticks in the stand, then stalked off toward the building where everyone else had gone.
Letting his breath go, Rand took a quick look after the man, then pulled back into the shadows. A few people still stood at the windows. “We can’t expect any more luck tonight,” he whispered.
“It is said great men make their own luck,” Selene said softly.
“Will you stop that,” he told her wearily. He wished the smell of her did not fill his head so; it made it hard to think clearly. He could remember the feel of her body when he pushed her down — softness and firmness in a disturbing blend — and that did not help either.
“Rand?” Loial was peering around the end of the wall away from the lighted building. “I think we need some more luck, Rand.”
Rand shifted to look over the Ogier’s shoulder. Beyond open space, in the alleyway that led to the barless door, three Trollocs were peering cautiously out of the shadows toward the lighted windows. One woman was standing at a window; she did not seem to see the Trollocs.
“So,” Selene said quietly. “It becomes a trap. These people may kill you if they take you. The Trollocs surely will. But perhaps you can slay the Trollocs too quickly for them to make any outcry. Perhaps you can stop the people from killing you to preserve their little secrets. You may not want greatness, but it will take a great man to do these things.”
“You don’t have to sound happy about it,” Rand said. He tried to stop thinking about how she smelled, how she felt, and the void almost surrounded him. He shook it away. The Trollocs did not seem to have located them, yet. He settled back, staring at the nearest dark alleyway. Once they made a move toward it, the Trollocs would surely see, and so would the woman at the window. It would be a race as to whether Trollocs or Illuminators reached them first.
“Your greatness will make me happy.” Despite the words, Selene sounded angry. “Perhaps I should leave you to find your own way for a time. If you’ll not take greatness when it is in your grasp, perhaps you deserve to die.”
Rand refused to look at her. “Loial, can you see if there’s another door down that alley?”
The Ogier shook his head. “There is too much light here and too much dark there. If I were in the alley, yes.”
Rand fingered the hilt of his sword. “Take Selene. As soon as you see a door — if you do — call out, and I’ll follow. If there isn’t a door at the end, you will have to lift her so she can reach the top of the wall and climb over.”
“All right, Rand.” Loial sounded worried. “But when we move, those Trollocs will come after us, no matter who is watching. Even if there is a door, they will be on our heels.”
“You let me worry about the Trollocs.” Three of them. I might do it, with the void. The thought of saidin decided him. Too many strange things had happened when he let the male half of the True Source come close. “I will follow as soon as I can. Go.” He turned to peer around the wall at the Trollocs.
From the corner of his eye, he had an impression of Loial’s bulk moving, of Selene’s white dress, half covered by his cloak. One of the Trollocs beyond the tubes pointed to them excitedly, but still the three hesitated, glancing up at the window where the woman still watched. Three of them. There has to be a way. Not the void. Not saidin.
“There is a door!” came Loial’s soft call. One of the Trollocs took a step out of the shadows, and the others followed, gathering themselves. As from a distance, Rand heard the woman at the window cry out, and Loial shouted something.
Without thinking, Rand was on his feet. He had to stop the Trollocs somehow, or they would run him down, and Loial and Selene. He snatched one of the
smoldering sticks and hurled himself at the nearest tube. It tilted, started to fall over, and he caught the square wooden base; the tube pointed straight at the Trollocs. They slowed uncertainly — the woman at the window screamed — and Rand touched the smoking end of the stick to the fuse right where it joined the tube.
The hollow thump came immediately, and the thick wooden base slammed against him, knocking him down. A roar like a thunderclap broke the night and a blinding burst of light tore away the dark.
Blinking, Rand staggered his feet, coughing in thick, acrid smoke, ears ringing. He stared in amazement. Half the tubes and all of the racks lay on their sides, and one corner of the building beside which the Trollocs had stood was simply gone, flames licking at ends of planks and rafters. Of the Trollocs there was no sign.
Through the ringing in his ears, Rand heard shouts from the Illuminators in the building. He broke into a tottering run, lumbered into the alley. Halfway down it he stumbled over something and realized it was his cloak. He snatched it up without pausing. Behind him, the cries of the Illuminators filled the night.
Loial was bouncing impatiently on his feet beside the open door. And he was alone.
“Where is Selene?” Rand demanded.
“She went back, Rand. I tried to grab her, and she slipped right out of my hands.”
Rand turned back toward the noise. Through the incessant sound in his ears, some of the shouts were barely distinguishable. There was light there, now, from the flames.
“The sand buckets! Fetch the sand buckets quickly!” “This is disaster! Disaster!”
“Some of them went that way!”
Loial grabbed Rand’s shoulder. “You cannot help her, Rand. Not by being taken yourself. We must go.” Someone appeared at the end of the alley, a shadow outlined by the glow of flames behind, and pointed toward them. “Come on, Rand!”
Rand let himself be pulled out of the door into the darkness. The fire faded behind them until it was only a glow in the night, and the lights of the Foregate came closer. Rand almost wished more Trollocs would appear, something he could fight. But there was only the night breeze ruffling the grass.
“I tried to stop her,” Loial said. There was a long silence. “We really couldn’t have done anything. They would just have taken us, too.”
Rand sighed. “I know, Loial. You did what you could.” He walked backwards a few steps, staring at the glow. It seemed less; the Illuminators must be putting out the flames. “I have to help her somehow.” How? Saidin? The Power? He shivered. “I have to.”
They went through the Foregate by the lighted streets, wrapped in a silence that shut out the gaiety around them.
When they entered The Defender of the Dragonwall, the innkeeper held out his
tray with a sealed parchment.
Rand took it, and stared at the white seal. A crescent moon and stars. “Who left this? When?”
“An old woman, my Lord. Not a quarter of an hour gone. A servant, though she did not say from what House.” Cuale smiled as if inviting confidences.
“Thank you,” Rand said, still staring at the seal. The innkeeper watched them go upstairs with a thoughtful look.
Hurin took his pipe out of his mouth when Rand and Loial entered the room. Hurin had his short sword and swordbreaker on the table, wiping them with an oily rag. “You were long with the gleeman, my Lord. Is he well?”
Rand gave a start. “What? Thom? Yes, he’s…” He broke open the seal with his thumb and read.
When I think I know what you are going to do, you do something else. You are a dangerous man. Perhaps it will not he long before we are together again. Think of the Horn. Think of the glory. And think of me, for you are always mine.
Again, it bore no signature but the flowing hand itself.
“Are all women crazy?” Rand demanded of the ceiling. Hurin shrugged. Rand threw himself into the other chair, the one sized for an Ogier; his feet dangled above the floor, but he did not care. He stared at the blanketcovered chest under the edge of Loial’s bed. Think of the glory. “I wish Ingtar would come.”
The Great Hunt
Chapter 28
(Wolf)
A New Thread in the Pattern
Perrin watched the mountains of Kinslayer’s Dagger uncomfortably as he rode. The way still slanted upwards, and looked as if it would climb forever, though he thought the crest of the pass must not be too much further. To one side of the trail, the land sloped sharply down to a shallow mountain stream, dashing itself to froth over sharp rocks; to the other side the mountains reared in a series of jagged cliffs, like frozen stone waterfalls. The trail itself ran through fields of boulders, some the size of a man’s head, and some as big as a cart. It would take no great skill to hide in that.
The wolves said there were people in the mountains. Perrin wondered if they were some of Fain’s Darkfriends. The wolves did not know, or care. They only knew the Twisted Ones were somewhere ahead. Still far ahead, though Ingtar had pressed the column hard. Perrin noticed that Uno was watching the mountains around them much the way he himself was.
Mat, his bow slung across his back, rode with seeming unconcern, juggling three colored balls, yet he looked paler than he had. Verin examined him two and three times a day now, frowning, and Perrin was sure she had even tried Healing at least once, but it made no difference Perrin could see. In any case, she seemed to be more absorbed in something about which she did not speak.
Rand, Perrin thought, looking at the Aes Sedai’s back. She always rode at the head of the column with Ingtar, and she always wanted them to move even faster than the Shienaran lord would allow. Somehow, she knows about Rand. Images from the wolves flickered in his head — stone farmhouses and terraced villages, all beyond the mountain peaks; the wolves saw them no differently than they saw hills or meadows, except with a feeling that they were spoiled land. For a moment he found himself sharing that regret, remembering places the twolegs had long since abandoned, remembering the swift rush through the trees, and the hamstringing snap of his jaws as the deer tried to flee, and … With an effort he pushed the wolves out of his head. These Aes Sedai are going to destroy all of us.
Ingtar let his horse fall back beside Perrin’s. Sometimes, to Perrin’s eyes, the crescent crest on the Shienaran’s helmet looked like a Trolloc’s horns. Ingtar said softly, “Tell me again what the wolves said.”
“I’ve told you ten times,” Perrin muttered.
“Tell me again! Anything I may have missed, anything that will help me find the Horn …” Ingtar drew a breath and let it out slowly. “I must find the Horn of Valere, Perrin. Tell me again.”
There was no need for Perrin to order it in his mind, not after so many repetitions. He droned it out. “Someone — or something — attacked the Darkfriends in the night and killed those Trollocs we found.” His stomach no longer
lurched at that. Ravens and vultures were messy feeders. “The wolves call him — or it — Shadowkiller; I think it was a man, but they wouldn’t go close enough to see clearly. They are not afraid of this Shadowkiller; awe is more like it. They say the Trollocs now follow Shadowkiller. And they say Fain is with them” — even after so long the remembered smell of Fain, the feel of the man, made his mouth twist — “so the rest of the Darkfriends must be, too.”
“Shadowkiller,” Ingtar murmured. “Something of the Dark One, like a Myrddraal? I have seen things in the Blight that might be called Shadowkillers, but
… Did they see nothing else?”
“They would not come close to him. It was not a Fade. I’ve told you, they will kill a Fade quicker than they will a Trolloc, even if they lose half the pack. Ingtar, the wolves who saw it passed this to others, then still others, before it reached me. I can only tell you what they passed on, and after so many tellings …” He let the words die as Uno joined them.
“Aielman in the rocks,” the oneeyed man said quietly.
“This far from the Waste?” Ingtar said incredulously. Uno somehow managed to look offended without changing his expression, and Ingtar added, “No, I don’t doubt you. I am just surprised.”
“He flaming wanted me to see him, or I likely wouldn’t have.” Uno sounded disgusted at admitting it. “And his bloody face wasn’t veiled, so he’s not out for killing. But when you see one bloody Aiel, there’s always more you don’t.” Suddenly his eye widened. “Burn me if it doesn’t look like he bloody wants more than to be seen.” He pointed: a man had stepped into the way ahead of them.
Instantly Masema’s lance dropped to a couch, and he dug his heels into his horse, leaping to a dead gallop in three strides. He was not the only one; four steel points hurtled toward the man on the ground.
“Hold!” Ingtar shouted. “Hold, I said! I’ll have the ears of any man who doesn’t stop where he stands!”
Masema pulled in his horse viciously, sawing the reins. The others also stopped, in a cloud of dust not ten paces from the man, their lances still held steady on the man’s chest. He raised a hand to wave away the dust as it drifted toward him; it was the first move he had made.
He was a tall man, with skin dark from the sun and red hair cut short except for a tail in the back that hung to his shoulders. From his soft, laced kneehigh boots to the cloth wrapped loosely around his neck, his clothes were all in shades of brown and gray that would blend into rock or earth. The end of a short horn bow peeked over his shoulder, and a quiver bristled with arrows at his belt at one side. A long knife hung at the other. In his left hand he gripped a round hide buckler and three short spears, no more than half as long as he was tall, with points fully as long as those of the Shienaran lances.
“I have no pipers to play the tune,” the man announced with a smile, “but if you wish the dance …” He did not change his stance, but Perrin caught a sudden air of
readiness. “My name is Urien, of the Two Spires sept of the Reyn Aiel. I am a Red Shield. Remember me.”
Ingtar dismounted and walked forward, removing his helmet. Perrin hesitated only a moment before climbing down to join him. He could not miss the chance to see an Aiel close up. Acting like a blackveiled Aiel. In story after story Aiel were as deadly and dangerous as Trollocs — some even said they were all Darkfriends — but Urien’s smile somehow did not look dangerous despite the fact that he seemed poised to leap. His eyes were blue.
“He looks like Rand.” Perrin looked around to see that Mat had joined them, too. “Maybe Ingtar’s right,” Matt added quietly. “Maybe Rand is an Aiel.”
Perrin nodded. “But it doesn’t change anything.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Mat sounded as if he were talking about something beside what Perrin meant.
“We are both far from our homes,” Ingtar said to the Aiel, “and we, at least, have come for other things than fighting.” Perrin revised his opinion of Urien’s smile; the man actually looked disappointed.
“As you wish it, Shienaran.” Urien turned to Verin, just getting down off her horse, and made an odd bow, digging the points of his spears into the ground and extending his right hand, palm up. His voice became respectful. “Wise One, my water is yours.”
Verin handed her reins to one of the soldiers. She studied the Aiel as she came closer. “Why do you call me that? Do you take me for an Aiel?”
“No, Wise One. But you have the look of those who have made the journey to Rhuidean and survived. The years do not touch the Wise Ones in the same way as other women, or as they touch men.”
An excited look appeared on the Aes Sedai’s face, but Ingtar spoke impatiently. “We are following Darkfriends and Trollocs, Urien. Have you seen any sign of them?”
“Trollocs? Here?” Urien’s eyes brightened. “It is one of the signs the prophecies speak of. When the Trollocs come out of the Blight again, we will leave the Threefold Land and take back our places of old.” There was muttering from the mounted Shienarans. Urien eyed them with a pride that made him seem to be looking down from a height.
“The Threefold Land?” Mat said.
Perrin thought he looked still paler; not sick, exactly, but as if he had been out of the sun too long.
“You call it the Waste,” Urien said. “To us it is the Threefold Land. A shaping stone, to make, us; a testing ground, to prove our worth; and a punishment for the sin.”
“What sin?” Mat asked. Perrin caught his breath, waiting for the spears in Urien’s hand to flash.
The Aiel shrugged. “So long ago it was, that none remember. Except the Wise
Ones and the clan chiefs, and they will not speak of it. It must have been a very great sin if they cannot bring themselves to tell us, but the Creator punishes us well.”
“Trollocs,” Ingtar persisted. “Have you seen Trollocs?”
Urien shook his head. “I would have killed them if I had, but I have seen nothing but the rocks and the sky.”
Ingtar shook his head, losing interest, but Verin spoke, sharp concentration in her voice. “This Rhuidean. What is it? Where is it? How are the girls chosen to go?”
Urien’s face went flat, his eyes hooded. “I cannot speak of it, Wise One.”
In spite of himself Perrin’s hand gripped his axe. There was that in Urien’s voice. Ingtar had also set himself, ready to reach for his sword, and there was a stir among the mounted men. But Verin stepped up to the Aiel, until she was almost touching his chest, and looked up into his face.
“I am not a Wise One as you know them, Urien,” she said insistently. “I am Aes Sedai. Tell me what you can say of Rhuidean.”
The man who had been ready to face twenty men now looked as if he wished for an escape from this one plump woman with graying hair. “I … can tell you only what is known to all. Rhuidean lies in the lands of the Jenn Aiel, the thirteenth clan. I cannot speak of them except to name them. None may go there save women who wish to become Wise Ones, or men who wish to be clan chiefs. Perhaps the Jenn Aiel choose among them; I do not know. Many go; few return, and those are marked as what they are — Wise Ones, or clan chiefs. No more can I say, Aes Sedai. No more.”
Verin continued to look up at him, pursing her lips.
Urien looked at the sky as though he was trying to remember it. “Will you slay me now, Aes Sedai?”
She blinked. “What?”
“Will you slay me now? One of the old prophecies says that if ever we fail the Aes Sedai again, they will slay us. I know your power is greater than that of the Wise Ones.” The Aiel laughed suddenly, mirthlessly. There was a wild light in his eyes. “Bring your lightnings, Aes Sedai. I will dance with them.”
The Aiel thought he was going to die, and he was not afraid. Perrin realized his mouth was open and closed it with a snap.
“What would I not give,” Verin murmured, gazing up at Urien, “to have you in the White Tower. Or just willing to talk. Oh, be still, man. I won’t harm you. Unless you mean to harm me, with your talk of dancing.”
Urien seemed astounded. He looked at the Shienarans, sitting their horses all around, as if he suspected some trick. “You are not a Maiden of the Spear,” he said slowly. “How could I strike at a woman who has not wedded the spear? It is forbidden except to save life, and then I would take wounds to avoid it.”
“Why are you here, so far from your own lands?” she asked. “Why did you
come to us? You could have remained in the rocks, and we would never have known you were there.” The Aiel hesitated, and she added, “Tell only what you are willing to say. I do not know what your Wise Ones do, but I’ll not harm you, or try to force you.”
“So the Wise Ones say,” Urien said dryly, “yet even a clan chief must have a strong belly to avoid doing as they want.” He seemed to be picking his words carefully. “I search for … someone. A man.” His eye ran across Perrin, Mat, the Shienarans, dismissing them all. “He Who Comes With the Dawn. It is said there will be great signs and portents of his coming. I saw that you were from Shienar by your escort’s armor, and you had the look of a Wise One, so I thought you might have word of great events, the events that might herald him.”
“A man?” Verin’s voice was soft, but her eyes were as sharp as daggers. “What are these signs?”
Urien shook his head. “It is said we will know them when we hear of them, as we will know him when we see him, for he will be marked. He will come from the west, beyond the Spine of the World, but be of our blood. He will go to Rhuidean, and lead us out of the Threefold Land.” He took a spear in his right hand. Leather and metal creaked as soldiers reached for their swords, and Perrin realized he had taken hold of his axe again, but Verin waved them all to stillness with an irritated look. In the dirt Urien scraped a circle with his spearpoint, then drew across it a sinuous line. “It is said that under this sign, he will conquer.”
Ingtar frowned at the symbol, no recognition on his face, but Mat muttered something coarsely under his breath, and Perrin felt his mouth go dry. The ancient symbol of the Aes Sedai.
Verin scraped the marking away with her foot. “I cannot tell you where he is, Urien,” she said, “and I have heard of no signs or portents to guide you to him.”
“Then I will continue my search.” It was not a question, yet Urien waited until she nodded before he eyed the Shienarans proudly, challengingly, then turned his back on them. He walked away smoothly, and vanished into the rocks without looking back.
Some of the soldiers began muttering. Uno said something about “crazy bloody Aiel,” and Masema growled that they should have left the Aiel for the ravens.
“We have wasted valuable time,” Ingtar announced loudly. “We will ride harder to make it up.”
“Yes,” Verin said, “we must ride harder.”
Ingtar glanced at her, but the Aes Sedai was staring at the smudged ground, where her foot had obliterated the symbol. “Dismount,” he ordered. “Armor on the packhorses. We’re inside Cairhien, now. We do not want the Cairhienin thinking we have come to fight them. Be quick about it!”
Mat leaned close to Perrin. “Do you … ? Do you think he was talking about Rand? It’s crazy, I know, but even Ingtar thinks he’s Aiel.”
“I don’t know,” Perrin said. “Everything has been crazy since we got mixed up
with Aes Sedai.”
Softly, as to herself, Verin spoke, still staring at the ground. “It must be a part, and yet how? Does the Wheel of Time weave threads into the Pattern of which we know nothing? Or does the Dark One touch the Pattern again?”
Perrin felt a chill.
Verin looked up at the soldiers removing their armor. “Hurry!” she commanded with more snap than Ingtar and Uno combined. “We must hurry!”
The Great Hunt
Chapter 29
(InsectLike, Horned Helmet) Seanchan
Geofram Bornhald ignored the smell of burning houses and the bodies that lay sprawled on the dirt of the street. Byar and a whitecloaked guard of a hundred rode into the village at his heels, half the men he had with him. His legion was too scattered for his liking, with Questioners having too many of the commands, but his orders had been explicit: Obey the Questioners.
There had been but slight resistance here; only half a dozen dwellings gave off columns of smoke. The inn was still standing, he saw, whiteplastered stone like almost every structure on Almoth Plain.
Reining up before the inn, his eyes went past the prisoners his soldiers held near the village well to the long gibbet marring the village green. It was hastily made, only a long pole on uprights, but it held thirty bodies, their clothes ruffled by the breeze. There were small bodies hanging among their elders. Even Byar stared at that in disbelief.
“Muadh!” he roared. A grizzled man trotted away from those holding the prisoners. Muadh had fallen into the hands of Darkfriends, once; his scarred face took even the strongest aback. “Is this your work, Muadh, or the Seanchan?”
“Neither, my Lord Captain.” Muadh’s voice was a hoarse, whispered growl, another leaving of the Darkfriends. He said no more.
Bornhald frowned. “Surely that lot did not do it,” he said, gesturing to the prisoners. The Children did not look so neat as when he had brought them across Tarabon, but they seemed ready to parade compared with the rabble that crouched under their watchful eyes. Men in rags and bits of armor, with sullen faces. Remnants of the army Tarabon had sent against the invaders on Toman Head.
Muadh hesitated, then said carefully, “The villagers say they wore Taraboner cloaks, my Lord Captain. There was a big man among them, with gray eyes and a long mustache, that sounds twin to Child Earwin, and a young lad, trying to hide a pretty face behind a yellow beard, who fought with his left hand. Sounds almost like Child Wuan, my Lord Captain.”
“Questioners!” Bornhald spat. Earwin and Wuan were among those he had had to hand over to the Questioners’ command. He had seen Questioner tactics before, but this was the first time he had ever been faced with children’s bodies.
“If my Lord Captain says so.” Muadh made it sound like fervent agreement. “Cut them down,” Bornhald said wearily. “Cut them down, and make sure the
villagers know there will be no more killing.” Unless some fool decides to be brave because his woman is watching, and I have to make an example. He dismounted, eyeing the prisoners again, as Muadh hurried off calling for ladders and knives. He had more to think about than Questioners’ overzealousness; he wished he could stop thinking about Questioners altogether.
“They do not put up much fight, my Lord Captain,” Byar said, “either these Taraboners or what is left of the Domani. They snap like cornered rats, but run as soon as anything snaps back.”
“Let us see how we do against the invaders, Byar, before we look down on these men, yes?” The prisoners’ faces bore a defeated look that had been there before his men came. “Have Muadh pick one out for me.” Muadh’s face was enough to soften most men’s resolve by itself. “An officer, preferably. One who looks intelligent enough to tell what he has seen without embroidery, but young enough not to have yet grown a full backbone. Tell Muadh to be not too gentle about it, yes? Make the fellow believe that I mean to see worse happen to him than he ever dreamed of, unless he convinces me otherwise.” He tossed his reins to one of the Children and strode into the inn.
The innkeeper was there, for a wonder, an obsequious, sweating man, his dirty shirt straining over his belly until the embroidered red scrollwork seemed ready to pop off. Bornhald waved the man away; he was vaguely aware of a woman and some children huddling in a doorway, until the fat innkeeper shepherded them out.
Bornhald pulled off his gauntlets and sat at one of the tables. He knew too little about the invaders, the strangers. That was what almost everyone called them, those who did not just babble about Artur Hawkwing. He knew they called themselves the Seanchan, and Hailene. He had enough of the Old Tongue to know the latter meant Those Who Come Before, or the Forerunners. They also called themselves Rhyagelle, Those Who Come Home, and spoke of Corenne, the Return. It was almost enough to make him believe the tales of Artur Hawkwing’s armies come back. No one knew where the Seanchan had come from, other than that they had landed in ships. Bornhald’s requests for information from the Sea Folk had been met with silence. Amador did not hold the Atha’an Miere in good favor, and the attitude was returned with interest. All he knew of the Seanchan he had heard from men like those outside. Broken, beaten rabble who spoke, wideeyed and sweating, of men who came into battle riding monsters as often as horses, who fought with monsters by their sides, and brought Aes Sedai to rend the earth under their enemies’ feet.
A sound of boots in the doorway made him put on a wolfish grin, but Byar was not accompanied by Muadh. The Child of the Light who stood beside him, back braced and helmet in the crook of his arm, was Jeral, who Bornhald expected to be a hundred miles away. Over his armor, the young man wore a cloak of Domani cut, trimmed with blue, not the white cloak of the Children.
“Muadh is talking to a young fellow now, my Lord Captain,” Byar said. “Child Jeral has just ridden in with a message.”
Bornhald waved for Jeral to begin.
The young man did not unbend. “The compliments of Jaichim Carridin,” he started, looking straight ahead, “who guides the Hand of the Light in — ”
“I have no need of the Questioner’s compliments,” Bornhald growled, and saw the young man’s startled look. Jeral was young, yet. For that matter, Byar looked
uncomfortable, as well. “You will give me his message, yes? Not word for word, unless I ask it. Simply tell me what he wants.”
The Child, set to recite, swallowed before he began. “My Lord Captain, he — he says you are moving too many men too close to Toman Head. He says the Darkfriends on Almoth Plain must be rooted out, and you are — forgive me, Lord Captain — you are to turn back at once and ride toward the heart of the plain.” He stood stiffly, waiting.
Bornhald studied him. The dust of the plain stained Jeral’s face as well as his cloak and his boots. “Go and get yourself something to eat,” Bornhald told him. “There should be wash water in one of these houses, if you wish it. Return to me in an hour. I will have messages for you to carry.” He waved the young man out.
“The Questioners may be right, my Lord Captain,” Byar said when Jeral was gone. “There are many villages scattered on the plain, and the Darkfriends — ”
Bornhald’s hand slapping the table cut him off. “What Darkfriends? I have seen nothing in any village he has ordered taken except farmers and craftsmen worried that we will burn their livelihoods, and a few old women who tend the sick.” Byar’s face was a study in lack of expression; he was always readier than Bornhald to see Darkfriends. “And children, Byar? Do children here become Darkfriends?”
“The sins of the mother are visited to the fifth generation,” Byar quoted, “and the sins of the father to the tenth.” But he looked uneasy. Even Byar had never killed a child.
“Has it never occurred to you, Byar, to wonder why Carridin has taken away our banners, and the cloaks of the men the Questioners lead? Even the Questioners themselves have put off the white. This suggests something, yes?”
“He must have his reasons, Lord Captain,” Byar said slowly. “The Questioners always have reasons, even when they do not tell the rest of us.”
Bornhald reminded himself that Byar was a good soldier. “Children to the north wear Taraboner cloaks, Byar, and those to the south Domani. I do not like what this suggests to me. There are Darkfriends here, but they are in Falme, not on the plain. When Jeral rides, he will not ride alone. Messages will go to every group of the Children I know how to find. I mean to take the legion onto Toman Head, Byar, and see what the true Darkfriends, these Seanchan, are up to.”
Byar looked troubled, but before he could speak, Muadh appeared with one of the prisoners. The sweating young man in a battered, ornate breastplate shot frightened looks at Muadh’s hideous face.
Bornhald drew his dagger and began trimming his nails. He had never understood why that made some men nervous, but he used it just the same. Even his grandfatherly smile made the prisoner’s dirty face pale. “Now, young man, you will tell me everything you know about these strangers, yes? If you need to think on what to say, I will send you back out with Child Muadh to consider it.”
The prisoner darted a wideeyed look at Muadh. Then words began to pour out of him.
The long swells of the Aryth Ocean made Spray roll, but Domon’s spread feet balanced him as he held the long tube of the looking glass to his eye and studied the large vessel that pursued them. Pursued, and was slowly overtaking. The wind where Spray ran was not the best or the strongest, but where the other ship smashed the swells into mountains of foam with its bluff bow, it could not have blown better. The coastline of Toman Head loomed to the east, dark cliffs and narrow strips of sand. He had not cared to take Spray too far out, and now he feared he might pay for it.
“Strangers, Captain?” Yarin had the sound of sweat in his voice. “Is it a strangers’ ship?”
Domon lowered the looking glass, but his eye still seemed filled by that tall, squarelooking ship with its odd ribbed sails. “Seanchan,” he said, and heard Yarin groan. He drummed his thick fingers on the rail, then told the helmsman, “Take her closer in. That ship will no dare enter the shallow waters Spray can sail.”
Yarin shouted commands, and crewmen ran to haul in booms as the helmsman put the tiller over, pointing the bow more toward the shoreline. Spray moved more slowly, heading so far into the wind, but Domon was sure he could reach shoal waters before the other vessel came up on him. Did her holds be full, she could still take shallower water than ever that great hull can.
His ship rode a little higher in the water than she had on sailing from Tanchico. A third of the cargo of fireworks he had taken on there was gone, sold in the fishing villages on Toman Head, but with the silver that flowed for the fireworks had come disturbing reports. The people spoke of visits from the tall, boxy ships of the invaders. When Seanchan ships anchored off the coast, the villagers who drew up to defend their homes were rent by lightning from the sky while small boats were still ferrying the invaders ashore, and the earth erupted in fire under their feet. Domon had thought he was hearing nonsense until he was shown the blackened ground, and he had seen it in too many villages to doubt any longer. Monsters fought beside the Seanchan soldiers, not that there was ever much resistance left, the villagers said, and some even claimed that the Seanchan themselves were monsters, with heads like huge insects.
In Tanchico, no one had even known what they called themselves, and the Taraboners spoke confidently of their soldiers driving the invaders into the sea. But in every coastal town, it was different. The Seanchan told astonished people they must swear again oaths they had forsaken, though never deigning to explain when they had forsaken them, or what the oaths meant. The young women were taken away one by one to be examined, and some were carried aboard the ships and never seen again. A few older women had also vanished, some of the Guides and Healers. New mayors were chosen by the Seanchan, and new Councils, and any who protested the disappearances of the women or having no voice in the choosing might be hung, or burst suddenly into flame, or be brushed aside like yapping dogs. There was no way of telling which it would be until it was too late.
And when the people had been thoroughly cowed, when they had been made to kneel and swear, bewildered, to obey the Forerunners, await the Return, and serve Those Who Come Home with their lives, the Seanchan sailed away and usually never returned. Falme, it was said, was the only town they held fast.
In some of the villages they had left, men and women crept back toward their former lives, to the extent of talking about electing their Councils again, but most eyed the sea nervously and made palecheeked protests that they meant to hold to the oaths they had been made to swear even if they did not understand them.
Domon had no intention of meeting any Seanchan, if he could avoid it.
He was raising the glass to see what he could make out on the nearing Seanchan decks, when, with a roar, the surface of the sea broke into fountaining water and flame not a hundred paces from his larboard side. Before he had even begun to gape, another column of flame split the sea on the other side, and as he was spinning to stare at that, another burst up ahead. The eruptions died as quickly as they were born, spray from them blown across the deck. Where they had been, the sea bubbled and steamed as if boiling.
“We … we’ll reach shallow water before they can close with us,” Yarin said slowly. He seemed to be trying not to look at the water roiling under clouds of mist. Domon shook his head. “Whatever they did, they can shatter us, even do I take her into the breakers.” He shivered, thinking of the flame inside the fountains of water, and his holds full of fireworks. “Fortune prick me, we might no live to drown.” He tugged at his beard and rubbed his bare upper lip, reluctant to give the order—the vessel and what it contained were all he had in the world—but finally he made himself speak. “Bring her into the wind, Yarin, and down sail. Quickly, man,
quickly! Before they do think we still try to escape.”
As crewmen ran to lower the triangular sails, Domon turned to watch the Seanchan ship approach. Spray lost headway and pitched in the swells. The other vessel stood taller above the water than Domon’s ship, with wooden towers at bow and stern. Men were in the rigging, raising those strange sails, and armored figures stood atop the towers. A longboat was put over the side, and sped toward Spray under ten oars. It carried armored shapes, and — Domon frowned in surprise — two women crouched in the stern. The longboat thumped against Spray’s hull.
The first to climb up was one of the armored men, and Domon saw immediately why some of the villagers claimed the Seanchan themselves were monsters. The helmet looked very much like some monstrous insect’s head, with thin red plumes like feelers; the wearer seemed to be peering out through mandibles. It was painted and gilded to increase the effect, and the rest of the man’s armor was also worked with paint and gold. Overlapping plates in black and red outlined with gold covered his chest and ran down the outsides of his arms and the fronts of his thighs. Even the steel backs of his gauntlets were red and gold. Where he did not wear metal, his clothes were dark leather. The twohanded sword on his back, with its curved blade, was scabbarded and hilted in blackandred leather.
Then the armored figure removed his helmet, and Domon stared. He was a woman. Her dark hair was cut short, and her face was hard, but there was no mistaking it. He had never heard of such a thing, except among the Aiel, and Aiel were well known to be crazed. Just as disconcerting was the fact that her face did not look as different as he had expected of a Seanchan. Her eyes were blue, it was true, and her skin exceedingly fair, but he had seen both before. If this woman wore a dress, no one would look at her twice. He eyed her and revised his opinion, that cold stare and those hard cheeks would make her remarked anywhere.
The other soldiers followed the woman onto the deck. Domon was relieved to see, when some of them removed their strange helmets, that they, at least, were men; men with black eyes, or brown, who could have gone unnoticed in Tanchico or Illian. He had begun to have visions of armies of blueeyed women with swords. Aes Sedai with swords, he thought, remembering the sea erupting.
The Seanchan woman surveyed the ship arrogantly, then picked Domon out as captain — it had to be him or Yarin, by their clothes; the way Yarin had his eyes closed and was muttering prayers under his breath pointed to Domon — and fixed him with a stare like a spike.
“Are there any women among your crew or passengers?” She spoke with a soft slurring that made her hard to understand, but there was a snap in her voice that said she was used to getting answers. “Speak up, man, if you are the captain. If not, wake that other fool and tell him to speak.”
“I do be captain, my Lady,” Domon said cautiously. He had no idea how to address her, and he did not want to put a foot wrong. “I have no passengers, and there be no women in my crew.” He thought of the girls and women who had been carried off, and, not for the first time, wondered what these folk wanted with them.
The two women dressed as women were coming up from the longboat, one drawing the other — Domon blinked — by a leash of silvery metal as she climbed aboard. The leash went from a bracelet worn by the first woman to a collar around the neck of the second. He could not tell whether it was woven or jointed — it seemed somehow to be both — but it was clearly of a piece with both bracelet and collar. The first woman gathered the leash in coils as the other came onto the deck. The collared woman wore plain dark gray and stood with her hands folded and her eyes on the planks under her feet. The other had red panels bearing forked, silver lightning bolts on the breast of her blue dress and on the sides of her skirts, which ended short of the ankles of her boots. Domon eyed the women uneasily.
“Speak slowly, man,” the blueeyed woman demanded in her slurred speech. She came across the deck to confront him, staring up at him and in some way seeming taller and larger than he. “You are even harder to understand than the rest in this Lightforsaken land. And I make no claim to be of the Blood. Not yet. After Corenne
… I am Captain Egeanin.”
Domon repeated himself, trying to speak slowly, and added, “I do be a peaceful trader, Captain. I mean no harm to you, and I have no part in your war.” He could
not help eyeing the two women connected by the leash again.
“A peaceful trader?” Egeanin mused. “In that case, you will be free to go once you have sworn fealty again.” She noticed his glances and turned to smile at the women with the pride of ownership. “You admire my damane? She cost me dear, but she was worth every coin. Few but nobles own a damane, and most are property of the throne. She is strong, trader. She could have broken your ship to splinters, had I wished it so.”
Domon stared at the women and the silver leash. He had connected the one wearing the lightning with the fiery fountains in the sea, and assumed she was an Aes Sedai. Egeanin had just set his head whirling. No one could do that to …
“She is Aes Sedai?” he said disbelievingly.
He never saw the casual backhand blow coming. He staggered as her steelbacked gauntlet split his lip.
“That name is never spoken,” Egeanin said with a dangerous softness. “There are only the damane, the Leashed Ones, and now they serve in truth as well as name.” Her eyes made ice seem warm.
Domon swallowed blood and kept his hand clenched at his sides. If he had had a sword to hand, he would not have led his crew to slaughter against a dozen armored soldiers, but it was an effort to make his voice humble. “I meant no disrespect, Captain. I know nothing of you or your ways. If I do offend, it is ignorance, no intention.”
She looked at him, then said, “You are all ignorant, Captain, but you will pay the debt of your forefathers. This land was ours, and it will be ours again. With the Return, it will be ours again.” Domon did not know what to say — Surely she can no mean that nattering about Artur Hawkwing be true? — so he kept his mouth shut. “You will sail your vessel to Falme” — he tried to protest, but her glare silenced him — “where you and your ship will be examined. If you are no more than a peaceful trader, as you claim, you will be allowed to go your way when you have sworn the oaths.”
“Oaths, Captain? What oaths?”
“To obey, to await, and to serve. Your ancestors should have remembered.”
She gathered her people — except for a single man in plain armor, which marked him of low rank as much as the depth of his bow to Captain Egeanin — and their longboat pulled away toward the larger ship. The remaining Seanchan gave no orders, only sat crosslegged on the deck and began sharpening his sword while the crew put sail on and got under way. He seemed to have no fear at being alone, and Domon would have personally thrown overboard any crewman who raised a hand to him, for as Spray made her way along the coast, the Seanchan ship followed, out in deeper water. There was a mile between the two vessels, but Domon knew there was no hope of escape, and he meant to deliver the man back to Captain Egeanin as safely as if he had been cradled in his mother’s arms.
It was a long passage to Falme, and Domon finally persuaded the Seanchan to
talk, a little. A darkeyed man in his middle years, with an old scar above his eyes and another nicking his chin, his name was Caban, and he had nothing but contempt for anyone this side of the Aryth Ocean. That gave Domon a moment’s pause. Maybe they truly do be … No, that do be madness. Caban’s speech had the same slur as Egeanin’s, but where hers was silk sliding across iron, his was leather rasping on rock, and mostly he wanted to talk about battles, drinking, and women he had known. Half the time, Domon was not certain if he were speaking of here and now, or of wherever he had come from. The man was certainly not forthcoming about anything Domon wanted to know.
Once Domon asked about the damane. Caban reached up from where he sat in front of the helmsman and put the point of his sword to Domon’s throat. “Watch what your tongue touches, or you will lose it. That’s the business of the Blood, not your kind. Or mine.” He grinned while he said it, and as soon as he was done, he went back to sliding a stone along his heavy, curved blade.
Domon touched the point of blood welling above his collar and resolved not to ask that again, at least.
The closer the two vessels came to Falme, the more of the tall, squarelooking Seanchan ships they passed, some under sail, but more anchored. Every one was bluffbowed and towered, as big as anything Domon had ever seen, even among the Sea Folk. A few local craft, he saw, with their sharp bows and slanted sails, darted across the green swells. The sight gave him confidence that Egeanin had spoken the truth about letting him go free.
When Spray came up on the headland where Falme stood, Domon gaped at the numbers of the Seanchan ships anchored off the harbor. He tried counting them and gave up at a hundred, less than halfway done. He had seen as many ships in one place before — in Illian, and Tear, and even Tanchico — but those vessels had included many smaller craft. Muttering glumly to himself, he took Spray into the harbor, shepherded by her great Seanchan watchdog.
Falme stood on a spit of land at the very tip of Toman Head, with nothing further west of it except the Aryth Ocean. High cliffs ran to the harbor mouth on both sides, and atop one of those, where every ship running into the harbor had to pass under them, stood the towers of the Watchers Over the Waves. A cage hung over the side of one of the towers, with a man sitting in it despondently, legs dangling through the bars.
“Who is that?” Domon asked.
Caban had finally given over sharpening his sword, after Domon had begun to wonder if he meant to shave with it. The Seanchan glanced up to where Domon pointed. “Oh. That is the First Watcher. Not the one who sat in the chair when we first came, of course. Every time he dies, they choose another, and we put him in the cage.”
“But why?” Domon demanded.
Caban’s grin showed too many teeth. “They watched for the wrong thing, and
forgot when they should have been remembering.”
Domon tore his eyes away from the Seanchan. Spray slid down the last real sea swell and into the quieter waters of the harbor. I do be a trader, and it is none of my business.
Falme rose from stone docks up the slopes of the hollow that made the harbor. Domon could not decide whether the dark stone houses made up a goodly sized town or a small city. Certainly he saw no building in it to rival the smallest palace in Illian.
He guided Spray to a place at one of the docks, and wondered, while the crew tied the ship fast, if the Seanchan might buy some of the fireworks in his hold. None of my business.
To his surprise, Egeanin had herself rowed to the dock with her damane. There was another woman wearing the bracelet this time, with the red panels and forked lightning on her dress, but the damane was the same sadfaced woman who never looked up unless the other spoke to her. Egeanin had Domon and his crew herded off the ship to sit on the dock under the eyes of a pair of her soldiers — she seemed to think no more were needed, and Domon was not about to argue with her — while others searched Spray under her direction. The damane was part of the search.
Down the dock, a thing appeared. Domon could think of no other way to describe it. A hulking creature with a leathery, graygreen hide and a beak of a mouth in a wedgeshaped head. And three eyes. It lumbered along beside a man whose armor bore three painted eyes, just like those of the creature. The local people, dockmen and sailors in roughly embroidered shirts and long vests to their knees, shied away as the pair passed, but no Seanchan gave them a second glance. The man with the beast seemed to be directing it with hand signals.
Man and creature turned in among the buildings, leaving Domon staring and his crew muttering to themselves. The two Seanchan guards sneered at them silently. No my business, Domon reminded himself. His business was his ship.
The air had a familiar smell of salt water and pitch. He shifted uneasily on the stone, hot from the sun, and wondered what the Seanchan were searching for. What the damane was searching for. Wondered what that thing had been. Gulls cried, wheeling above the harbor. He thought of the sounds a caged man might make. It is no my business.
Eventually Egeanin led the others back onto the dock. The Seanchan captain had something wrapped in a piece of yellow silk, Domon noted warily. Something small enough to carry in one hand, but which she held carefully in both.
He got to his feet — slowly, for the soldiers’ sake, though their eyes held the same contempt Caban’s did. “You see, Captain? I do be only a peaceful trader. Perhaps your people would care to buy some fireworks?”
“Perhaps, trader.” There was an air of suppressed excitement about her that made him uneasy, and her next words increased the feeling. “You will come with me.”
She told two soldiers to come along, and one of them gave Domon a push to get him started. It was not a rough shove; Domon had seen farmers push a cow in the same way to make it move. Setting his teeth, he followed Egeanin.
The cobblestone street climbed the slope, leaving the smell of the harbor behind. The slateroofed houses grew larger and taller as the street climbed. Surprisingly for a town held by invaders, the streets held more local people than Seanchan soldiers, and now and again a curtained palanquin was borne past by barechested men. The Falmen seemed to be going about their business as if the Seanchan were not there. Or almost not there. When palanquin or soldier passed, both poor folk, with only a curling line or two worked on their dirty clothes, and the richer, with shirts, vests, and dresses covered from shoulder to waist in intricately embroidered patterns, bowed and remained bent until the Seanchan were gone. They did the same for Domon and his guard. Neither Egeanin nor her soldiers so much as glanced at them.
Domon realized with a sudden shock that some of the local people they passed wore daggers at their belts, and in a few cases swords. He was so surprised that he spoke without thinking. “Some of them be on your side?”
Egeanin frowned over her shoulder at him, obviously puzzled. Without slowing, she looked at the people and nodded to herself. “You mean the swords. They are our people, now, trader; they have sworn the oaths.” She stopped abruptly, pointing at a tall, heavyshouldered man with a heavily embroidered vest and a sword swinging on a plain leather baldric. “You.”
The man halted in midstep, one foot in the air and a frightened look suddenly on his face. It was a hard face, but he looked as if he wanted to run. Instead, he turned to her and bowed, hands on knees, eyes fixed on her boots. “How may this one serve the captain?” he asked in a tight voice.
“You are a merchant?” Egeanin said. “You have sworn the oaths?” “Yes, Captain. Yes.” He did not take his eyes from her feet.
“What do you tell the people when you take your wagons inland?”
“That they must obey the Forerunners, Captain, await the Return, and serve Those Who Come Home.”
“And do you never think to use that sword against us?”
The man’s hands went whiteknuckled gripping his knees, and there was suddenly sweat in his voice. “I have sworn the oaths, Captain. I obey, await, and serve.”
“You see?” Egeanin said, turning to Domon. “There is no reason to forbid them weapons. There must be trade, and merchants must protect themselves from bandits. We allow the people to come and go as they will, so long as they obey, await, and serve. Their forefathers broke their oaths, but these have learned better.” She started back up the hill, and the soldiers pushed Domon after her.
He looked back at the merchant. The man stayed bent as he was till Egeanin was ten paces up the street, then he straightened and hurried the other way, leaping
down the sloping street.
Egeanin and his guards did not look around, either, when a mounted Seanchan troop passed them, climbing the street. The soldiers rode creatures that looked almost like cats the size of horses, but with lizards’ scales rippling bronze beneath their saddles. Clawed feet grasped the cobblestones. A threeeyed head turned to regard Domon as the troop climbed by; aside from everything else, it seemed too — knowing — for Domon’s peace of mind. He stumbled and almost fell. All along the street, the Falmen were pressing themselves back against the fronts of the buildings, some closing their eyes. The Seanchan paid them no heed.
Domon understood why the Seanchan could allow the people as much freedom as they did. He wondered if he would have had nerve enough to resist. Damane. Monsters. He wondered if there was anything to stop the Seanchan from marching all the way to the Spine of the World. No my business, he reminded himself roughly, and considered whether there was any way to avoid the Seanchan in his future trading.
They reached the top of the incline, where the town gave way to hills. There was no town wall. Ahead were the inns that served merchants who traded inland, and wagon yards and stables. Here, the houses would have made respectable manors for the minor lords in Illian. The largest of them had an honor guard of Seanchan soldiers out front, and a blueedged banner bearing a golden, spreadwinged hawk rippling above it. Egeanin surrendered her sword and dagger before taking Domon inside. Her two soldiers remained in the street. Domon began to sweat. He smelled a lord in this; it was never good to do business with a lord on the
lord’s own ground.
In the front hall Egeanin left Domon at the door and spoke to a servant. A local man, judging by the full sleeves of his shirt and the spirals embroidered across his chest; Domon believed he caught the words “High Lord.” The servant hurried away, returning finally to lead them to what was surely the largest room in the house. Every stick of furniture had been cleared out of it, even the rugs, and the stone floor was polished to a bright gleam. Folding screens painted with strange birds hid walls and windows.
Egeanin stopped just inside the room. When Domon tried to ask where they were and why, she silenced him with a savage glare and a wordless growl. She did not move, but she seemed on the point of bouncing on her toes. She held whatever it was she had taken from his ship as if it were precious. He tried to imagine what it could be.
Suddenly a gong sounded softly, and the Seanchan woman dropped to her knees, setting the silkwrapped something carefully beside her. At a look from her, Domon got down as well. Lords had strange ways, and he suspected Seanchan lords might have stranger ones than he knew.
Two men appeared in the doorway at the far end of the room. One had the left
side of his scalp shaved, his remaining pale golden hair braided and hanging down over his ear to his shoulder. His deep yellow robe was just long enough to let the toes of yellow slippers peek out when he walked. The other wore a blue silk robe, brocaded with birds and long enough to trail nearly a span on the floor behind him. His head was shaved bald, and his fingernails were at least an inch long, those on the first two fingers of each hand lacquered blue. Domon’s mouth dropped open.
“You are in the presence of the High Lord Turak,” the yellowhaired man intoned, “who leads Those Who Come Before, and succors the Return.”
Egeanin prostrated herself with her hands at her sides. Domon imitated her with alacrity. Even the High Lords of Tear would no demand this, he thought. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Egeanin kissing the floor. With a grimace, he decided there was a limit to imitation. They can no see whether I do or no anyway.
Egeanin suddenly stood. He started to rise as well, and made it as far as one knee before a growl in her throat and a scandalized look on the face of the man with the braid put him back down, face to the floor and muttering under his breath. I would no do this for the King of Illian and the Council of Nine together.
“Your name is Egeanin?” It had to be the voice of the man in the blue robe. His slurring speech had a rhythm almost like singing.
“I was so named on my swordday, High Lord,” she replied humbly. “This is a fine specimen, Egeanin. Quite rare. Do you wish a payment?”
“That the High Lord is pleased is payment enough. I live to serve, High Lord.” “I will mention your name to the Empress, Egeanin. After the Return, new
names will be called to the Blood. Show yourself fit, and you may shed the name Egeanin for a higher.”
“The High Lord honors me.” “Yes. You may leave me.”
Domon could see nothing but her boots backing out of the room, pausing at intervals for bows. The door closed behind her. There was a long silence. He was watching sweat from his forehead drip onto the floor when Turak spoke again.
“You may rise, trader.”
Domon got to his feet, and saw what Turak held in his longnailed fingers. The cuendillar disk shaped into the ancient seal of the Aes Sedai. Remembering Egeanin’s reaction when he mentioned Aes Sedai, Domon began to sweat in earnest. There was no animosity in the High Lord’s dark eyes, only a slight curiosity, but Domon did not trust lords.
“Do you know what this is, trader?”
“No, High Lord.” Domon’s reply was as steady as a rock; no trader lasted long who could not lie with a straight face and an easy voice.
“And yet you kept it in a secret place.”
“I do collect old things, High Lord, from times past. There do be those who would steal such, did they lay easy to hand.”
Turak regarded the blackandwhite disk for a moment. “This is cuendillar, trader
— do you know that name? — and older than you perhaps know. Come with me.”
Domon followed the man cautiously, feeling a little more sure of himself. With any lord of the lands he knew, if guards were going to be summoned, they already would have been. But the little he had seen of Seanchan told him they did not do things as other men did. He schooled his face to stillness.
He was led into another room. He thought the furniture here had to have been brought by Turak. It seemed to be made of curves, with no straight lines at all, and the wood was polished to bring out strange graining. There was one chair, on a silk carpet woven in birds and flowers, and one large cabinet made in a circle. Folding screens made new walls.
The man with the braid opened the doors of the cabinet to reveal shelves holding an odd assortment of figurines, cups, bowls, vases, fifty different things, no two alike in size or shape. Domon’s breath caught as Turak carefully set the disk beside its exact twin.
“Cuendillar,” Turak said. “That is what I collect, trader. Only the Empress herself has a finer collection.”
Domon’s eyes almost popped out of his head. If everything on those shelves was truly cuendillar, it was enough to buy a kingdom, or at the least to found a great House. Even a king might beggar himself to buy so much of it, if he even knew where to find so much. He put on a smile.
“High Lord, please accept this piece as a gift.” He did not want to let it go, but that was better than angering this Seanchan. Maybe the Darkfriends will chase him now. “I do be but a simple trader. I want only to trade. Let me sail, and I do promise that — ”
Turak’s expression never changed, but the man with the braid cut Domon off with a snapped, “Unshaven dog! You speak of giving the High Lord what Captain Egeanin has already given. You bargain, as if the High Lord were a — a merchant! You will be flayed alive over nine days, dog, and — ” The barest motion of Turak’s finger silenced him.
“I cannot allow you to leave me, trader,” the High Lord said. “In this shadowed land of oathbreakers, I find none who can converse with a man of sensibilities. But you are a collector. Perhaps your conversation will be interesting.” He took the chair, lolling back in its curves to study Domon.
Domon put on what he hoped was an ingratiating smile. “High Lord, I do be a simple trader, a simple man. I do no have the way of talking with great Lords.”
The man with the braid glared at him, but Turak seemed not to hear. From behind one of the screens, a slim, pretty young woman appeared on quick feet to kneel beside the High Lord, offering a lacquered tray bearing a single cup, thin and handleless, of some steaming black liquid. Her dark, round face was vaguely reminiscent of the Sea Folk. Turak took the cup carefully in his longnailed fingers, never looking at the young woman, and inhaled the fumes. Domon took one look at the girl and pulled his eyes away with a strangled gasp; her white silk robe was
embroidered with flowers, but so sheer he could see right through it, and there was nothing beneath but her own slimness.
“The aroma of kaf,” Turak said, “is almost as enjoyable as the flavor. Now, trader. I have learned that cuendillar is even more rare here than in Seanchan. Tell me how a simple trader came to possess a piece.” He sipped his kaf and waited.
Domon took a deep breath and set about trying to lie his way out of Falme.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 30
(Rising Sun) Daes Dae’mar
In the room shared by Hurin and Loial, Rand peered through the window at the ordered lines and terraces of Cairhien, the stone buildings and slate roofs. He could not see the Illuminators’ chapter house; even if huge towers and great lords’ houses had not been in the way, the city walls would have prevented it. The Illuminators were on everyone’s tongues in the city, even now, days after the night when they had lofted only one nightflower into the sky, and that early. A dozen different versions of the scandal were being told, discounting minor variations, but none close to the truth.
Rand turned away. He hoped no one had been hurt in the fire, but the Illuminators had not so far admitted there had been a fire. They were a closemouthed lot about what went on inside their chapter house.
“I will take the next watch,” he told Hurin, “as soon as I come back.”
“There is no need, my Lord.” Hurin bowed as deeply as any Cairhienin. “I can keep watch. Truly, my Lord need not trouble himself.”
Rand drew a deep breath and exchanged looks with Loial. The Ogier only shrugged. The sniffer was growing more formal every day they remained in Cairhien; the Ogier simply commented that humans often acted oddly.
“Hurin,” Rand said, “you used to call me Lord Rand, and you used not to bow every time I looked at you.” I want him to unbend and call me Lord Rand again, he thought with amazement. Lord Rand! Light, we have to get out of here before I start wanting him to bow. “Will you please sit down? You make me tired, looking at you.”
Hurin stood with his back stiff, yet appeared ready to leap to perform any task Rand might request. He neither sat down nor relaxed now. “It wouldn’t be proper, my Lord. We have to show these Cairhienin we know how to be every bit as proper as — ”
“Will you stop saying that!” Rand shouted. “As you wish, my Lord.”
It was an effort for Rand not to sigh again. “Hurin, I’m sorry. I should not have shouted at you.”
“It’s your right, my Lord,” Hurin said simply. “If I don’t do the way you want, it’s your right to shout.”
Rand stepped toward the sniffer with the intention of grabbing the man’s collar and shaking him.
A knock on the connecting door to Rand’s room froze them all, but Rand was pleased to see that Hurin did not wait to ask permission before picking up his sword. The heronmark blade was at Rand’s waist; going out, he touched its hilt. He waited for Loial to seat himself on his long bed, arranging his legs and the tails of
his coat to further obscure the blanketcovered chest under the bed, then yanked open the door.
The innkeeper stood there, rocking with eagerness and pushing his tray at Rand. Two sealed parchments lay on the tray. “Forgive me, my Lord,” Cuale said breathlessly. “I could not wait until you came down, and then you were not in your own room, and — and … Forgive me, but…” He jiggled the tray.
Rand snatched the invitations — there had been so many — without looking at them, took the innkeeper’s arm, and turned him toward the door to the hall. “Thank you, Master Cuale, for taking the trouble. If you’ll leave us alone, now, please…”
“But, my Lord,” Cuale protested, “these are from — ”
“Thank you.” Rand pushed the man into the hall and pulled the door shut firmly. He tossed the parchments onto the table. “He hasn’t done that before. Loial, do you think he was listening at the door before he knocked?”
“You are starting to think like these Cairhienin.” The Ogier laughed, but his ears twitched thoughtfully and he added, “Still, he is Cairhienin, so he may well have been. I don’t think we said anything he should not have heard.”
Rand tried to remember. None of them had mentioned the Horn of Valere, or Trollocs, or Darkfriends. When he found himself wondering what Cuale could make of what they actually had said, he gave himself a shake. “This place is getting to you, too,” he muttered to himself.
“My Lord?” Hurin had picked up the sealed parchments and was gazing wideeyed at the seals. “My Lord, these are from Lord Barthanes, High Seat of House Damodred, and from” — his voice dropped with awe — “the King.”
Rand waved them away. “They still go in the fire like the rest. Unopened.” “But, my Lord!”
“Hurin,” Rand said patiently, “you and Loial between you have explained this Great Game to me. If I go wherever it is they’ve invited me, the Cairhienin will read something into it and think I am part of somebody’s plot. If I don’t go, they’ll read something into that. If I send back an answer, they will dig for meaning in it, and the same if I don’t answer. And since half of Cairhien apparently spies on the other half, everybody knows what I do. I burned the first two, and I will burn these, just like all the others.” One day there had been twelve in the pile he tossed into the commonroom fireplace, seals unbroken. “Whatever they make of it, at least it’s the same for everybody. I am not for anyone in Cairhien, and I am not against anyone.”
“I have tried to tell you,” Loial said, “I don’t think it works that way. Whatever you do, Cairhienin will see some sort of plot in it. At least, that is what Elder Haman always said.”
Hurin held the sealed invitations out to Rand as if offering gold. “My Lord, this one bears the personal seal of Galldrian. His personal seal, my Lord. And this one the personal seal of Lord Barthanes, who is next to the King himself in power. My Lord, burn these, and you make enemies as powerful as you can find. Burning them’s worked so far because the other Houses are all waiting to see what you’re up
to, and thinking you must have powerful allies to risk insulting them. But Lord Barthanes — and the King! Insult them, and they’ll act for sure.”
Rand scrubbed his hands through his hair. “What if I refuse them both?”
“It won’t work, my Lord. Every last House has sent you an invitation, now. If you decline these — well, for sure at least one of the other Houses will figure, if you’re not allied with the King or Lord Barthanes, then they can answer your insult of burning their invitation. My Lord, I hear the Houses in Cairhien use killers, now. A knife in the street. An arrow from a rooftop. Poison slipped in your wine.”
“You could accept them both,” Loial suggested. “I know you don’t want to, Rand, but it might even be fun. An evening at a lord’s manor, or even at the Royal Palace. Rand, the Shienarans believed in you.”
Rand grimaced. He knew it had been chance that the Shienarans thought he was a lord; a chance likeness of names, a rumor among the servants, and Moiraine and the Amyrlin stirring it all. But Selene had believed it, too. Maybe she’ll be at one of these.
Hurin was shaking his head violently, though. “Builder, you don’t know Daes Dae’mar as well as you think you do. Not the way they play it in Cairhien, not now. With most Houses, it wouldn’t matter. Even when they’re plotting against each other to the knife, they act like they aren’t, out where everybody can see. But not these two. House Damodred held the throne until Laman lost it, and they want it back. The King would crush them, if they weren’t nearly as powerful as he is. You can’t find bitterer rivals than House Riatin and House Damodred. If my Lord accepts both, both Houses will know it as soon as he sends his answers, and they’ll both think he’s part of some plot by the other against them. They’ll use the knife and the poison as quick as look at you.”
“And I suppose,” Rand growled, “if I only accept one, the other will think I’m allied with that House.” Hurin nodded. “And they will probably try to kill me to stop whatever I’m involved in.” Hurin nodded again. “Then do you have any suggestion as to how I avoid any of them wanting to see me dead?” Hurin shook his head. “I wish I’d never burned those first two.”
“Yes, my Lord. But it wouldn’t have made much difference, I’m guessing.
Whoever you accepted or rejected, these Cairhienin would see something in it.”
Rand held out his hand, and Hurin laid the two folded parchments in it. The one was sealed, not with the Tree and Crown of House Damodred, but with Barthanes’s Charging Boar. The other bore Galldrian’s Stag. Personal seals. Apparently he had managed to rouse interest in the highest quarters by doing nothing at all.
“These people are crazy,” he said, trying to think of a way out of this. “Yes, my Lord.”
“I will let them see me in the common room with these,” he said slowly. Whatever was seen in the common room at midday was known in ten Houses before nightfall, and in all of them by daybreak next. “I won’t break the seals. That way, they will know I have not answered either one yet. As long as they are waiting
to see which way I jump, maybe I can earn a few more days. Ingtar has to come soon. He has to.”
“Now that is thinking like a Cairhienin, my Lord,” Hurin said, grinning.
Rand gave him a sour look, then stuffed the parchments into his pocket on top of Selene’s letters. “Let’s go, Loial. Maybe Ingtar has arrived.”
When he and Loial reached the common room, no man and woman in it looked at Rand. Cuale was polishing a silver tray as if his life depended on its gleam. The serving girls hurried between the tables as if Rand and the Ogier did not exist. Every last person at the tables stared into his or her mug as if the secrets of power lay in wine or ale. Not one of them said a word.
After a moment, he pulled the two invitations from his pocket and studied the seals, then stuck them back. Cuale gave a little jump as Rand started for the door. Before it closed behind him, he heard conversation spring up again.
Rand strode down the street so fast that Loial did not have to shorten his stride to stay beside him. “We have to find a way out of the city, Loial. This trick with the invitations can’t work more than two or three days. If Ingtar doesn’t come by then, we must leave anyway.”
“Agreed,” Loial said. “But how?”
Loial began ticking off points on his thick fingers. “Fain is out there, or there would not have been Trollocs in the Foregate. If we ride out, they will be on us as soon as we are out of sight of the city. If we travel with a merchant train, they’ll certainly attack it.” No merchant would have more than five or six guards, and they would probably run as soon as they saw a Trolloc. “If only we knew how many Trollocs Fain has, and how many Darkfriends. You have cut his numbers down.” He did not mention the Trolloc he had killed, but from his frown, his long eyebrows hanging down onto his cheeks, he was thinking of it.
“It doesn’t matter how many he has,” Rand said. “Ten are as bad as a hundred. If ten Trollocs attack us, I don’t think we’ll get away again.” He avoided thinking of the way he might, just might, deal with ten Trollocs. It had not worked when he tried to help Loial, after all.
“I do not think we could, either. I don’t think we have money to take passage very far, but even so, if we tried to reach the Foregate docks — well, Fain must have Darkfriends watching. If he thought we were taking ship, I don’t believe he would care who saw the Trollocs. Even if we fought free of them somehow, we would have to explain ourselves to the city guards, and they would certainly not believe we cannot open the chest, so — ”
“We are not letting any Cairhienin see that chest, Loial.”
The Ogier nodded. “And the city docks are no good, either.” The city docks were reserved for the grain barges and the pleasure craft of the lords and ladies. No one came to them without permission. One could look down on them from the wall, but it was a drop that would break even Loial’s neck. Loial wiggled his thumb as if
trying to think of a point for that, too. “I suppose it is too bad we cannot reach Stedding Tsofu. Trollocs would never come into a stedding. But I don’t suppose they would let us get that far without attacking.”
Rand did not answer. They had reached the big guardhouse just inside the gate by which they had first entered Cairhien. Outside, the Foregate teemed and milled, and a pair of guards kept watch on them. Rand thought a man, dressed in what had once been good Shienaran clothes, ducked back into the crowd at the sight of him, but he could not be sure. There were too many people in clothes from too many lands, all of them hurrying. He went up the steps into the guardhouse, past breastplated guards on either side of the door.
The large anteroom had hard wooden benches for people with business there, mainly folk waiting with a humble patience, wearing the plain, dark garments that marked the poorer commoners. There were a few Foregaters among them, picked out by shabbiness and bright colors, no doubt hoping for permission to seek work inside the walls.
Rand went straight to the long table in the back of the room. There was only one man seated behind it, not a soldier, with one green bar across his coat. A plump fellow whose skin looked too tight, he adjusted documents on the table and shifted the position of his inkwell twice before looking up at Rand and Loial with a false smile.
“How may I help you, my Lord?”
“The same way I hoped you could help me yesterday,” Rand said with more patience than he felt, “and the day before, and the day before that. Has Lord Ingtar come?”
“Lord Ingtar, my Lord?”
Rand took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Lord Ingtar of House Shinowa, from Shienar. The same man I have asked after every day I’ve come here.”
“No one of that name has entered the city, my Lord.”
“Are you certain? Don’t you need to look at your lists, at least?”
“My Lord, the lists of foreigners who have come to Cairhien are exchanged among the guardhouses at sunrise and at sunset, and I examine them as soon as they come before me. No Shienaran lord has entered Cairhien in some time.”
“And the Lady Selene? Before you ask again, I do not know her House. But I’ve given you her name, and I have described her to you three times. Isn’t that enough?” The man spread his hands. “I am sorry, my Lord. Not knowing her House makes it very difficult.” He had a bland look on his face. Rand wondered whether
he would tell even if he knew.
A movement at one of the doors behind the desk caught Rand’s eye—a man starting to step into the anteroom, then turning away hurriedly. “Perhaps Captain Caldevwin can help me,” Rand told the clerk.
“Captain Caldevwin, my Lord?” “I just saw him behind you.”
“I am sorry, my Lord. If there was a Captain Caldevwin in the guardhouse, I would know.”
Rand stared at him until Loial touched his shoulder. “Rand, I think we might as well go.”
“Thank you for your help,” Rand said in a tight voice. “I will return tomorrow.” “It is my pleasure to do what I may,” the man said with his false smile.
Rand stalked out of the guardhouse so fast that Loial had to hurry to catch him up in the street. “He was lying, you know, Loial.” He did not slow down, but rather hurried along as if he could burn away some of his frustration through physical exertion. “Caldevwin was there. He could be lying about all of it. Ingtar could already be here, looking for us. I’ll bet he knows who Selene is, too.”
“Perhaps, Rand. Daes Dae’mar —”
“Light, I’m tired of hearing about the Great Game. I don’t want to play it. I do not want to be any part of it.” Loial walked beside him, saying nothing. “I know,” Rand said at last. “They think I’m a lord, and in Cairhien, even outland lords are part of the Game. I wish I’d never put on this coat.” Moiraine, he thought bitterly. She’s still causing me trouble. Almost immediately, though, if reluctantly, he admitted that she could hardly be blamed for this. There had always been some reason to pretend to be what he was not. First keeping Hurin’s spirits up, and then trying to impress Selene. After Selene, there had not seemed to be any way out of it. His steps slowed until he came to a halt. “When Moiraine let me go, I thought things would be simple again. Even chasing after the Horn, even with — with everything, I thought it would be simple.” Even with saidin inside your head? “Light, what I wouldn’t give to have everything be simple again.”
“Ta’veren,” Loial began.
“I do not want to hear about that, either.” Rand started off again as fast as before. “All I want is to give the dagger to Mat, and the Horn to Ingtar.” Then what? Go mad? Die? If I die before I go mad, at least I won’t hurt anybody else. But I don’t want to die, either. Lan can talk about Sheathing the Sword, but I’m a shepherd, not a Warder. “If I can just not touch it,” he muttered, “maybe I can … Owyn almost made it.”
“What, Rand? I didn’t hear that.”
“It was nothing,” Rand said wearily. “I wish Ingtar would get here. And Mat, and Perrin.”
They walked along in silence for a time, with Rand lost in thought. Thom’s nephew had lasted almost three years by channeling only when he thought he had to. If Owyn had managed to limit how often he channeled, it must be possible to not channel at all, no matter how seductive saidin was.
“Rand,” Loial said, “there’s a fire up ahead.”
Rand got rid of his unwelcome thoughts and looked off into the city, frowning. A thick column of black smoke billowed up above the rooftops. He could not see what lay at the base of it, but it was too close to the inn.
“Darkfriends,” he said, staring at the smoke. “Trollocs can’t come inside the walls without being seen, but Darkfriends … Hurin!” He broke into a run, Loial easily keeping pace beside him.
The closer they came, the more certain it was, until they rounded the last stoneterraced corner and there was The Defender of the Dragonwall, smoke pouring out of its upper windows and flames breaking through the roof. A crowd had gathered in front of the inn. Cuale, shouting and jumping about, was directing men carrying furnishings out into the street. A double line of men passed inside buckets filled with water from a well down the street and empty buckets back out. Most of the people only stood and watched; a new gout of flame burst through the slate roof, and they gave a loud aaaah.
Rand pushed through the crowd to the innkeeper. “Where is Hurin?”
“Careful with that table!” Cuale shouted. “Do not scrape it!” He looked at Rand and blinked. His face was smudged with smoke. “My Lord? Who? Your manservant? I do not remember seeing him, my Lord. No doubt he went out. Do not drop those candlesticks, fool! They are silver!” Cuale danced off to harangue the men lugging his belongings out of the inn.
“Hurin wouldn’t have gone out,” Loial said. “He would not have left the …” He looked around and left it unsaid; some of the onlookers seemed to find an Ogier as interesting as the fire.
“I know,” Rand said, and plunged into the inn.
The common room hardly seemed as if the building were on fire. The double line of men stretched up the stairs, passing their buckets, and others scrambled to carry out what furniture was left, but there was no more smoke down here than if something had been burning the kitchen. As Rand pressed upstairs, it began to thicken. Coughing, he ran up the steps.
The lines stopped short of the second landing, men halfway up the stairs hurling their water up into a smokefilled hallway. Flames licking up the walls flickered red through the black smoke.
One of the men grabbed Rand’s arm. “You cannot go up there, my Lord. It is all lost above here. Ogier, speak to him.”
It was the first Rand realized that Loial had followed him. “Go back, Loial. I’ll bring him out.”
“You cannot carry Hurin and the chest both, Rand.” The Ogier shrugged. “Besides, I won’t leave my books to burn.”
“Then keep low. Under the smoke.” Rand dropped to his hands and knees on the stairs, and scrambled up the rest of the way. There was cleaner air down near the floor; still smoky enough to make him cough, but he could breathe it. Yet even the air seemed blistering hot. He could not get enough of it through his nose. He breathed through his mouth, and felt his tongue drying.
Some of the water the men threw landed on him, soaking him to the skin. The coolness was only a momentary relief; the heat came right back. He crawled on
determinedly, aware of Loial behind him only from the Ogier’s coughing.
One wall of the hallway was almost solid flame, and the floor near it had already begun to add thin tendrils to the cloud that hung over his head. He was glad he could not see what lay above the smoke. Ominous crackling told enough.
The door to Hurin’s room had not caught yet, but it was hot enough that he had to try twice before he could manage to push it open. The first thing to meet his eye was Hurin, sprawled on the floor. Rand crawled to the sniffer and lifted him up. There was a lump on the side of his head the size of a plum.
Hurin opened unfocused eyes. “Lord Rand?” he murmured faintly. “… knock at the door … thought it was more invi …” His eyes rolled back in his head. Rand felt for a heartbeat, and sagged with relief when he found it.
“Rand …” Loial coughed. He was beside his bed, with the covers thrown up to reveal the bare boards underneath. The chest was gone.
Above the smoke, the ceiling creaked, and flaming pieces of wood fell to the floor.
Rand said, “Get your books. I will take Hurin. Hurry.” He started to drape the limp sniffer over his shoulders, but Loial took Hurin from him.
“The books will have to burn, Rand. You can’t carry him and crawl, and if you stand up, you will never reach the stairs.” The Ogier pulled Hurin up onto his broad back, arms and legs hanging to either side. The ceiling gave a loud crack. “We must hurry, Rand.”
“Go, Loial. Go, and I’ll follow.”
The Ogier crawled into the hall with his burden, and Rand started after him. Then he stopped, staring back at the connecting door to his room. The banner was still in there. The banner of the Dragon. Let it burn, he thought, and an answering thought came as if he had heard Moiraine say it. Your life may depend on it. She’s still trying to use me. Your life may depend on it. Aes Sedai never lie.
With a groan, he rolled across the floor and kicked open the door to his room.
The other room was a mass of flame. The bed was a bonfire, red runners already crossed the floor. There would be no crawling across that. Getting to his feet, he ran crouching into the room, flinching from the heat, coughing, choking. Steam rose from his damp coat. One side of the wardrobe was already burning. He snatched open the door. His saddlebags lay inside, still protected from the fire, one side bulging with the banner of Lews Therin Telamon, the wooden flute case beside them. For an instant, he hesitated. I could still let it burn.
The ceiling above him groaned. He grabbed saddlebags and flute case and threw himself back through the door, landing on his knees as burning timbers crashed where he had stood. Dragging his burden, he crawled into the hall. The floor shook with more falling beams.
The men with the buckets were gone when he reached the stairs. He all but slid down the steps to the next landing, scrambled to his feet and ran through the nowempty building into the street. The onlookers stared at him, with his face
blackened and his coat covered with smut, but he staggered to where Loial had propped Hurin against the wall of a house across the street. A woman from the crowd was wiping Hurin’s face with a cloth, but his eyes were still closed, and his breath came in heaves.
“Is there a Wisdom nearby?” Rand demanded. “He needs help.” The woman looked at him blankly, and he tried to remember the other names he had heard people call the women who would be Wisdoms in the Two Rivers. “A Wise Woman? A woman you call Mother somebody? A woman who knows herbs and healing?”
“I am a Reader, if that is what you mean,” the woman said, “but all I know to do for this one is to make him comfortable. Something is broken inside his head, I fear.”
“Rand! It is you!”
Rand stared. It was Mat, leading his horse through the crowd, with his bow strung across his back. A Mat whose face was pale and drawn, but still Mat, and grinning, if weakly. And behind him came Perrin, his yellow eyes shining in the fire and earning as many looks as the blaze. And Ingtar, dismounting in a highcollared coat instead of armor, but still with his sword hilt sticking up over his shoulder.
Rand felt a shiver run through him. “It’s too late,” he told them. “You came too late.” And he sat down in the street and began to laugh.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 31
(Rising Sun) On the Scent
Rand did not know Verin was there until the Aes Sedai took his face in her hands. For a moment he could see worry in her face, perhaps even fear, and then suddenly he felt as if he had been doused with cold water, not the wet but the tingle. He gave one abrupt shudder and stopped laughing; she left him to crouch over Hurin. The Reader watched her carefully. So did Rand. What is she doing here? As if I didn’t know.
“Where did you go?” Mat demanded hoarsely. “You all just disappeared, and now you’re in Cairhien ahead of us. Loial?” The Ogier shrugged uncertainly and eyed the crowd, his ears twitching. Half the people had turned from the fire to watch the newcomers. A few edged closer trying to listen.
Rand let Perrin give him a hand up. “How did you find the inn?” He glanced at Verin, kneeling with her hands on the sniffer’s head. “Her?”
“In a way,” Perrin said. “The guards at the gate wanted our names, and a fellow coming out of the guardhouse gave a jump when he heard Ingtar’s name. He said he didn’t know it, but he had a smile that shouted ‘lie’ a mile off.”
“I think I know the man you mean,” Rand said. “He smiles that way all the time.”
“Verin showed him her ring,” Mat put in, “and whispered in his ear.” He looked and sounded sick, his cheeks flushed and tight, but he managed a grin. Rand had never noticed his cheekbones before. “I couldn’t hear what she said, but I didn’t know whether his eyes were going to pop out of his head or he was going to swallow his tongue first. All of a sudden, he couldn’t do enough for us. He told us you were waiting for us, and right where you were staying. Offered to guide us himself, but he really looked relieved when Verin told him no.” He snorted. “Lord Rand of House al’Thor.”
“It’s too long a story to explain now,” Rand said. “Where are Uno and the rest?
We will need them.”
“In the Foregate.” Mat frowned at him, and went on slowly, “Uno said they’d rather stay there than inside the walls. From what I can see, I’d rather be with them. Rand, why will we need Uno? Have you found … them?”
It was the moment Rand realized suddenly he had been avoiding. He took a deep breath and looked his friend in the eye. “Mat, I had the dagger, and I lost it. The Darkfriends took it back.” He heard gasps from the Cairhienin listening, but he did not care. They could play their Great Game if they wanted, but Ingtar had come, and he was finished with it at last. “They can’t have gone far, though.”
Ingtar had been silent, but now he stepped forward and gripped Rand’s arm. “You had it? And the” — he looked around at the onlookers — “the other thing?”
“They took that back, too,” Rand said quietly. Ingtar pounded a fist into his
palm and turned away; some of the Cairhienin backed off from the look on his face.
Mat chewed his lip, then shook his head. “I didn’t know it was found, so it isn’t as if I had lost it again. It is just still lost.” It was plain he was speaking of the dagger, not the Horn of Valere. “We’ll find it again. We have two sniffers, now. Perrin is one, too. He followed the trail all the way to the Foregate, after you vanished with Hurin and Loial. I thought you might have just run off … well, you know what I mean. Where did you go? I still don’t understand how you got so far ahead of us. That fellow said you have been here days.”
Rand glanced at Perrin — He’s a sniffer? — and found Perrin studying him in return. He thought Perrin muttered something. Shadowkiller? I must have heard him wrong. Perrin’s yellow gaze held him for a moment, seeming to hold secrets about him. Telling himself he was having fancies — I’m not mad. Not yet. — he pulled his eyes away.
Verin was just helping a stillshaky Hurin to his feet. “I feel right as goose feathers,” he was saying. “Still a little tired, but …” He let the words trail off, seeming to see her for the first time, to realize what had happened for the first time.
“The tiredness will last a few hours,” she told him. “The body must strain to heal itself quickly.”
The Cairhienin Reader rose. “Aes Sedai?” she said softly. Verin inclined her head, and the Reader made a full curtsy.
As quiet as they had been, the words “Aes Sedai” ran through the crowd in tones ranging from awe to fear to outrage. Everyone was watching now — not even Cuale gave any attention to his own burning inn — and Rand thought a little caution might not be amiss after all.
“Do you have rooms yet?” he asked. “We need to talk, and we can’t do it here.” “A good idea,” Verin said. “I have stayed here before at The Great Tree. We will
go there.”
Loial went to fetch the horses — the inn roof had now fallen in completely, but the stables had not been touched — and soon they were making their way through the streets, all riding except for Loial, who claimed he had grown used to walking again. Perrin held the lead line to one of the packhorses they had brought south.
“Hurin,” Rand said, “how soon can you be ready to follow their trail again? Can you follow it? The men who hit you and started the fire left a trail, didn’t they?”
“I can follow it now, my Lord. And I could smell them in the street. It won’t last long, though. There weren’t any Trollocs, and they didn’t kill anybody. Just men, my Lord. Darkfriends, I suppose, but you can’t always be sure of that by smell. A day, maybe, before it fades.”
“I don’t think they can open the chest either, Rand,” Loial said, “or they would just have taken the Horn. It would be much easier to take that if they could, rather than the whole chest.”
Rand nodded. “They must have put it in a cart, or on a horse. Once they get it beyond the Foregate, they’ll join the Trollocs again, for sure. You will be able to
follow that trail, Hurin.” “I will, my Lord.”
“Then you rest until you’re fit,” Rand told him. The sniffer looked steadier, but he rode slumped, and his face was weary. “At best, they will only be a few hours ahead of us. If we ride hard …” Suddenly he noticed that the others were looking at him, Verin and Ingtar, Mat and Perrin. He realized what he had been doing, and his face colored. “I am sorry, Ingtar. It’s just that I’ve become used to being in charge, I suppose. I’m not trying to take your place.”
Ingtar nodded slowly. “Moiraine chose well when she made Lord Agelmar name you my second. Perhaps it would have been better if the Amyrlin Seat had given you the charge.” The Shienaran barked a laugh. “At least you have actually managed to touch the Horn.”
After that they rode in silence.
The Great Tree could have been twin to The Defender of the Dragonwall, a tall stone cube of a building with a common room paneled in dark wood and decorated with silver, a large, polished clock on the mantel over the fireplace. The innkeeper could have been Cuale’s sister. Mistress Tiedra had the same slightly plump look and the same unctuous manner — and the same sharp eyes, the same air of listening to what was behind the words you spoke. But Tiedra knew Verin, and her welcoming smile for the Aes Sedai was warm; she never mentioned Aes Sedai aloud, but Rand was sure she knew.
Tiedra and a swarm of servants saw to their horses and settled them in their rooms. Rand’s room was as fine as the one that had burned, but he was more interested in the big copper bathtub two serving men wrestled through the door, and the steaming buckets of water scullery maids brought up from the kitchen. One look in the mirror above the washstand showed him a face that looked as if he had rubbed it with charcoal, and his coat had black smears across the red wool.
He stripped off and climbed into the tub, but he thought as much as washed. Verin was there. One of three Aes Sedai that he could trust not to try to gentle him themselves, or turn him over to those who would. Or so it seemed, at least. One of three who wanted him to believe he was the Dragon Reborn, to use him as a false Dragon. She’s Moiraine’s eyes watching me, Moiraine’s hand trying to pull my strings. But I have cut the strings.
His saddlebags had been brought up, and a bundle from the packhorse containing fresh clothes. He toweled off and opened the bundle — and sighed. He had forgotten that both the other coats he had were as ornate as the one he had tossed on the back of a chair for a maid to clean. After a moment, he chose the black coat, to suit his mood. Silver herons stood on the high collar, and silver rapids ran down his sleeves, water battered to froth against jagged rocks.
Transferring things from his old coat to his new, he found the parchments. Absently, he stuffed the invitations in his pocket as he studied Selene’s two letters. He wondered how he could have been such a fool. She was the beautiful young
daughter of a noble House. He was a shepherd whom Aes Sedai were trying to use, a man doomed to go mad if he did not die first. Yet he could still feel the pull of her just looking at her writing, could almost smell the perfume of her.
“I am a shepherd,” he told the letters, “not a great man, and if I could marry anyone, it would be Egwene, but she wants to be Aes Sedai, and how can I marry any woman, love any woman, when I’ll go mad and maybe kill her?”
Words could not lessen his memory of Selene’s beauty, though, or the way she made his blood go warm just by looking at him. It almost seemed to him that she was in the room with him, that he could smell her perfume, so much so that he looked around, and laughed to find himself alone.
“Having fancies like I’m addled already,” he muttered.
Abruptly he tipped back the mantle of the lamp on the bedside table, lit it, and thrust the letters into the flame. Outside the inn, the wind picked up to a roar, leaking in through the shutters and fanning the flames to engulf the parchment. Hurriedly he tossed the burning letters into the cold hearth just before the fire reached his fingers. He waited until the last blackened curl went out before he buckled on his sword and left the room.
Verin had taken a private dining room, where shelves along the dark walls held even more silver than those in the common room. Mat was juggling three boiled eggs and trying to appear nonchalant. Ingtar peered into the unlit fireplace, frowning. Loial had a few books from Fal Dara still in his pockets, and was reading one beside a lamp.
Perrin slouched at the table, studying his hands clasped on the tabletop. To his nose, the room smelled of beeswax used to polish the paneling. It was him, he thought. Rand is the Shadowkiller. Light, what’s happening to all of us? His hands tightened into fists, large and square. These hands were meant for a smith’s hammer, not an axe.
He glanced up as Rand entered. Perrin thought he looked determined, set on some course of action. The Aes Sedai motioned Rand to a highbacked armchair across from her.
“How is Hurin?” Rand asked her, arranging his sword so he could sit. “Resting?”
“He insisted on going out,” Ingtar answered. “I told him to follow the trail only until he smelled Trollocs. We can follow it from there tomorrow. Or do you want to go after them tonight?”
“Ingtar,” Rand said uneasily, “I really wasn’t trying to take command. I just didn’t think.” Yet not as nervously as he would have once, Perrin thought. Shadowkiller. We’re all of us changing.
Ingtar did not answer, but only kept staring into the fireplace.
“There are some things that interest me greatly, Rand,” Verin said quietly. “One is how you vanished from Ingtar’s camp without a trace. Another is how you arrived in Cairhien a week before us. That clerk was very clear on that. You would have
had to fly.”
One of Mat’s eggs hit the floor and cracked. He did not look at it, though. He was looking at Rand, and Ingtar had turned around. Loial pretended to be reading still, but he wore a worried look, and his ears were up in hairy points.
Perrin realized he was staring, too. “Well, he did not fly,” he said. “I don’t see any wings. Maybe he has more important things to tell us.” Verin shifted her attention to him, just for a moment. He managed to meet her eyes, but he was the first to look away. Aes Sedai. Light, why were we ever fools enough to follow an Aes Sedai? Rand gave him a grateful look, too, and Perrin grinned at him. He was not the old Rand — he seemed to have grown into that fancy coat; it looked right on him, now — but he was still the boy Perrin had grown up with. Shadowkiller. A man the wolves hold in awe. A man who can channel.
“I don’t mind,” Rand said, and told his tale simply.
Perrin found himself gaping. Portal Stones. Other worlds, where the land seemed to shift. Hurin following the trail of where the Darkfriends would be. And a beautiful woman in distress, just like one in a gleeman’s tale.
Mat gave a soft, wondering whistle. “And she brought you back? By one of these — these Stones?”
Rand hesitated for a second. “She must have,” he said. “So you see, that’s how we got so far ahead of you. When Fain came, Loial and I managed to steal back the Horn of Valere in the night, and we rode on to Cairhien because I didn’t think we could make it past them once they were roused, and I knew Ingtar would keep coming south after them and reach Cairhien eventually.”
Shadowkiller. Rand looked at him, eyes narrowing, and Perrin realized he had spoken the name aloud. Apparently not loud enough for anyone else to hear, though. No one else glanced at him. He found himself wanting to tell Rand about the wolves. I know about you. It’s only fair you know my secret, too. But Verin was there. He could not say it in front of her.
“Interesting,” the Aes Sedai said, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I would very much like to meet this girl. If she can use a Portal Stone … Even that name is not very widely known.” She gave herself a shake. “Well, that is for another time. A tall girl should not be difficult to find in the Cairhienin Houses. Aah, here is our meal.”
Perrin smelled lamb even before Mistress Tiedra led in a procession bearing trays of food. His mouth watered more for that than for the peas and squash, the carrots and cabbage that came with it, or the hot crusty rolls. He still found vegetables tasty, but sometimes, of late, he dreamed of red meat. Not even cooked, usually. It was disconcerting to find himself thinking that the nicely pink slices of lamb that the innkeeper carved were too well done. He firmly took helpings of everything. And two of the lamb.
It was a quiet meal, with everyone concentrating on his own thoughts. Perrin found it painful to watch Mat eat. Mat’s appetite was as healthy as ever, despite the
feverish flush to his face, and the way he shoveled food into his mouth made it look like his last meal before dying. Perrin kept his eyes on his plate as much as possible, and wished they had never left Emond’s Field.
After the maids cleared the table and left again, Verin insisted they remain together until Hurin returned. “He may bring word that will mean we must move at once.”
Mat returned to his juggling, and Loial to his reading. Rand asked the innkeeper if there were any more books, and she brought him The Travels of Jain Farstrider. Perrin liked that one, too, with its stories of adventures among the Sea Folk and journeys to the lands beyond the Aiel Waste, where silk came from. He did not feel like reading, though, so he set up a stones board on the table with Ingtar. The Shienaran played with a slashing, daring style. Perrin had always played doggedly, giving ground reluctantly, but he found himself placing the stones with as much recklessness as Ingtar. Most of the games ended in a draw, but he managed to win as many as Ingtar did. The Shienaran was eyeing him with a new respect by early evening, when the sniffer returned.
Hurin’s grin was at the same time triumphant and perplexed. “I found them, Lord Ingtar. Lord Rand. I tracked them to their lair.”
“Lair?” Ingtar said sharply. “You mean they’re hiding somewhere close by? “Aye, Lord Ingtar. The ones who took the Horn, I followed straight there, and
there was Trolloc scent all around the place, though sneaking as if they didn’t dare be seen, even there. And no wonder.” The sniffer took a deep breath. “It’s the great manor Lord Barthanes just finished building.”
“Lord Barthanes!” Ingtar exclaimed. “But he … he’s … he’s …”
“There are Darkfriends among the high as well as the low,” Verin said smoothly. “The mighty give their souls to the Shadow as often as the weak.” Ingtar scowled as if he did not want to think of that.
“There’s guards,” Hurin went on. “We’ll not get in with twenty men, not and get out again. A hundred could do it, but two would be better. That’s what I think, my Lord.”
“What about the King?” Mat demanded. “If this Barthanes is a Darkfriend, the King will help us.”
“I am quite sure,” Verin said dryly, “that Galldrian Riatin would move against Barthanes Damodred on the rumor that Barthanes is a Darkfriend, and glad of the excuse. I am also quite sure Galldrian would never let the Horn of Valere out of his grasp once he had it. He would bring it out on feastdays to show the people and tell them how great and mighty Cairhien is, and no one would ever see it else.”
Perrin blinked with shock. “But the Horn of Valere has to be there when the Last Battle is fought. He couldn’t just keep it.”
“I know little of Cairhienin,” Ingtar told him, “but I’ve heard enough of Galldrian. He would feast us and thank us for the glory we had brought to Cairhien. He would stuff our pockets with gold and heap honors on our heads. And if we tried
to leave with the Horn, he’d cut our honored heads off without pausing to take a breath.”
Perrin ran a hand through his hair. The more he found out about kings, the less he liked them.
“What about the dagger?” Mat asked diffidently. “He wouldn’t want that, would he?” Ingtar glared at him, and he shifted uncomfortably. “I know the Horn is important, but I’m not going to be fighting in the Last Battle. That dagger…”
Verin rested her hands on the arms of her chair. “Galldrian shall not have it, either. What we need is some way inside Barthanes’s manor house. If we can only find the Horn, we may also find a way to take it back. Yes, Mat, and the dagger. Once it is known that an Aes Sedai is in the city — well, I usually avoid these things, but if I let slip to Tiedra that I would like to see Barthanes’s new manor, I should have an invitation in a day or two. It should not be difficult to bring at least some of the rest of you. What is it, Hurin?”
The sniffer had been rocking anxiously on his heels from the moment she mentioned an invitation. “Lord Rand already has one. From Lord Barthanes.”
Perrin stared at Rand, and he was not the only one.
Rand pulled two sealed parchments from his coat pocket and handed them to the Aes Sedai without a word.
Ingtar came to look wonderingly over her shoulder at the seals. “Barthanes, and
… And Galldrian! Rand, how did you come by these? What have you been doing?” “Nothing,” Rand said. “I haven’t done anything. They just sent them to me.”
Ingtar let out a long breath. Mat’s mouth was hanging open. “Well, they did just send them,” Rand said quietly. There was a dignity to him that Perrin did not remember; Rand was looking at the Aes Sedai and the Shienaran lord as equals.
Perrin shook his head. You are fitting that coat. We’re all changing.
“Lord Rand burned all the rest,” Hurin said. “Every day they came, and every day he burned them. Until these, of course. Every day from mightier Houses.” He sounded proud.
“The Wheel of Time weaves us all into the Pattern as it wills,” Verin said, looking at the parchments, “but sometimes it provides what we need before we know we need it.”
Casually she crumpled the King’s invitation and tossed it into the fireplace, where it lay white on the cold logs. Breaking the other seal with her thumb, she read. “Yes. Yes, this will do very well.”
“How can I go?” Rand asked her. “They will know I’m no lord. I am a shepherd, and a farmer.” Ingtar looked skeptical. “I am, Ingtar. I told you I am.” Ingtar shrugged; he still did not look convinced. Hurin stared at Rand with flat disbelief.
Burn me, Perrin thought, if I didn’t know him, I wouldn’t believe it either. Mat was watching Rand with his head tilted, frowning as if looking at something he had never seen before. He sees it, too, now. “You can do it, Rand,” Perrin said. “You can.”
“It will help,” Verin said, “if you don’t tell everyone what you are not. People see what they expect to see. Beyond that, look them in the eye and speak firmly. The way you have been talking to me,” she added dryly, and Rand’s cheeks colored, but he did not drop his eyes. “It doesn’t matter what you say. They will attribute anything out of place to your being an outlander. It will also help if you remember the way you behaved before the Amyrlin. If you are that arrogant, they will believe you are a lord if you wear rags.” Mat snickered.
Rand threw up his hands. “All right. I’ll do it. But I still think they will know five minutes after I open my mouth. When?”
“Barthanes has asked you for five different dates, and one is tomorrow night.” “Tomorrow!” Ingtar exploded. “The Horn could be fifty miles downriver by
tomorrow night, or — ”
Verin cut him off. “Uno and your soldiers can watch the manor. If they try to take the Horn anywhere, we can easily follow, and perhaps retrieve it more easily than from inside Barthanes’s walls.”
“Perhaps so,” Ingtar agreed grudgingly. “I just do not like to wait, now that the Horn is almost in my hands. I will have it. I must! I must!”
Hurin stared at him. “But, Lord Ingtar, that isn’t the way. What happens, happens, and what is meant to be, will —” Ingtar’s glare cut him off, though he still muttered under his breath, “It isn’t the way, talking of ‘must’.”
Ingtar turned back to Verin stiffly. “Verin Sedai, Cairhienin are very strict in their protocol. If Rand does not send a reply, Barthanes may be so insulted he will not let us in, even with that parchment in our hands. But if Rand does… well, Fain, at least, knows him. We could be warning them to set a trap.”
“We will surprise them.” Her brief smile was not pleasant. “But I think Barthanes will want to see Rand in any case. Darkfriend or not, I doubt he has given up plots against the throne. Rand, he says you took an interest in one of the King’s projects, but he doesn’t say what. What does he mean?”
“I don’t know,” Rand said slowly. “I haven’t done anything at all since I arrived. Wait. Maybe he means the statue. We came through a village where they were digging up a huge statue. From the Age of Legends, they said. The King means to move it to Cairhien, though I don’t know how he can move something that big. But all I did was ask what it was.”
“We passed it in the day, and did not stop to ask questions.” Verin let the invitation fall in her lap. “Not a wise thing for Galldrian to do, perhaps, unearthing that. Not that there is any real danger, but it is never wise for those who don’t know what they are doing to meddle with things from the Age of Legends.”
“What is it?” Rand asked.
“A sa’angreal.” She sounded as if it were really not very important, but Perrin suddenly had the feeling the two of them had entered a private conversation, saying things no one else could hear. “One of a pair, the two largest ever made, that we know of. And an odd pair, as well. One, still buried on Tremalking, can only be
used by a woman. This one can only be used by a man. They were made during the War of the Powers, to be a weapon, but if there is anything to be thankful for in the end of that Age or the Breaking of the World, it is that the end came before they could be used. Together, they might well be powerful enough to Break the World again, perhaps even worse than the first Breaking.”
Perrin’s hands tightened to knots. He avoided looking directly at Rand, but even from the corner of his eye he could see a whiteness around Rand’s mouth. He thought Rand might be afraid, and he did not blame him a bit.
Ingtar looked shaken, as well he might. “That thing should be buried again, and as deeply as they can pile dirt and stone. What would have happened if Logain had found it? Or any wretched man who can channel, let alone one claiming he’s the Dragon Reborn. Verin Sedai, you must warn Galldrian what he’s doing.”
“What? Oh, there is no need for that, I think. The two must be used in unison to handle enough of the One Power to Break the World — that was the way in the Age of Legends; a man and a woman working together were always ten times as strong as they were apart — and what Aes Sedai today would aid a man in channeling? One by itself is powerful enough, but I can think of few women strong enough to survive the flow through the one on Tremalking. The Amyrlin, of course. Moiraine, and Elaida. Perhaps one or two others. And three still in training. As for Logain, it would have taken all his strength simply to keep from being burned to a cinder, with nothing left for doing anything. No, Ingtar, I don’t think you need worry. At least, not until the real Dragon Reborn proclaims himself, and then we will all have enough to worry about as it is. Let us worry now about what we shall do when we are inside Barthanes’s manor.”
She was talking to Rand. Perrin knew it, and from the queasy look in Mat’s eye, he did, too. Even Loial shifted nervously in his chair. Oh, Light, Rand, Perrin thought. Light, don’t let her use you.
Rand’s hands were pressing the tabletop so hard that his knuckles were white, but his voice was steady. His eyes never left the Aes Sedai. “First we have to take back the Horn, and the dagger. And then it is done, Verin. Then it is done.”
Watching Verin’s smile, small and mysterious, Perrin felt a chill. He did not think Rand knew half what he thought he did. Not half.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 32
(Harp) Dangerous Words
Lord Barthanes’s manor crouched like a huge toad in the night, covering as much ground as a fortress, with all its walls and outbuildings. It was no fortress, though, with tall windows everywhere, and lights, and the sounds of music and laughter drifting out, yet Rand saw guards moving on the tower tops and along the roofwalks, and none of the windows were close to the ground. He got down from Red’s back and smoothed his coat, adjusted his sword belt. The others dismounted around him, at the foot of broad, whitestone stairs leading up to the wide, heavily carved doors of the manor.
Ten Shienarans, under Uno, made an escort. The oneeyed man exchanged small nods with Ingtar before taking his men to join the other escorts, where ale had been provided and a whole ox was roasting on a spit by a big fire.
The other ten Shienarans had been left behind, along with Perrin. Every one of them had to be there for a purpose, Verin had said, and Perrin had no purpose to serve this night. An escort was necessary for dignity in Cairhienin eyes, but more than ten would seem suspicious. Rand was there because he had received the invitation. Ingtar had come to lend the prestige of his title, while Loial was there because Ogier were sought after in the upper reaches of the Cairhienin nobility. Hurin pretended to be Ingtar’s bodyservant. His true purpose was to sniff out the Darkfriends and Trollocs if he could; the Horn of Valere should not be far from them. Mat, still grumbling about it, was pretending to be Rand’s servant, since he could feel the dagger when it was close. If Hurin failed, perhaps he could find the Darkfriends.
When Rand had asked Verin why she was there, she had only smiled and said, “To keep the rest of you out of trouble.”
As they mounted the stairs, Mat muttered, “I still don’t see why I have to be a servant.” He and Hurin followed behind the others. “Burn me, if Rand can be a lord, I can put on a fancy coat, too.”
“A servant,” Verin said without looking back at him, “can go many places another man cannot, and many nobles will not even see him. You and Hurin have your tasks.”
“Be quiet now, Mat,” Ingtar put in, “unless you want to give us away.” They were approaching the doors, where half a dozen guards stood with the Tree and Crown of House Damodred on their chests, and an equal number of men in dark green livery with Tree and Crown on the sleeve.
Taking a deep breath, Rand proffered the invitation. “I am Lord Rand of House al’Thor,” he said all in a rush, to get it over with. “And these are my guests. Verin Aes Sedai of the Brown Ajah. Lord Ingtar of House Shinowa, in Shienar. Loial, son of Arent son of Halan, from Stedding Shangtai.” Loial had asked that his stedding
be left out of it, but Verin insisted they needed every bit of formality they could offer.
The servant who had reached for the invitation with a perfunctory bow gave a little jerk at each additional name; his eyes popped at Verin’s. In a strangled voice he said, “Be welcome in House Damodred, my lords. Be welcome, Aes Sedai. Be welcome, friend Ogier.” He waved the other servants to open the doors wide, and bowed Rand and the others inside, where he hurriedly passed the invitation to another liveried man and whispered in his ear.
This man had the Tree and Crown large on the chest of his green coat. “Aes Sedai,” he said, using his long staff to make a bow, almost bending his head to his knees, to each of them in turn. “My lords. Friend Ogier. I am called Ashin. Please to follow me.”
The outer hall held only servants, but Ashin led them to a great room filled with nobles, with a juggler performing at one end and tumblers at the other. Voices and music coming from elsewhere said these were not the only guests, or the only entertainments. The nobles stood in twos, and threes and fours, sometimes men and women together, sometimes only one or the other, always with careful space between so no one could overhear what was said. The guests wore the dark Cairhienin colors, each with bright stripes at least halfway down his or her chest, and some had them all the way to their waists. The women had their hair piled high in elaborate towers of curls, every one different, and their dark skirts were so wide they would have had to turn sideways to pass through any doorway narrower than those of the manor. None of the men had the shaved heads of soldiers — they all wore dark velvet hats over long hair, some shaped like bells, others flat — and as with the women, lace ruffles like dark ivory almost hid their hands.
Ashin rapped his staff and announced them in a loud voice, Verin first.
They drew every eye. Verin wore her brownfringed shawl, embroidered in grape vines; the announcement of an Aes Sedai sent a murmur through the lords and ladies, and made the juggler drop one of his hoops, though no one was watching him any longer. Loial received almost as many looks, even before Ashin spoke his name. Despite the silver embroidery on collar and sleeves, the otherwise unrelieved black of Rand’s coat made him seem almost stark beside the Cairhienin, and his and Ingtar’s swords drew many glances. None of the lords appeared to be armed. Rand heard the words “heronmark blade” more than once. Some of the glances he was receiving looked like frowns; he suspected they came from men he had insulted by burning their invitations.
A slim, handsome man approached. He had long, graying hair, and multihued stripes crossed the front of his deep gray coat from his neck almost to the hem just above his knees. He was extremely tall for a Cairhienin, no more than half a head shorter than Rand, and he had a way of standing that made him seem even taller, with his chin up so he seemed to be looking down at everyone else. His eyes were black pebbles. He looked warily at Verin, though.
“Grace honors me with your presence, Aes Sedai.” Barthanes Damodred’s voice was deep and sure. His gaze swept across the others. “I did not expect so distinguished a company. Lord Ingtar. Friend Ogier.” His bow to each was little more than a nod of the head; Barthanes knew exactly how powerful he was. “And you, my young Lord Rand. You excite much comment in the city, and in the Houses. Perhaps we will have a chance to talk this night.” His tone said that he would not miss it if the chance never came, that he had not been excited to any comment, but his eyes slid a fraction before he caught them, to Ingtar and Loial, and to Verin. “Be welcome.” He let himself be drawn away by a handsome woman who laid a beringed hand buried in lace on his arm, but his gaze drifted back to Rand as he walked away.
The murmur of conversation picked up once more, and the juggler spun his hoops again in a narrow loop that almost reached the worked plaster ceiling, a good four spans up. The tumblers had never stopped; a woman leaped into the air from the cupped hands of one of her compatriots, her oiled skin shining in the light of a hundred lamps as she spun, and landed on her feet on the hands of a man who was already standing atop another’s shoulders. He lifted her up on outstretched arms as the man below raised him in the same way, and she spread her arms as if for applause. None of the Cairhienin seemed to notice.
Verin and Ingtar drifted into the crowd. The Shienaran received a few wary looks; some looked at the Aes Sedai with wide eyes, others with the worried frowns of those finding a rabid wolf within arm’s reach. The latter came from men more often than women, and some of the women spoke to her.
Rand realized that Mat and Hurin had already disappeared to the kitchens, where all the servants who had come with the guests would be gathering until sent for. He hoped they would not have trouble sneaking away.
Loial bent down to speak for his ear alone. “Rand, there is a Waygate nearby. I can feel it.”
“You mean this was an Ogier grove?” Rand said softly, and Loial nodded. “Stedding Tsofu had not been found again when it was planted, or the Ogier
who helped build Al’cair’rahienallen would not have needed a grove to remind them of the stedding. This was all forest when I came through Cairhien before, and belonged to the King.”
“Barthanes probably took it away in some plot.” Rand looked around the room nervously. Everyone was still talking, but more than a few were watching the Ogier and him. He could not see Ingtar. Verin stood at the center of a knot of women. “I wish we could stay together.”
“Verin says not, Rand. She says it would make them all suspicious and angry, thinking we were holding ourselves aloof. We have to allay suspicion until Mat and Hurin find whatever they find.”
“I heard what she said as well as you, Loial. But I still say, if Barthanes is a Darkfriend, then he must know why we’re here. Going off by ourselves is just
asking to be knocked on the head.”
“Verin says he won’t do anything until he finds out whether he can make use of us. Just do what she told us, Rand. Aes Sedai know what they are about.” Loial walked into the crowd, gathering a circle of lords and ladies before he had gone ten steps.
Others started toward Rand, now that he was alone, but he turned in the other direction and hurried away. Aes Sedai may know what they’re about, but I wish I did. I don’t like this. Light, but I wish I knew if she was telling the truth. Aes Sedai never lie, but the truth you hear may not be the truth you think it is.
He kept moving to avoid talking with the nobles. There were many other rooms, all filled with lords and ladies, all with entertainers: three different gleemen in their cloaks, more jugglers and tumblers, and musicians playing flutes, bitterns, dulcimers, and lutes, plus five different sizes of fiddle, six kinds of horn, straight or curved or curled, and ten sizes of drum from tambour to kettle. He gave some of the horn players a second look, those with curled horns, but the instruments were all plain brass.
They wouldn’t have the Horn of Valere out here fool, he thought. Not unless Barthanes means to have dead heroes come as part of the entertainment.
There was even a bard in silverworked Tairen boots and a yellow coat, strolling through the rooms plucking his harp and sometimes stopping to declaim in High Chant. He glared contemptuously at the gleemen and did not linger in the rooms where they were, but Rand saw little difference between him and them except for their clothes.
Suddenly Barthanes was walking by Rand’s side. A liveried servant immediately offered his silver tray with a bow. Barthanes took a blownglass goblet of wine. Walking backwards ahead of them still bowing, the servant held the tray toward Rand until Rand shook his head, then melted into the crowd.
“You seem restless,” Barthanes said, sipping.
“I like to walk.” Rand wondered how to follow Verin’s advice, and remembering what she had said about his visit to the Amyrlin, he settled into Cat Crosses the Courtyard. He knew no more arrogant way to walk than that. Barthanes’s mouth tightened, and Rand thought perhaps the lord found it too arrogant, but Verin’s advice was all he had to go by, so he did not stop. To take some of the edge off, he said pleasantly, “This is a fine party. You have many friends, and I’ve never seen so many entertainers.”
“Many friends,” Barthanes agreed. “You can tell Galldrian how many, and who.
Some of the names might surprise him.”
“I have never met the King, Lord Barthanes, and I don’t expect I ever will.”
“Of course. You just happened to be in that flyspeck village. You were not checking on the progress of retrieving that statue. A great undertaking, that.”
“Yes.” He had begun thinking of Verin again, wishing she had given him some advice on how to talk with a man who assumed he was lying. He added without
thinking, “It’s dangerous to meddle with things from the Age of Legends if you don’t know what you are doing.”
Barthanes peered into his wine, musing as if Rand had just said something profound. “Are you saying you do not support Galldrian in this?” he asked finally.
“I told you, I’ve never met the King.”
“Yes, of course. I did not know Andormen played at the Great Game so well.
We do not see many here in Cairhien.”
Rand took a deep breath to stop from telling the man angrily that he was not playing their Game. “There are many grain barges from Andor in the river.”
“Merchants and traders. Who notices such as they? As well notice the beetles on the leaves.” Barthanes’s voice carried equal contempt for both beetles and merchants, but once again he frowned as if Rand had hinted at something. “Not many men travel in company with Aes Sedai. You seem too young to be a Warder. I suppose Lord Ingtar is Verin Sedai’s Warder?”
“We are who we said we are,” Rand said, and grimaced. Except me.Barthanes was studying Rand’s face almost openly. “Young. Young to carry a heronmark blade.”
“I am less than a year old,” Rand said automatically, and immediately wished he had it back. It sounded foolish, to his ear, but Verin had said act as he had with the Amyrlin Seat, and that was the answer Lan had given him. A Borderman considered the day he was given his sword to be his nameday.
“So. An Andorman, and yet Borderlandtrained. Or is it Wardertrained?” Barthanes’s eyes narrowed, studying Rand. “I understand Morgase has only one son. Named Gawyn, I have heard. You must be much like him in age.”
“I have met him,” Rand said cautiously.
“Those eyes. That hair. I have heard the Andoran royal line has almost Aiel coloring in their hair and eyes.”
Rand stumbled, though the floor was smooth marble. “I’m not Aiel, Lord Barthanes, and I’m not of the royal line, either.”
“As you say. You have given me much to think on. I believe we may find common ground when we talk again.” Barthanes nodded and raised his glass in a small salute, then turned to speak to a grayhaired man with many stripes of color down his coat.
Rand shook his head and moved on, away from more conversation. It had been bad enough talking to one Cairhienin lord; he did not want to risk two. Barthanes appeared to find deep meanings in the most trivial comments. Rand realized he had just now learned enough of Daes Dae’mar to know he had no idea at all how it was played. Mat, Hurin, find something fast, so we can get out of here. These people are crazy.
And then he entered another room, and the gleeman at the end of it, strumming his harp and reciting a tale from The Great Hunt of the Horn, was Thom Merrilin. Rand stopped dead. Thom did not seem to see him, though the gleeman’s gaze
passed over him twice. It seemed that Thom had meant what he said. A clean break. Rand turned to go, but a woman stepped smoothly in front of him and put a hand on his chest, the lace falling back from a soft wrist. Her head did not quite come to his shoulder, but her tall array of curls easily reached as high as his eyes. The high neck of her gown put lace ruffles under her chin, and stripes covered the front of her dark blue dress below her breasts. “I am Alaine Chuliandred, and you are the famous Rand al’Thor. In Barthanes’s own manor, I suppose he has the right to speak to you first, but we are all fascinated by what we hear of you. I even hear
that you play the flute. Can it be true?”
“I play the flute.” How did she …? Caldevwin. Light, everybody does hear everything in Cairhien. “If you will excuse —”
“I have heard that some outland lords play music, but I never believed it. I would like very much to hear you play. Perhaps you will talk with me, of this and that. Barthanes seemed to find your conversation fascinating. My husband spends his days sampling his own vineyards, and leaves me quite alone. He is never there to talk with me.”
“You must miss him,” Rand said, trying to edge around her and her wide skirts.
She gave a tinkling laugh as if he had said the funniest thing in the world.
Another woman sidled in beside the first, and another hand was laid on his chest. She wore as many stripes as Alaine, and they were of an age, a good ten years older than he. “Do you think to keep him to yourself, Alaine?” The two women smiled at each other while their eyes threw daggers. The second turned her smile on Rand. “I am Belevaere Osiellin. Are all Andormen so tall? And so handsome?”
He cleared his throat. “Ah … some are as tall. Pardon me, but if you will —”
“I saw you talking with Barthanes. They say you know Galldrian, as well. You must come to see me, and talk. My husband is visiting our estates in the south.”
“You have the sublety of a tavern wench,” Alaine hissed at her, and immediately was smiling up at Rand. “She has no polish. No man could like a woman with a manner so rough. Bring your flute to my manor, and we will talk. Perhaps you will teach me to play?”
“What Alaine thinks of as subtlety,” Belevaere said sweetly, “is but lack of courage. A man who wears a heronmark sword must be brave. That truly is a heronmark blade, is it not?”
Rand tried backing away from them. “If you will just excuse me, I—” They followed step for step until his back hit the wall; the width of their skirts together made another wall in front of him.
He jumped as a third woman crowded in beside the other two, her skirts joining theirs to the wall on that side. She was older than they, but just as pretty, with an amused smile that did not lessen the sharpness of her eyes. She wore half again as many stripes as Alaine and Belevaere; they made tiny curtsies and glared at her sullenly.
“Are these two spiders trying to toil you in their webs?” The older woman laughed. “Half the time they tangle themselves more firmly than anyone else. Come with me, my fine young Andoran, and I will tell you some of the troubles they would give you. For one thing, I have no husband to worry about. Husbands always make trouble.”
Over Alaine’s head he could see Thom, straightening from a bow to no applause or notice whatsoever. With a grimace the gleeman snatched a goblet from the tray of a startled servant.
“I see someone I must speak to,” Rand told the women, and squeezed out of the box they had put him in just as the last woman reached for his arm. All three stared after him as he hurried to the gleeman.
Thom eyed him over the lip of the goblet, then took another long swallow. “Thom, I know you said a clean break, but I had to get away from those women.
All they wanted to talk about was their husbands being away, but they were already hinting at other things.” Thom choked on his wine, and Rand slapped his back. “You drink too fast, and something always goes down the wrong way. Thom, they think I am plotting with Barthanes, or maybe Galldrian, and I don’t think they will believe me when I say I’m not. I just needed an excuse to leave them.”
Thom stroked his long mustaches with one knuckle and peered across the room at the three women. They were still standing together, watching Rand and him. “I recognize those three, boy. Breane Taborwin alone would give you an education such as every man should have at least once in his life, if he can live through it. Worried about their husbands. I like that, boy.” Abruptly his eyes sharpened. “You told me you were clear of Aes Sedai. Half the talk here tonight is of the Andoran lord appearing with no warning, and an Aes Sedai at his side. Barthanes and Galldrian. You’ve let the White Tower put you in the cooking pot this time.”
“She only came yesterday, Thom. And as soon as the Horn is safe, I’ll be free of them again. I mean to see to it.”
“You sound as if it isn’t safe now,” Thom said slowly. “You didn’t sound that way before.”
“Darkfriends stole it, Thom. They brought it here. Barthanes is one of them.”
Thom seemed to study his wine, but his eyes darted to make sure no one was close enough to listen. More than the three women were watching them with sideways glances while pretending to talk among themselves, but every knot maintained its distance from every other. Still, Thom spoke softly. “A dangerous thing to say if it isn’t true, and more dangerous if it is. An accusation like that, against the most powerful man in the kingdom … You say he has the Horn? I suppose you’re after my help again, now that you’re tangled with the White Tower once more.”
“No.” He had decided Thom had been right, even if the gleeman did not know why. He could not involve anyone else in his troubles. “I just wanted to get away from those women.”
The gleeman blew out his mustaches, taken aback. “Well. Yes. That is well. The last time I helped you, I got a limp out of it, and you seem to have let yourself be tied to Tar Valon strings again. You’ll have to get yourself out of it this time.” He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself.
“I will, Thom. I will.” Just as soon as the Horn is safe and Mat has that bloody dagger back. Mat, Hurin, where are you?
As if the thought had been a summons, Hurin appeared in the room, eyes searching among the lords and ladies. They looked through him; servants did not exist unless needed. When he found Rand and Thom, he made his way between the small clusters of nobles and bowed to Rand. “My Lord, I was sent to tell you. Your manservant had a fall and twisted his knee. I don’t know how bad, my Lord.”
For a moment Rand stared before he understood. Conscious of all the eyes on him, he spoke loudly enough for the nobles closest to overhear. “Clumsy fool. What good is he to me if he can’t walk? I suppose I’d better come see how badly he’s hurt himself.”
It seemed to be the right thing to say. Hurin sounded relieved when he bowed again and said, “As my Lord wishes. If my Lord will follow me?”
“You play very well at being a lord,” Thom said softly. “But remember this. Cairhienin may play Daes Dae’mar, but it was the White Tower made the Great Game in the first place. Watch yourself, boy.” With a glare at the nobles, he set his empty goblet on the tray of a passing servant and strolled away, plucking his harp. He began reciting Goodwife Mili and the Silk Merchant.
“Lead on, man,” Rand told Hurin, feeling foolish. As he followed the sniffer out of the room, he could feel the eyes following him.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 33
(Leaf)
A Message From the Dark
“Have you found it?” Rand asked as he followed Hurin down a cramped flight of stairs. The kitchens lay on the lower levels, and the servants who had come attending the guests had all been sent there. “Or is Mat really hurt?”
“Oh, Mat’s fine, Lord Rand.” The sniffer frowned. “At least, he sounds all right, and he grumbles like a hale man. I didn’t mean to worry you, but I needed a reason for you to come below. I found the trail easy enough. The men who set fire to the inn all entered a walled garden behind the manor. Trollocs joined them, went in to the garden with them. Sometime yesterday, I think. Maybe even night before last.” He hesitated. “Lord Rand, they didn’t come out again. They must still be in there.”
At the foot of the stairs the sounds of the servants enjoying themselves drifted down the hall, laughter and singing. Someone had a bittern, strumming a raucous tune to clapping and the thump of dancing. There was no worked plaster or fine tapestries here, only bare stone and plain wood. Light in the halls came from rush torches, smoking the ceiling and spread far enough apart that the light faded between them.
“I’m glad you are talking to me naturally again,” Rand said. “The way you have been bowing and scraping, I was beginning to think you were more Cairhienin than the Cairhienin.”
Hurin’s face colored. “Well, as to that …” He glanced down the hall toward the noise and looked as if he wanted to spit. “They all pretend to be so proper, but … Lord Rand, every one of them says he’s loyal to his master or mistress, but they all hint they’re willing to sell what they know, or have heard. And when they have a few drinks in them, they’ll tell you, all whispering in your ear, things about the lords and ladies they serve that’d fair make your hair stand on end. I know they’re Cairhienin, but I never heard of such goings on.”
“We will be out of here soon, Hurin.” Rand hoped it was true. “Where is this garden?” Hurin turned down a side hall leading toward the back of the manor. “Did you bring Ingtar and the others down already?”
The sniffer shook his head. “Lord Ingtar had let himself be cornered by six or seven of those who call themselves ladies. I couldn’t get close enough to speak to him. And Verin Sedai was with Barthanes. She gave me such a look when I came near, I never even tried to tell her.”
They rounded another corner just then, and there were Loial and Mat, the Ogier standing a little stooped for the lower ceiling.
Loial’s grin almost split his face. “There you are. Rand, I was never so glad to get away from anyone as from those people upstairs. They kept asking me if the Ogier were coming back, and if Galldrian had agreed to pay what was owed. It seems the reason all the Ogier stonemasons left is because Galldrian stopped paying
them, except with promises. I kept telling them I didn’t know anything about it, but half of them seemed to think that I was lying, and the other half that I was hinting at something.”
“We’ll be out of here soon,” Rand assured him. “Mat, are you all right?” His friend’s face looked more hollowcheeked than he remembered, even back at the inn, and his cheekbones more prominent.
“I feel fine,” Mat said grumpily, “but I certainly didn’t have any trouble leaving the other servants. The ones who weren’t asking if you starved me thought I was sick and didn’t want to come too close.”
“Have you sensed the dagger?” Rand asked.
Mat shook his head glumly. “The only thing I’ve sensed is that somebody’s watching me, most of the time. These people are as bad as Fades for sneaking around. Burn me, I nearly jumped out of my skin when Hurin told me he’d located the Darkfriends’ trail. Rand, I can’t feel it at all, and I’ve been through this bloody building from rafters to basement.”
“That does not mean it isn’t here, Mat. I put it in the chest with the Horn, remember. Maybe that keeps you from feeling it. I don’t think Fain knows how to open it, else he’d not have gone to the trouble of carrying the weight when he fled Fal Dara. Even that much gold isn’t important beside the Horn of Valere. When we find the Horn, we will find the dagger. You’ll see.”
“As long as I don’t have to pretend to be your servant anymore,” Mat muttered. “As long as you don’t go mad and … ” He let the words die with a twist of his mouth.
“Rand is not mad, Mat,” Loial said. “The Cairhienin would never have let him in here if he were not a lord. They are the ones who are mad.”
“I’m not mad,” Rand said harshly. “Not yet. Hurin, show me this garden.” “This way, Lord Rand.”
They went out into the night by a small door that Rand had to duck to get through; Loial was forced to bend over and hunch his shoulders. There was enough light in yellow pools from the windows above for Rand to make out brick walks between square flower beds. The shadows of stables and other outbuildings bulked in the darkness to either side. Occasional fragments of music drifted out, from the servants below or from those entertaining their masters above.
Hurin led them along the walks until even the dim glow failed and they made their way by moonlight alone, their boots crunching softly on the brick. Bushes that would have been bright with flowers by daylight now made strange humps in the dark. Rand fingered his sword and did not let his eyes stay on any one spot too long. A hundred Trollocs could be hiding around them unseen. He knew Hurin would have smelled Trollocs if they were there, but that did not help a great deal. If Barthanes was a Darkfriend, then at least some of his servants and guards had to be, too, and Hurin could not always smell a Darkfriend. Darkfriends leaping out of the night would not be much better than Trollocs.
“There, Lord Rand,” Hurin whispered, pointing.
Ahead, stone walls not much higher than Loial’s head enclosed a square perhaps fifty paces on a side. Rand could not be sure, in the shadows, but it looked as if the gardens stretched on beyond the walls. He wondered why Barthanes had built a walled enclosure in the middle of his garden. No roof showed above the wall. Why would they go in there and stay?
Loial bent to put his mouth close to Rand’s ear. “I told you this was all an Ogier grove, once. Rand, the Waygate is within that wall. I can feel it.”
Rand heard Mat sigh despairingly. “We can’t give up, Mat,” he said.
“I’m not giving up. I just have enough brains not to want to travel the Ways again.”
“We may have to,” Rand told him. “Go find Ingtar and Verin. Get them alone somehow — I don’t care how — and tell them I think Fain has taken the Horn through a Waygate. Just don’t let anyone else hear. And remember to limp; you are supposed to have had a fall.” It was a wonder to him that even Fain would risk the Ways, but it seemed the only answer. They wouldn’t spend a day and a night just sitting in there, without a roof over their heads.
Mat swept a low bow, and his voice was heavy with sarcasm. “At once, my Lord. As my Lord wishes. Shall I carry your banner, my Lord?” He started back for the manor, his grumbles fading away. “Now I have to limp. Next it’ll be a broken neck, or …”
“He’s just worried about the dagger, Rand,” Loial said.
“I know,” Rand said. But how long before he tells somebody what I am, not even meaning to? He could not believe Mat would betray him on purpose; there was that much of their friendship left, at least. “Loial, boost me up where I can see over the wall.”
“Rand, if the Darkfriends are still —” “They aren’t. Boost me up, Loial.”
The three of them moved close to the wall, and Loial made a stirrup with his hands for Rand’s foot. The Ogier straightened easily with the weight, lifting Rand’s head just high enough to see over the top of the wall.
The thin, waning moon gave little light, and most of the area was in shadow, but there did not seem to be any flowers or shrubs inside the walled square. Only a lone bench of pale marble, placed as if one man might sit on it to stare at what stood in the middle of the space like a huge upright stone slab.
Rand caught the top of the wall and pulled himself up. Loial gave a low hsst and grabbed at his foot, but he jerked free and rolled over the wall, dropping inside. There was closecropped grass under his feet; he thought vaguely that Barthanes must let sheep in, at least. Staring at the shadowed stone slab, the Waygate, he was startled to hear boots thump to the ground beside him.
Hurin climbed to his feet, dusting himself off. “You should be careful doing that, Lord Rand. Could be anybody hiding in here. Or anything.” He peered into the
darkness within the walls, feeling at his belt as if for the short sword and swordbreaker he had had to leave at the inn; servants did not go armed in Cairhien. “Jump in a hole without looking, and there’ll be a snake in it every time.”
“You would smell them,” Rand said.
“Maybe.” The sniffer inhaled deeply. “But I can only smell what they’ve done, not what they intend.”
There was a scraping sound from over Rand’s head, and then Loial was letting himself down from the wall. The Ogier did not even have to straighten his arms completely before his boots touched the ground. “Rash,” he muttered. “You humans are always so rash and hasty. And now you have me doing it. Elder Haman would speak to me severely, and my mother …” The darkness hid his face, but Rand was sure his ears were twitching vigorously. “Rand, if you don’t start being a little careful, you are going to get me in trouble.”
Rand walked to the Waygate, walked all the way around it. Even close up it looked like nothing more than a thick square of stone, taller than he was. The back was smooth and cool to the touch — he only brushed his hand against it quickly — but the front had been carved by an artist’s hands. Vines, leaves, and flowers covered it, each so finely done that in the dim moonlight they seemed almost real. He felt the ground in front of it; the grass had been scraped partly away in two arcs such as those gates would make in opening.
“Is that a Waygate?” Hurin asked uncertainly. “I’ve heard tell of them, of course, but …” He sniffed the air. “The trail goes right to it and stops, Lord Rand. How are we going to follow them, now? I’ve heard if you go through a Waygate, you come out mad, if you come out at all.”
“It can be done, Hurin. I’ve done it, and Loial, and Mat and Perrin.” Rand never took his eyes from the tangles of leaves on the stone. There was one unlike any other carved there, he knew. The trefoil leaf of fabled Avendesora, the Tree of Life. He put his hand on it. “I’ll bet you can smell their trail along the Ways. We can follow anywhere they can run.” It would not hurt to prove to himself that he could make himself step through a Waygate. “I’ll prove it to you.” He heard Hurin groan. The leaf was worked in the stone just as the others were, but it came away in his hand. Loial groaned, too.
In an instant the illusion of living plants seemed suddenly real. Stone leaves appeared to stir with a breeze, flowers appeared to have color even in the dark. Down the center of the mass a line appeared, and the two halves of the slab swung slowly toward Rand. He stepped back to let them open. He did not find himself looking at the other side of the walled square, but neither did he see the dull silver reflection he remembered. The space between the opening gates was a black so dark it seemed to make the night around it lighter. The pitchblackness oozed out between the stillmoving gates.
Rand leaped back with a shout, dropping the Avendesora leaf in his haste, and Loial cried out, “Machin Shin. The Black Wind.”
The sound of wind filled their ears; the grass stirred in ripples toward the walls, and dirt swirled up, sucked into the air. And in the wind a thousand insane voices seemed to cry, ten thousand, overlapping, drowning each other. Rand could make out some of them, though he tried not to.
… blood so sweet, so sweet to drink the blood, the blood that drips, drips, drops so red; pretty eyes, fine eyes, I have no eyes, pluck the eyes from out of your head; grind your bones, split your bones inside your flesh, suck your marrow while you scream; scream, scream, singing screams, sing your screams… And worst of all, a whispering thread through all the rest. Al’Thor. Al’Thor. Al’Thor.
Rand found the void around him and embraced it, never minding the tantalizing, sickening glow of saidin just out of his sight. Greatest of all the dangers along the Ways was the Black Wind that took the souls of those it killed, and drove mad those it let live, but Machin Shin was a part of the Ways; it could not leave them. Only it was flowing into the night, and the Black Wind called his name.
The Waygate was not yet fully open. If they could only put the Avendesora leaf back … He saw Loial scrambling on his hands and knees, fumbling and searching the grass in the darkness.
Saidin filled him. He felt as if his bones were vibrating, felt the redhot, icecold flow of the One Power, felt truly alive as he never was without it, felt the oilslick taint … No! And silently he screamed back at himself from beyond the emptiness, It’s coming for you! It’ll kill all of us! He hurled it all at the black bulge, standing out a full span from the Waygate, now. He did not know what it was that he hurled, or how, but in the heart of that darkness bloomed a coruscating fountain of light.
The Black Wind shrieked, ten thousand wordless howls of agony. Slowly, giving way inch by reluctant inch, the bulge lessened; slowly the oozing reversed, back into the stillopen Waygate.
The Power raced through Rand in a torrent. He could feel the link between himself and saidin, like a river in flood, between himself and the pure fire blazing in the heart of the Black Wind, a raging cataract. The heat inside him went to whiteheat, and beyond, to a shimmer that would have melted stone and vaporized steel and made the air burst into flame. The cold grew till the breath in his lungs should have frozen solid and hard as metal. He could feel it overwhelming him, feel life eroding like a soft clay riverbank, feel what was him wearing away.
Can’t stop! If it gets out … Have to kill it! I — can — not — stop!
Desperately he clung to fragments of himself. The One Power roared through him; he rode it like a chip of wood in rapids. The void began to melt and flow; the emptiness steamed with freezing cold.
The motion of the Waygate halted, and reversed.
Rand stared, sure, in the dim thoughts floating outside the void, that he was only seeing what he wanted to see.
The gates drifted closer together, pushing back Machin Shin as if the Black Wind had solid substance. The inferno still roared in its breast.
With a vague, distant wondering, Rand saw Loial, still on hands and knees, backing away from the closing gates.
The gap narrowed, vanished. The leaves and vines merged into a solid wall, and were stone.
Rand felt the link between him and the fire snap, the flow of Power through him cease. A moment more, and it would have swept him away completely. Shaking, he dropped to his knees. It was still there inside. Saidin. No longer flowing, but there, in a pool. He was a pool of the One Power. He trembled with it. He could smell the grass, the dirt beneath, the stone of the walls. Even in the darkness he could see each blade of grass, separate and whole, all of them at once. He could feel each minute stirring of the air on his face. His tongue curdled with the taste of the taint; his stomach knotted and spasmed.
Frantically he clawed his way out of the void; still on his knees, not moving, he fought free. And then all that was left was the fading foulness on his tongue, and the cramping in his stomach, and the memory. So — alive.
“You saved us, Builder.” Hurin had his back pressed against the wall, and his voice was hoarse. “That thing — that was the Black Wind? — it was worse than — was it going to hurl that fire at us? Lord Rand! Did it harm you? Did it touch you?” He came running as Rand got to his feet, helping him the last bit. Loial was getting up, too, dusting his hands and his knees.
“We’ll never follow Fain through that.” Rand touched Loial’s arm. “Thank you. You did save us.” You saved me, at least. It was killing me. Killing me, and it felt
— wonderful. He swallowed; a faint trace of the taste still coated his mouth. “I want something to drink.”
“I only found the leaf and put it back,” Loial said, shrugging. “It seemed that if we could not get the Waygate closed, it would kill us. I am afraid I’m not a very good hero, Rand. I was so afraid I could hardly think.”
“We were both afraid,” Rand said. “We may be a poor pair of heroes, but we are what there is. It’s a good thing Ingtar is with us.”
“Lord Rand,” Hurin said diffidently, “could we — leave, now?”
The sniffer made a fuss about Rand going over the wall first, with not knowing who was waiting outside, until Rand pointed out that he had the only weapon among them. Even then Hurin did not seem to like letting Loial lift Rand to catch the top of the wall and pull himself over.
Rand landed on his feet with a thud, listening and peering into the night. For a moment he thought he saw something move, heard a boot scrape on the brick walk, but neither was repeated, and he dismissed it as nervousness. He thought that he had a right to be nervous. He turned to help Hurin down.
“Lord Rand,” the sniffer said as soon as his feet were solidly on the ground, “how are we going to follow them now? From what I’ve heard of those things, the whole lot of them could be halfway across the world by now, in any direction.”
“Verin will know a way.” Rand suddenly wanted to laugh; to find the Horn and
the dagger — if they could be found, now — he had to go back to the Aes Sedai. They had let him loose, and now he had to go back. “I won’t let Mat die without trying.”
Loial joined them, and they went back toward the manor, to be met at the small door by Mat, who opened it just as Rand reached for the handle. “Verin says you’re not to do anything. If Hurin’s found where the Horn is kept, then she says that’s all we can do, now. She says we’ll leave as soon as you come back, and make a plan. And I say this is the last time I go running back and forth with messages. If you want to say something to somebody, you can talk to them yourself from now on.” Mat peered past them into the darkness. “Is the Horn out there somewhere? In an outbuilding? Did you see the dagger?”
Rand turned him around and got him back inside. “It isn’t in an outbuilding, Mat. I hope Verin has a good idea of what to do now; I don’t have any.”
Mat looked as if he wanted to ask questions, but he let himself be pushed along the dimly lit corridor. He even remembered to limp as they started upstairs.
When Rand and the others reentered the rooms filled with nobles, they received a number of looks. Rand wondered if they somehow knew something of what had happened outside, or if he should have sent Hurin and Mat to the front hall to wait, but then he realized the looks were no different from what they had been before, curious and calculating, wondering what the lord and the Ogier had been up to. Servants were invisible to these people. No one tried to approach them, since they were together. It seemed there were protocols to conspiracy in the Great Game; anyone might try to listen to a private conversation, but they would not intrude on it.
Verin and Ingtar were standing together, and thus also alone. Ingtar looked a little dazed. Verin gave Rand and the other three a brief glance, frowned at their expressions, then resettled her shawl and started for the entry hall.
As they reached it, Barthanes appeared as if someone had told him they were leaving. “You go so soon? Verin Sedai, can I not entreat you to stay longer?”
Verin shook her head. “We must go, Lord Barthanes. I’ve not been in Cairhien in some years. I was glad of your invitation to young Rand. It has been … interesting.” “Then Grace see you safely to your inn. The Great Tree, is it not? Perhaps you will favor me with your presence again? You would honor me, Verin Sedai, and you, Lord Rand, and you, Lord Ingtar, not to mention you, Loial, son of Arent son of Halan.” His bow was a little deeper for the Aes Sedai than for the others, but still
no more than a slight inclination.
Verin nodded in acknowledgment. “Perhaps. The Light illumine you, Lord Barthanes.” She turned for the doors.
As Rand moved to follow the others, Barthanes caught his sleeve with two fingers, holding him back. Mat looked as if he might stay, too, until Hurin pulled him to join Verin and the rest.
“You wade even deeper in the Game than I thought,” Barthanes said softly.
“When I heard your name, I could not believe it, yet you came, and you fit the description, and … I was given a message for you. I think I will deliver it after all.”
Rand had felt a prickling along his backbone as Barthanes spoke, but at the last, he stared. “A message? From whom? Lady Selene?”
“A man. Not the sort for whom I would usually carry messages, but he has … certain … claims on me that I cannot ignore. He gave no name, but he was a Lugarder. Aaah! You know him.”
“I know him.” Fain left a message? Rand looked around the wide hall. Mat and Verin and the others were waiting by the doors. Liveried servants stood stiffly along the walls, ready to leap at a command yet appearing neither to hear nor see. The sounds of the gathering floated from deeper in the manor. It did not look like a place where Darkfriends might attack. “What message?”
“He says he will wait for you on Toman Head. He has what you seek, and if you want it, you must follow. If you refuse to follow him, he says he will hound your blood, and your people, and those you love until you will face him. It sounds mad, of course, a man like that saying he will hound a lord, and yet, there was something about him. I think he it mad — he even denied you are a lord, as any eye can plainly see — but there is still something. What is it he carries with him, with Trollocs to guard it? What is it you seek?” Barthanes seemed shocked at the directness of his own questions.
“The Light illumine you, Lord Barthanes.” Rand managed a bow, but his legs wobbled as he joined Verin and the others. He wants me to follow? And he’ll hurt Emond’s Field, Tam, if I don’t. He had no doubt Fain could do it, would do it. At least Egwene is safe, in the White Tower. He had sickening images of Trollocs descending in hordes on Emond’s Field, of eyeless Fades stalking Egwene. But how can I follow him? How?
Then he was out in the night, mounting Red. Verin and Ingtar and the others were all already on their horses, and the escort of Shienarans was closing round them.
“What did you find?” Verin demanded. “Where does he keep it?” Hurin cleared his throat loudly, and Loial shifted in his high saddle. The Aes Sedai peered at them.
“Fain has taken the Horn to Toman Head through a Waygate,” Rand said dully. “By this time, he’s probably already waiting there for me.”
“We will speak of this later,” Verin said, so firmly that no one spoke at all on the ride back to the city, to The Great Tree.
Uno left them there, after a quiet word from Ingtar, taking the soldiers back to their inn in the Foregate. Hurin took one look at Verin’s set face by the light of the common room, muttered something about ale, and scurried to a table in a corner, alone. The Aes Sedai brushed aside the innkeeper’s solicitous hopes that she had enjoyed herself, and silently led Rand and the rest to the private dining room.
Perrin looked up from The Travels of Jain Farstrider when they walked in, and
frowned when he saw their faces. “It didn’t go well, did it?” he said, closing the leatherbound book. Lamps and beeswax candles around the room gave a good light; Mistress Tiedra charged heavily, but she did not stint.
Verin carefully folded her shawl and laid it across the back of a chair. “Tell me again. The Darkfriends took the Horn through a Waygate? At Barthanes’s manor?”
“The ground under the manor used to be an Ogier grove,” Loial explained. “When we built …” His voice trailed off and his ears wilted under her look.
“Hurin followed them right to it.” Rand wearily threw himself into a chair. I have to follow more than ever, now. But how? “I opened it to show him he could still follow the trail wherever they went, and the Black Wind was there. It tried to reach us, but Loial managed to close the gates before it could come all the way out.” He colored a little at that, but Loial had closed the gates, and for all he knew Machin Shin might have made it out without that. “It was standing guard.”
“The Black Wind,” Mat breathed, frozen halfway into a chair. Perrin was staring at Rand, too. So were Verin and Ingtar. Mat dropped into the chair with a thump.
“You must be mistaken,” Verin said at last. “Machin Shin could not be used as a guard. No one can constrain the Black Wind to do anything.”
“It’s a creature of the Dark One,” Mat said numbly. “They’re Darkfriends.
Maybe they knew how to ask it for help, or make it help.”
“No one knows exactly what Machin Shin is,” Verin said, “unless, perhaps, it is the essence of madness and cruelty. It cannot be reasoned with, Mat, or bargained with, or talked to. It cannot even be forced, not by any Aes Sedai living today, and perhaps not by any who ever lived. Do you really think Padan Fain could do what ten Aes Sedai could not?” Mat shook his head.
There was an air of despair in the room, of hope and purpose lost. The goal they had sought had vanished, and even Verin’s face wore a floundering expression.
“I’d never have thought Fain had the courage for the Ways.” Ingtar sounded almost mild, but suddenly he banged his fist against the wall. “I do not care how, or even if, Machin Shin works on Fain’s behalf. They have taken the Horn of Valere into the Ways, Aes Sedai. By now they could be in the Blight, or halfway to Tear or Tanchico, or the other side of the Aiel Waste. The Horn is lost. I am lost.” His hands dropped to his sides, and his shoulders slumped. “I am lost.”
“Fain is taking it to Toman Head,” Rand said, and was immediately the object of all eyes again.
Verin studied him narrowly. “You said that before. How do you know?” “He left a message with Barthanes,” Rand said.
“A trick,” Ingtar sneered. “He’d not tell us where to follow.”
“I don’t know what the rest of you are going to do,” Rand said, “but I am going to Toman Head. I have to. I leave at first light.”
“But, Rand,” Loial said, “it will take us months to reach Toman Head. What makes you think Fain will wait there for us?”
“He will wait.” But how long before he decides I’m not coming? Why did he set
that guard if he wants me to follow? “Loial, I mean to ride as hard as I can, and if I ride Red to death, I’ll buy another horse, or steal another, if I have to. Are you sure you want to come?”
“I’ve stayed with you this long, Rand. Why would I stop now?” Loial pulled out his pipe and pouch and began thumbing tabac into the big bowl. “You see, I like you. I would like you even if you weren’t ta’veren. Maybe I like you despite it. You do seem to get me neckdeep in hot water. In any case, I am going with you.” He sucked on the pipestem to test the draw, then took a splinter from the stone jar on the mantel and thrust it into a candle flame for a light. “And I don’t think you can really stop me.”
“Well, I’m going,” Mat said. “Fain still has that dagger, so I’m going. But all that servant business ended tonight.”
Perrin sighed, an introspective look in his yellow eyes. “I suppose I’ll come along, too.” After a moment, he grinned. “Somebody has to keep Mat out of trouble.”
“Not even a clever trick,” Ingtar muttered. “Somehow, I’ll get Barthanes alone, and I will learn the truth. I mean to have the Horn of Valere, not chase Jak o’ the Wisps.”
“It may not be a trick,” Verin said carefully, seeming to study the floor under her toes. “There were certain things left in the dungeons at Fal Dara, writings that indicated a connection between what happened that night and” — she gave Rand a quick glance under lowered brows — “Toman Head. I still do not understand them completely, but I believe we must go to Toman Head. And I believe we will find the Horn there.”
“Even if they are going to Toman Head,” Ingtar said, “by the time we reach it, Fain or one of the other Darkfriends could have blown the Horn a hundred times, and the heroes returned from the grave will ride for the Shadow.”
“Fain could have blown the Horn a hundred times since leaving Fal Dara,” Verin told him. “And I think he would have, if he could open the chest. What we must worry about is that he might find someone who does know how to open it. We must follow him along the Ways.”
Perrin’s head came up sharply, and Mat shifted in his chair. Loial gave a low moan.
“Even if we could somehow sneak past Barthanes’s guards,” Rand said, “I think we’ll find Machin Shin still there. We cannot use the Ways.”
“How many of us could sneak onto Barthanes’s grounds?” Verin said dismissively. “There are other Waygates. Stedding Tsofu lies not far from the city, south and east. It is a young stedding, rediscovered only perhaps six hundred years ago, but the Ogier Elders were still growing the Ways, then. Stedding Tsofu will have a Waygate. It is there and we will ride at first light.”
Loial made a slightly louder sound, and Rand was not sure whether it referred to the Waygate or the stedding.
Ingtar still did not seem convinced, but Verin was as smooth and as implacable as snow sliding down a mountainside. “You will have your soldiers ready to ride, Ingtar. Send Hurin to tell Uno before he goes to bed. I think we should all go to bed as soon as possible. These Darkfriends have gained at least a day on us already, and I mean to make up as much of it as I can tomorrow.” So firm was the plump Aes Sedai’s manner that she was already herding Ingtar to the door before she finished speaking.
Rand followed the others out, but at the door he stopped beside the Aes Sedai and watched Mat heading down the candlelit hall. “Why does he look like that?” he asked her. “I thought you Healed him, enough to give him some time, anyway.”
She waited until Mat and the others had turned up the stairs before speaking. “Apparently, it did not work so well as we believed. The sickness takes an interesting course in him. His strength remains; he will keep that to the end, I think. But his body wastes away. Another few weeks, at most, I would say. You see, there is reason for haste.”
“I do not need another spur, Aes Sedai,” Rand said, making the title sound hard.
Mat. The Horn. Fain’s threat. Light, Egwene! Burn me, I don’t need another spur. “And what of you, Rand al’Thor? Do you feel well? Do you fight it still, or have
you yet surrendered to the Wheel?”
“I ride with you to find the Horn,” he told her. “Beyond that, there is nothing between me and any Aes Sedai. Do you understand me? Nothing!”
She did not speak, and he walked away from her, but when he turned to take the stairs she was still watching him, dark eyes sharp and considering.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 34
(Serpent and Wheel) The Wheel Weaves
The first light of morning already pearled the sky by the time Thom Merrilin found himself trudging back to The Bunch of Grapes. Even where the halls and taverns lay thickest, there was a brief time when the Foregate lay quiet, gathering its breath. In his present mood, Thom would not have noticed if the empty street had been on fire.
Some of Barthanes’s guests had insisted on keeping him long after most had gone, long after Barthanes had taken himself to bed. It had been his own fault for leaving The Great Hunt of the Horn, changing to the sort of tales he told and songs he sang in the villages, ‘Mara and the Three Foolish Kings’ and How Susa Tamed Jain Farstrider and stories of Anla the Wise Councilor. He had meant the choices to be a private comment on their stupidity, never dreaming any of them might listen, much less be intrigued. Intrigued in a way. They had demanded more of the same, but they had laughed in the wrong places, at the wrong things. They had laughed at him, too, apparently thinking he would not notice, or else that a full purse stuffed in his pocket would heal any wounds. He had almost thrown it away twice already.
The heavy purse burning his pocket and pride was not the only reason for his mood, nor even the nobles’ contempt. They had asked questions about Rand, not even bothering to be subtle with a mere gleeman. Why was Rand in Cairhien? Why had an Andoran lord taken him, a gleeman, aside? Too many questions. He was not sure his answers had been clever enough. His reflexes for the Great Game were rusty.
Before turning toward The Bunch of Grapes, he had gone to The Great Tree; it was not difficult to find where someone was staying in Cairhien, if you pressed a palm or two with silver. He was still not sure what he had intended to say. Rand was gone with his friends, and the Aes Sedai. It left a feeling of something not done. The boy’s on his own, now. Burn me, I’m out of it!
He strode through the common room, empty as it seldom was, and took the steps two at a time. At least, he tried to; his right leg did not bend well, and he nearly fell. Muttering to himself, he climbed the rest of the way at a slower pace, and opened the door to his room softly, so as not to wake Dena.
Despite himself, he smiled when he saw her lying on the bed with her face turned to the wall, still in her dress. Fell asleep waiting for me. Fool girl. But it was a kindly thought; he was not sure there was anything she would do that he would not forgive or excuse. Deciding on the spur of the moment that tonight was the night he’d let her perform for the first time, he lowered his harp case to the floor and put a hand on her shoulder, to wake her and tell her.
She rolled limply onto her back, staring up at him, glazed eyes open wide above the gash across her throat. The side of the bed that had been hidden by her body was
dark and sodden.
Thom’s stomach heaved; if his throat had not been so tight he could not breathe, he would have vomited, or screamed, or both.
He had only the creaking of wardrobe doors for warning. He spun, knives coming out of his sleeves and leaving his hands in the same motion. The first blade took the throat of a fat, balding man with a dagger in his hand; the man stumbled back, blood bubbling around his clutching fingers as he tried to cry out.
Spinning on his bad leg threw Thom’s other blade off, though; the knife stuck in the right shoulder of a heavily muscled man with scars on his face, who was climbing out of the other wardrobe. The big man’s knife dropped from a hand that suddenly would not do what he wanted, and he lumbered for the door.
Before he could take a second step, Thom produced another knife and slashed him across the back of his leg. The big man yelled and stumbled, and Thom seized a handful of greasy hair, slamming his face against the wall beside the door; the man screamed again as the knife hilt sticking out of his shoulder hit the door.
Thom thrust the blade in his hand to within an inch of the man’s dark eye. The scars on the big man’s face gave him a hard look, but he stared at the point without blinking and did not move a muscle. The fat man, lying half in the wardrobe, kicked a last kick and was still.
“Before I kill you,” Thom said, “tell me. Why?” His voice was quiet, numb; he felt numb inside.
“The Great Game,” the man said quickly. His accent was of the streets, and his clothes as well, but they were a shade too fine, too unworn; he had more coin to spend than any Foregater should. “Nothing against you personal, you see? It is just the Game.”
“The Game? I’m not mixed up in Daes Dae’mar! Who would want to kill me for the Great Game?” The man hesitated. Thom moved his blade closer. If the fellow blinked, his eyelashes would brush the point. “Who?”
“Barthanes,” came the hoarse answer. “Lord Barthanes. We would not have killed you. Barthanes wants information. We just wanted to find out what you know. There can be gold in it for you. A nice, fat golden crown for what you know. Maybe two.”
“Liar! I was in Barthanes’s manor last night, as close to him as I am to you. If he wanted anything of me, I’d never have left alive.”
“I tell you, we have been looking for you, or anyone who knows about this Andoran lord, for days. I never heard your name until last night, downstairs. Lord Barthanes is generous. It could be five crowns.”
The man tried to pull his head away from the knife in Thom’s hand, and Thom pushed him harder against the wall. “What Andoran lord?” But he knew. The Light help him, he knew.
“Rand. Of House al’Thor. Tall. Young. A blademaster, or at least he wears the sword. I know he came to see you. Him and an Ogier, and you talked. Tell me what
you know. I might even throw in a crown or two, myself.”
“You fool,” Thom breathed. Dena died for this? Oh, Light, she’s dead. He felt as if he wanted to cry. “The boy’s a shepherd.” A shepherd in a fancy coat, with Aes Sedai around him like bees around honeyroses. “Just a shepherd.” He tightened his grip in the man’s hair.
“Wait! Wait! You can make more than any five crowns, or even ten. A hundred, more like. Every House wants to know about this Rand al’Thor. Two or three have approached me. With what you know, and my knowing who wants to know it, we could both fill our pockets. And there has been a woman, a lady, I have seen more than once while asking after him. If we can find out who she is … why, we could sell that, too.”
“You’ve made one real mistake in it all,” Thom said.
“Mistake?” The man’s far hand was beginning to slide down toward his belt. No doubt he had another dagger there. Thom ignored it.
“You should never have touched the girl.”
The man’s hand darted for his belt, then he gave one convulsive start as Thom’s knife went home.
Thom let him fall over away from the door and stood a moment before bending tiredly to tug his blades free. The door banged open, and he whirled with a snarl on his face.
Zera jerked back, a hand to her throat, staring at him. “That fool Ella just told me,” she said unsteadily, “that two of Barthanes’s men were asking after you last night, and with what I’ve heard this morning … I thought you said you didn’t play in the Game anymore.”
“They found me,” he said wearily.
Her eyes dropped from his face and widened as they took in the bodies of the two men. Hastily she stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her. “This is bad, Thom. You’ll have to leave Cairhien.” Her gaze fell on the bed, and her breath caught. “Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, Thom, I’m so sorry.”“I cannot leave yet, Zera.” He hesitated, then tenderly drew a blanket over Dena, covering her face. “I have another man to kill, first.”
The innkeeper gave herself a shake and pulled her eyes away from the bed. Her voice was more than a little breathy. “If you mean Barthanes, you’re too late. Everybody’s talking about it already. He is dead. His servants found him this morning, torn to pieces in his bedchamber. The only way they knew it was him was his head stuck on a spike over the fireplace.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Thom, you can’t hide that you were there last night, not from anybody who wants to know. Add these two in, and there’s nobody in Cairhien who won’t believe you were involved.” There was a slight questioning note in her last words, as if she, too, were wondering.
“It doesn’t matter, I suppose,” he said dully. He could not stop looking down at the blanketcovered shape on the bed. “Perhaps I will go back to Andor. To
Caemlyn.”
She took his shoulders, turning him away from the bed. “You men,” she sighed, “always thinking with either your muscles or your hearts, and never your heads. Caemlyn is as bad as Cairhien, for you. Either place, you’ll end up dead, or in prison. Do you think she’d want that? If you want to honor her memory, stay alive.”
“Will you take care of …” He could not say it. Growing old, he thought. Going soft. He pulled the heavy purse from his pocket and folded her hands around it. “This should take care of … everything. And help when they start asking questions about me, too.”
“I will see to everything,” she said gently. “You must go, Thom. Now.”
He nodded reluctantly, and slowly began stuffing a few things in a set of saddlebags. While he worked, Zera got her first close look at the fat man sprawled partway in the wardrobe, and she gave a loud gasp. He looked at her inquiringly; as long as he had known her, she had never been one to go faint over blood.
“These aren’t Barthanes’s men, Thom. At least, that one isn’t.” She nodded toward the fat man. “It’s the worst kept secret in Cairhien that he works for House Riatin. For Galldrian.”
“Galldrian,” he said flatly. What has that bloody shepherd gotten me into? What have the Aes Sedai gotten us both into? But it was Galldrian’s men murdered her.
There must have been something of his thoughts on his face. Zera said sharply, “Dena wants you alive, you fool! You try to kill the King, and you’ll be dead before you get within a hundred spans of him, if you come that close!”
A roar came from the city walls, as if half of Cairhien were shouting. Frowning, Thom peered from his window. Beyond the top of the gray walls above the rooftops of the Foregate, a thick column of smoke was rising into the sky. Far beyond the walls. Beside the first black pillar, a few gray tendrils quickly grew into another, and more wisps appeared further on. He estimated the distance and took a deep breath.
“Perhaps you had better think about leaving, too. It looks as if someone is firing the granaries.”
“I have lived through riots before. Go now, Thom.” With a last look at Dena’s shrouded form, he gathered his things, but as he started to leave, Zera spoke again. “You have a dangerous look in your eyes, Thom Merrilin. Imagine Dena sitting here, alive and hale. Think what she would say. Would she let you go off and get yourself killed to no purpose?”
“I’m only an old gleeman,” he said from the door. And Rand al’Thor is only a shepherd, but we both do what we must. “Who could I possibly be dangerous to?”
As he pulled the door to, hiding her, hiding Dena, a mirthless, wolfish grin came onto his face. His leg hurt, but he barely felt it as he hurried purposefully down the stairs and out of the inn.
Padan Fain reined in his horse atop a hill above Falme, in one of the few sparse thickets remaining on the hills outside the town. The packhorse bearing his precious
burden bumped his leg, and he kicked it in the ribs without looking; the animal snorted and jerked back to the end of the lead he had tied to his saddle. The woman had not wanted to give up her horse, no more than any of the Darkfriends who had followed him had wanted to be left alone in the hills with the Trollocs, without Fain’s protecting presence. He had solved both problems easily. Meat in a Trolloc cookpot had no need of a horse. The woman’s companions had been shaken by the journey along the Ways, to a Waygate outside a longabandoned stedding on Toman Head, and watching the Trollocs prepare their dinner had made the surviving Darkfriends extremely biddable.
From the edge of the trees, Fain studied the unwalled town and sneered. One short merchant train was rumbling in among the stables and horse lots and wagon yards that bordered the town, while another rumbled out, raising little dust from dirt packed by many years of such traffic. The men driving the wagons and the few riding beside them were all local men by their clothing, yet the mounted men, at least, had swords on baldrics, and even a few spears and bows. The soldiers he saw, and there were few, did not seem to be watching the armed men they had supposedly conquered.
He had learned something of these people, these Seanchan, in his day and a night on Toman Head. At least, as much as the defeated folk knew. It was never hard to find someone alone, and they always answered questions properly put. Men gathered more information on the invaders, as if they actually believed they would eventually do something with what they knew, but they sometimes tried to hold back. Women, by and large, seemed interested in going on with their lives whoever their rulers were, yet they noted details men did not, and they talked more quickly once they stopped screaming. Children talked the quickest of all, but they seldom said much that was worthwhile.
He had discarded three quarters of what he had heard as nonsense and rumors growing into fables, but he took some of those conclusions back, now. Anyone at all could enter Falme, it appeared. With a start, he saw the truth of a little more “nonsense” as twenty soldiers rode out of the town. He could not make out their mounts clearly, but they were certainly not horses. They ran with a fluid grace, and their dark skins seemed to have a glint in the morning sun, as of scales. He craned his neck to watch them disappear inland, then booted his horse toward the town.
The local folk among the stables and parked wagons and fenced horse lots gave him no more than a glance or two. He had no interest in them, either; he rode on into the town, onto its cobblestone streets sloping down to the harbor. He could see the harbor clearly, and the large, oddly shaped Seanchan ships anchored there. No one bothered him as he searched streets that were neither crowded nor empty. There were more Seanchan soldiers here. The people hurried about their business with eyes down, bowing whenever soldiers passed, but the Seanchan paid them no mind. It all seemed peaceful on the surface, despite the armored Seanchan in the streets and the ships in the harbor, but Fain could sense the tension underneath. He always
did well where men were tense and afraid.
He came to a large house with more than a dozen soldiers standing guard before it. Fain stopped and dismounted. Except for one obvious officer, most wore armor of unrelieved black, and their helmets made him think of locusts’ heads. Two leatheryskinned beasts with three eyes and horny beaks instead of mouths flanked the front door, squatting like crouching frogs; the soldier standing by each of the creatures had three eyes painted on the breast of his armor. Fain eyed the bluebordered banner flapping above the roof, the spreadwinged hawk clutching lightning bolts, and chortled inside himself.
Women went in and out of a house across the street, women linked by silver leashes, but he ignored them. He knew about damane from the villagers. They might be of some use later, but not now.
The soldiers were looking at him, especially the officer, whose armor was all gold and red and green.
Forcing an ingratiating smile onto his face, Fain made himself bow deeply. “My lords, I have something here that will interest your Great Lord. I assure you, he will want to see it, and me, personally.” He gestured to the squarish shape on his packhorse, still wrapped in the huge, striped blanket in which his people had found it.
The officer stared him up and down. “You sound a foreigner to this land. Have you taken the oaths?”
“I obey, await, and will serve,” Fain replied smoothly. Everyone he had questioned spoke of the oaths, though none had understood what they meant. If these people wanted oaths, he was prepared to swear anything. He had long since lost count of the oaths he had taken.
The officer motioned two of his men to see what was under the blanket. Surprised grunts at the weight as they lifted it down from the packsaddle turned to gasps when they stripped the blanket away. The officer stared with no expression on his face at the silverworked golden chest resting on the cobblestones, then looked at Fain. “A gift fit for the Empress herself. You will come with me.”
One of the soldiers searched Fain roughly, but he endured it in silence, noting that the officer and the two soldiers who took up the chest surrendered their swords and daggers before going inside. Anything he could learn of these people, however small, might help, though he was confident of his plan already. He was always confident, but never more than where lords feared an assassin’s knife from their own followers.
As they went through the door, the officer frowned at him, and for a moment Fain wondered why. Of course. The beasts. Whatever they were, they were certainly no worse than Trollocs, nothing at all beside a Myrddraal, and he had not given them a second look. It was too late to pretend to be afraid of them now. But the Seanchan said nothing, only led him deeper into the house.
And so Fain found himself on his face, in a room bare of furnishings except for
folding screens that hid its walls, while the officer told the High Lord Turak of him and his offering. Servants brought a table on which to set the chest so the High Lord would have no need to stoop; all Fain saw of them were scurrying slippers. He bided his time impatiently. Eventually there would come a time when he was not the one to bow.
Then the soldiers were dismissed, and Fain told to rise. He did so slowly, studying both the High Lord, with his shaven head and his long fingernails and his blue silk robe brocaded with blossoms, and the man who stood beside him with the unshaven half of his pale hair in a long braid. Fain was sure the fellow in green was only a servant, however great, but servants could be useful, especially if they stood high in their master’s sight.
“A marvelous gift.” Turak’s eyes lifted from the chest to Fain. A scent of roses wafted from the High Lord. “Yet the question asks itself; how did one like you come by a chest many lesser lords could not afford? Are you a thief?”
Fain tugged at his worn, none too clean coat. “It is sometimes necessary for a man to appear less than he is, High Lord. My present shabbiness allowed me to bring this to you unmolested. This chest is old, High Lord — as old as the Age of Legends — and within it lies a treasure such as few eyes have ever seen. Soon — very soon, High Lord — I will be able to open it, and give you that which will enable you to take this land as far as you wish, to the Spine of the World, the Aiel Waste, the lands beyond. Nothing will stand against you, High Lord, once I — ” He cut off as Turak began running his longnailed fingers over the chest.
“I have seen chests such as this, chests from the Age of Legends,” the High Lord said, “though none so fine. They are meant to be opened only by those who know the pattern, but I — ah!” He pressed among the ornate whorls and bosses, there was a sharp click, and he lifted back the lid. A flicker of what might have been disappointment passed across his face.
Fain bit the inside of his mouth till blood came to keep from snarling. It lessened his bargaining position that he was not the one who had opened the chest. Still, all the rest could go as he had planned if he could only make himself be patient. But he had been patient so long.
“These are treasure from the Age of Legends?” Turak said, lifting out the curled Horn in one hand and the curved dagger with the ruby in its golden hilt in the other. Fain clutched his hands in fists at his sides so he would not grab the dagger. “The Age of Legends,” Turak repeated softly, tracing the silver script inlaid around the golden bell of the Horn with the tip of the dagger’s blade. His brows rose in startlement, the first open expression Fain had seen from him, but in the next instant Turak’s face was as smooth as ever. “Do you have any idea what this is?”
“The Horn of Valere, High Lord,” Fain said smoothly, pleased to see the mouth of the man with the braid drop open. Turak only nodded as if to himself.
The High Lord turned away. Fain blinked and opened his mouth, then, at a sharp gesture from the yellowhaired man, followed without speaking.
It was another room with all the original furnishings gone, replaced by folding screens and a single chair facing a tall round cabinet. Still holding the Horn and the dagger, Turak looked at the cabinet, then away. He said nothing, but the other Seanchan snapped quick orders, and in moments men in plain woolen robes appeared through a door behind the screens bearing another small table. A young woman with hair so pale it was almost white came behind them, her arms full of small stands of polished wood in various sizes and shapes. Her garment was white silk, and so thin that Fain could see her body clearly through it, but he had eyes only for the dagger. The Horn was a means to an end, but the dagger was a part of him.
Turak briefly touched one of the wooden stands the girl held, and she placed it on the center of the table. The men turned the chair to face it under the direction of the man with the braid. The lower servants’ hair hung to their shoulders. They scurried out with bows that almost put their heads on their knees.
Placing the Horn on the stand so that it stood upright, Turak laid the dagger on the table in front of it and went to sit in the chair.
Fain could stand it no longer. He reached for the dagger.
The yellowhaired man caught his wrist in a crushing grip. “Unshaven dog! Know that the hand that touches the property of the High Lord unbidden is cut off.”
“It is mine,” Fain growled. Patience! So long.
Turak, lounging back in the chair, lifted one bluelacquered fingernail, and Fain was pulled out of the way so the High Lord could view the Horn unobstructed.
“Yours?” Turak said. “Inside a chest you could not open? If you interest me sufficiently, I may give you the dagger. Even if it is from the Age of Legends, I have no interest in such as that. Before all else, you will answer me a question. Why have you brought the Horn of Valere to me?”
Fain eyed the dagger longingly a moment more, then jerked his wrist free and rubbed it as he bowed. “That you may sound it, High Lord. Then you may take all of this land, if you wish. All of the world. You may break the White Tower and grind the Aes Sedai to dust, for even their powers cannot stop heroes come back from the dead.”
“I am to sound it.” Turak’s tone was flat. “And break the White Tower. Again, why? You claim to obey, await, and serve, but this is a land of oathbreakers. Why do you give your land to me? Do you have some private quarrel with these… women?”
Fain tried to make his voice convincing. Patient, like a worm boring from within. “High Lord, my family has passed down a tradition, generation upon generation. We served the High King, Artur Paendrag Tanreall, and when he was murdered by the witches of Tar Valon, we did not abandon our oaths. When others warred and tore apart what Artur Hawkwing had made, we held to our swearing, and suffered for it, but held to it still. This is our tradition, High Lord, handed father to son, and mother to daughter, down all the years since the High King was
murdered. That we await the return of the armies Artur Hawkwing sent across the Aryth Ocean, that we await the return of Artur Hawkwing’s blood to destroy the White Tower and take back what was the High King’s. And when the Hawkwing’s blood returns, we will serve and advise, as we did for the High King. High Lord, except for its border, the banner that flies over this roof is the banner of Luthair, the son Artur Paendrag Tanreall sent with his armies across the ocean.”
Fain dropped to his knees, giving a good imitation of being overwhelmed. “High Lord, I wish only to serve and advise the blood of the High King.”
Turak was silent so long that Fain began to wonder if he needed further convincing; he was ready with more, as much as was required. Finally, though, the High Lord spoke. “You seem to know what none, neither the high nor the low, has spoken since sighting this land. The people here speak it as one rumor among ten, but you know. I can see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice. I could almost think you were sent to entangle me in a trap. But who, possessing the Horn of Valere, would use it so? None of those of the Blood who came with the Hailene could have had the Horn, for the legend says it was hidden in this land. And surely any lord of this land would use it against me rather than put it in my hands. How did you come to possess the Horn of Valere? Do you claim to be a hero, as in the legend? Have you done valorous deeds?”
“I am no hero, High Lord.” Fain ventured a selfdeprecating smile, but Turak’s face did not alter, and he let it go. “The Horn was found by an ancestor of mine during the turmoil after the High King’s death. He knew how to open the chest, but that secret died with him in the War of the Hundred Years, that rent Artur Hawkwing’s empire, so that all we who followed him knew was that the Horn lay within and we must keep it safe until the High King’s blood returned.”
“Almost could I believe you.”
“Believe, High Lord. Once you sound the Horn — ”
“Do not ruin what convincing you have managed to do. I shall not sound the Horn of Valere. When I return to Seanchan, I shall present it to the Empress as the chiefest of my trophies. Perhaps the Empress will sound it herself.”
“But, High Lord,” Fain protested, “you must — ” He found himself lying on his side, his head ringing. Only when his eyes cleared did he see the man with the pale braid rubbing his knuckles and realize what had happened.
“Some words,” the fellow said softly, “are never used to the High Lord.” Fain decided how the man was going to die.
Turak looked from Fain to the Horn as placidly as if he had seen nothing. “Perhaps I will give you to the Empress along with the Horn of Valere. She might find you amusing, a man who claims his family held true where all others broke their oaths or forgot them.”
Fain hid his sudden elation in the act of climbing back to his feet. He had not even known of the existence of an Empress until Turak mentioned her, but access to a ruler again … that opened new paths, new plans. Access to a ruler with the might
of the Seanchan beneath her and the Horn of Valere in her hands. Much better than making this Turak a Great King, He could wait for some parts of his plan. Softly. Mustn’t let him know how much you want it. After so long, a little more patience will not hurt. “As the High Lord wishes,” he said, trying to sound like a man who only wanted to serve.
“You seem almost eager,” Turak said, and Fain barely suppressed a wince. “I will tell you why I will not sound the Horn of Valere, or even keep it, and perhaps that will cure your eagerness. I do not wish a gift of mine to offend the Empress by his actions; if your eagerness cannot be cured, it will never be satisfied, for you will never leave these shores. Do you know that whoever blows the Horn of Valere is linked to it thereafter? That so long as he or she lives, it is no more than a horn to any other?” He did not sound as if he expected answers, and in any case, he did not pause for them. “I stand twelfth in line of succession to the Crystal Throne. If I kept the Horn of Valere, all between myself and the throne would think I meant to be first hereafter, and while the Empress, of course, wishes that we contend with one another so that the strongest and most cunning will follow her, she currently favors her second daughter, and she would not look well on any threat to Tuon. If I sounded it, even if I then laid this land at her feet, and every woman in the White Tower leashed, the Empress, may she live forever, would surely believe I meant to be more than merely her heir.”
Fain stopped himself short of suggesting how possible that would be with the aid of the Horn. Something in the High Lord’s voice suggested — as hard as Fain found it to believe — that he actually meant his wish for her to live forever. I must be patient. A worm in the root.
“The Empress’s Listeners may be anywhere,” Turak continued. “They may be anyone. Huan was born and raised in the House of Aladon, and his family for eleven generations before him, yet even he could be a Listener.” The man with the braid half made a protesting gesture, before jerking himself back to stillness. “Even a high lord or a high lady can find their deepest secrets known to Listeners, can wake to find themselves already handed over to the Seekers for Truth. Truth is always difficult to find, but the Seekers spare no pain in their search, and they will search as long as they think there is need. They make great efforts not to allow a high lord or high lady to die in their care, of course, for no man’s hand may slay one in whose veins flows the blood of Artur Hawkwing. If the Empress must order such a death, the unfortunate one is placed alive in a silken bag, and that bag hung over the side of the Tower of the Ravens and left there until it rots away. No such care would be taken for one such as you. At the Court of the Nine Moons, in Seandar, one such as you could be given to the Seekers for a shift of your eye, for a misspoken word, for a whim. Are you still eager?”
Fain managed a tremble in his knees. “I wish only to serve and advise, High Lord. I know much that may be useful.” This court of Seandar sounded a place where his plans and skills would find fertile soil.
“Until I sail back to Seanchan, you will amuse me with your tales of your family and its tradition. It is a relief to find a second man in this Lightforsaken land who can amuse me, even if you both tell lies, as I suspect. You may leave me.” No other word was spoken, but the girl with the nearly white hair and the almosttransparent robe appeared on quick feet to kneel with downcast head beside the High Lord, offering a single steaming cup on a lacquered tray.
“High Lord,” Fain said. The man with the braid, Huan, took hold of his arm, but he pulled loose. Huan’s mouth tightened angrily as Fain made his deepest bow yet. I will kill him slowly, yes. “High Lord, there are those who follow me. They mean to take the Horn of Valere. Darkfriends and worse, High Lord, and they cannot be more than a day or two behind me.”
Turak took a sip of black liquid from the thin cup balanced on longnailed fingertips. “Few Darkfriends remain in Seanchan. Those who survive the Seekers for Truth meet the axe of the headsman. It might be amusing to meet a Darkfriend.” “High Lord, they are dangerous. They have Trollocs with them. They are led by one who calls himself Rand al’Thor. A young man, but vile in the Shadow beyond belief, with a lying, devious tongue. In many places he has claimed to be many things, but always the Trollocs come when he is there, High Lord. Always the
Trollocs come … and kill.”
“Trollocs,” Turak mused. “There were no Trollocs in Seanchan. But the Armies of the Night had other allies. Other things. I have often wondered if a grolm could kill a Trolloc. I will have watch kept for your Trollocs and your Darkfriends, if they are not another lie. This land wearies me with boredom.” He sighed and inhaled the fumes from his cup.
Fain let the grimacing Huan pull him out of the room, hardly even listening to the snarled lecture on what would happen if he ever again failed to leave Lord Turak’s presence when given permission to do so. He barely noticed when he was pushed into the street with a coin and instructions to return on the morrow. Rand al’Thor was his, now. I will see him dead at last. And then the world will pay for what was done to me.
Giggling under his breath, he led his horses down into the town in search of an inn.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 35
(Leafy Tree) Stedding Tsofu
The river hills on which the city of Cairhien stood gave way to flatter lands and forests when Rand and the others had ridden half a day, the Shienarans still with their armor on the packhorses. There were no roads where they went, only a scattering of cart tracks, and few farms or villages. Verin pressed for speed, and Ingtar — grumbling constantly that they were letting themselves be tricked, that Fain would never have told them where he was really going, yet grumbling at the same time about riding in the opposite direction from Toman Head, as if part of him believed and Toman Head were not months away except by the way they took — Ingtar obliged her. The Gray Owl banner flew on the wind of their passage.
Rand rode with grim determination, avoiding conversation with Verin. He had this thing to do — this duty, Ingtar would have called it — and then he could be free of Aes Sedai once and for all. Perrin seemed to share something of his mood, staring straight ahead at nothing as they rode. When they finally stopped for the night at the edge of a forest, with full dark almost on them, Perrin asked Loial questions about the stedding. Trollocs would not enter a stedding; would wolves? Loial replied shortly that it was only creatures of the Shadow that were reluctant to enter stedding. And Aes Sedai, of course, since they could not touch the True Source inside a stedding, or channel the One Power. The Ogier himself appeared the most reluctant of all to go to Stedding Tsofu. Mat was the only one who seemed eager, almost desperately so. His skin looked as if he had not seen the sun in a year, and his cheeks had begun to go hollow, though he said he felt ready to run a footrace. Verin put her hands on him for Healing before he rolled into his blankets, and again before they mounted their horses in the morning, but it made no difference in how he looked. Even Hurin frowned when he looked at Mat.
The sun stood high on the second day when Verin suddenly sat up straight in her saddle and looked around. Beside her, Ingtar gave a start.
Rand could not see anything different about the forest now surrounding them. The undergrowth was not too thick; they had found an easy way under the canopy of oak and hickory, blackgum and beech, pierced here and there by a tall pine or leatherleaf, or the white slash of a paperbark. But as he followed them, he suddenly felt a chill pass through him, as though he had leaped into a Waterwood pond in winter. It flashed through him and was gone, leaving behind a feeling of refreshment. And there was a dull and distant sense of loss, too, though he could not imagine of what.
Every rider, as he reached that point, gave a jerk or made some exclamation. Hurin’s mouth dropped open, and Uno whispered, “Bloody, flaming …” Then he shook his head as if he could not think of anything else to say. There was a look of recognition in Perrin’s yellow eyes.
Loial took a deep, slow breath and let it out. “It feels … good … to be back in a stedding,”
Frowning, Rand looked around. He had expected a stedding to be somehow different, but except for that one chill, the forest was the same as what they had been riding through all day. There was the sudden sense of being rested, of course. Then an Ogier stepped out from behind an oak.
She was shorter than Loial — which meant she stood head and shoulders taller than Rand — but with the same broad nose and big eyes, the same wide mouth and tufted ears. Her eyebrows were not so long as Loial’s, though, and her features seemed delicate beside his, the tufts on her ears finer. She wore a long green dress and a green cloak embroidered with flowers, and carried a bunch of silverbell blossoms as if she had been gathering them. She looked at them calmly, waiting.
Loial scrambled down from his tall horse and bowed hastily. Rand and the others did the same, if not so quickly as Loial; even Verin inclined her head. Loial gave their names formally, but he did not mention the name of his stedding.
For a moment the Ogier girl — Rand was sure she was no older than Loial — studied them, then smiled. “Be welcome to Stedding Tsofu.” Her voice was a lighter version of Loial’s, too; the softer rumble of a smaller bumblebee. “I am Erith, daughter of Iva daughter of Alar. Be welcome. We have had so few human visitors since the stonemasons left Cairhien, and now so many at once. Why, we even had some of the Traveling People, though, of course, they left when the… Oh, I talk too much. I will take you to the Elders. Only …” She searched among them for the one in charge, and settled finally on Verin. “Aes Sedai, you have so many men with you, and armed. Could you please leave some of them Outside? Forgive me, but it is always unsettling to have very many armed humans in the stedding at once.”
“Of course, Erith,” Verin said. “Ingtar, will you see to it?”
Ingtar gave orders to Uno, and so it was that he and Hurin were the only Shienarans to follow Erith deeper into the stedding.
Leading his horse like the others, Rand looked up as Loial came closer, with many glances at Erith up ahead with Verin and Ingtar. Hurin walked midway between, staring around in amazement, though Rand was not sure at what exactly. Loial bent to speak quietly. “Is she not beautiful, Rand? And her voice sings.”
Mat snickered, but when Loial looked at him questioningly, he said, “Very pretty, Loial. A little tall for my taste, you understand, but very pretty, I’m sure.”
Loial frowned uncertainly, but nodded. “Yes, she is.” His expression lightened. “It does feel good to be back in a stedding. Not that the Longing was taking me, you understand.”
“The Longing?” Perrin said. “I do not understand, Loial.”
“We Ogier are bound to the stedding, Perrin. It is said that before the Breaking of the World, we could go where we wished for as long as we wished, like you humans, but that changed with the Breaking. Ogier were scattered like every other
people, and they could not find any of the stedding again. Everything was moved, everything changed. Mountains, rivers, even the seas.”
“Everybody knows about the Breaking,” Mat said impatiently. “What does it have to do with this — this Longing?”
“It was during the Exile, while we wandered lost, that the Longing first came on us. The desire to know the stedding once more, to know our homes again. Many died of it.” Loial shook his head sadly. “More died than lived. When we finally began to find the stedding again, one at a time, in the years of the Covenant of the Ten Nations, it seemed we had defeated the Longing at last, but it had changed us, put seeds in us. Now, if an Ogier is Outside too long, the Longing comes again; he begins to weaken, and he dies if he does not return.”
“Do you need to stay here awhile?” Rand asked anxiously. “There’s no need to kill yourself to go with us.”
“I will know it when it comes.” Loial laughed. “It will be long before it is strong enough to cause harm to me. Why, Dalar spent ten years among the Sea Folk without ever seeing a stedding, and she came safely home.”
An Ogier woman appeared out of the trees, pausing a moment to speak with Erith and Verin. She looked Ingtar up and down and seemed to dismiss him, which made him blink. Her eyes swept across Loial, flicked over Hurin and the Emond’s Fielders, before she went off into the forest again; Loial seemed to be trying to hide behind his horse. “Besides,” he said, peering cautiously across his saddle after her, “it is a dull life in the stedding compared to traveling with three ta’veren.”
“If you are going to start that again,” Mat muttered, and Loial spoke up quickly. “Three friends, then. You are my friends, I hope.”
“I am,” Rand said simply, and Perrin nodded.
Mat laughed. “How could I not be friends with somebody who dices so badly?” He threw up his hands when Rand and Perrin looked at him. “Oh, all right. I like you, Loial. You’re my friend. Just don’t go on about … Aaah! Sometimes you’re as bad to be around as Rand.” His voice sank to a mutter. “At least we’re safe here in a stedding.”
Rand grimaced. He knew what Mat meant. Here in a stedding, where I can’t channel.
Perrin punched Mat’s shoulder, but looked sorry that he had when Mat grimaced at him with that gaunt face.
It was the music Rand became aware of first, unseen flutes and fiddles in a jolly tune that floated through the trees, and deep voices singing and laughing.
“Clear the field, smooth it low. Let no weed or stubble stand. Here we labor, here we toil,
here the towering trees will grow.”
Almost at the same moment he realized that the huge shape he was seeing through the trees was itself a tree, with a ridged, buttressed trunk that must have
been twenty paces thick. Gaping, he followed it up with his eyes, up through the forest canopy, to branches spreading like the top of a gigantic mushroom a good hundred paces above the ground. And beyond it were taller still.
“Burn me,” Mat breathed. “You could build ten houses from just one of those.
Fifty houses.”
“Cut down a Great Tree?” Loial sounded scandalized, and more than a little angry. His ears were stiff and still, his long eyebrows down on his cheeks. “We never cut down one of the Great Trees, not unless it dies, and they almost never do. Few survived the Breaking, but some of the largest were seedlings during the Age of Legends.”
“I’m sorry,” Mat said. “I was just saying how big they are. I won’t hurt your trees.” Loial nodded, seeming mollified.
More Ogier appeared now, walking among the trees. Most seemed intent on whatever they were about; though all looked at the newcomers, and even gave a friendly nod or a small bow, none stopped or spoke. They had a curious way of moving, in some manner blending a careful deliberateness with an almost childlike carefree joyfulness. They knew and liked who and what they were and where they were, and they seemed at peace with themselves and everything around them. Rand found himself envying them.
Few of the Ogier men were any taller than Loial, but it was easy to pick out the older men; one and all they wore mustaches as long as their dangling eyebrows and narrow beards under their chins. All of the younger were smoothshaven, like Loial. Many of the men were in their shirtsleeves, and carried shovels and mattocks or saws and buckets of pitch; the others wore plain coats that buttoned to the neck and flared about their knees like kilts. The women seemed to favor embroidered flowers, and many wore flowers in their hair, too. The embroidery was limited to the cloaks of the younger women; the older women’s dresses were embroidered, as well, and some women with gray hair had flowers and vines from neck to hem. A handful of the Ogier, women and girls for the most part, did seem to take special notice of Loial; he walked staring straight ahead, ears twitching more wildly the further they went.
Rand was startled to see an Ogier apparently walking up out of the ground, out of one of the grassy, wildflowercovered mounds that lay scattered all among the trees here. Then he saw windows in the mounds, and an Ogier woman standing at one apparently rolling a piecrust, and realized he was looking at Ogier houses. The window frames were stone, but they not only seemed natural formations, they appeared to have been sculpted by wind and water over generations.
The Great Trees, with their massive trunks and spreading roots as thick as horses, needed a great deal of room between them, but several grew right in the town. Dirt ramps took the paths over the roots. In fact, aside from the pathways, the only way to tell town from forest at a glance was a large open space in the center of the town, around what could only be the stump of one of the Great Trees. Nearly a
hundred paces across, its surface was polished as smooth as any floor, and there were steps built up to it at several places. Rand was imagining how tall that tree had been when Erith spoke loudly enough for them all to hear.
“Here come our other guests.”
Three human women came walking around the side of the huge stump. The youngest was carrying a wooden bowl.
“Aiel,” Ingtar said. “Maidens of the Spear. As well I did leave Masema with the others.” Yet he stepped away from Verin and Erith, and reached over his shoulder to loosen his sword in its scabbard.
Rand studied the Aiel with an uneasy curiosity. They were what too many people had tired to tell him he was. Two of the women were mature, the other little more than a girl, but all three were tall for women. Their shortcut hair ranged from a reddish brown to almost golden, with a narrow, shoulderlength tail left long at the back. They wore loose breeches tucked into soft boots, and all their clothes were some shade of brown or gray or green; he thought the garments would fade into rock or woods almost as well as a Warder’s cloak. Short bows poked over their shoulders, quivers and long knives hung at their belts, and each carried a small, round shield of hide and a cluster of spears with short shafts and long points. Even the youngest moved with a grace that suggested she knew how to use the weapons she carried.
Abruptly the women became aware of the other humans; they seemed as startled at being startled as they did at the sight of Rand and the others, but they moved like lightning. The youngest one shouted, “Shienarans!” and turned to set the bowl carefully behind her. The other two quickly lifted brown cloths from around their shoulders, wrapping them around their heads instead. The older women were raising black veils across their faces, hiding everything but their eyes, and the youngest straightened to imitate them. Crouching low, they advanced at a deliberate pace, shields held forward with their clusters of spears, except for the one each woman held ready in her other hand.
Ingtar’s sword came out of its sheath. “Stand clear, Aes Sedai. Erith, stand clear.” Hurin snatched out his swordbreaker, wavered between cudgel and sword for his other hand; after another glance at the Aiel’s spears, he chose the sword.
“You must not,” the Ogier girl protested. Wringing her hands, she turned from Ingtar to the Aiel and back. “You must not.”
Rand realized the heronmark blade was in his hands. Perrin had his axe half out of the loop at his belt and was hesitating, shaking his head.
“Are you two crazy?” Mat demanded. His bow still slanted across his back. “I don’t care if they are Aiel, they’re women.”
“Stop this!” Verin demanded. “Stop this immediately!” The Aiel never broke stride, and the Aes Sedai clenched her fists in frustration.
Mat moved back to put a foot in his stirrup. “I’m leaving,” he announced. “You hear me? I’m not staying to let them stick those things in me, and I am not going to
shoot a woman!”
“The Pact!” Loial was shouting. “Remember the Pact!” It had no more effect than the continued pleas from Verin and Erith.
Rand noticed that both the Aes Sedai and the Ogier girl were keeping well out of the Aiel’s way. He wondered if Mat had the right idea. He was not sure he could hurt a woman even if she was trying to kill him. What decided him was the thought that even if he did manage to reach Red’s saddle, the Aiel were now no more than thirty paces away. He suspected those short spears could be thrown that far. As the women came closer, still crouching; spears ready, he stopped worrying about not hurting them and began worrying about how to stop them from hurting him.
Nervously, he sought the void, and it came. And the distant thought floated outside it that it was only the void. The glow of saidin was not there. The emptiness was more empty than he ever remembered, vaster, like a hunger great enough to consume him. A hunger for more; there was supposed to be something more.
Abruptly an Ogier strode in between the two groups, his narrow beard quivering. “What is the meaning of this? Put up your weapons.” He sounded scandalized. “For you” — his glare took in Ingtar and Hurin, Rand and Perrin, and did not spare Mat for all his empty hands — “there is some excuse, but for you — ” He rounded on the Aiel women, who had stopped their advance. “Have you forgotten the Pact?”
The women uncovered their heads and faces so hastily that it seemed they were trying to pretend they had never been covered. The girl’s face was bright red, and the other women looked abashed. One of the older women, the one with the reddish hair, said, “Forgive us, Treebrother. We remember the Pact, and we would not have bared steel, but we are in the land of the Treekillers, where every hand is against us, and we saw armed men.” Her eyes were gray, Rand saw, like his own.
“You are in a stedding, Rhian,” the Ogier said gently. “Everyone is safe in the stedding, little sister. There is no fighting here, and no hand raised against another.” She nodded, ashamed, and the Ogier looked at Ingtar and the others.
Ingtar sheathed his sword, and Rand did the same, though not so quickly as Hurin, who looked almost as embarrassed as the Aiel. Perrin had never gotten his axe all the way out. As he took hand from hilt, Rand let the void go, too, and shivered. The void went, but it left behind a slowly fading echo of the emptiness all through him, and a desire for something to fill it.
The Ogier turned to Verin and bowed. “Aes Sedai, I am Juin, son of Lacel son of Laud. I have come to take you to the Elders. They would know why an Aes Sedai comes among us, with armed men and one of our own youths.” Loial hunched his shoulders as if trying to disappear.
Verin gave the Aiel a regretful look, as if she wanted to talk with them, then motioned Juin to lead, and he took her away without another word or even the first look at Loial.
For a few moments, Rand and the others stood facing the three Aiel women
uneasily. At least, Rand knew he was uneasy. Ingtar seemed steady as a stone, with no more expression than one. The Aiel might have unveiled their faces, but they still had spears in their hands, and they studied the four men as though trying to see inside them. Rand in particular received increasingly angry looks. He heard the youngest woman mutter, “He is wearing a sword,” in tones of mingled horror and contempt. Then the three were leaving, stopping to retrieve the wooden bowl and looking over their shoulders at Rand and the others until they vanished among the trees.
“Maidens of the Spear,” Ingtar muttered. “I never thought they’d stop once they veiled their faces. Certainly not for a few words.” He looked at Rand and his two friends. “You should see a charge by Red Shields, or Stone Dogs. As easy to stop as an avalanche.”
“They would not break the Pact once it was recalled to them,” Erith said, smiling. “They came for sung wood.” A note of pride entered her voice. “We have two Treesingers in Stedding Tsofu. They are rare, now. I have heard that Stedding Shangtai has a young Treesinger who is very talented, but we have two.” Loial blushed, but she did not appear to notice. “If you will come with me, I will show you where you may wait until the Elders have spoken.”
As they followed her, Perrin murmured, “Sung wood, my left foot. Those Aiel are searching for He Who Comes With the Dawn.”
And Mat added dryly, “They’re looking for you, Rand.” “For me! That is crazy. What makes you think — ”
He cut off as Erith showed them down the steps of a wildflowercovered house apparently set aside for human guests. The rooms were twenty paces from stone wall to stone wall, with painted ceilings a good two spans above the floor, but the Ogier had done their best making something that would be comfortable for humans. Even so, the furniture was a little too large for comfort, the chairs tall enough to lift a man’s heels off the floor, the table higher than Rand’s waist. Hurin, at least, could have walked erect into the stone fireplace, which seemed to have been worn by water rather than made by hands. Erith eyed Loial doubtfully, but he waved away her concern and pulled one of the chairs into the corner least easily seen from the door.
As soon as the Ogier girl left, Rand got Mat and Perrin over to one side. “What do you mean they’re looking for me? Why? For what reason? They looked right at me, and went away.”
“They looked at you,” Mat said with a grin, “like you hadn’t bathed in a month, and had doused yourself with sheepdip besides.” His grin faded. “But they could be looking for you. We met another Aiel.”
Rand listened in growing amazement to their tale of the meeting in Kinslayer’s Dagger. Mat told most of it, with Perrin putting in a correcting word now and again when he embellished too much. Mat made a great show of how dangerous the Aielman had been, and how close the meeting had come to a fight.
“And since you’re the only Aiel we know,” he finished, “well, it could be you.
Ingtar says Aiel never live outside the Waste, so you must be the only one.”
“I don’t think that’s funny, Mat,” Rand growled. “I am not an Aiel.” The Amyrlin said you are. Ingtar thinks you are. Tam said … He was sick, fevered. They had severed the roots he had thought he had, the Aes Sedai and Tam between them, though Tam had been too sick to know what he was saying. They had cut him loose to tumble before the wind, then offered him something new to hold on to. False Dragon. Aiel. He could not claim those for roots. He would not. “Maybe I don’t belong to anyone. But the Two Rivers is the only home I know.”
“I didn’t mean anything,” Mat protested. “It’s just … Burn me, Ingtar says you are. Masema says you are. Urien could have been your cousin, and if Rhian put on a dress and said she was your aunt, you’d believe it yourself. Oh, all right. Don’t look at me like that, Perrin. If he wants to say he isn’t, all right. What difference does it make, anyway?” Perrin shook his head.
Ogier girls brought water and towels for washing faces and hands, and cheese and fruit and wine, with pewter goblets a little too large to be comfortable in the hand. Other Ogier women came, too, their dresses all embroidered. One by one they appeared, a dozen of them all told, to ask if the humans were comfortable, if they needed anything. Each turned her attentions to Loial just before she left. He gave his answers respectfully but in as few words as Rand had ever heard him use, standing with an Ogiersized, woodbound book clutched to his chest like a shield, and when they went, he huddled in his chair with the book held up in front of his face. The books in the house were one thing not sized for humans.
“Just smell this air, Lord Rand,” Hurin said, filling his lungs with a smile. His feet dangled from one of the chairs at the table; he swung them like a boy. “I never thought most places smelled bad, but this … Lord Rand, I don’t think there’s ever been any killing here. Not even any hurting, except by accident.”
“The stedding are supposed to be safe for everyone,” Rand said. He was watching Loial. “That’s what the stories say, anyway.” He swallowed a last bit of white cheese and went over to the Ogier. Mat followed with a goblet in his hand. “What’s the matter, Loial?” Rand said. “You’ve been as nervous as a cat in a dogyard ever since we came here.”
“It is nothing,” Loial said, giving the door an uneasy glance from. the corner of his eye.
“Are you afraid they’ll find out you left Stedding Shangtai without permission from your Elders?”
Loial looked around wildly, the tufts on his ears vibrating. “Don’t say that,” he hissed. “Not where anyone can hear. If they found out …” With a heavy sigh, he slumped back, looking from Rand to Mat. “I don’t know how humans do it, but among Ogier … If a girl sees a boy she likes, she goes to her mother. Or sometimes the mother sees someone she thinks is suitable. In any case, if they agree, the girl’s mother goes to the boy’s mother, and the next thing the boy knows, his marriage is
all arranged.”
“Doesn’t the boy have any say in it?” Mat asked incredulously.
“None. The women always say we would spend our lives married to the trees if it was left to us.” Loial shifted, grimacing. “Half of our marriages take place between stedding; groups of young Ogier visit from stedding to stedding so they can see, and be seen. If they discover I’m Outside without permission, the Elders will almost certainly decide I need a wife to settle me down. Before I know it, they’ll have sent a message to Stedding Shangtai, to my mother, and she will come here and have me married before she washes off the dust of her journey. She’s always said I am too hasty and need a wife. I think she was looking when I left. Whatever wife she chooses for me … well, any wife at all won’t let me go back Outside until I have gray in my beard. Wives always say no man should be allowed Outside until he’s settled enough to control his temper.”
Mat gave a guffaw loud enough to draw every head, but at Loial’s frantic gesture he spoke softly. “Among us, men do the choosing, and no wife can stop a man doing what he wants.”
Rand frowned, remembering how Egwene had begun following him around when they were both little. It was then that Mistress al’Vere had begun taking a special interest in him, more than in any of the other boys. Later, some girls would dance with him on feastdays and some would not, and those who would were always Egwene’s friends, while those who would not were girls Egwene did not like. He also seemed to remember Mistress al’Vere taking Tam aside — And she was muttering about Tam not having a wife for her to talk to! — and after that, Tam and everyone else had acted as if he and Egwene were promised, even though they had not knelt before the Women’s Circle to say the words. He had never thought about it this way before; things between Egwene and him had always just seemed to be the way they were, and that was that.
“I think we do it the same way,” he muttered, and when Mat laughed, he added, “Do you remember your father ever doing anything your mother really didn’t want him to?” Mat opened his mouth with a grin, then frowned thoughtfully and closed it again.
Juin came down the steps from outside. “If you please, will all of you come with me? The Elders would see you.” He did not look at Loial, but Loial still almost dropped the book.
“If the Elders try to make you stay,” Rand said, “we’ll say we need you to go with us.”
“I’ll bet it isn’t about you at all,” Mat said. “I’ll bet they are just going to say we can use the Waygate. ” He shook himself, and his voice fell even lower. “We really have to do it, don’t we.” It was not a question.
“Stay and get married, or travel the Ways.” Loial grimaced ruefully. “Life is very unsettling with ta’veren for friends.”
The Great Hunt
Chapter 36
(Leaf)
Among the Elders
As Juin took them through the Ogier town, Rand saw that Loial was growing more and more anxious. Loial’s ears were as stiff as his back; his eyes grew bigger every time he saw another Ogier looking at him, especially the women and girls, and a large number of them did seem to take notice of him. He looked as if he expected his own execution.
The bearded Ogier gestured to wide steps leading down into a grassy mound that was bigger by far than any other; it was a hill, for all practical purposes, almost at the base of one of the Great Trees.
“Why don’t you wait out here, Loial?” Rand said. “The Elders —” Juin began.
“— Probably just want to see the rest of us,” Rand finished for him. “Why don’t they leave him alone,” Mat put in.
Loial nodded vigorously. “Yes. Yes, I think …” A number of Ogier women were watching him, from whitehaired grandmothers to daughters Erith’s age, a knot of them talking among themselves but with all eyes on him. His ears jerked, but he looked at the broad door to which the stone steps led down, and nodded again. “Yes, I will sit out here, and I’ll read. That is it. I will read.” Fumbling in his coat pocket, he produced a book. He settled himself on the mound beside the steps, the book small in his hands, and fixed his eyes on the pages. “I will just sit here and read until you come out.” His ears twitched as if he could feel the women’s eyes.
Juin shook his head, then shrugged and motioned to the steps again. “If you please. The Elders are waiting.”
The huge, windowless room inside the mound was scaled for Ogier, with a thickbeamed ceiling more than four spans up; it could have fit in any palace, for size at least. The seven Ogier seated on the dais directly in front of the door made it shrink a little by their size, but Rand still felt as if he were in a cavern. The somber floorstones were smooth, if large and irregular in shape, but the gray walls could have been the rough side of a cliff. The ceiling beams, roughhewn as they were, looked like great roots.
Except for a highbacked chair where Verin sat facing the dais, the only furnishings were the heavy, vinecarved chairs of the Elders. The Ogier woman in the middle of the dais sat in a chair raised a little higher than those of the others, three bearded men to her left in long, flaring coats, three women to her right in dresses like her own, embroidered in vines and flowers from neckline to hem. All had aged faces and pure white hair, even to the tufts on their ears, and an air of massive dignity.
Hurin gaped at them openly, and Rand felt like staring himself. Not even Verin had the appearance of wisdom that was in the Elders’ huge eyes, nor Morgase in her
crown their authority, nor Moiraine their calm serenity. Ingtar was the first to bow, as formally as Rand had ever seen from him, while the others still stood rooted.
“I am Alar,” the Ogier woman on the highest chair said when they had finally taken their places beside Verin, “Eldest of the Elders of Stedding Tsofu. Verin has told us that you have need to use the Waygate here. To recover the Horn of Valere from Darkfriends is a great need, indeed, but we have allowed none to travel the Ways in more than one hundred years. Neither us, nor the Elders of any other stedding.”
“I will find the Horn,” Ingtar said angrily. “I must. If you will not permit us to use the Waygate …” He fell silent as Verin looked at him, but the scowl remained on his face.
Alar smiled. “Be not so hasty, Shienaran. You humans never take time for thought. Only decisions reached in calm can be sure.” Her smile faded to seriousness, but her voice kept its own measured calm. “The dangers of the Ways are not to be faced with a sword in your hand, not charging Aiel or ravening Trollocs. I must tell you that to enter the Ways is to risk not only death and madness, but perhaps your very souls.”
“We have seen Machin Shin,” Rand said, and Mat and Perrin agreed. They could not manage to sound eager to do it again.
“I will follow the Horn to Shayol Ghul itself, if need be,” Ingtar said firmly.
Hurin only nodded as if including himself in Ingtar’s words.
“Bring Trayal,” Alar commanded, and Juin, who had remained by the door, bowed and left. “It is not enough,” she told Verin, “to hear what can happen. You must see it, know it in your heart.”
There was an uncomfortable silence until Juin returned, and it became more uncomfortable still as two Ogier women followed him, guiding a darkbearded Ogier of middle years, who shambled between them as if he did not quite know how his legs worked. His face sagged, without any expression at all, and his big eyes were vacant and unblinking, not staring, not looking, not even seeming to see. One of the women gently wiped drool from the corner of his mouth. They took his arms to stop him; his foot went forward, hesitated, then fell back with a thump. He seemed as content to stand as to walk, or at least as uncaring.
“Trayal was one of the last among us to go along the ‘Ways,” Alar said softly. “He came out as you see him. Will you touch him, Verin?”
Verin gave her a long look, then rose and strode to Trayal. He did not move as she laid her hands on his wide chest, not even a flicker of an eye to acknowledge her touch. With a sharp hiss, she jerked back, staring up at him, then whirled to face the Elders. “He is … empty. This body lives, but there is nothing inside it. Nothing.” Every Elder wore a look of unbearable sadness.
“Nothing,” one of the Elders to Alar’s right said softly. Her eyes seemed to hold all the pain Trayal’s no longer could. “No mind. No soul. Nothing of Trayal remains but his body.”
“He was a fine Treesinger,” one of the men sighed.
Alar motioned, and the two women turned Trayal to lead him out; they had to move him before he began to walk.
“We know the risks,” Verin said. “But whatever the risks, we must follow the Horn of Valere.”
The Eldest nodded. “The Horn of Valere. I do not know whether it is worse news that it is in Darkfriend hands, or that it has been found at all.” She looked down the row of Elders; each nodded in turn, one of the men tugging his beard doubtfully first. “Very well. Verin tells me time is urgent. I will show you to the Waygate myself.” Rand was feeling half relieved and half afraid, when she added, “You have with you a young Ogier. Loial, son of Arent son of Halan, from Stedding Shangtai. He is far from his home.”
“We need him,” Rand said quickly. His words slowed under surprised stares from the Elders and Verin, but he went on stubbornly. “We need him to go with us, and he wants to.”
“Loial’s a friend,” Perrin said, at the same time that Mat said, “He doesn’t get in the way, and he carries his own weight.” Neither of them appeared comfortable at having the Elders’ focus shift to them, but they did not back down.
“Is there some reason he cannot come with us?” Ingtar asked. “As Mat says, he has held his own. I don’t know that we need him, but if he wants to come, why —?” “We do need him,” Verin broke in smoothly. “Few any longer know the Ways,
but Loial has studied them. He can decipher the Guidings.”
Alar eyed them each in turn, then settled to a study of Rand. She looked as if she knew things; all the Elders did, but she most of all. “Verin says you are ta’veren,” she said at last, “and I can feel it in you. That I can do so means that you must be very strongly ta’veren indeed, for such Talents ever run weakly in us, if at all. Have you drawn Loial, son of Arent son of Halan, into ta’maral’ailen, the Web the Pattern weaves around you?”
“I … I just want to find the Horn and …” Rand let the rest of it die. Alar had not mentioned Mat’s dagger. He did not know whether Verin had told the Elders, or held it back for some reason. “He is my friend, Eldest.”
“Your friend,” Alar said. “He is young by our way of thinking. You are young, too, but ta’veren. You will look after him, and when the weaving is done, you will see that he comes safely home to Stedding Shangtai.”
“I will,” he told her. It had the feeling of a commitment, the swearing of an oath. “Then we will go to the Waygate.”
Outside, Loial scrambled to his feet when they appeared, Alar and Verin leading. Ingtar sent Hurin off at a run to fetch Uno and the other soldiers. Loial eyed the Eldest warily, then fell in with Rand at the rear of the procession. The Ogier women who had been watching him were all gone. “Did the Elders say anything about me? Did she …?” He peered at Alar’s broad back as she ordered Juin to have their horses brought. She started off with Verin while Juin was still bowing
himself away, bending her head to talk quietly.
“She told Rand to take care of you,” Mat told Loial solemnly as they followed, “and see you got home safely as a babe. I don’t see why you can’t stay here and get married.”
“She said you could come with us.” Rand glared at Mat, which made Mat chortle under his breath. It sounded odd, coming from that drawn face. Loial was twirling the stem of a trueheart blossom between his fingers. “Did you go picking flowers?” Rand asked.
“Erith gave it to me.” Loial watched the yellow petals spin. “She really is very pretty, even if Mat does not see it.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to go with us after all?”
Loial gave a start. “What? Oh, no. I mean, yes. I do want to go. She only gave me a flower. Just a flower.” He took a book out of his pocket, though, and pressed the blossom under the front cover. As he returned the book, he murmured to himself, barely loud enough for Rand to hear, “And she said I was handsome, too.” Mat let out a wheeze and doubled over, staggering along clutching his sides, and Loial’s cheeks colored. “Well … she said it. I didn’t.”
Perrin rapped Mat smartly on the top of his head with his knuckles. “Nobody ever said Mat was handsome. He’s just jealous.”
“That’s not true,” Mat said, straightening abruptly. “Neysa Ayellin thinks I’m handsome. She’s told me so more than once.”
“Is Neysa pretty?” Loial asked.
“She has a face like a goat,” Perrin said blandly. Mat choked, trying to get his protests out.
Rand grinned in spite of himself. Neysa Ayellin was almost as pretty as Egwene. And this was almost like old times, almost like being back home, bantering back and forth, and nothing more important in the world than a laugh and twitting the other fellow.
As they made their way through the town, Ogier greeted the Eldest, bowing or curtsying, eyeing the human visitors with interest. Alar’s set face kept anyone from stopping to speak, though. The only thing that indicated when they left the town was the absence of the mounds; there were still Ogier about, examining trees, or sometimes working with pitch and saw or axe where there were dead limbs or where a tree needed more sunlight. They handled the tasks tenderly.
Juin joined them, leading their horses, and Hurin came riding with Uno and the other soldiers, and the packhorses, just before Alar pointed and said, “It is over there.” The banter died.
Rand felt a momentary surprise. The Waygate had to be Outside the stedding — the Ways had been begun with the One Power; they could not have been made inside — but there was nothing to indicate they had crossed the boundary. Then he realized there was a difference; the sense of something lost that he had felt since entering the stedding was gone. That gave him another sort of chill. Saidin was
there again. Waiting.
Alar led them past a tall oak, and there in a small clearing stood the big slab of the Waygate, the front of it delicately worked in tightly woven vines and leaves from a hundred different plants. Around the edge of the clearing the Ogier had built a low stone coping that seemed as if it had grown there, suggesting a circle of roots. The look of it made Rand uncomfortable. It took him a moment to realize that the roots suggested were those of bramble and briar, burningleaf and itch oak. Not the sort of plants into which anyone would want to stumble.
The Eldest stopped short of the coping. “The wall is meant to warn away any who comes here. Not that many of us do. I myself will not cross it. But you may.” Juin did not go as close as she did; he kept rubbing his hands on the front of his coat, and would not look at the Waygate.
“Thank you,” Verin told her. “The need is great, or I would not have asked it.” Rand tensed as the Aes Sedai stepped over the coping and approached the
Waygate. Loial took a deep breath and muttered to himself. Uno and the rest of the soldiers shifted in their saddles and loosened swords in their scabbards. There was nothing along the Ways against which a sword would be any use, but it was something to convince themselves they were ready. Only Ingtar and the Aes Sedai seemed calm; even Alar gripped her skirt with both hands.
Verin plucked the Avendesora leaf, and Rand leaned forward intently. He knew an urge to assume the void, to be where he could reach saidin if he needed to.
The greenery carved across the Waygate stirred in an unfelt breeze, leaves fluttering as a gap opened down the center of the mass and the two halves began to swing open.
Rand stared at the first crack. There was no dull, silvery reflection behind it, only blackness blacker than pitch. “Close it!” he shouted. “The Black Wind! Close it!”
Verin took one startled look and thrust the threepointed leaf back in among all the varied leaves already there; it stayed when she took her hand away and backed toward the coping. As soon as the Avendesora leaf was back in its place, the Waygate immediately began to close. The crack disappeared, vines and leaves merging, hiding the blackness of Machin Shin, and the Waygate was only stone again, if stone carved in a nearer semblance of life than seemed possible.
Alar let out a shuddering breath. “Machin Shin. So close.”
“It didn’t try to come out,” Rand said. Juin made a strangled sound.
“I have told you,” Verin said, “the Black Wind is a creature of the Ways. It cannot leave them.” She sounded calm, but she still wiped her hands on her skirt. Rand opened his mouth, then gave it up. “And yet,” she went on, “I wonder at it being here. First in Cairhien, now here. I wonder.” She gave Rand a sidelong glance that made him jump. The look was so quick that he did not think anyone else noticed it, but to Rand it seemed to connect him with the Black Wind.
“I have never heard of this,” Alar said slowly, “Machin Shin waiting when a
Waygate was opened. It always roamed the Ways. But it has been long, and perhaps the Black Wind hungers, and hopes to catch some unwary one entering a gate. Verin, assuredly you cannot use this Waygate. And however great your need, I cannot say I am sorry. The Ways belong to the Shadow, now.”
Rand frowned at the Waygate. Could it be following me? There were too many questions. Had Fain somehow ordered the Black Wind? Verin said it could not be done. And why would Fain demand that he follow, then try to stop him? He only knew that he believed the message. He had to go to Toman Head. If they found the Horn of Valere and Mat’s dagger under a bush tomorrow, he still had to go.
Verin stood with eyes unfocused in thought. Mat was sitting on the coping with his head in his hands, and Perrin watched him worriedly. Loial seemed relieved that they could not use the Waygate, and ashamed at being relieved.
“We are done for here,” Ingtar announced. “Verin Sedai, I followed you here against my better judgment, but I can no longer follow. I mean to return to Cairhien. Barthanes can tell me where the Darkfriends went, and somehow I will make him do it.”
“Fain went to Toman Head,” Rand said wearily. “And where he went, that’s where the Horn is, and the dagger.”
“I suppose … ” Perrin shrugged reluctantly. “I suppose we could try another Waygate. At another stedding?”
Loial stroked his chin and spoke quickly, as if to make up for his relief at the failure here. “Stedding Cantoine lies just above the River Iralell, and Stedding Taijing is east of it in the Spine of the World. But the Waygate in Caemlyn, where the grove was, is closer, and the gate in the grove at Tar Valon is closest of all.”
“Whichever Waygate we try to use,” Verin said absently, “I fear we will find Machin Shin waiting.” Alar looked at her questioningly, but the Aes Sedai said no more that anyone could hear. She muttered to herself instead, shaking her head as if arguing with herself.
“What we need,” Hurin said diffidently, “is one of those Portal Stones.” He looked to Alar, then Verin, and when neither told him to stop, he went on, sounding increasingly confident. “The Lady Selene said those old Aes Sedai had studied those worlds, and that was how they knew how to make the Ways. And that place we were … well, it only took us two days less to travel a hundred leagues. If we could use a Portal Stone to go to that world, or one like it, why, it’d take no more than a week or two to reach the Aryth Ocean, and we could come back right on Toman Head. Maybe it isn’t so quick as the Ways, but it’s a long sight quicker than riding off west. What do you say, Lord Ingtar? Lord Rand?”
Verin answered him. “What you suggest might be possible, sniffer, but as well hope to open this Waygate again and find Machin Shin gone as hope to find a Portal Stone. I know none closer than the Aiel Waste. Though we could go back into Kinslayer’s Dagger, if you, or Rand, or Loial think you could find that Stone again.” Rand looked at Mat. His friend had lifted his head hopefully at this talk of the
Stones. A few weeks, Verin had said. If they simply rode west, Mat would never live to see Toman Head.
“I can find it,” Rand said reluctantly. He felt ashamed. Mat’s going to die, Darkfriends have the Horn of Valere, Fain will hurt Emond’s Field if you don’t follow him, and you’re afraid to channel the Power. Once to go and once to come back. Twice more won’t drive you mad. What really made him afraid, though, was the eagerness that leaped inside him at the thought of channeling again, of feeling the Power fill him, of feeling truly alive.
“I do not understand this,” Alar said slowly. “The Portal Stones have not been used since the Age of Legends. I did not think there was anyone who still knew how to use them.”
“The Brown Ajah knows many things,” Verin said dryly, “and I know how the Stones may be used.”
The Eldest nodded. “Truly there are wonders in the White Tower of which we do not dream. But if you can use a Portal Stone, there is no need for you to ride to Kinslayer’s Dagger. There is a Stone not far from where we stand.”
“The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, and the Pattern provides what is needful.” The absent look dropped from Verin’s face altogether. “Take us to it,” she said briskly. “We have lost more than enough time already.”
The Great Hunt
Chapter 37
(Portal Stone) What Might Be
Alar led them away from the Waygate at a dignified pace, though Juin seemed more than anxious to leave the Waygate behind. Mat, at least, looked ahead eagerly, and Hurin seemed confident, while Loial appeared concerned more that Alar might change her mind about his going than about anything else. Rand did not hurry as he pulled Red along by the reins. He did not think Verin meant to use the Stone herself. The gray stone column stood upright near a beech almost a hundred feet tall and four paces thick; Rand would have thought it a big tree before he saw the Great Trees. There was no warning coping here, only a few wildflowers pushing through the leafy mulch of the forest floor. The Portal Stone itself was weathered, but the
symbols covering it were still clear enough to make out.
The mounted Shienaran soldiers spread out in a loose circle around the Stone and those afoot.
“We stood it upright,” Alar said, “when we found it many years ago, but we did not move it. It … seemed to … resist being moved.” She went right up to it, and laid a big hand on the Stone. “I have always thought of it as a symbol of what has been lost, what has been forgotten. In the Age of Legends, it could be studied and somewhat understood. To us, it is only stone.”
“More than that, I hope.” Verin’s voice grew brisker. “Eldest, I thank you for your help. Forgive us for our lack of ceremony in leaving you, but the Wheel waits for no woman. At least we will no longer disturb the peace of your stedding.”
“We called the stonemasons back from Cairhien,” Alar said, “but we still hear what happens in the world Outside. False Dragons. The Great Hunt of the Horn. We hear, and it passes us by. I do not think Tarmon Gai’don will pass us by, or leave us in peace. Fare you well, Verin Sedai. All of you, fare well, and may you shelter in the palm of the Creator’s hand. Juin.” She paused only for a glance at Loial and a last admonitory look at Rand, and then the Ogier were gone among the trees.
There was a creaking of saddles as the soldiers shifted. Ingtar looked around the circle they made. “Is this necessary, Verin Sedai? Even if it can be done… We do not even know if the Darkfriends really have taken the Horn to Toman Head. I still believe I can make Barthanes —”
“If we cannot be sure,” Verin said mildly, cutting him off, “then Toman Head is as good a place to look as any other. More than once I’ve heard you say you would ride to Shayol Ghul if need be to recover the Horn. Do you hold back now, at this?” She gestured to the Stone under the smoothbarked tree.
Ingtar’s back stiffened. “I hold back at nothing. Take us to Toman Head or take us to Shayol Ghul. If the Horn of Valere lies at the end, I will follow you.”
“That is well, Ingtar. Now, Rand, you have been transported by a Portal Stone more recently than I. Come.” She motioned to him, and he led Red over to her at
the Stone.
“You’ve used a Portal Stone?” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one else was close enough to hear. “Then you don’t mean for me to.” He gave a relieved shrug.
Verin looked at him blandly. “I have never used a Stone; that is why your use is more recent than mine. I am well aware of my limits. I would be destroyed before I came close to channeling enough Power to work a Portal Stone. But I know a little of them. Enough to help you, a bit.”
“But I don’t know anything.” He led his horse around the Stone, looking it up and down. “The one thing I remember is the symbol for our world. Selene showed me, but I don’t see it here.”
“Of course not. Not on a Stone in our world; the symbols are aids in getting to a world.” She shook her head. “What would I not give to talk with this girl of yours? Or better, to put my hands on her book. It is generally thought that no copy of Mirrors of the Wheel survived the Breaking whole. Serafelle always tells me there are more books that we believe lost than I could credit waiting to be found. Well, no use in worrying over what I don’t know. I do know some things. The symbols on the top half of the Stone stand for worlds. Not all the Worlds That Might Be, of course. Apparently, not every Stone connects to every world, and the Aes Sedai of the Age of Legends believed that there were possible worlds no Stones at all touched. Do you see nothing that sparks a memory?”
“Nothing.” If he found the right symbol, he could use it to find Fain and the Horn, to save Mat, to stop Fain hurting Emond’s Field. If he found the symbol, he would have to touch saidin. He wanted to save Mat and stop Fain, but the did not want to touch saidin. He was afraid to channel, and he hungered for it like a starving man for food. “I don’t remember anything.”
Verin sighed. “The symbols at the bottom indicate Stones at other places. If you know the trick of it, you could take us, not to this same Stone in another world, but to one of those others there, or even to one of them here. It was something akin to Traveling, I think, but just as no one remembers how to Travel, no one remembers the trick. Without that knowledge, trying it might easily destroy us all.” She pointed to two parallel wavy lines crossed by an odd squiggle, carved low on the column. “That indicates a Stone on Toman Head. It is one of three Stones for which I know the symbol; the only one of those three I’ve visited. And what I learned — after nearly being caught by the snows in the Mountains of Mist and freezing my way across Almoth Plain — was absolutely nothing. Do you play at dice, or cards, Rand al’Thor?”
“Mat’s the gambler. Why?”
“Yes. Well, we’ll leave him out of this, I think. These other symbols are also known to me.”
With one finger she outlined a rectangle containing eight carvings that were much alike, a circle and an arrow, but in half the arrow was contained inside the
circle, while in the others the point pierced the circle through. The arrows pointed left, right, up and down, and surrounding each circle was a different line of what Rand was sure was script, though in no language he knew, all curving lines that suddenly became jagged hooks, then flowed on again.
“At least,” Verin went on, “I know this much about them. Each stands for a world, the study of which led eventually to the making of the Ways. These are not all of the worlds studied, but the only ones for which I know the symbols. This is where gambling comes in. I don’t know what any of these worlds is like. It is believed there are worlds where a year is only a day here, and others where a day is a year here. There are supposed to be worlds where the very air would kill us at a breath, and worlds that barely have enough reality to hold together. I would not speculate on what might happen if we found ourselves in one of those. You must choose. As my father would have said, it’s time to roll the dice.”
Rand stared, shaking his head. “I could kill all of us, whatever I choose.” “Are you not willing to take that risk? For the Horn of Valere? For Mat?”
“Why are you so willing to take it? I don’t even know if I can do it. It — it doesn’t work every time I try.” He knew no one had come any closer, but he looked anyway. All of them waited in a loose circle around the Stone, watching, but not close enough to eavesdrop. “Sometimes saidin is just there. I can feel it, but it might as well be on the moon as far as touching it. And even if it does work, what if I take us someplace we can’t breathe? What good will that do Mat? Or the Horn?”
“You are the Dragon Reborn,” she said quietly. “Oh, you can die, but I don’t think the Pattern will let you die until it is done with you. Then again, the Shadow lies on the Pattern, now, and who can say how that affects the weaving? All you can do is follow your destiny.”
“I am Rand al’Thor,” he growled. “I am not the Dragon Reborn. I won’t be a false Dragon.”
“You are what you are. Will you choose, or will you stand here until your friend dies?”
Rand heard his teeth grinding and forced himself to unclench his jaw. The symbols could all have been exactly alike, for all they meant to him. The script could as well have been a chicken’s scratchings. At last he settled on one, with an arrow pointing left because it pointed toward Toman Head, an arrow that pierced the circle because it had broken free, as he wanted to. He wanted to laugh. Such small things on which to gamble all their lives.
“Come closer,” Verin ordered the others. “It will be best if you are near.” They obeyed, with only a little hesitation. “It is time to begin,” she said as they gathered round.
She threw back her cloak and put her hands on the column, but Rand saw her watching him from the corner of her eye. He was aware of nervous coughing and throatclearing from the men around the Stone, a curse from Uno at someone hanging back, a weak joke from Mat, a loud gulp from Loial. He took the void.
It was so easy, now. The flame consumed fear and passion and was gone almost before he thought to form it. Gone, leaving only emptiness, and shining saidin, sickening, tantalizing, stomachturning, seductive. He… reached for it… and it filled him, made him alive. He did not move a muscle, but he felt as if he were quivering with the rush of the One Power into him. The symbol formed itself, an arrow piercing a circle, floating just beyond the void, as hard as the stuff it was carved on. He let the One Power flow through him to the symbol.
The symbol shimmered, flickered.
“Something is happening,” Verin said. “Something …” The world flickered.
The iron lock spun across the farmhouse floor, and Rand dropped the hot teakettle as a huge figure with ram’s horns on its head loomed in the doorway with the darkness of Winternight behind it.
“Run!” Tam shouted. His sword flashed, and the Trolloc toppled, but it grappled with Tam as it fell, pulling him down.
More crowded in at the door, blackmailed shapes with human faces distorted with muzzles and beaks and horns, oddly curved swords stabbing at Tam as he tried to struggle to his feet, spiked axes swinging, red blood on steel.
“Father!” Rand screamed. Clawing his belt knife from its sheath, he threw himself over the table to help his father, and screamed again as the first sword ran through his chest.
Blood bubbled up into his mouth, and a voice whispered inside his head, I have won again, Lews Therin.
Flicker.
Rand struggled to hold the symbol, dimly aware of Verin’s voice. “… is not…” The Power flooded.
Flicker.
Rand was happy after he married Egwene, and tried to not let the moods take him, the times when he thought there should have been something more, something different. News of the world outside came into the Two Rivers with peddlers, and merchants come to buy wool and tabac, always news of fresh troubles, of wars and false Dragons everywhere. There was a year when neither merchants nor peddlers came, and when they returned the next they brought word that Artur Hawkwing’s armies had come back, or their descendants, at least. The old nations were broken, it was said, and the world’s new masters, who used chained Aes Sedai in their battles, had torn down the White Tower and salted the ground where Tar Valon had stood. There were no more Aes Sedai.
It all made little difference in the Two Rivers. Crops still had to be planted, sheep sheared, lambs tended. Tam had grandsons and granddaughters to dandle on his knee before he was laid to rest beside his wife, and the old farmhouse grew new rooms. Egwene became Wisdom, and most thought she was even better than the old Wisdom, Nynaeve al’Maera, had been. It was as well she was, for her cures that
worked so miraculously on others were only just able to keep Rand alive from the sickness that constantly seemed to threaten him. His moods grew worse, blacker, and he raged that this was not what was meant to be. Egwene grew frightened when the moods were on him, for strange things sometimes happened when he was at his bleakest — lightning storms she had not heard listening to the wind, wildfires in the forest — but she loved him and cared for him and kept him sane, though some muttered that Rand al’Thor was crazy and dangerous.
When she died, he sat alone for long hours by her grave, tears soaking his grayflecked beard. His sickness came back, and he wasted; he lost the last two fingers on his right hand and one on his left, his ears looked like scars, and men muttered that he smelled of decay. His blackness deepened.
Yet when the dire news came, none refused to accept him at their side. Trollocs and Fades and things undreamed of had burst out of the Blight, and the world’s new masters were being thrown back, for all the powers they wielded. So Rand took up the bow he had just fingers enough left to shoot and limped with those who marched north to the River Taren, men from every village, farm, and corner of the Two Rivers, with their bows, and axes, and boarspears, and swords that had lain rusting in attics. Rand wore a sword, too, with a heron on the blade, that he had found after Tam died, though he knew nothing of how to use it. Women came, too, shouldering what weapons they could find, marching alongside the men. Some laughed, saying that they had the strange feeling they had done this before.
And at the Taren the people of the Two Rivers met the invaders, endless ranks of Trollocs led by nightmare Fades beneath a dead black banner that seemed to eat the light. Rand saw that banner and thought the madness had taken him again, for it seemed that this was what he had been born for, to fight that banner. He sent every arrow at it, straight as his skill and the void would serve, never worrying about the Trollocs forcing their way across the river, or the men and women dying to either side of him. It was one of those Trollocs that ran him through, before it loped howling for blood deeper into the Two Rivers. And as he lay on the bank of the Taren, watching the sky seem to grow dark at noon, breath coming ever slower, he heard a voice say, I have won again, Lews Therin.
Flicker.
The arrowandcircle contorted into parallel wavy lines, and he fought it back again.
Verin’s voice. “ … right. Something …” The Power raged.
Flicker.
Tam tried to console Rand when Egwene took sick and died just a week before their wedding. Nynaeve tried, too, but she was shaken herself, since for all her skill she had no idea what it was that had killed the girl. Rand had sat outside Egwene’s house while she died, and there seemed to be nowhere in Emond’s Field he could go that he did not still hear her screaming. He knew he could not stay. Tam gave him a
sword with a heronmark blade, and though he explained little of how a shepherd in the Two Rivers had come by such a thing, he taught Rand how to use it. On the day Rand left, Tam gave him a letter he said might get Rand taken into the army of Illian, and hugged him, and said, “I’ve never had another son, or wanted another. Come back with a wife like I did, if you can, boy, but come back in any case.”
Rand had his money stolen in Baerlon, though, and his letter of introduction, and almost his sword, and he met a woman called Min who told him such crazy things about himself that he finally left the city to get away from her. Eventually his wanderings brought him to Caemlyn, and there his skill with the sword earned him a place in the Queen’s Guards. Sometimes he found himself looking at the DaughterHeir, Elayne, and at such times he was filled with odd thoughts that this was not the way things were supposed to be, that there should be something more to his life. Elayne did not look at him, of course; she married a Tairen prince, though she did not seem happy in it. Rand was just a soldier, once a shepherd from a small village so far toward the western border that only lines on a map any longer truly connected it to Andor. Besides, he had a dark reputation, as a man of violent moods. Some said he was mad, and in ordinary times perhaps not even his skill with the sword would have kept him in the Guard, but these were not ordinary times. False Dragons sprang up like weeds. Every time one was taken down, two more proclaimed themselves, or three, till every nation was torn by war. And Rand’s star rose, for he had learned the secret of his madness, a secret he knew he had to keep and did. He could channel. There were always places, times, in a battle when a little channeling, not big enough to be noticed in the confusion, could make luck. Sometimes it worked, this channeling, and sometimes not, but it worked often enough. He knew he was mad, and did not care. A wasting sickness came on him, and he did not care about that, either, and neither did anyone else, for word had
come that Artur Hawkwing’s armies had returned to reclaim the land.
Rand led a thousand men when the Queen’s Guards crossed the Mountains of Mist — he never thought of turning aside to visit the Two Rivers; he seldom thought of the Two Rivers at all, anymore — and he commanded the Guard when the shattered remnants retreated back across the mountains. The length of Andor he fought and fell back, amid hordes of fleeing refugees, until at last he came to Caemlyn. Many of the people of Caemlyn had fled already, and many counseled the army to retreat further, but Elayne was Queen, now, and vowed she would not leave Caemlyn. She would not look at his ruined face, scarred by his sickness, but he could not leave her, and so what was left of the Queen’s Guards prepared to defend the Queen while her people ran.
The Power came to him during the battle for Caemlyn, and he hurled lightning and fire among the invaders, and split the earth under their feet, yet the feeling came again, too, that he had been born for something else. For all he did, there were too many of the enemy to stop, and they also had those who could channel. At last, a lightning bolt hurled Rand from the Palace wall, broken, bleeding, and burned, and
as his last breath rattled in his throat, he heard a voice whisper, I have won again, Lews Therin.
Flicker.
Rand struggled to hold the void as it quivered under the hammer blows of the world flickering, to hold the one symbol as a thousand of them darted along the surface of the void. He struggled to hold on to any one symbol.
“… is wrong!” Verin screamed. The Power was everything.
Flicker. Flicker. Flicker. Flicker. Flicker. Flicker.
He was a soldier. He was a shepherd. He was a beggar, and a king. He was farmer, gleeman, sailor, carpenter. He was born, lived, and died an Aiel. He died mad, he died rotting, he died of sickness, accident, age. He was executed, and multitudes cheered his death. He proclaimed himself the Dragon Reborn and flung his banner across the sky; he ran from the Power and hid; he lived and died never knowing. He held off the madness and the sickness for years; he succumbed between two winters. Sometimes Moiraine came and took him away from the Two Rivers, alone or with those of his friends who had survived Winternight; sometimes she did not. Sometimes other Aes Sedai came for him. Sometimes the Red Ajah. Egwene married him; Egwene, sternfaced in the stole of the Amyrlin Seat, led the Aes Sedai who gentled him; Egwene, with tears in her eyes, plunged a dagger into his heart, and he thanked her as he died. He loved other women, married other women. Elayne, and Min, and a fairhaired farmer’s daughter met on the road to Caemlyn, and women he had never seen before he lived those lives. A hundred lives. More. So many he could not count them. And at the end of every life, as he lay dying, as he drew his final breath, a voice whispered in his ear. I have won again, Lews Therin.
Flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker.
The void vanished, contact with saidin fled, and Rand fell with a thud that would have knocked the breath out of him if he had not already been half numb. He felt rough stone under his cheek, and his hands. It was cold.
He was aware of Verin, struggling from her back to hands and knees. He heard someone vomit roughly, and raised his head. Uno was kneeling on the ground, scrubbing the back of his hand across his mouth. Everyone was down, and the horses stood stifflegged and quivering, eyes wild and rolling. Ingtar had his sword out, gripping the hilt so hard the blade shook, staring at nothing. Loial sat sprawled, wideeyed and stunned. Mat was huddled in a ball with his arms wrapped around his head, and Perrin had his fingers dug into his face as if he wanted to rip away whatever he had seen, or perhaps rip out the eyes that had seen it. None of the soldiers were any better. Masema wept openly, tears streaming down his face, and Hurin was looking around as if for a place to run.
“What … ?” Rand stopped to swallow. He was lying on rough, weathered stone half buried in the dirt. “What happened?”
“A surge of the One Power.” The Aes Sedai tottered to her feet and pulled her cloak tight with a shiver. “It was as if we were being forced … pushed … It seemed to come out of nowhere. You must learn to control it. You must! That much of the Power could burn you to a cinder.”
“Verin, I … I lived … I was …” He realized the stone under him was rounded. The Portal Stone. Hastily, shakily, he pushed himself to his feet. “Verin, I lived and died, I don’t know how many times. Every time it was different, but it was me. It was me.”
“The Lines that join the Worlds That Might Be, laid by those who knew the Numbers of Chaos.” Verin shuddered; she seemed to be talking to herself. “I’ve never heard it, but there is no reason we would not be born in those worlds, yet the lives we lived would be different lives. Of course. Different lives for the different ways things might have happened.”
“Is that what happened? I … we … saw how our lives could have been?” I have won again, Lews Therin. No! I am Rand al’Thor!
Verin gave herself a shake and looked at him. “Does it surprise you that your life might go differently if you made different choices, or different things happened to you? Though I never thought I — Well. The important thing is, we are here. Though not as we hoped.”
“Where is here?” he demanded. The woods of Stedding Tsofu were gone, replaced by rolling land. There seemed to be forest not far to the west, and a few hills. It had been high in the day when they gathered around the Stone in the stedding but here the sun stood low toward afternoon in a gray sky. The handful of trees nearby were bare branched, or else held a few leaves bright with color. A cold wind gusted from the east, sending leaves scurrying across the ground.
“Toman Head,” Verin said. “This is the Stone I visited. You should not have tried to bring us directly here. I don’t know what went wrong — I don’t suppose I ever will — but from the trees, I would say it is well into late autumn. Rand, we haven’t gained any time by it. We’ve lost time. I would say we have easily spent four months in coming here.”
“But I didn’t — ”
“You must let me guide you in these things. I cannot teach you, it’s true, but perhaps I can at least keep you from killing yourself — and the rest of us — by overreaching. Even if you do not kill yourself, if the Dragon Reborn burns himself out like a guttering candle, who will face the Dark One then?” She did not wait for him to renew his protests, but went to Ingtar instead.
The Shienaran gave a start when she touched his arm, and looked at her with frantic eyes. “I walk in the Light,” he said hoarsely. “I will find the Horn of Valere and pull down Shayol Ghul’s power. I will!”
“Of course you will,” she said soothingly. She took his face in her hands, and he
drew a sudden breath, abruptly recovering from whatever had held him. Except that memory still lay in his eyes. “There,” she said. “That will do for you. I will see how I can help the rest. We may still recover the Horn, but our path has not grown smoother.”
As she started around among the others, stopping briefly by each, Rand went to his friends. When he tried to straighten Mat, Mat jerked and stared at him, then grabbed Rand’s coat with both hands. “Rand, I’d never tell anyone about — about you. I wouldn’t betray you. You have to believe that!” He looked worse than ever, but Rand thought it was mostly fright.
“I do,” Rand said. He wondered what lives Mat had lived, and what he had done. He must have told someone, or he wouldn’t be so anxious about it. He could not hold it against him. Those had been other Mats, not this one. Besides, after some of the alternatives he had seen for himself … “I believe you. Perrin?”
The curlyhaired youth dropped his hands from his face with a sigh. Red marks scored his forehead and cheeks where his nails had dug in. His yellow eyes hid his thoughts. “We don’t have many choices really, do we, Rand? Whatever happens, whatever we do, some things are almost always the same.” He let out another long breath. “Where are we? Is this one of those worlds you and Hurin were talking about?”
“It’s Toman Head,” Rand told him. “In our world. Or so Verin says. And it is autumn.”
Mat looked worried. “How could —? No, I don’t want to know how it happened. But how are we going to find Fain and the dagger now? He could be anywhere by this time.”
“He’s here,” Rand assured him. He hoped he was right. Fain had had time to take ship for anyplace he wanted to go. Time to ride to Emond’s Field. Or Tar Valon. Please, Light, he didn’t get tired of waiting. If he’s hurt Egwene, or anybody in Emond’s Field, I’ll … Light burn me, I tried to come in time.
“The larger towns on Toman Head are all west of here,” Verin announced loudly enough for all to hear. Everyone was on their feet again, except for Rand and his two friends; she came and put her hands on Mat as she spoke. “Not that there are many villages large enough to call towns. If we are to find any trace of the Darkfriends, to the west is the place to begin. And I think we should not waste the daylight sitting here.”
When Mat blinked and stood up — he still looked ill, but he moved spryly — she put her hands on Perrin. Rand backed away when she reached for him.
“Don’t be foolish,” she told him.
“I don’t want your help,” he said quietly. “Or any Aes Sedai help.” Her lips twitched. “As you wish.”
They mounted immediately and rode west, leaving the Portal Stone behind. No one protested, Rand least of all. Light, let me not be too late.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 38
(Flame of Tar Valon) Practice
Sitting crosslegged on her bed in her white dress, Egwene made three tiny balls of light weave patterns above her hands. She was not supposed to do this without at least one the Accepted to supervise, but Nynaeve, glaring and striding up and down in front of the small fireplace, did after all wear the Serpent ring given to the Accepted, and her white dress had the colored rings encircling the hem, even if she was not allowed to try to teach anyone yet. And Egwene had found over these last thirteen weeks that she could not resist. She knew how easy it was to touch saidar now. She could always feel it there, waiting for her, like the smell of perfume or the feel of silk, drawing her, drawing her. And once she did touch it, she could rarely stop from channeling, or at least trying to. She failed almost as often as she succeeded, but that was only another spur to keep on.
It often frightened her. How much she wanted to channel frightened her, and how drab and dreary she felt when she was not channeling, compared to when she was. She wanted to drink it all in, despite the cautions about burning herself out, and that wanting frightened her most of all. Sometimes she wished she had never come to Tar Valon. But the fright could not make her stop for long, any more than the fear of being caught by an Aes Sedai or by any of the Accepted beside Nynaeve. It was safe enough here, though, in her own room. Min was there, sitting on the threelegged stool watching her, but she knew Min well enough now to know Min would never report her. She thought she was lucky to have made two good friends
since coming to Tar Valon.
It was a little, windowless room, as all novices’ rooms were. Three short paces took Nynaeve from wall to whiteplastered wall; Nynaeve’s own room was much larger, but since she had made no friends among the other Accepted, she came to Egwene’s room when she needed someone to talk to, even as now when she did not talk at all. The tiny fire on the narrow hearth handily kept the first chill of approaching autumn at bay, though Egwene was sure it would not serve so well when winter came. A small table for study completed the furnishings, and her belongings hung neatly on a row of pegs on the wall or sat on the short shelf above the table. Novices were usually kept too busy to spend time in their rooms, but today was a freeday, only the third since she and Nynaeve had come to the White Tower.
“Else was making calf’s eyes at Galad today while he was working with the Warders,” Min said, rocking the stool on two legs.
The small balls faltered for an instant above Egwene’s hands. “She can look at whoever she wants,” Egwene said casually. “I can’t imagine why I would be interested.”
“No reason, I suppose. He is awfully handsome, if you don’t mind him being so
rigid. Very nice to look at, especially with his shirt off.”
The balls spun furiously. “I certainly have no desire to look at Galad, with or without his shirt.”
“I shouldn’t tease you,” Min said contritely. “I’m sorry for that. But you do like to look at him — don’t grimace at me like that — and so does nearly every woman in the White Tower who isn’t a Red. I’ve seen Aes Sedai down at the practice yards when he’s working forms, especially Greens. Checking on their Warders, they say, but I don’t see so many when Galad isn’t there. Even the cooks and maids come out to watch him.”
The balls stopped dead, and for a moment Egwene stared at them. They vanished. Suddenly she giggled. “He it goodlooking, isn’t he? Even when he walks he looks as if he’s dancing.” The color in her cheeks deepened. “I know I shouldn’t stare at him, but I can’t help myself.”
“I can’t either,” Min said, “and I can see what he is like.” “But if he is good —?”
“Egwene, Galad is so good he’d make you tear your hair out. He’d hurt a person because he had to serve a greater good. He wouldn’t even notice who was hurt, because he’d be so intent on the other, but if he did, he would expect them to understand and think it was all well and right.”
“I suppose you know,” Egwene said. She had seen Min’s ability to look at people and read all sorts of things about them; Min did not tell everything she saw, and she did not always see anything, but there had been enough for Egwene to believe. She glanced at Nynaeve — the other woman was still pacing, muttering to herself — then reached for saidar again and resumed her juggling in a desultory fashion.
Min shrugged. “I guess I might as well tell you. He didn’t even notice what Else was doing. He asked her if she knew whether you might be walking the South Garden after supper, since today is a freeday. I felt sorry for her.”
“Poor Else,” Egwene murmured, and the balls of light became more lively above her hands. Min laughed.
The door banged open, caught by the wind. Egwene gave a yelp and let the balls vanish before she saw it was only Elayne.
The goldenhaired DaughterHeir of Andor pushed the door shut and hung up her cloak on a peg. “I just heard,” she said. “The rumors are true. King Galldrian is dead. That makes it a war of succession.”
Min snorted. “Civil war. War of succession. A lot of silly names for the same thing. Do you mind if we don’t talk about it? That’s all we hear. War in Cairhien. War on Toman Head. They may have caught the false Dragon in Saldaea, but there’s still war in Tear. Most of it is rumors, anyway. Yesterday, I heard one of the cooks saying she’d heard Artur Hawkwing was marching on Tanchico. Artur Hawkwing!”
“I thought you did not want to talk about it,” Egwene said.
“I saw Logain,” Elayne said. “He was sitting on a bench in the Inner Court,
crying. He ran when he saw me. I cannot help feeling sorry for him.” “Better he cries than the rest of us, Elayne,” Min said.
“I know what he is,” Elayne said calmly. “Or rather, what he was. He isn’t anymore, and I can feel sorry for him.”
Egwene slumped back against the wall. Rand. Logain always made her think of Rand. She had not dreamed about him in months, now, not the kind of dreams she had had on the River Queen. Anaiya still made her write down everything she dreamed, and the Aes Sedai checked them for signs, or connections to events, but there was never anything about Rand except dreams that, Anaiya said, meant she missed him. Oddly, she felt almost as if he were not there any longer, as if he had ceased to exist, along with her dreams, a few weeks after reaching the White Tower. And I sit thinking about how nicely Galad walks, she thought bitterly. Rand has to be all right. If he’d been caught and gentled, I’d have heard something.
That sent a chill through her, as it never failed to do, the thought of Rand being gentled, Rand weeping and wanting to die as Logain did.
Elayne sat down beside her on the bed, tucking her feet up under her. “If you are mooning over Galad, Egwene, you will have no sympathy from me. I’ll have Nynaeve dose you with one of those horrible concoctions she’s always talking about.” She frowned at Nynaeve, who had taken no notice of her entrance. “What is the matter with her? Don’t tell me she has started sighing after Galad, too!”
“I wouldn’t bother her.” Min leaned toward the two of them and lowered her voice. “That skinny Accepted Irella told her she was as clumsy as a cow and had half the Talents, and Nynaeve clouted her ear.” Elayne winced. “Exactly,” Min murmured. “They had her up to Sheriam’s study before you could blink, and she hasn’t been fit to live with since.”
Apparently Min had not dropped her voice enough, for there was a growl from Nynaeve. Suddenly the door whipped open once more, and a gale howled into the room. It did not ruffle the blankets on Egwene’s bed, but Min and the stool toppled, to roll against the wall. Immediately the wind died, and Nynaeve stood with a stricken look on her face.
Egwene hurried to the door and peeked out. The noonday sun was burning off the last reminders of last night’s rainstorm. The stilldamp balcony around the Novices’ Court was empty, the long row of doors to novices’ rooms all shut. The novices who had taken advantage of the freeday to enjoy themselves in the gardens were no doubt catching up on their sleep. No one could have seen. She closed the door and took her place beside Elayne again as Nynaeve helped Min to her feet.
“I’m sorry, Min,” Nynaeve said in a tight voice. “Sometimes my temper … I can’t ask you to forgive me, not for this.” She took a deep breath. “If you want to report me to Sheriam, I will understand. I deserve it.”
Egwene wished she had not heard that admission; Nynaeve could grow prickly over such things. Searching for something on which to focus, something Nynaeve could believe she had had her attention on, she found herself touching saidar once
more, and began juggling the balls of light again. Elayne quickly joined her; Egwene saw the glow form around the DaughterHeir even before three tiny balls appeared above her hands. They began to pass the little glowing spheres back and forth in increasingly intricate patterns. Sometimes one winked out as one girl or the other failed to maintain it as it came to her, then winked back a little altered in color or size.
The One Power filled Egwene with life. She smelled the faint rose aroma of soap from Elayne’s morning bath. She could feel the rough plaster of the walls, the smooth stones of the floor, as well as she could the bed where she sat. She could hear Min and Nynaeve breathe, much less their quiet words.
“If it comes to forgiving,” Min said, “maybe you should forgive me. You have a temper, and I have a big mouth. I will forgive you if you forgive me.” With murmurs of “forgiven” that sounded meant on both sides, the two women hugged. “But if you do it again,” Min said with a laugh, “I might clout your ear.”
“Next time,” Nynaeve replied, “I will throw something at you.” She was laughing, too, but her laughter ceased abruptly as her eye fell on Egwene and Elayne. “You two stop that, or there will be someone going to the Mistress of Novices. Two someones.”
“Nynaeve, you wouldn’t!” Egwene protested. When she saw the look in Nynaeve’s eyes, though, she hastily severed all contact with saidar. “Very well. I believe you. There’s no need to prove it.”
“We have to practice,” Elayne said. “They ask more and more of us. If we did not practice on our own, we would never keep up.” Her face showed calm composure, but she had let go of saidar as hastily as Egwene herself had.
“And what happens when you draw too much,” Nynaeve asked, “and there’s no one there to stop you? I wish you were more afraid. I am. Don’t you think I know what it is like for you? It’s always there, and you want to fill yourself with it. Sometimes it is all I can do to make myself stop; I want all of it. I know it would burn me to a crisp, and I want it anyway.” She shivered. “I just wish you were more afraid.”
“I am afraid,” Egwene said with a sigh. “I’m terrified. But it doesn’t seem to help. What about you, Elayne?”
“The only thing that terrifies me,” Elayne said airily, “is washing dishes. It seems as if I have to wash dishes every day.” Egwene threw her pillow at her. Elayne pulled it off her head and threw it back, but then her shoulders slumped. “Oh, very well. I am so scared I don’t know why my teeth are not chattering. Elaida told me I’d be so frightened that I would want to run away with the Traveling People, but I did not understand. A man who drove oxen as hard as they drive us would be shunned. I am tired all the time. I wake up tired and go to bed exhausted, and sometimes I’m so afraid that I will slip and channel more of the Power than I can handle that I …” Peering into her lap, she let the words trail off.
Egwene knew what she had not spoken. Their rooms lay right next to each
other, and as in many of the novice rooms, a small hole had long ago been bored through the wall between, too small to be seen unless you knew where to look, but useful for talk after the lamps were extinguished, when the girls could not leave their rooms. Egwene had heard Elayne crying herself to sleep more than once, and she had no doubt that Elayne had heard her own crying.
“The Traveling People are tempting,” Nynaeve agreed, “but wherever you go, it will not change what you can do. You cannot run from saidar.” She did not sound as if she liked what she was saying.
“What do you see, Min?” Elayne said. “Are we all going to be powerful Aes Sedai, or will we spend the rest of our lives washing dishes as novices, or …” She shrugged uncomfortably as if she did not want to voice the third alternative that came to mind. Sent home. Put out of the Tower. Two novices had been put out since Egwene came, and everyone spoke of them in whispers, as if they were dead.
Min shifted on her stool. “I don’t like reading friends,” she muttered. “Friendship gets in the way of the reading. It makes me try to put the best face on what I see. That’s why I don’t do it for you three anymore. Anyway, nothing has changed about you that I can …” She squinted at them, and suddenly frowned. “That’s new,” she breathed.
“What?” Nynaeve asked sharply.
Min hesitated before answering. “Danger. You are all in some kind of danger.
Or you will be, very soon. I can’t make it out, but it is danger.”
“You see,” Nynaeve said to the two girls sitting on the bed. “You must take care. We all must. You must both promise not to channel again without someone to guide you.”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Egwene said.
Elayne nodded eagerly. “Yes. Let’s talk about something else. Min, if you put on a dress, I’ll wager Gawyn would ask you to go walking with him. You know he’s been looking at you, but I think the breeches and the man’s coat put him off.”
“I dress the way I like, and I won’t change for a lord, even if he is your brother.” Min spoke absently, still squinting at them and frowning; it was a conversation they had had before. “Sometimes it is useful to pass as a boy.”
“No one who looks twice believes you are a boy.” Elayne smiled.
Egwene was uncomfortable. Elayne was forcing a semblance of gaiety, Min was hardly paying attention, and Nynaeve looked as if she wanted to warn them again.When the door swung open once more, Egwene bounded to her feet to close it, grateful for something to do besides watch the others pretend. Before she reached it, though, a darkeyed Aes Sedai with her blond hair done in a multitude of braids stepped into the room. Egwene blinked in surprise, as much at it being any Aes Sedai as at Liandrin. She had not heard that Liandrin had returned to the White Tower, but beyond that, novices were sent for if an Aes Sedai wanted them; it could mean no good, a sister coming herself.
The room was crowded with five women in it. Liandrin paused to adjust her
redfringed shawl, eyeing them. Min did not move, but Elayne rose, and the three standing curtsied, though Nynaeve barely flexed her knee. Egwene did not think Nynaeve would ever grow used to having others in authority over her.
Liandrin’s eyes settled on Nynaeve. “And why are you here, in the novices’ quarters, child?” Her tone was ice.
“I am visiting with friends,” Nynaeve said in a tight voice. After a moment she added a belated, “Liandrin Sedai.”
“The Accepted, they can have no friends among the novices. This you should have learned by this time, child. But it is as well that I find you here. You and you”
— her finger stabbed at Elayne and Min — “will go.”
“I will return later.” Min rose casually, making a great show of being in no hurry to obey, and strolled by Liandrin with a grin, of which Liandrin took no notice at all. Elayne gave Egwene and Nynaeve a worried look before she dropped a curtsy and left.
After Elayne closed the door behind her, Liandrin stood studying Egwene and Nynaeve. Egwene began to fidget under the scrutiny, but Nynaeve held herself straight, with only a little heightening of her color.
“You two are from the same village as the boys who traveled with Moiraine. Is it not so?” Liandrin said suddenly.
“Do you have some word of Rand?” Egwene asked eagerly. Liandrin arched an eyebrow at her. “Forgive me, Aes Sedai. I forget myself.”
“Have you word of them?” Nynaeve said, just short of a demand. The Accepted had no rule about not speaking to an Aes Sedai until spoken to.
“You have concern for them. That is good. They are in danger, and you might be able to help them.”
“How do you know they’re in trouble?” There was no doubt about the demand in Nynaeve’s voice this time.
Liandrin’s rosebud mouth tightened, but her tone did not change. “Though you are not aware of it, Moiraine has sent letters to the White Tower concerning you. Moiraine Sedai, she worries about you, and about your young … friends. These boys, they are in danger. Do you wish to help them, or leave them to their fate?”
“Yes,” Egwene said, at the same time that Nynaeve said; “What kind of trouble? Why do you care about helping them?” Nynaeve glanced at the red fringe on Liandrin’s shawl. “And I thought you didn’t like Moiraine.”
“Do not presume too much, child,” Liandrin said sharply. “To be Accepted is not to be a sister. Accepted and novices alike listen when a sister speaks, and do as they are told.” She drew a breath and went on; her tone was coldly serene again, but angry white spots marred her cheeks. “Someday, I am sure, you will serve a cause, and you will learn then that to serve it you must work even with those whom you dislike. I tell you I have worked with many with whom I would not share a room if it were left to me alone. Would you not work alongside the one you hated worst, if it would save your friends?”
Nynaeve nodded reluctantly. “But you still haven’t told us what kind of danger they’re in. Liandrin Sedai.”
“The danger comes from Shayol Ghul. They are hunted, as I understand they once before were. If you will come with me, some dangers, at least, may be eliminated. Do not ask how, for I cannot tell you, but I tell you flatly it is so.”
“We will come, Liandrin Sedai,” Egwene said.
“Come where?” Nynaeve said. Egwene shot her an exasperated look.“Toman Head.”
Egwene’s mouth fell open, and Nynaeve muttered, “There’s a war on Toman Head. Does this danger have something to do with Artur Hawkwing’s armies?”
“You believe rumors, child? But even if they were true, is that enough to stop you? I thought you called these men friends.” A twist to Liandrin’s words said she would never do the same.
“We will come,” Egwene said. Nynaeve opened her mouth again, but Egwene went right on. “We will go, Nynaeve. If Rand needs our help — and Mat, and Perrin — we have to give it.”
“I know that,” Nynaeve said, “but what I want to know is, why us? What can we do that Moiraine — or you, Liandrin — cannot?”
The white grew in Liandrin’s cheeks — Egwene realized Nynaeve had forgotten the honorific in addressing her — but what she said was, “You two come from their village. In some way I do not entirely understand, you are connected to them. Beyond that, I cannot say. And no more of your foolish questions will I answer. Will you come with me for their sake?” She paused for their assent; a visible tension left her when they nodded. “Good. You will meet me at the northernmost edge of the Ogier grove one hour before sunset with your horses and whatever you will need for the journey. Tell no one of this.”
“We are not supposed to leave the Tower grounds without permission,” Nynaeve said slowly.
“You have my permission. Tell no one. No one at all. The Black Ajah walks the halls of the White Tower.”
Egwene gasped, and heard an echoed gasp from Nynaeve, but Nynaeve recovered quickly. “I thought all Aes Sedai denied the existence of — of that.”
Liandrin’s mouth tightened into a sneer. “Many do, but Tarmon Gai’don approaches, and the time leaves when denials can be made. The Black Ajah, it is the opposite of everything for which the Tower stands, but it exists, child. It is everywhere, any woman could belong to it, and it serves the Dark One. If your friends are pursued by the Shadow, do you think the Black Ajah will leave you alive and free to help them? Tell no one — no one! — or you may not live to reach Toman Head. One hour before sunset. Do not fail me.” With that, she was gone, the door closing firmly behind her.
Egwene collapsed onto her bed with her hands on her knees. “Nynaeve, she’s Red Ajah. She can’t know about Rand. If she did…”
“She cannot know,” Nynaeve agreed. “I wish I knew why a Red wanted to help. Or why she’s willing to work with Moiraine. I’d have sworn neither of them would give the other water if she were dying of thirst.”
“You think she’s lying?”
“She is Aes Sedai,” Nynaeve said dryly. “I’ll wager my best silver pin against a blueberry that every word she said was true. But I wonder if we heard what we thought we did.”
“The Black Ajah.” Egwene shivered. “There was no mistaking what she said about that, the Light help us.”
“No mistaking,” Nynaeve said. “And she’s forestalled us asking anyone for advice, because after that, who can we trust? The Light help us indeed.”
Min and Elayne came bustling in, slamming the door behind them. “Are you really going?” Min asked, and Elayne gestured toward the tiny hole in the wall above Egwene’s bed, saying, “We listened from my room. We heard everything.”
Egwene exchanged glances with Nynaeve, wondering how much they had overheard, and saw the same concern on Nynaeve’s face. If they manage to cipher out about Rand …
“You have to keep this to yourselves,” Nynaeve cautioned them. “I suppose Liandrin has arranged permission from Sheriam for us to go, but even if she hasn’t, even if they start searching the Tower from top to bottom for us tomorrow, you mustn’t say a word.”
“Keep it to myself?” Min said. “No fear on that. I’m going with you. All I do all day is try to explain to one Brown sister or another something I don’t understand myself. I can’t even go for a walk without the Amyrlin herself popping out and asking me to read whoever we see. When that woman asks you to do something, there doesn’t seem to be any way out of it. I must have read half the White Tower for her, but she always wants another demonstration. All I needed was an excuse to leave, and this is it.” Her face wore a look of determination that allowed no argument.
Egwene wondered why Min was so determined to go with them rather than simply leaving on her own, but before she had time to do more than wonder, Elayne said, “I am going, too.”
“Elayne,” Nynaeve said gently, “Egwene and I are the boys’ kith from Emond’s Field. You are the DaughterHeir of Andor. If you disappear from the White Tower, why, it — it could start a war.”
“Mother wouldn’t start a war with Tar Valon if they dried and salted me, which they may be trying to do. If you three can go off and have an adventure, you needn’t think I am going to stay here and wash dishes, and scrub floors, and have some Accepted berating me because I didn’t make the fire the exact shade of blue she wanted. Gawyn will die from envy when he finds out.” Elayne grinned and reached over to tug playfully at Egwene’s hair. “Besides, if you leave Rand lying about loose, I might have a chance to pick him up.”
“I don’t think either of us is going to have him,” Egwene said sadly.
“Then we’ll find whoever he does choose and make her life miserable. But he couldn’t be fool enough to choose someone else when he could have one of us. Oh, please smile, Egwene. I know he’s yours. I just feel” — she hesitated, searching for the word — “free. I’ve never had an adventure. I’ll bet we won’t either of us cry ourselves to sleep on an adventure. And if we do, we will make sure the gleemen leave that part out.”
“This is foolishness,” Nynaeve said. “We are going to Toman Head. You’ve heard the news, and the rumors. It will be dangerous. You must stay here.”
“I heard what Liandrin Sedai said about the — the Black Ajah, too.” Elayne’s voice dropped almost to a whisper at that name. “How safe will I be here, if they are here? If Mother even suspected the Black Ajah really existed, she would pitch me into the middle of a battle to get me away from them.”
“But, Elayne—
“There is only one way for you to stop me coming. That is to tell the Mistress of Novices. We will make a pretty picture, all three of us lined up in her study. All four of us. I don’t think Min would escape from something like this. So since you are not going to tell Sheriam Sedai, I am coming, too.”
Nynaeve threw up her hands. “Perhaps you can say something to convince her,” she told Min.
Min had been leaning against the door, squinting at Elayne, and now she shook her head. “I think she has to come as much as the rest of you. The rest of us. I can see the danger around all of you more clearly, now. Not clearly enough to make it out, but I think it has something to do with you deciding to go. That’s why it is clearer; because it is more certain.”
“That’s no reason for her to come,” Nynaeve said, but Min shook her head again.
“She is linked to — to those boys as much as you, or Egwene, or me. She’s part of it, Nynaeve, whatever it is. Part of the Pattern, I suppose an Aes Sedai would say.”
Elayne seemed taken aback, and interested, too. “I am? What part, Min?”
“I can’t see it clearly.” Min looked at the floor. “Sometimes I wish I couldn’t read people at all. Most people aren’t satisfied with what I see anyway.”
“If we are all going,” Nynaeve said, “then we had best be about making plans.” However much she might argue beforehand, once a course of action had been decided, Nynaeve always went right to the practicalities: what they had to take with them, and how cold it would be by the time they reached Toman Head, and how they could get their horses from the stables without being stopped.
Listening to her, Egwene could not help wondering what the danger was that Min saw for them, and what danger threatened Rand. She knew of only one danger that could threaten him, and it made her cold to think of it. Hold on, Rand. Hold on, you woolheaded idiot. I’ll help you somehow.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 39
(Leaf)
Flight From the White Tower
Egwene and Elayne inclined their heads briefly to each group of women they passed as they made their way through the Tower. It was a good thing, there were so many women from outside in the Tower today, Egwene thought, too many for each to have an Aes Sedai or an Accepted for escort. Alone or in small groups, garbed richly or poorly, in dress from half a dozen different lands, some still dusty from their journey to Tar Valon, they kept to themselves and waited their turn to ask their questions of the Aes Sedai, or present their petitions. Some women — ladies or merchants or merchants’ wives — had female servants with them. Even a few men had come with petitions, standing by themselves, looking unsure about being in the White Tower, and eyeing everyone else uneasily.
In the lead, Nynaeve kept her eyes purposefully ahead, her cloak swirling behind her, walking as if she knew where they were going — which she did, as long as no one stopped them — and had a perfect right to go there — which was a different matter altogether, of course. Dressed now in the clothes they had brought to Tar Valon, they certainly did not look like residents of the Tower. Each had chosen her best dress that had a skirt divided for riding, and cloaks of fine wool rich with embroidery. As long as they kept away from all who might recognize them — they had already dodged several who knew their faces — Egwene thought they might make it.
“This would do better for a turn in some lord’s park than a ride to Toman Head,” Nynaeve had said dryly as Egwene helped her with the buttons of a gray silk with threadofgold work and pearled flowers across the bosom and down the sleeves, “but it may allow us to leave unnoticed.”
Now Egwene shifted her cloak and smoothed her own goldembroidered, green silk dress and glanced at Elayne, in blue slashed with cream, hoping Nynaeve had been right. So far, everyone had taken them for petitioners, nobles, or at least women of wealth, but it seemed that they should stand out. She was surprised to realize why; she felt uncomfortable in the fine dress after wearing a novice’s plain white for the past few months.
A little cluster of village women in stout, dark woolens dropped curtsies as they passed. Egwene glanced back at Min as soon as they were beyond. Min had kept her breeches and baggy man’s shirt under a boy’s brown cloak and coat, with an old, widebrimmed hat pulled down over her short hair. “One of us has to be the servant,” she had said, laughing. “Women dressed the way you are always have at least one. You’ll wish you had my breeches if we have to run.” She was burdened with four sets of saddlebags bulging with warm clothes, for it would surely be winter before they returned. There were also packets of food pilfered from the kitchens, enough to last until they could buy more.
“Are you sure I can’t carry some of those, Min?” Egwene asked softly.
“They’re just awkward,” Min said with a grin, “not heavy.” She seemed to think it was all a game, or else was pretending to think so. “And people would be sure to wonder why a fine lady such as yourself was carrying her own saddlebags. You can carry yours — and mine, too, if you want — once we — ” Her grin vanished, and she whispered fiercely, “Aes Sedai!”
Egwene whipped her eyes forward. An Aes Sedai with long, smooth black hair and agedivory skin was coming toward them down the corridor, listening to a woman wearing rough farm clothes and a patched cloak. The Aes Sedai had not seen them yet, but Egwene recognized her; Takima, of the Brown Ajah, who taught the history of the White Tower and Aes Sedai, and who could recognize one of her pupils at a hundred paces.
Nynaeve turned down a side hall without breaking stride, but there one of the Accepted, a lanky woman with a permanent frown, hurried past them hauling a redfaced novice by the ear.
Egwene had to swallow before she could speak. “That was Irella, and Else. Did they notice us?” She could not make herself look back to see.
“No,” Min said after a moment. “All they saw was our clothes.” Egwene let out a long, relieved breath, and heard one from Nynaeve, too.
“My heart may burst before we reach the stables,” Elayne murmured. “Is this what an adventure is like all the time, Egwene? Your heart in your mouth, and your stomach in your feet?”
“I suppose it is,” Egwene said slowly. She found it hard to think that there had been a time when she had been eager to have an adventure, to do something dangerous and exciting like the people in stories. Now she thought the exciting part was what you remembered when you looked back, and the stories left out a good deal of unpleasantness. She told Elayne as much.
“Still,” the DaughterHeir said firmly, “I have never had any real excitement before, and never likely to as long as Mother has any say in it, which she will until I take the throne myself.”
“You two be quiet,” Nynaeve said. They were alone in the hall for a change, with no one in sight in either direction. She pointed to a narrow flight of stairs going down. “That should be what we want. If I haven’t gotten turned around completely, with all the twists and turns we’ve made.”
She took the stairs as if she were certain anyway, and the others followed. Surely enough, the small door at the bottom let out into the dusty yard of the South Stable, where novices’ horses were kept, for those who had them, until they had need of mounts again, which was generally not until they became Accepted or were sent home. The gleaming bulk of the Tower itself rose behind them; the Tower grounds spread over a good many hides of land, with its own walls higher than some city walls.
Nynaeve strode into the stable as if she owned it. It had a clean smell of hay and
horse, and two long rows of stalls ran back into shadows barred with light from the vents above. For a wonder, shaggy Bela and Nynaeve’s gray mare stood in stalls near the doors. Bela put her nose over the stall door and whickered softly to Egwene. There was only one groom in evidence, a pleasantlooking fellow with gray in his beard, chewing a straw.
“We will have our horses saddled,” Nynaeve told him in her most commanding tone. “Those two. Min, find your horse. and Elayne’s.” Min dropped the saddlebags and drew Elayne deeper into the stables.
The stableman frowned after them and slowly took the straw from his mouth. “There must be some mistake, my Lady. Those animals —”
“— are ours,” Nynaeve said firmly, folding her arms so that the Serpent ring was obvious. “You will saddle them now.”
Egwene held her breath; it was a lastditch plan, that Nynaeve would try to pass as an Aes Sedai if they had difficulties with anyone who might actually accept her as one. No Aes Sedai or Accepted would, of course, and probably not even a novice, but a stableman …
The man blinked at Nynaeve’s ring, then at her. “I was told two,” he said at last, sounding unimpressed. “One of the Accepted and a novice. Wasn’t nothing said about four of you.”
Egwene felt like laughing. Of course Liandrin would not have believed them able to get their horses by themselves.
Nynaeve looked disappointed, and her voice sharpened. “You trot those horses out and saddle them, or you’ll have need of Liandrin’s Healing, if she will give it to you.”
The groom mouthed Liandrin’s name, but one look at Nynaeve’s face and he saw to the horses with no more than a mutter or two, not loud enough for any but himself to hear. Min and Elayne came back with their own mounts just as he finished tightening the second girth. Min’s was a tall dustcolored gelding, Elayne’s a bay mare with an arched neck.
When they were mounted, Nynaeve addressed herself to the stableman again. “No doubt you were told to keep this quiet, and that hasn’t changed whether we are two or two hundred. If you think it has, think about what Liandrin will do if you talk what you were told to keep quiet.”
As they were riding out, Elayne tossed him a coin and murmured, “For your trouble, goodman. You have done well.” Outside, she caught Egwene’s eye and smiled. “Mother says a stick and honey always work better than a stick alone.”
“I hope we don’t need either with the guards,” Egwene said. “I hope Liandrin spoke to them, too.”
At Tarlomen’s Gate, though, piercing the tall south wall of the Tower grounds, there was no telling if anyone had spoken to the guards or not. They waved the four women through with no more than a glance and a cursory bow. Guards were meant to keep out those who were dangerous; apparently these had no orders about
keeping anyone in.
A cool river breeze gave them an excuse to pull up the hoods of their cloaks as they rode slowly through the streets of the city. The ring of their horses’ hooves on the paving stones was lost in the murmur of the crowds filling the streets and the music that came from some of the buildings they passed. People dressed in garments from every land, from the dark and somber mode of Cairhien to the bright, brilliant colors of the Traveling People, and every style in between, split around the horsewomen like a river around a rock, but they still could not move at more than a slow walk.
Egwene gave no attention to the fabulous towers with their skyborne bridges or the buildings that looked more like breaking waves, or windsculpted cliffs, or fanciful shells, than anything made from stone. Aes Sedai often went into the city, and in that crowd they could come facetoface with one before they knew it. After a time she realized the other women were keeping as close a watch as she, but she still felt more than a glimmer of relief when the Ogier grove came into view.
The Great Trees were now visible beyond the rooftops, their spreading tops a hundred spans and more in the air. Towering oaks and elms, leatherleafs and firs, were dwarfed beneath them. A wall of sorts encompassed the grove, which was a good two miles across, but it was only an endless series of spiraling stone arches, each five spans high and twice as wide. By the outer side of the wall, carriages, carts, and people bustled along a street, while inside lay a wilderness of sorts. The grove had neither the tame look of a park nor the complete haphazardness of the forest depths. Rather, it seemed to be the ideal of nature, as if this were the perfect woods, the most beautiful forest that could be. Some of the leaves had already begun to turn, and even the small swathes of orange and yellow and red among the green seemed to Egwene to be exactly the way autumn foliage should look.
A few people strolled just inside the open arches, and no one looked twice when the four women rode in under the trees. The city was quickly lost to view, even the sounds of it softened, then blocked, by the grove. In the space of ten strides they seemed to be miles from the nearest town.
“The north edge of the grove, she said,” Nynaeve muttered, peering around. “There isn’t any point of it further north than —” She cut off as two horses burst from a copse of black elder, a dark, glossy mare with a rider and a lightly laden packhorse.
The dark mare reared, pawing the air, as Liandrin reined her harshly. The Aes Sedai’s face wore fury like a mask. “I told you not to tell anyone of this! Not anyone!” Egwene noticed polelanterns on the packhorse, and thought it odd.
“These are friends,” Nynaeve began, her back stiffening, but Elayne broke in on
her.
“Forgive us, Liandrin Sedai. They did not tell us; we overheard. We did not
mean to listen to anything we should not have, but we did overhear. And we want to help Rand al’Thor, too. And the other boys, of course,” she added quickly.
Liandrin peered at Elayne and Min. The late afternoon sunlight, slanting through the branches, shadowed their faces beneath the hoods of their cloaks. “So,” she said finally, still watching those two. “I had made arrangements for you to be taken care of, but as you are here, you are here. Four can make this journey as well as two.”
“Taken care of, Liandrin Sedai?” Elayne said. “I do not understand.”
“Child, you and that other are known as friends of these two. Do you not think there are those who would question you when they are found to be gone? Do you believe the Black Ajah would be gentle with you just because you are heir to a throne? Had you remained in the White Tower, you might not have lived the night.” That silenced them all for a moment, but Liandrin wheeled her horse and called, “Follow me!”
The Aes Sedai led them deeper into the grove, until they came to a tall fence of stout ironwork topped with a hedge of razorsharp spikes. Curving slightly, as if it enclosed a large area, the fence ran out of sight among the trees to left and right. There was a gate in the fence, secured with a big lock. Liandrin unfastened this with a large key she produced from her cloak, motioned them through, then relocked it behind them and rode on ahead immediately. A squirrel chittered at them from a branch overhead, and from somewhere came the sharp drumming of a woodpecker.
“Where are we going?” Nynaeve demanded. Liandrin did not answer, and Nynaeve looked angrily at the others. “Why are we just riding deeper into these woods? We have to cross a bridge, or else take ship, if we’re going to leave Tar Valon, and there isn’t any bridge or ship in—”
“There is this,” Liandrin announced. “The fence, it keeps away those who might harm themselves, but we have a need this day.” What she gestured to was a tall, thick slab of what seemed to be stone, standing on edge, one side carved intricately in vines and leaves.
Egwene’s throat tightened; suddenly she knew why Liandrin had brought lanterns, and she did not like what she knew. She heard Nynaeve whisper, “A Waygate.” They both remembered the Ways all too well.
“We did it once,” she told herself as much as Nynaeve. “We can do it again.” If Rand and the others need us, we have to help them. That’s all there is to it.
“Is that really …?” Min began in a choked voice and could not finish.
“A Waygate,” Elayne breathed. “I did not think the Ways could be used any longer. At least, I did not think their use was allowed.”
Liandrin had already dismounted and plucked the trefoil Avendesora leaf out of the carving; like two huge doors woven of living vines, the gates were swinging open, revealing what appeared to be a dull, silvery mirror that gave their reflections back dimly.
“You do not have to come,” Liandrin said. “You can wait here for me, safely enclosed by the fence until I come for you. Or perhaps the Black Ajah will find you before anyone else.” Her smile was not pleasant. Behind her, the Waygate came
open to its fullest and stopped.
“I did not say I wouldn’t come,” Elayne said, but she gave the shadowed woods a lingering look.
“If we are going to do this,” Min said hoarsely, “then let’s do it.” She was staring at the Waygate, and Egwene thought she heard her mutter, “The Light burn you, Rand al’Thor.”
“I must go last,” Liandrin said. “All of you, in. I will follow.” She was eyeing the woods now, too, as if she thought someone might be following them. “Quickly! Quickly!”
Egwene did not know what Liandrin expected to see, but if anyone at all came they would probably stop them from using the Waygate. Rand, you woolheaded idiot, she thought, why can’t you just once get yourself into some kind of trouble that doesn’t force me to act like the heroine in a story?
She dug her heels into Bela’s flanks, and the shaggy mare, restive from too much time in a stable, leaped forward.
“Slowly!” Nynaeve shouted, but it was too late.
Egwene and Bela surged toward their own dull reflections; two shaggy horses touched noses, appeared to flow into each other. Then Egwene was merging into her own image with an icy shock. Time seemed to stretch out, as if the cold crept over her by the width of one hair at a time, and every hair took minutes.
Suddenly Bela was stumbling in pitchblackness, moving so fast the mare almost pitched over on her head. She caught herself and stood trembling as Egwene dismounted hurriedly, feeling the mare’s legs in the dark to see if she had been hurt. She was almost glad of the dark, to hide her crimson face. She knew that time as well as distance were different the other side of a Waygate; she had moved before thinking.
There was only the blackness around her in every direction, except for the rectangle of the open Waygate, like a window of smoked glass when seen from this side. It let no light in — the black seemed to press right up against it — but through it Egwene could see the others, moving by the slowest increments, like figures in a nightmare. Nynaeve was insisting on handing around the polelanterns and lighting them; Liandrin was acceding with a bad grace, apparently insisting on speed.
When Nynaeve came though the Waygate — leading her gray mare slowly, ever so slowly — Egwene almost ran to hug her, and at least half of her feeling was for the lantern Nynaeve carried. The lantern made a smaller pool of light than it should have — the darkness pressed against the light, trying to force it back into the lantern
— but Egwene had begun to feel that darkness pressing against her, as if it had weight. Instead, she contented herself with saying, “Bela’s all right, and I did not break my neck the way I deserved to.”
Once there had been light along the Ways, before the taint on the Power with which they had first been made, the taint of the Dark One on saidin, had begun to corrupt them.
Nynaeve thrust the pole of the lantern into her hands and turned to pull another from under her saddle girth. “As long as you know you deserved to,” she murmured, “then you didn’t deserve to.” Suddenly she chuckled. “Sometimes I think it was sayings like that more than anything else that created the title of Wisdom. Well, here’s another. You break your neck, and I’ll see it mended just so I can break it again.”
It was said lightly, and Egwene found herself laughing, too — until she recalled where she was. Nynaeve’s amusement did not last long either.
Min and Elayne came though the Waygate hesitantly, leading their horses and carrying lanterns, obviously expecting to find monsters waiting at the least. They looked relieved, at first, to find nothing but darkness, but the oppressiveness of it soon had them shifting nervously from foot to foot. Liandrin replaced the Avendesora leaf and rode through the closing Waygate leading the packhorse.
Liandrin did not wait for the gate to finish closing, but tossed the lead line of the packhorse to Min without a word and started along a white line, dimly made out by the light of her lantern, leading into the Ways. The floor seemed to be stone, eaten and pitted by acid. Egwene scrambled hurriedly onto Bela’s back, but she was no quicker to follow the Aes Sedai than anyone else. There seemed to be nothing in the world except the rough floor under the horses’ hooves.
Straight as an arrow the white line led through the dark to a large stone slab covered with Ogier script inlaid in silver. The same pocking that marked the floor also broke the script in places.
“A Guiding,” Elayne murmured, twisting in her saddle to look around uneasily. “Elaida taught me a little about the Ways. She would not say much. Not enough,” she added glumly. “Or maybe too much.”
Calmly Liandrin compared the Guiding with a parchment, then stuffed it back into a pocket of her cloak before Egwene could get a look.
Their lanterns’ light stopped abruptly rather than fading out at the edges, but it was enough for Egwene to see a thick stone balustrade, eaten away in places, as the Aes Sedai led them away from the Guiding. An Island, Elayne called it; the darkness made judging the Island’s size difficult, but Egwene thought it might be a hundred paces across.
Stone bridges and ramps pierced the balustrade, each with a stone post beside it marked with a single line in Ogier script. The bridges seemed to arch out into nothing. The ramps led up or down. It was impossible to see more than the beginning of any of them, as they rode past.
Pausing only to eye the stone posts, Liandrin took a ramp that led down, and quickly there was nothing but the ramp and the darkness. A dampening silence hung over everything; Egwene had the feeling that even the clatter of the horses’ hooves on the rough stone did not travel very far beyond the light.
Down and down the ramp ran, curving back on itself, until it reached another Island, with its broken balustrade between bridges and ramps, its Guiding that
Liandrin compared with her parchment. The Island seemed like solid stone, just as the first one had. Egwene wished she was not sure that the first Island was directly over their heads.
Nynaeve spoke up suddenly, voicing Egwene’s thoughts. Her voice sounded steady, but she paused to swallow in the middle of it.
“It — it might be,” Elayne said faintly. Her eyes rolled upwards, and quickly dropped again. “Elaida says the rules of nature do not hold in the Ways. At least, not the way they do outside.”
“Light!” Min muttered, then raised her voice. “How long do you mean us to stay in here?”
The Aes Sedai’s honeycolored braids swung as she turned to regard them. “Until I take you out,” she said flatly. “The more you bother me, the longer that will be.” She bent back to studying the parchment and the Guiding.
Egwene and the others fell silent.
Liandrin pushed on from Guiding to Guiding, by ramps and bridges that seemed to run unsupported through the endless dark. The Aes Sedai paid very little heed to the rest of them, and Egwene found herself wondering whether Liandrin would turn back to search if one of them fell behind. The others perhaps had the same thought, for they all rode bunched tightly on the dark mare’s heels.
Egwene was surprised to realize that she still felt the attraction of saidar, both the presence of the female half of the True Source and the desire to touch it, to channel its flow. Somehow, she had thought the Shadow’s taint on the Ways would hide it from her. She could sense that taint, after a fashion. It was faint and had nothing to do with saidar, but she was sure that reaching for the True Source here would be like baring her arm to foul, greasy smoke in order to reach a clean cup. Whatever she did would be tainted. For the first time in weeks she had no trouble at all in resisting the attraction of saidar.
It was well into what would have been night in the world outside the Ways when, on an Island, Liandrin abruptly dismounted and announced that they would halt for supper and sleep, and that there was food on the packhorse.
“Parcel it out,” she said, not bothering to assign the task. “It will take us the better part of two days to reach Toman Head. I would not have you arrive hungry if you were too foolish to bring food yourselves.” Briskly she unsaddled and hobbled her mare, but then she sat down on her saddle and waited for one of them to bring her something to eat.
Elayne took Liandrin her flatbread and cheese. The Aes Sedai made it obvious that she did not want their company, so the rest of them ate their bread and cheese a little apart from her, sitting on their saddles drawn close together. The darkness beyond their lanterns made a poor sauce.
After a time, Egwene said, “Liandrin Sedai, what if we encounter the Black Wind?” Min mouthed the word questioningly, but Elayne gave a squeak. “Moiraine Sedai said it could not be killed, or even hurt very much, and I can feel the taint on
this place waiting to twist anything we do with the Power.”
“You will not so much as think of the Source unless I tell you to,” Liandrin said sharply. “Why, if one such as you tried to channel here, in the Ways, you might well go as mad as a man. You have not the training to deal with the taint of those men who made this. If the Black Wind appears, I will deal with it.” She pursed her lips, studying a lump of white cheese. “Moiraine does not know so much as she thinks.” She popped the cheese into her mouth with a smile.
“I do not like her,” Egwene muttered, low enough to make sure the Aes Sedai could not hear.
“If Moiraine can work with her,” Nynaeve said quietly, “so can we. Not that I like Moiraine any better than I do Liandrin, but if they’re meddling with Rand and the others again …” She fell silent, hitching her cloak up. The darkness was not cold, but it seemed as if it should be.
“What is this Black Wind?” Min asked. When Elayne had explained, with a great deal of what Elaida had said and what her mother had said, Min sighed. “The Pattern has a great deal to answer for. I don’t know that any man is worth this.”
“You did not have to come,” Egwene reminded her. “You could have gone at any time. No one would have tried to stop you leaving the Tower.”
“Oh, I could have wandered off,” Min said wryly. “As easily as you, or Elayne. The Pattern doesn’t much care what we want, Egwene, what if, after all you are going through for him, Rand doesn’t marry you? What if he marries some woman you’ve never seen before, or Elayne, or me? What then?”
Elayne chortled. “Mother would never approve.”
Egwene was silent for a time. Rand might not live to marry anyone. And if he did … She could not imagine Rand hurting anyone. Not even after he’s gone mad? There had to be some way to stop that, some way to change it; Aes Sedai knew so much, could do so much. If they could stop it, why don’t they? The only answer was because they could not, and that was not the one she wanted.
She tried to put lightness in her voice. “I don’t suppose I will marry him. Aes Sedai seldom do marry, you know. But I would not set my heart on him if were you. Or you, Elayne. I do not think …” Her voice caught, and she coughed to cover it. “I do not think he will ever marry. But if he does, I wish well to whoever ends up with him, even one of you.” She thought she sounded as if she meant it. “He is stubborn as a mule, and wrongheaded to a fault, but he is gentle.” Her voice shook, but she managed to turn the quaver into a laugh.
“However much you say you do not care,” Elayne said, “I think you’d approve less than Mother would. He is interesting, Egwene. More interesting than any man I’ve ever met, even if he is a shepherd. If you are silly enough to throw him away, you will have only yourself to blame if I decide to face down you and Mother both. It would not be the first time the Prince of Andor had no title before he wed. But you won’t be that silly, so don’t try to pretend you will. No doubt you will choose the Green Ajah, and make him one of your Warders. The only Greens I know with
only one Warder are married to them.”
Egwene made herself go along with it, saying if she did become a Green she would have ten Warders.
Min watched her, frowning, and Nynaeve watched Min thoughtfully. They all fell silent by the time they changed into more suitable clothes for traveling, from their saddlebags. It was not easy, keeping spirits up in that place.
Sleep came slowly to Egwene, fitfully, and it was filled with bad dreams. She did not dream of Rand, but of the man whose eyes were fire. His face was not masked this time, and it was horrible with almost healed burns. He only looked at her and laughed, but that was worse than the dreams that followed, the dreams of being lost in the Ways forever, the ones where the Black Wind was chasing her. She was grateful when the toe of Liandrin’s riding boot dug into her ribs to waken her; she felt as if she had not slept at all.
Liandrin pushed them hard through the next day, or what passed for day, with only their lanterns for a sun, not letting them stop for sleep until they were swaying in their saddles. Stone made a hard bed, but Liandrin roused them ruthlessly after a few hours, hardly waiting for them to mount before riding on. Ramps and bridges, Islands and Guidings. Egwene saw so many of them in that pitchdark that she lost count. She had long since lost any count of hours or of days. Liandrin allowed only brief halts to eat and rest the horses, and the darkness weighed down on their shoulders. They slumped in their saddles like sacks of grain, except for Liandrin. The Aes Sedai seemed unaffected by tiredness, or the dark. She was as fresh as she had been back in the White Tower, and as cold. She would not let anyone glimpse the parchment she compared to the Guidings, stuffing it away with a curt, “It is nothing you would understand,” when Nynaeve asked.
And then, while Egwene blinked wearily, Liandrin was riding away from a Guiding, not toward another bridge or ramp, but down a pitted white line that led off into the darkness. Egwene stared at her friends, and then they all hurried to follow. Ahead, by the light of her lantern, the Aes Sedai was already removing the Avendesora leaf from the carvings on a Waygate.
“We are here,” Liandrin said, smiling. “I have brought you at last to where you must go.”
The Great Hunt
Chapter 40
(A’dam) Damane
Egwene dismounted as the Waygate opened, and when Liandrin motioned them through, she led the shaggy mare carefully out. Even so, she and Bela both stumbled in brush flattened by the opening Waygate as they suddenly seemed to be moving even more slowly. A screen of dense shrubs had surrounded and hidden the Waygate. There were only a few trees close by, and a morning breeze ruffled foliage with a little more color than the leaves had had in Tar Valon.
Watching her friends emerge after her, she had been standing there a good minute before she became aware that others were already there, just out of sight on the other side of the gates. When she did notice them she stared uncertainly; they were as odd a group as she had ever seen, and she had heard too many rumors of the war on Toman Head.
Armored men, at least fifty of them, with overlapping steel plates down their chests and dull black helmets shaped like insects’ heads, sat their saddles or stood beside their horses, staring at her and the emerging women, staring at the Waygate, muttering among themselves. The only bareheaded man among them, a tall, darkfaced, hooknosed fellow standing with a gildedandpainted helmet on his hip, looked astonished at what he was seeing. There were women with the soldiers, too. Two wore plain, dark gray dresses and wide silver collars, and stood staring intently at those coming out of the Waygate, each with another woman close behind her as if ready to speak into her ear. Two other women, standing a little apart, wore wide, divided skirts that came well short of their ankles, and panels embroidered with forked lightning bolts on their bosoms and skirts. Oddest of all was the last woman, reclining on a palanquin borne by eight muscular, barechested men in baggy black trousers. The sides of her scalp were shaved so that only a wide crest of black hair remained to fall down her back. A long, creamcolored robe worked in flowers and birds on blue ovals was carefully arranged to show her skirts of pleated white, and her fingernails were a good inch long, the first two on each hand lacquered blue.
“Liandrin Sedai,” Egwene asked uneasily, “do you know who these people are?” Her friends fingered their reins as if wondering whether to mount and run, but Liandrin replaced the Avendesora leaf and stepped forward confidently as the Waygate began to close.
“The High Lady Suroth?” Liandrin said, making it halfway between a question and statement.
The women on the palanquin nodded fractionally. “You are Liandrin.” Her speech was slurred, and it took Egwene a moment to understand. “Aes Sedai,” Suroth added with a twist to her lips, and a murmur rose among the soldiers. “We must be done here quickly, Liandrin. There are patrols, and it would not do to be found. You would enjoy the attentions of the Seekers for Truth no more than I. I
mean to be back in Falme before Turak knows I am gone.”
“What are you talking about?” Nynaeve demanded. “What is she talking about, Liandrin?”
Liandrin laid a hand on Nynaeve’s shoulder and one on Egwene’s. “These are the two of whom you were told. And there is another.” She nodded toward Elayne. “She is the DaughterHeir of Andor.”
The two women with the lightning on their dresses were approaching the party in front of the Waygate — they carried coils of some silvery metal in their hands, Egwene noticed — and the bareheaded soldier came with them. He did not put a hand near the sword hilt sticking up above his shoulder, and he wore a casual smile, but Egwene still watched him narrowly. Liandrin gave no sign of agitation; otherwise Egwene would have jumped onto Bela right then.
“Liandrin Sedai,” she said urgently, “who are these people? Are they here to help Rand and the others, too?”
The hooknosed man suddenly seized Min and Elayne by the scruffs of their necks, and in the next instant everything seemed to happen at once. The man yelled a curse, and a woman screamed, or perhaps more than one woman; Egwene could not be sure. Abruptly the breeze was a gale that whipped away Liandrin’s angry shout in clouds of dirt and leaves and made the trees bend and groan. Horses reared and whinnied shrilly. And one of the women reached out and fastened something around Egwene’s neck.
Cloak flapping like a sail, Egwene braced against the wind and tugged at what felt like a collar of smooth metal. It would not budge; under her frantic fingers, it felt all of one piece, though she knew it had to have some kind of clasp. The silvery coils the woman had carried now trailed over Egwene’s shoulder, their other end joining a bright bracelet on the woman’s left wrist. Balling her fist tightly, Egwene hit the woman as hard as she could, right in her eye — and staggered and fell to her knees herself, head ringing. It felt as if a large man had struck her in the face.
When she could see straight once more, the wind had died. A number of horses wandered loose, Bela and Elayne’s mare among them, and some of the soldiers were cursing and picking themselves up off the ground. Liandrin was calmly brushing dust and leaves from her dress. Min knelt, supporting herself with her hands, groggily trying to rise further. The hooknosed man stood over her, his hand dripping blood. Min’s knife lay just out of her reach, the blade stained red along one side. Nynaeve and Elayne were nowhere to be seen, and Nynaeve’s mare was gone, too. So were some of the soldiers, and one of the pairs of women. The other two were still there, and Egwene could see now that they were linked by a silver cord just like the one that still joined her to the woman standing over her.
That woman was rubbing her cheek as she squatted beside Egwene; there was a bruise already coming up around her left eye. With long, dark hair and big brown eyes, she was pretty, and perhaps as much as ten years older than Nynaeve. “Your first lesson,” she said emphatically. There was no animosity in her voice, but what
almost sounded like friendliness. “I will not punish you further this time, since I should have been on guard with a newly caught damane. Know this. You are a damane, a Leashed One, and I am a sul’dam, a Holder of the Leash. When damane and sul’dam are joined, whatever hurt the sul’dam feels, the damane feels twice over. Even to death. So you must remember that you may never strike at a sul’dam in any way, and you must protect your sul’dam even more than yourself. I am Renna. How are you called?”
“I am not … what you said,” Egwene muttered. She pulled at the collar again; it gave no more than before. She thought of knocking the woman down and trying to pry the bracelet from her wrist, but rejected it. Even if the soldiers did not try to stop her — and so far they seemed to be ignoring her and Renna altogether — she had the sinking feeling the woman was telling the truth. Touching her left eye brought a wince; it did not feel puffy, so perhaps she was not actually growing a bruise to match Renna’s, but it still hurt. Her left eye, and Renna’s left eye. She raised her voice. “Liandrin Sedai? Why are you letting them do this?” Liandrin dusted her hands together, never looking in her direction.
“The very first thing you must learn,” Renna said, “is to do exactly as you are told, and without delay.”
Egwene gasped. Suddenly her skin burned and prickled as if she had rolled in stinging nettles, from the soles of her feet to her scalp. She tossed her head as the burning sensation increased.
“Many sul’dam,” Renna went on in that almost friendly tone, “do not believe damane should be allowed names, or at least only names they are given. But I am the one who took you, so I will be in charge of your training, and I will allow you to keep your own name. If you do not displease me too far. I am mildly upset with you now. Do you really wish to keep on until I am angry?”
Quivering, Egwene gritted her teeth. Her nails dug into her palms with the effort of not scratching wildly. Idiot! It’s only your name. “Egwene,” she managed to get out. “I am Egwene al’Vere.” Instantly the burning itch was gone. She let out a long, unsteady breath.
“Egwene,” Renna said. “That is a good name.” And to Egwene’s horror, Renna patted her on the head as she would a dog.
That, she realized, was what she had detected in the woman’s voice — a certain good will for a dog in training, not quite the friendliness one might have toward another human being.
Renna chuckled. “Now you are even angrier. If you intend to strike at me again, remember to make it a small blow, for you will feel it twice as hard as I. Do not attempt to channel; that you will never do without my express command.”
Egwene’s eye throbbed. She pushed herself to her feet and tried to ignore Renna, as much as it was possible to ignore someone who held a leash fastened to a collar around your neck. Her cheeks burned when the other woman chuckled again. She wanted to go to Min, but the amount of leash Renna had let out would not reach
that far. She called softly, “Min, are you all right?”
Sitting slowly back on her heels, Min nodded, then put a hand to her head as if she wished she had not moved it.
Jagged lightning crackled across the clear sky, then struck among the trees some distance off. Egwene jumped, and suddenly smiled. Nynaeve was still free, and Elayne. If anyone could free her and Min, Nynaeve could. Her smile faded into a glare for Liandrin. For whatever the reason the Aes Sedai had betrayed them, there would be a reckoning. Someday. Somehow. The glare did no good; Liandrin did not look away from the palanquin.
The barechested men knelt, lowering the palanquin to the ground, and Suroth stepped down, carefully arranging her robe, then picked her way to Liandrin on softslippered feet. The two women were much of a size. Brown eyes stared levelly into black.
“You were to bring me two,” Suroth said. “Instead, I have only one, while two run loose, one of them more powerful by far than I had been led to believe. She will attract every patrol of ours within two leagues.”
“I brought you three,” Liandrin said calmly. “If you cannot manage to hold them, perhaps our master should find another among you to serve him. You take fright at trifles. If patrols come, kill them.”
Lightning flashed again in the near distance, and moments later something roared like thunder not far from where it struck; a cloud of dust rose into the air. Neither Liandrin nor Suroth took any notice.
“I could still return to Falme with two new damane,” Suroth said. “It grieves me to allow an … Aes Sedai” — she twisted the words like a curse — “to walk free.”
Liandrin’s face did not change, but Egwene saw a nimbus abruptly glow around
her.

“Beware, High Lady,” Renna called. “She stands ready!”
There was a stir among the soldiers, a reaching for swords and lances, but
Suroth only steepled her hands, smiling at Liandrin over her long nails. “You will make no move against me, Liandrin. Our master would disapprove, as I am surely needed here more than you, and you fear him more than you fear being made damane.”
Liandrin smiled, though white spots marked her cheeks with anger. “And you, Suroth, fear him more than you fear me burning you to a cinder where you stand.”
“Just so. We both fear him. Yet even our master’s needs will change with time. All marath’damane will be leashed eventually. Perhaps I will be the one who places the collar around your lovely throat.”
“As you say, Suroth. Our master’s needs will change. I will remind you of it on the day when you kneel to me.”
A tall leatherleaf perhaps a mile away suddenly became a roaring torch.
“This grows tiresome,” Suroth said. “Elbar, recall them.” The hooknosed man produced a horn no bigger than his fist; it made a hoarse, piercing cry.
“You must find the woman Nynaeve,” Liandrin said sharply. “Elayne is of no importance, but both the woman and this girl here must be taken with you on your ships when you sail.”
“I know very well what has been commanded, marath’damane, though I would give much to know why.”
“However much you were told, child,” Liandrin sneered, “that is how much you are allowed to know. Remember that you serve and obey. These two must be removed to the other side of the Aryth Ocean and kept there.”
Suroth sniffed. “I will not remain here to find this Nynaeve. My usefulness to our master will be at an end if Turak hands me over to the Seekers for Truth.” Liandrin opened her mouth angrily, but Suroth refused to allow her a word. “The woman will not remain free for long. Neither of them will. When we sail again, we will take with us every woman on this miserable spit of land who can channel even slightly, leashed and collared. If you wish to remain and search for her, do so. Patrols will be here soon, thinking to engage the rabble that still hides in the countryside. Some patrols take damane with them, and they will not care what master you serve. Should you survive the encounter, the leash and collar will teach you a new life, and I do not believe our master will trouble to deliver one foolish enough to let herself be taken.”
“If either is allowed to remain here,” Liandrin said tightly, “our master will trouble himself with you, Suroth. Take them both, or pay the price.” She strode to the Waygate, clutching the reins of her mare. Soon it was closing behind her.
The soldiers who had gone after Nynaeve and Elayne came galloping back with the two women linked by leash, collar, and bracelet, the damane and the sul’dam riding side by side. Three men led horses with bodies across the saddles. Egwene felt a surge of hope when she realized the bodies all wore armor. They had not caught Nynaeve or Elayne, either one.
Min started to rise to her feet, but the hooknosed man planted a boot between her shoulder blades and drove her to the ground. Gasping for breath, she twitched there weakly. “I beg permission to speak, High Lady,” he said. Suroth made a small motion with her hand, and he went on. “This peasant cut me, High Lady. If the High Lady has no use for her…?” Suroth motioned slightly again, already turning away, and he reached over his shoulder for the hilt of his sword.
“No!” Egwene shouted. She heard Renna curse softly, and suddenly the burning itch covered her skin again, worse than before, but she did not stop. “Please! High Lady, please! She is my friend!” Pain such as she had never known wracked her through the burning. Every muscle knotted and cramped; she pitched on her face in the dirt, mewling, but she could still see Elbar’s heavy, curved blade come free of its sheath, see him raise it with both hands. “Please! Oh, Min!”
Abruptly, the pain was gone as if it had never been; only the memory remained. Suroth’s blue velvet slippers, dirtstained now, appeared in front of her face, but it was at Elbar that she stared. He stood there with his sword over his head and all his
weight on the foot on Min’s back … and he did not move. “This peasant is your friend?” Suroth said.
Egwene started to rise, but at a surprised arching of Suroth’s eyebrow, she remained lying where she was and only raised her head. She had to save Min. If it means groveling … She parted her lips and hoped her gritted teeth would pass for a smile. “Yes, High Lady.”
“And if I spare her, if I allow her to visit you occasionally, you will work hard and learn as you are taught?”
“I will, High Lady.” She would have promised much more to keep that sword from splitting Min’s skull. I’ll even keep it, she thought sourly, as long as I have to.
“Put the girl on her horse, Elbar,” Suroth said. “Tie her on, if she cannot sit her saddle. If this damane proves a disappointment, perhaps then I will let you have the head of the girl.” She was already moving toward her palanquin.
Renna pulled Egwene roughly to her feet and pushed her toward Bela, but Egwene had eyes only for Min. Elbar was no gentler with Min than Renna with her, but she thought Min was all right. At least Min shrugged off Elbar’s attempt to tie her across her saddle and climbed onto her gelding with only a little help.
The odd party started off, westward, with Suroth leading and Elbar slightly to the rear of her palanquin, but close enough to heed any summons immediately. Renna and Egwene rode at the back with Min, and the other sul’dam and damane, behind the soldiers. The woman who had apparently meant to collar Nynaeve fondled the coiled silver leash she still carried and looked angry. Sparse forest covered the rolling land, and the smoke of the burning leatherleaf was soon only a smudge in the sky behind them.
“You were honored,” Renna said after a time, “having the High Lady speak to you. Another time, I would let you wear a ribbon to mark the honor. But since you brought her attention on yourself …”
Egwene cried out as a switch seemed to lash across her back, then another across her leg, her arm. From every direction they seemed to come; she knew there was nothing to block, but she could not help throwing her arms about as if to stop the blows. She bit her lip to stifle her moans, but tears still rolled down her cheeks. Bela whinnied and danced, but Renna’s grip on the silver leash kept her from carrying Egwene away. None of the soldiers even looked back.
“What are you doing to her?” Min shouted. “Egwene? Stop it!”
“You live on sufferance … Min, is it?” Renna said mildly. “Let this be a lesson for you as well. So long as you try to interfere, it will not stop.”
Min raised a fist, then let it fall. “I won’t interfere. Only, please, stop it. Egwene, I’m sorry.”
The unseen blows went on for a few moments more, as if to show Min her intervention had done nothing, then ceased, but Egwene could not stop shuddering. The pain did not go away this time. She pushed back the sleeve of her dress, thinking to see weals; her skin was unmarked, but the feel of them was still there.
She swallowed. “It was not your fault, Min.” Bela tossed her head, eyes rolling, and Egwene patted the mare’s shaggy neck. “It wasn’t yours, either.”
“It was your fault, Egwene,” Renna said. She sounded so patient, dealing so kindly with someone who was too dense to see the right, that Egwene wanted to scream. “When a damane is punished, it is always her fault, even if she does not know why. A damane must anticipate what her sul’dam wants. But this time, you do know why. Damane are like furniture, or tools, always there ready to be used, but never pushing themselves forward for attention. Especially not for the attention of one of the Blood.”
Egwene bit her lip until she tasted blood. This is a nightmare. It can’t be real. Why did Liandrin do this? Why it this happening? “May … may I ask a question?”
“Of me, you may.” Renna smiled. “Many sul’dam will wear your bracelet over the years — there are always many more sul’dam than damane — and some would have your hide in strips if you took your eyes off the floor or opened your mouth without permission, but I see no reason not to let you speak, so long as you are careful in what you say.” One of the other sul’dam snorted loudly; she was linked to a pretty, darkhaired woman in her middle years who kept her eyes on her hands.
“Liandrin” — Egwene would not give her the honorific, not ever again — “and the High Lady spoke of a master they both serve.” The thought came into her head of a man with almost healed burns marring his face, and eyes and mouth that sometimes turned to fire, but even if he was only a figure in her dreams that seemed too horrible to contemplate. “Who is he? What does he want with me and — and Min?” She knew it was silly to avoid naming Nynaeve — she did not think any of these people would forget her just because her name was not mentioned, especially the blueeyed sul’dam stroking her empty leash — but it was the only way she could think of fighting back at the moment.
“The affairs of the Blood,” Renna said, “are not for me to take notice of, and certainly not for you. The High Lady will tell me what she wishes me to know, and I will tell you what I wish you to know. Anything else that you hear or see must be to you as if it never was said, as if it never happened. This way lies safety, most especially for a damane. Damane are too valuable to be killed out of hand, but you might find yourself not only soundly punished, but absent a tongue to speak or hands to write. Damane can do what they must without these things.”
Egwene shivered, though the air was not very cold. Pulling her cloak up onto her shoulders, her hand brushed the leash, and she jerked at it fitfully. “This is a horrible thing. How can you do this to anyone? What diseased mind ever thought of it?”
The blueeyed sul’dam with the empty leash growled, “This one could do without her tongue already, Renna.”
Renna only smiled patiently. “How is it horrible? Could we allow anyone to run loose who can do what a damane can? Sometimes men are born who would be marath’damane if they were women — it is so here also, I have heard — and they
must be killed, of course, but the women do not go mad. Better for them to become damane than make trouble contending for power. As for the mind that first thought of the a’dam, it was the mind of a woman who called herself Aes Sedai.”
Egwene knew incredulity must be painting her face, because Renna laughed openly. “When Luthair Paendrag Mondwin, son of the Hawkwing, first faced the Armies of the Night, he found many among them who called themselves Aes Sedai. They contended for power among themselves and used the One Power on the field of battle. One such, a woman named Deain, who thought she could do better serving the Emperor — he was not Emperor then, of course — since he had no Aes Sedai in his armies, came to him with a device she had made, the first a’dam, fastened to the neck of one of her sisters. Though that woman did not want to serve Luthair, the a’dam required her to serve. Deain made more a’dam, the first sul’dam were found, and women captured who called themselves Aes Sedai discovered that they were in fact only marath’damane, Those Who Must Be Leashed. It is said that when she herself was leashed, Deain’s screams shook the Towers of Midnight, but of course she, too, was a marath’damane, and marath’damane cannot be allowed to run free. Perhaps you will be one of those who has the ability to make a’dam. If so, you will be pampered, you may rest assured.”
Egwene looked yearningly at the countryside through which they rode. The land was beginning to rise in low hills, and the thin forest had dwindled to scattered thickets, but she was sure she could lose herself in them. “Am I supposed to look forward to being pampered like a pet dog?” she said bitterly. “A lifetime of being chained to men and women who think I am some kind of animal?”
“Not men.” Renna chuckled. “All sul’dam are women. If a man put on this bracelet, most of the time it would be no different than if it were hanging on a peg on the wall.”
“And sometimes,” the blueeyed sul’dam put in harshly, “you and he would both die screaming.” The woman had sharp features and a tight, thinlipped mouth, and Egwene realized that anger was apparently her permanent expression. “From time to time the Empress plays with lords by linking them to a damane. It makes the lords sweat and entertains the Court of the Nine Moons. The lord never knows until it is done whether he will live or die, and neither does the damane. ” Her laugh was vicious.
“Only the Empress can afford to waste damane in such a way, Alwhin,” Renna snapped, “and I do not mean to train this damane only to have her thrown away.”
“I have not seen any training at all so far, Renna. Only a great deal of chatter, as if you and this damane were girlhood friends.”
“Perhaps it is time to see what she can do,” Renna said, studying Egwene. “Do you have enough control yet to channel at that distance?” She pointed to a tall oak standing alone on a hilltop.
Egwene frowned at the tree, perhaps half a mile from the line followed by the soldiers and Suroth’s palanquin. She had never tried anything much beyond arm’s
reach, but she thought it might be possible. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Try,” Renna told her. “Feel the tree. Feel the sap in the tree. I want you to make it all not only hot, but so hot that every drop of sap in every branch flashes to steam in an instant. Do it.”
Egwene was shocked to discover an urge to do as Renna commanded. She had not channeled, or even touched saidar, in two days; the desire to fill herself with the One Power made her shiver. “I” — in half a heartbeat she discarded “will not”; the weals that were not there still burned too sharply for her to be quite that foolish — “cannot,” she finished instead. “It is too far, and I’ve never done anything like that before.”
One of the sul’dam laughed raucously, and Alwhin said, “She never even tried.”
Renna shook her head almost sadly. “When one has been a sul’dam long enough,” she told Egwene, “one learns to tell many things about damane even without the bracelet, but with the bracelet one can always tell whether a damane has tried to channel. You must never lie to me, or to any sul’dam, not even by a hair.”
Suddenly the invisible switches were back, striking at her everywhere. Yelling, she tried to hit Renna, but the sul’dam casually knocked her fist away, and Egwene felt as if Renna had hit her arm with a stick. She dug her heels into Bela’s flanks, but the sul’dam’s grip on the leash nearly pulled her out of her saddle. Frantically she reached for saidar, meaning to hurt Renna enough to make her stop, just the kind of hurt she herself had been given. The sul’dam shook her head wryly; Egwene howled as her own skin was suddenly scalded. Not until she fled from saidar completely did the burn begin to fade, and the unseen blows never ceased or slowed. She tried to shout that she would try, if only Renna would stop, but all she could manage was to scream and writhe.
Dimly, she was aware of Min shouting angrily and trying to ride to her side, of Alwhin tearing Min’s reins from her hands, of another sul’dam speaking sharply to her damane, who looked at Min. And then Min was yelling, too, arms flapping as if trying to ward off blows or beat away stinging insects. In her own pain, Min’s seemed distant.
Their cries together were enough to make some of the soldiers twist in their saddles. After one look, they laughed and turned back. How sul’dam dealt with damane was no affair of theirs.
To Egwene it seemed to go on forever, but at last there was an end. She lay sprawled weakly across the cantle of her saddle, cheeks wet with tears, sobbing into Bela’s mane. The mare whickered uneasily.
“It is good that you have spirit,” Renna said calmly. “The best damane are those who have spirit to be shaped and molded.”
Egwene squeezed her eyes shut. She wished she could close her ears, too, to shut out Renna’s voice. I have to get away. I have to, but how? Nynaeve, help me. Light, somebody help me.
“You will be one of the best,” Renna said in tones of satisfaction. Her hand
stroked Egwene’s hair, a mistress soothing her dog.
Nynaeve leaned out of her saddle to peer around the screen of prickly leafed shrubs. Scattered trees met her eyes, some with leaves turning color. The expanses of grass and brush between seemed empty. Nothing moved that she could see except the thinning column of smoke, wavering in a breeze, from the leatherleaf.
That had been her work, the leatherleaf, and once the lightning called from a clear sky, and a few other things she had not thought to try until those two women tried them on her. She thought they must work together in some way, though she could not understand their relation to each other, apparently leashed as they were. One wore a collar, but the other was chained as surely as she. What Nynaeve was sure of was that one or both were Aes Sedai. She had never had a clear enough sight of them to see the glow of channeling, but it had to be.
I’ll certainly take pleasure in telling Sheriam about them, she thought dryly. Aes Sedai don’t use the Power as a weapon, do they?
She certainly had. She had at least knocked the two women down with that lightning strike, and she had seen one of the soldiers, or his body rather, burn from the ball of fire she made and hurled at them. But she had not seen any of the strangers at all in some time now.
Sweat beaded on her forehead, and it was not all from exertion. Her contact with saidar was gone, and she could not bring it back. In that first fury of knowing that Liandrin had betrayed them, saidar had been there almost before she knew it, the One Power flooding her. It had seemed she could do anything. And as long as they had chased her, rage at being hunted like an animal had fueled her. Now the chase had vanished. The longer she had gone without seeing an enemy at whom she could strike, the more she had begun to worry that they might be sneaking up on her somehow, and the more she had had time to worry about what was happening to Egwene, and Elayne, and Min. Now she was forced to admit that what she felt most was fear. Fear for them, fear for herself. It was anger she needed.
Something stirred behind a tree.
Her breath caught, and she fumbled for saidar, but all the exercises Sheriam and the others had taught her, all the blossoms unfolding in her mind, all the imagined streams that she held like riverbanks, did no good. She could feel it, sense the Source, but she could not touch it.
Elayne stepped from behind the tree in a wary crouch, and Nynaeve sagged with relief. The DaughterHeir’s dress was dirty and torn, her golden hair was a tangle of snarls and leaves, and her searching eyes were as wide as those of a frightened fawn, but she held her shortbladed dagger in a steady hand. Nynaeve picked up her reins and rode into the open.
Elayne gave a convulsive jump, then her hand went to her throat and she drew a deep breath. Nynaeve dismounted, and the two women hugged, taking comfort in having found each other.
“For a moment,” Elayne said as they finally stepped apart, “I thought you
were… Do you know where they are? There were two men following me. Another few minutes and they would have caught me, but a horn sounded and they turned their horses and galloped off. They could see me, Nynaeve, and they just left.”
“I heard it, too, and I haven’t seen any of them since. Have you seen Egwene, or Min?”
Elayne shook her head, slumping to sit on the ground. “Not since… That man hit Min, knocked her down. And one of those women was trying to put something around Egwene’s neck. I saw that much before I ran. I don’t think they got away, Nynaeve. I should have done something. Min cut the hand that was holding me, and Egwene … I just ran, Nynaeve. I realized I was free, and I ran. Mother had better marry Gareth Bryne and have another daughter as soon as she can. I am not fit to take the throne.”
“Don’t be a goose,” Nynaeve said sharply. “Remember, I have a packet of sheepstongue root among my herbs.” Elayne had her head in her hands; the gibe did not even produce a murmur. “Listen to me, girl. Did you see me stay to fight twenty or thirty armed men, not to mention the Aes Sedai? If you had waited, the most likely thing by far is that you would be a prisoner, too. If they didn’t just kill you. They seemed to be interested in Egwene and me for some reason. They might not have cared whether you remained alive or not.” Why are they interested in Egwene and me? Why us in particular? Why did Liandrin do this? Why? She had no more answers now than she had had the first time she asked herself these questions.
“If I had died trying to help them —” Elayne began.
“— you’d be dead. And little good you’d be then, to yourself or them. Now get on your feet and brush off your dress.” Nynaeve rummaged in her saddlebags for a hairbrush. “And fix your hair.”
Elayne got up slowly, and took the brush with a small laugh. “You sound like Lini, my old nurse.” She began to run the brush through her hair, wincing as tangles pulled. “But how are we going to help them, Nynaeve? You may be as strong as a full sister when you are angry, but they have women who can channel, too. I cannot think they’re Aes Sedai, but they might as well be. We do not even know in which direction they took them.”
“West,” Nynaeve said. “That creature Suroth mentioned Falme, and that’s as far west on Toman Head as you can go. We will go to Falme. I hope Liandrin is there. I will make her curse the day her mother laid eyes on her father. But first I think we had better find some clothes of the country. I’ve seen Taraboner and Domani women in the Tower, and what they wear is nothing like what we have on. We would stand out in Falme as strangers.”
“I would not mind a Domani dress — though Mother would surely have a fit if she ever found out I’d worn one, and Lini would never let me hear the end of it — but even if we find a village, can we afford new dresses? I have no idea how much money you have, but I have only ten gold marks and perhaps twice that in silver. That will keep us two or three weeks, but I don’t know what we will do after that.”
“A few months as a novice in Tar Valon,” Nynaeve said, laughing, “has not stopped you thinking like the heir to a throne. I don’t have a tenth what you do, but altogether it will keep us two or three months, in comfort. Longer, if we are careful. I have no intention of buying us dresses, and they won’t be new in any case. My gray silk dress will do us some good, with all those pearls and that gold thread. If I can’t find a woman who will trade us each two or three sturdy changes for that, I will give you this ring, and I will be the novice.” She swung up into her saddle and reached a hand down to pull Elayne up behind her.
“What are we going to do when we reach Falme?” Elayne asked as she settled on the mare’s rump.
“I won’t know that until we are there.” Nynaeve paused, letting the horse stand. “Are you sure you want to do this? It will be dangerous.”
“More dangerous than it is for Egwene and Min? They would come after us if our circumstances were reversed; I know they would. Are we going to stay here all day?” Elayne dug her heels in, and the mare started off.
Nynaeve turned the horse until the sun, still short of its noonday crest, shone at their backs. “We are going to have to be cautious. The Aes Sedai we know can recognize a woman who can channel just by being within arm’s length of her. These Aes Sedai may be able to pick us out of a crowd if they are looking for us, and we had better assume they are.” They were certainly looking for Egwene and me. But why?
“Yes, cautious. You were right before, too. We will not do them any good letting ourselves be caught as well.” Elayne was silent for a moment. “Do you think it was all lies, Nynaeve? What Liandrin told us about Rand being in danger? And the others? Aes Sedai do not lie.”
It was Nynaeve’s turn to be silent, remembering Sheriam telling her of the oaths a woman took on being raised to full sisterhood, oaths spoken inside a ter’angreal that bound her to keep them. To speak no word that is not true. That was one, but everyone knew that the truth an Aes Sedai said might not be the truth you thought you heard. “I expect Rand is warming his feet in front of Lord Agelmar’s fire in Fal Dara this minute,” she said. I can’t worry about him, now. I have to think about Egwene and Min.
“I suppose he is,” Elayne said with a sigh. She shifted behind the saddle. “If it is very far to Falme, Nynaeve, I expect to ride in the saddle half the time. This is not a very comfortable seat. We will never reach Falme at all if you let this horse set her own pace the whole way.”
Nynaeve booted the mare to a quick trot, and Elayne yelped and caught at her cloak. Nynaeve told herself that she would take a turn riding behind and not complain if Elayne put the horse to a gallop, but for the most part she ignored the gasps of the woman bouncing behind her. She was too busy hoping that by the time they reached Falme, she could stop being afraid and start being angry.
The breeze freshened, cool and brisk with a hint of cold yet to come.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 41
(RubyHilted Dagger) Disagreements
Thunder rumbled across the slatedark afternoon sky. Rand pulled the hood of his cloak further up, hoping to keep at least some of the cold rain off. Red stepped through muddy puddles doggedly. The hood hung sodden around Rand’s head, as the rest of the cloak did around his shoulders, and his fine black coat was just as wet, and as cold. The temperature would not have far to drop before snow or sleet came down instead of rain. Snow would fall soon, again; the people in the village they had passed through said two snows had already come this year. Shivering, Rand almost wished it was snowing. Then, at least, he would not be soaked to the skin.
The column plodded along, keeping a wary eye on the rolling country. Ingtar’s Gray Owl hung heavily even when the wind gusted. Hurin sometimes pulled his cowl back to sniff the air; he said neither rain nor cold had any effect on a trail, certainly not on the kind of trail he was seeking, but so far the sniffer had found nothing. Behind him, Rand heard Uno mutter a curse. Loial kept checking his saddlebags; he did not seem to mind getting wet himself, but he worried continually about his books. Everyone was miserable except for Verin, who appeared too lost in thought to even notice that her hood had slid back, exposing her face to the rain.
“Can’t you do something about this?” Rand demanded of her. A small voice in the back of his head told him he could do it himself. All he need do was embrace saidin. So sweet, the call of saidin. To be filled with the One Power, to be one with the storm. Turn the skies to sunlight, or ride the storm as it raged, whip it to fury and scour Toman Head clean from the sea to the plain. Embrace saidin. He suppressed the longing ruthlessly.
The Aes Sedai gave a start. “What? Oh. I suppose. A little. I couldn’t stop a storm this big, not by myself — it covers too much area — but I could lessen it some. Where we are, at least.” She wiped rain from her face, seemed to realize for the first time that her hood had slipped, and pulled it back up absently.
“Then why don’t you?” Mat said. The shivering face peering out from under his hood looked at death’s door, but his voice was vigorous.
“Because if I used that much of the One Power, any Aes Sedai closer than ten miles would know someone had channeled. We don’t want to bring these Seanchan down on us with some of their damane.” Her mouth tightened angrily.
They had learned a little of the invaders in that village, called Atuan’s Mill, though most of what they had heard hatched more questions than it answered. The people had babbled one moment and clamped their mouths shut the next, trembling and looking over their shoulders. They all shook with fear that the Seanchan would return with their monsters and their damane. That women who should have been Aes Sedai were instead leashed like animals frightened the villagers even more than
the strange creatures the Seanchan commanded, things the folk of Atuan’s Mill could only describe in whispers as coming from nightmares. And worst of all, the examples the Seanchan had made before leaving still chilled the people to their marrow. They had buried their dead, but they feared to clean away the large charred patch in the village square. None of them would say what had happened there, but Hurin had vomited as soon as they entered the village, and he would not go near the blackened ground.
Atuan’s Mill had been half deserted. Some had fled to Falme, thinking the Seanchan would not be so harsh in a town they held fast, and others had gone east. More had said they were thinking of it. There was fighting on Almoth Plain, Taraboners battling Domani it was said, but such houses and barns as were burned there were kindled by torches in the hands of men. Even a war was easier to face than what the Seanchan had done, what they might do.
“Why did Fain bring the Horn here?” Perrin muttered. The question had been asked by each of them at one time or another, and no one had an answer. “There’s war, and these Seanchan, and their monsters. Why here?”
Ingtar turned in his saddle to look back at them. His face appeared almost as haggard as Mat’s. “There are always men who see chances for their own advantage in the confusion of war. Fain is one like that. No doubt he thinks to steal the Horn again, from the Dark One this time, and use it for his own profit.”
“The Father of Lies never lays simple plans,” Verin said. “It may be that he wants Fain to bring the Horn here for some reason known only in Shayol Ghul.”
“Monsters,” Mat snorted. His cheeks were sunken, now, his eyes hollow. That he sounded healthy only made it worse. “They saw some Trollocs, or a Fade, if you ask me. Well, why not? If the Seanchan have Aes Sedai fighting for them, why not Fades and Trollocs?” He caught Verin staring at him and flinched. “Well, they are, on leashes or not. They can channel, and that makes them Aes Sedai. ” He glanced at Rand and gave a ragged laugh. “That makes you Aes Sedai, the Light help us all.”
Masema came galloping from ahead, through the mud and the steady rain. “There is another village ahead, my Lord,” he said as he pulled in beside Ingtar. His eyes only swept past Rand, but they tightened, and he did not look at Rand again. “It’s empty, my Lord. No villagers, no Seanchan, nobody at all. The houses all look sound, though, except for two or three that … well, they aren’t there anymore, my Lord.”
Ingtar raised his hand and signaled for a trot.
The village Masema had found covered the slopes of a hill, with a paved square at the top around a circle of stone walls. The houses were of stone, all flatroofed and few more than a single story. Three that had been larger, along one side of the square, were only heaps of blackened rubble; shattered chunks of stone and roof beams lay scattered across the square. A few shutters banged when the wind gusted. Ingtar dismounted in front of the only large building still standing. The creaking
sign above its door bore a woman juggling stars, but no name; rain came off the corners in two steady drizzles. Verin hurried inside while Ingtar spoke. “Uno, search every house. If there is anyone left, perhaps they can tell us what happened here, and maybe a little more about these Seanchan. And if there’s any food, bring that, too. And blankets.” Uno nodded and began telling off men. Ingtar turned to Hurin. “What do you smell? Did Fain come through here?”
Hurin, rubbing his nose, shook his head. “Not him, my Lord, and not the Trollocs, neither. Whoever did that left a stench, though.” He pointed to the wreckage that had been houses. “It was killing, my Lord. There were people in there.”
“Seanchan,” Ingtar growled. “Let’s get inside. Ragan, find some sort of stable for the horses.”
Verin already had fires going in both of the big fireplaces, at either end of the common room, and was warming her hands at one, her sodden cloak spread out on one of the tables dotting the tiled floor. She had found a few candles, too, now burning on a table stuck in their own tallow. Emptiness and quiet, except for the occasional grumble of thunder, added to the flickering shadows to give the place a cavernous feel. Rand tossed his equally wet cloak and coat on a table and joined her. Only Loial seemed more interested in checking his books than in warming himself.
“We will never find the Horn of Valere this way,” Ingtar said. “Three days since we … since we arrived here” — he shuddered and scrubbed a hand through his hair; Rand wondered what the Shienaran had seen in his other lives — “another two, at least, to Falme, and we have not found so much as a hair of Fain or Darkfriends. There are scores of villages along the coast. He could have gone to any of them and taken ship anywhere by now. If he was ever here.”
“He is here,” Verin said calmly, “and he went to Falme.”
“And he’s still here,” Rand said. Waiting for me. Please, Light, he’s still waiting. “Hurin still hasn’t caught a whiff of him,” Ingtar said. The sniffer shrugged as if
he felt himself at fault for the failure. “Why would he choose Falme? If those villagers are to be believed, Falme is held by these Seanchan. I would give my best hound to know who they are, and where they came from.”
“Who they are is not important to us.” Verin knelt and unfastened her saddlebags, pulling out dry clothes. “At least we have rooms in which to change our clothes, though it will do us little good unless the weather changes. Ingtar, it may well be that what the villagers told us is right, that they are the descendants of Artur Hawkwing’s armies come back. What matters is that Padan Fain has gone to Falme. The writings in the dungeon at Fal Dara —”
“— never mentioned Fain. Forgive me, Aes Sedai, but that could have been a trick as easily as dark prophecy. I can’t believe even Trollocs would be stupid enough to tell us everything they were going to do before they did it.”
She twisted to look up at him. “And what do you mean to do, if you will not
take my advice?”
“I mean to have the Horn of Valere,” Ingtar said firmly. “Forgive me, but I have to trust my own senses before some words scrawled by a Trolloc …”
“A Myrddraal, surely,” Verin murmured, but he did not even pause.
“ … or a Darkfriend seeming to betray himself out of his own mouth. I mean to quarter the ground until Hurin smells a trail or we find Fain in the flesh. I must have the Horn, Verin Sedai. I must!”
“That isn’t the way,” Hurin said softly. “Not ‘must.’ What happens, happens.” No one paid him any mind.
“We all must,” Verin murmured, peering into her saddlebags, “yet some things may be even more important than that.”
She did not say more, but Rand grimaced. He longed to get away from her and her prods and hints. I am not the Dragon Reborn. Light, but I wish I could just get away from Aes Sedai completely. “Ingtar, I think I’m riding on to Falme. Fain is there — I’m sure he is — and if I don’t come soon, he — he will do something to hurt Emond’s Field.” He had not mentioned that part before.
They all stared at him, Mat and Perrin frowning, worried but considering; Verin as if she had just seen a new piece added to a puzzle. Loial looked astonished, and Hurin seemed confused. Ingtar was openly disbelieving.
“Why would he do that?” the Shienaran said.
“I don’t know,” Rand lied, “but that was part of the message he left with Barthanes.”
“And did Barthanes say Fain was going to Falme?” Ingtar demanded. “No. It wouldn’t matter if he had.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Darkfriends lie as naturally as they breathe.”
“Rand,” Mat said, “if I knew how to stop Fain from hurting Emond’s Field, I would. If I was sure he was going to. But I need that dagger, Rand, and Hurin has the best chance of finding it.”
“I will go wherever you go, Rand,” Loial said. He had finished making sure the books were dry and was taking off his sodden coat. “But I don’t see where a few more days will change anything one way or another, now. Try being a little less hasty for once.”
“It doesn’t matter to me whether we go to Falme now, later, or never,” Perrin said with a shrug, “but if Fain really is threatening Emond’s Field … well, Mat’s right. Hurin is the best way to find him.”
“I can find him, Lord Rand,” Hurin put in. “Let me get one sniff of him, and I’ll take you right to him. There’s never anything else left a trail like his.”
“You must make your own choice, Rand,” Verin said carefully, “but remember that Falme is held by invaders about whom we still know next to nothing. If you go to Falme alone, you may find yourself a prisoner, or worse, and that will serve nothing. I am sure whatever choice you make will be the right one.”
“Ta’veren,” Loial rumbled.
Rand threw up his hands.
Uno came in from the square, shaking rain off his cloak. “Not a flaming soul to be found, my Lord. Looks to me like they ran like striped pigs. Livestock’s all gone, and there isn’t a bloody cart or wagon left, either. Half the houses are stripped to the flaming floors. I’ll wager my next month’s pay you could follow them by the bloody furniture they tossed on the side of the road when they realized it was only weighing down their flaming wagons.”
“What about clothes?” Ingtar asked.
Uno blinked his one eye in surprise. “Just a few bits and pieces, my Lord.
Mainly what they didn’t think was bloody worth taking with them.”
“They will have to do. Hurin, I mean to dress you and a few more as local people, as many as we can manage, so you won’t stand out. I want you to swing wide, north and south, until you cross the trail.” More soldiers were coming in, and they all gathered around Ingtar and Hurin to listen.
Rand leaned his hands on the mantel over the fireplace and stared into the flames. They made him think of Ba’alzamon’s eyes. “There isn’t much time,” he said. “I feel … something … pulling me to Falme, and there isn’t much time.” He saw Verin watching him, and added harshly, “Not that. It’s Fain I have to find. It has nothing to do with … that.”
Verin nodded. “The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, and we are all woven into the Pattern. Fain has been here weeks before us, perhaps months. A few more days will make little difference in whatever is going to happen.”
“I’m going to get some sleep,” he muttered, picking up his saddlebags. “They can’t have carried off all the beds.”
Upstairs, he did find beds, but only a few still had mattresses, and those so lumpy he thought it might be more comfortable to sleep on the floor. Finally he chose a bed where the mattress simply sagged in the middle. There was nothing else in the room except one wooden chair and a table with a rickety leg.
He took off his wet things, putting on a dry shirt and breeches before lying down, since there were no sheets or blankets, and propped his sword beside the head of the bed. Wryly, he thought that the only thing dry he had for a coverlet was the Dragon’s banner; he left it safely buckled inside the saddlebags.
Rain drummed on the roof, and thunder growled overhead, and now and again a lightning flash lit the windows. Shivering, he rolled this way and that on the mattress, seeking some comfortable way to lie, wondering if the banner would not do for a blanket after all, wondering if he should ride on to Falme.
He rolled to his other side, and Ba’alzamon was standing beside the chair with the pure white length of the Dragon’s banner in his hands. The room seemed darker there, as if Ba’alzamon stood on the edge of a cloud of oily black smoke. Nearly healed burns crisscrossed his face, and as Rand looked, his pitchdark eyes vanished for an instant, replaced by endless caverns of fire. Rand’s saddlebags lay by his feet, buckles undone, flap thrown back where the banner had been hidden.
“The time comes closer, Lews Therin. A thousand threads draw tight, and soon you will be tied and trapped, set to a course you cannot change. Madness. Death. Before you die, will you once more kill everything you love?”
Rand glanced at the door, but he made no move except to sit up on the side of the bed. What good to try running from the Dark One? His throat felt like sand. “I am not the Dragon, Father of Lies!” he said hoarsely.
The darkness behind Ba’alzamon roiled, and furnaces roared as Ba’alzamon laughed. “You honor me. And belittle yourself. I know you too well. I have faced you a thousand times. A thousand times a thousand. I know you to your miserable soul, Lews Therin Kinslayer.” He laughed again; Rand put a hand in front of his face against the heat of that fiery mouth.
“What do you want? I will not serve you. I will not do anything that you want.
I’ll die first!”
“You will die, worm! How many times have you died across the span of the Ages, fool, and how much has death availed you? The grave is cold and lonely, save for the worms. The grave is mine. This time there will be no rebirth for you. This time the Wheel of Time will be broken and the world remade in the image of the Shadow. This time your death will be forever! Which will you choose? Death everlasting? Or life eternal — and power!”
Rand hardly realized that he was on his feet. The void had surrounded him, saidin was there, and the One Power flowed into him. That fact almost cracked the emptiness. Was this real? Was it a dream? Could he channel in a dream? But the torrent rushing into him swept away his doubts. He hurled it at Ba’alzamon, hurled the pure One Power, the force that turned the Wheel of Time, a force that could make seas burn and eat mountains.
Ba’alzamon took half a step back, holding the banner clutched before him. Flames leaped in his wide eyes and mouth, and the darkness seemed to cloak him in shadow. In the Shadow. The Power sank into that black mist and vanished, soaked up like water on parched sand.
Rand drew on saidin, pulled for more, and still more. His flesh seemed so cold it must shatter at a touch; it burned as if it must boil away. His bones felt on the point of crisping to cold crystal ash. He did not care; it was like drinking life itself.
“Fool!” Ba’alzamon roared. “You will destroy yourself!”
Mat. The thought floated somewhere beyond the consuming flood. The dagger.
The Horn. Fain. Emond’s Field. I can’t die yet.
He was not sure how he did it, but suddenly the Power was gone, and saidin, and the void. Shuddering uncontrollably, he fell to his knees beside the bed, arms wrapped around himself in a vain effort to stop their twitching.
“That is better, Lews Therin.” Ba’alzamon tossed the banner to the floor and put his hands on the chair back; wisps of smoke rose from between his fingers. The shadow no longer encompassed him. “There is your banner, Kinslayer. Much good will it do you. A thousand strings laid over a thousand years have drawn you here.
Ten thousand woven throughout the Ages tie you like a sheep for slaughter. The Wheel itself holds you prisoner to your fate Age after Age. But I can set you free. You cowering cur, I alone in the entire world can teach you how to wield the Power. I alone can stop it killing you before you have a chance to go mad. I alone can stop the madness. You have served me before. Serve me again, Lews Therin, or be destroyed forever!”
“My name,” Rand forced between chattering teeth, “is Rand al’Thor.” His shivering forced him to squeeze his eyes shut, and when he opened them again, he was alone.
Ba’alzamon was gone. The shadow was gone. His saddlebags stood against the chair with the buckles done up and one side bulging with the bulk of the Dragon’s banner, just as he had left it. But on the chair back, tendrils of smoke still rose from the charred impressions of fingers.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 42
(InsectLike, Horned Helmet) Falme
Nynaeve pressed Elayne back into the narrow alleyway between a cloth merchant’s shop and a potter’s works as the pair of women linked by a silvery leash passed by, heading down the cobblestone street toward Falme harbor. They did not dare allow that pair to come too close. The people in the street made way for those two even more quickly than they did for Seanchan soldiers, or the occasional noble’s palanquin, thickly curtained now that the days were cold. Even the street artists did not offer to draw them in chalks or pencils, although they pestered everyone else. Nynaeve’s mouth tightened as her eyes followed the sul’dam and the damane through the crowd. Even after weeks in the town, the sight sickened her. Perhaps it sickened her more, now. She could not imagine doing that to any woman, not even Moiraine or Liandrin.
Well, maybe Liandrin, she admitted sourly. Sometimes, at night, in the small, smelly room the two of them had rented above a fishmonger, she thought of what she would like to do to Liandrin when she got her hands on her. Liandrin even more than Suroth. More than once she had been shocked at her own cruelty, even while she was delighted at her inventiveness.
Still trying to keep the pair in sight, her eyes fell on a bony man, well down the street, before the shifting throng hid him again. She had only a flash of a big nose in a narrow face. He wore a rich bronze velvet robe of Seanchan cut over his clothes, but she thought that he was no Seanchan, though the servant following him was, and a servant of high degree, with one temple shaved. The local people had not taken to Seanchan fashions, particularly that one. That looked like Padan Fain, she thought incredulously. It couldn’t be. Not here.
“Nynaeve,” Elayne said softly, “could we move on, now? That fellow selling apples is looking at his table as if he’s thinking he had more a few moments ago, and I would not want him wondering what I have in my pockets.”
They both wore long coats made of sheepskin, with the fleece turned in and bright red spirals embroidered across the breast. It was country garb, but it passed well enough in Falme, where many people had come in from the farms and villages. Among so many strangers the two of them had been able to sink in unnoticed. Nynaeve had combed out her braid, and her gold ring, the serpent eating its own tail, now nestled under her dress beside Lan’s heavy ring on the leather cord around her neck.
The large pockets of Elayne’s coat bulged suspiciously.
“You stole those apples?” Nynaeve hissed quietly, pulling Elayne out into the crowded street. “Elayne, we don’t have to steal. Not yet, anyway.”
“No? How much money do we have left? You have been ‘not hungry’ very often at mealtimes the last few days.”
“Well, I am not hungry,” Nynaeve snapped, trying to ignore the hollow in her middle. Everything cost considerably more than she had expected; she had heard local people complaining about how prices had risen since the Seanchan came. “Give me one of those.” The apple Elayne dug out of her pocket was small and hard, but it crunched with a delicious sweetness when Nynaeve bit into it. She licked the juice from her lips. “How did you manage to — ” She jerked Elayne to a halt and peered into her face. “Did you … ? Did you … ?” She could not think of a way to say it with so many streaming by, but Elayne understood.
“Only a little. I made that stack of old melons with the soft spots fall, and when he started putting them back …” She did not even have the grace, as Nynaeve saw it, to blush or look embarrassed. Unconcernedly eating one of the apples, she shrugged. “There is no need to frown at me like that. I looked carefully to make sure there was no damane close.” She sniffed. “If I were being held prisoner, I would not help my captors find other women to enslave. Although, the way these Falmen behave, you would think they were lifelong servants of those who should be their enemies to the death.” She looked around, openly contemptuous, at the people hurrying by; it was possible to follow the path of any Seanchan, even common soldiers and even at a distance, by the ripples of bowing. “They should resist. They should fight back.”
“How? Against … that.”
They had to step to the side of the street along with everyone else as a Seanchan patrol neared, climbing from the direction of the harbor. Nynaeve managed the bow, hands on knees, with face schooled to a perfect smoothness; Elayne was slower, and made her bow with a distasteful twist of her mouth.
There were twenty armored men and women in the patrol, riding horses, for which Nynaeve was grateful. She could not become used to seeing people riding things that looked like bronzescaled, tailless cats, and a rider on one of the flying beasts was always enough to make her feel dizzy; she was glad there were so few of them. Still, two leashed creatures trotted along with the patrol, like wingless birds with coarse leather skin, and sharp beaks higher above the cobblestones than the helmeted heads of the soldier. Their long, sinewy legs looked as if they could run faster than any horse.
She straightened slowly after the Seanchan were gone. Some of those who had bowed for the patrol came close to running; no one was comfortable at the sight of the Seanchan’s beasts except the Seanchan themselves. “Elayne,” she said softly as they resumed their climb, “if we are caught, I swear that before they kill us, or do whatever they do, I will beg them on bended knees to let me stripe you from top to bottom with the stoutest switch I can find! If you still can’t learn to be careful, maybe it’s time to think about sending you back to Tar Valon, or home to Caemlyn, or anywhere but here.”
“I am careful. At least I looked to be sure there was no damane close by. What about you? I have seen you channel with one in plain sight.”
“I made sure they weren’t looking at me,” Nynaeve muttered. She had had to ball up all her anger at women being chained like animals to manage it. “And I only did it once. And it was only a trickle.”
“A trickle? We had to spend three days hiding in our room breathing fish while they searched the town for whoever had done it. Do you call that being careful?”
“I had to know if there was a way to unfasten those collars.” She thought there was. She would have to test one more collar at least before she was certain, and she was not looking forward to it. She had thought, like Elayne, that the damane must all be prisoners eager to escape, but it had been the woman in the collar who raised the cry.
A man pushing a barrow that bumped over the cobblestones passed by them, crying his services to sharpen scissors and knives. “They should resist, somehow,” Elayne growled. “They act as if they do not see anything that happens around them if there’s a Seanchan in it.”
Nynaeve only sighed. It did not help that she thought Elayne was at least partly right. At first she had thought some of the Falmen submission, at least, must be a pose, but she had found no evidence of any resistance at all. She had looked at first, hoping to find help in freeing Egwene and Min, but everyone took fright at the merest hint that they might oppose the Seanchan, and she stopped asking before she drew the wrong sort of attention. In truth, she could not imagine how the people could fight. Monsters and Aes Sedai. How can you fight monsters and Aes Sedai?
Ahead stood five tall stone houses, among the largest in the town, all together making up a block. One street short of them, Nynaeve found an alleyway beside a tailor shop, where they could keep an eye on some of the tall houses’ entrances, at least. It was not possible to see every door at once—she did not want to risk letting Elayne go off on her own to watch more—but it was not wise to go any closer. Above the rooftops, on the next street, the golden hawk banner of the High Lord Turak flapped in the wind.
Only women went in or out of those houses, and most of those were sul’dam, alone or with damane in tow. The buildings had been taken over by the Seanchan to house the damane. Egwene had to be in there, and likely Min; they had found no sign of Min so far, though it was possible she was as hidden by the crowds as they. Nynaeve had heard many tales of women and girls being seized on the streets or brought in from the villages; they all went into those houses, and if they were seen again, they wore a collar.
Settling herself on a crate beside Elayne, she dug into the other woman’s coat for a handful of the small apples. There were fewer local folk in the streets here. Everyone knew what the houses were, and everyone avoided them, just as they avoided the stables where the Seanchan kept their beasts. It was not difficult to keep an eye on the doors through spaces between the passersby. Just two women stopping for a bite; just two more people who could not afford to eat at an inn. Nothing to attract more than a passing glance.
Eating mechanically, Nynaeve tried once more to plan. Being able to open the collar — if she really could — did no good at all unless she could reach Egwene. The apples did not taste so sweet anymore.
From the narrow window of her tiny room under the eaves, one of a number roughly walled together from whatever had been there before, Egwene could see the garden where damane were being walked by their sul’dam. It had been several gardens before the Seanchan knocked down the walls that separated them and took the big houses to keep their damane. The trees were all but leafless, but the damane were still taken out for air, whether they wanted it or not. Egwene watched the garden because Renna was down there, talking with another sul’dam, and as long as she could see Renna, then Renna was not going to enter and surprise her.
Some other sul’dam might come — there were many more sul’dam than damane, and every sul’dam wanted her turn wearing a bracelet; they called it being complete — but Renna still had charge of her training, and it was Renna who wore her bracelet four times out of five. If anyone came, they would find no impediment to entering. There were no locks on the doors of damane’s rooms. Egwene’s room held only a hard, narrow bed, a washstand with a chipped pitcher and bowl, one chair and a small table, but it had no room for more. Damane had no need of comfort, or privacy, or possessions. Damane were possessions. Min had a room just like this, in another house, but Min could come and go as she would, or almost as she would. Seanchan were great ones for rules; they had more, for everyone, than the White Tower did for novices.
Egwene stood far back from the window. She did not want any of the women below to look up and see the glow that she knew surrounded her as she channeled the One Power, probing delicately at the collar around her neck, searching futilely; she could not even tell whether the band was woven or made of links — sometimes it seemed one, sometimes the other — but it seemed all of a piece all the time. It was only a tiny trickle of the Power, the merest drip that she could imagine, but it still beaded sweat on her face and made her stomach clench. That was one of the properties of the a’dam; if a damane tried to channel without a sul’dam wearing her bracelet, she felt sick, and the more of the Power she channeled, the sicker she became. Lighting a candle beyond the reach of her arm would have made Egwene vomit. Once Renna had ordered her to juggle her tiny balls of light with the bracelet lying on the table. Remembering still made her shudder.
Now, the silver leash snaked across the bare floor and up the unpainted wooden wall to where the bracelet hung on a peg. The sight of it hanging there made her jaws clench with fury. A dog leashed so carelessly could have run away. If a damane moved her bracelet as much as a foot from where it had last been touched by a sul’dam … Renna had made her do that, too — had made her carry her own bracelet across the room. Or try to. She was sure it had only been minutes before the sul’dam snapped the bracelet firmly on her own wrist, but to Egwene the screaming and the cramps that had had her writhing on the floor had seemed to go
on for hours.
Someone tapped at the door, and Egwene jumped, before she realized it could not be a sul’dam. None of them would knock first. She let saidar go, anyway; she was beginning to feel decidedly ill. “Min?”
“Here I am for my weekly visit,” Min announced as she slipped inside and shut the door. Her cheeriness sounded a little forced, but she always did what she could to keep Egwene’s spirits up. “How do you like it?” She spun in a little circle, showing off her dark green wool dress of Seanchan cut. A heavy, matching cloak hung over her arm. There was even a green ribbon catching up her dark hair, though her hair was hardly long enough for it. Her knife was still in its sheath at her waist, though. Egwene had been surprised when Min first showed up wearing it, but it seemed the Seanchan trusted everyone. Until they broke a rule.
“It’s pretty,” Egwene said cautiously. “But, why?”
“I haven’t gone over to the enemy, if that is what you are thinking. It was this, or else find someplace to stay out in the town, and maybe not be able to visit you again.” She started to straddle the chair as she would have in breeches, gave a wry shake of her head, and turned it around to sit. “’Everyone has a place in the Pattern,’” she mimicked, “’and the place of everyone must be readily apparent.’ That old hag Mulaen apparently got tired of not knowing what my place was on sight and decided I ranked with the serving girls. She gave me the choice. You should see some of the things Seanchan serving girls wear, the ones who serve the lords. It might be fun, but not unless I was betrothed, or, better yet, married. Well, there’s no going back. Not yet, anyway. Mulaen burned my coat and breeches.” Grimacing to show what she thought of that, she picked up a rock from a small pile on the table and bounced it from hand to hand. “It isn’t so bad,” she said with a laugh, “except that it has been so long since I wore skirts that I keep tripping over them.”
Egwene had had to watch her clothes being burned, too, including that lovely green silk. It had made her glad she had not brought more of the clothes the Lady Amalisa had given her, though she might never see any of them, or the White Tower, again. What she had on now was the same dark gray all damane wore. Damane have no possessions, it had been explained to her. The dress a damane wears, the food she eats, the bed she sleeps in, are all gifts from her sul’dam. If a sul’dam chooses that a damane sleep on the floor instead of in a bed, or in a stall in a stable, it is purely the choice of the sul’dam. Mulaen, who had charge of the damane quarters, had a droning nasal voice, but she was sharp with any damane who did not remember every word of her boring lectures.
“I don’t think there will be any going back for me ever,” Egwene said, sighing, sinking down on her bed. She gestured to the rocks on the table. “Renna gave me a test, yesterday. I picked out the piece of iron ore, and the copper ore, blindfolded, every time she mixed them up. She left them all here to remind me of my success. She seemed to think it was some kind of reward to be reminded.”
“It doesn’t seem any worse than the rest — not nearly as bad as making things
explode like fireworks — but couldn’t you have lied? Told her you didn’t know which was which?”
“You still do not know what this is like.” Egwene tugged at the collar; pulling did no more good than channeling had. “When Renna is wearing that bracelet, she knows what I am doing with the Power, and what I am not. Sometimes she even seems to know when she isn’t wearing it; she says sul’dam develop — an affinity, she calls it — after a while.” She sighed. “No one even thought to test me on this earlier. Earth is one of the Five Powers that was strongest in men. When I picked out those rocks, she took me outside the town, and I was able to point right to an abandoned iron mine. It was all overgrown, and there wasn’t any opening to be seen at all, but once I knew how, I could feel the iron ore still in the ground. There hasn’t been enough to make it worth working in a hundred years, but I knew it was there. I couldn’t lie to her, Min. She knew I had sensed the mine as soon as I did. She was so excited, she promised me a pudding with my supper.” She felt her cheeks growing hot, in anger and embarrassment. “Apparently,” she said bitterly, “I am now too valuable to be wasted making things explode. Any damane can do that; only a handful can find ores in the ground. Light, I hate making things explode, but I wish that was all I could do.”
The color in her cheeks deepened. She did hate it, making trees tear themselves to splinters and the earth erupt; that was meant for battle, for killing, and she wanted no part of it. Yet anything the Seanchan let her do was another chance to touch saidar, to feel the Power flowing through her. She hated the things Renna and the other sul’dam made her do, but she was sure that she could handle much more of the Power now than she could before leaving Tar Valon. She certainly knew she could do things with it that no sister in the Tower had ever thought of doing; they never thought of tearing the earth apart to kill men.
“Perhaps you won’t have to worry about any of it much longer,” Min said, grinning. “I’ve found us a ship, Egwene. The captain has been held here by the Seanchan, and he is about ready to sail with or without permission.”
“If he will take you, Min, go with him,” Egwene said wearily. “I told you I’m valuable, now. Renna says in a few days they’re sending a ship back to Seanchan. Just to take me.”
Min’s grin vanished, and they stared at each other. Suddenly Min hurled her rock at the pile on the table, scattering them. “There has to be a way out of here. There has to be a way to take that bloody thing off your neck!”
Egwene leaned her head back against the wall. “You know the Seanchan have collected every woman they’ve been able to find who can channel even a speck. They come from all over, not just from here in Falme, but from the fishing villages, and from farming towns inland. Taraboner and Domani women, passengers off ships they’ve stopped. There are two Aes Sedai among them.”
“Aes Sedai!” Min exclaimed. By habit she looked around to make sure no Seanchan had overheard her saying that name. “Egwene, if there are Aes Sedai
here, they can help us. Let me talk to them, and — ”
“They can’t even help themselves, Min. I only talked to one — her name is Ryma; the sul’dam don’t call her that, but that’s her name; she wanted to make sure I knew it — and she told me there is another. She told me in between bouts of tears. She’s Aes Sedai, and she was crying, Min! She has a collar on her neck, they make her answer to Pura, and she can’t do anything more about it than I can. They captured her when Falme fell. She was crying because she’s beginning to stop fighting against it, because she cannot take being punished anymore. She was crying because she wants to take her own life, and she cannot even do that without permission. Light, I know how she feels!”
Min shifted uneasily, smoothing her dress with suddenly nervous hands. “Egwene, you don’t want to … Egwene, you must not think of harming yourself. I will get you out somehow. I will!”
“I am not going to kill myself,” Egwene said dryly. “Even if I could. Let me have your knife. Come on. I won’t hurt myself. Just hand it to me.”
Min hesitated before slowly taking her knife from its sheath at her waist. She held it out warily, obviously ready to leap if Egwene tried anything.
Egwene took a deep breath and reached for the hilt. A soft quiver ran through the muscles of her arm. As her hand came within a foot of the knife, a cramp suddenly contorted her fingers. Eyes fixed, she tried to force her hand closer. The cramp seized her whole arm, knotting muscles to her shoulder. With a groan, she sank back, rubbing her arm and concentrating her thoughts on not touching the knife. Slowly, the pain began to lessen.
Min stared at her incredulously. “What …? I don’t understand.”
“Damane are not allowed to touch a weapon of any kind.” She worked her arm, feeling the tightness go. “Even our meat is cut for us. I don’t want to hurt myself, but I could not if I did want to. No damane is ever left alone where she might jump from a height — that window is nailed shut — or throw herself in a river.”
“Well, that’s a good thing. I mean … Oh, I don’t know what I mean. If you could jump in a river, you might escape.”
Egwene went on dully, as if the other woman had not spoken. “They are training me, Min. The sul’dam and the a’dam are training me. I cannot touch anything I even think of as a weapon. A few weeks ago I considered hitting Renna over the head with that pitcher, and I could not pour wash water for three days. Once I’d thought of it that way, I not only had to stop thinking about hitting her with it, I had to convince myself I would never, under any circumstances, hit her with it before I could touch it again. She knew what had happened, told me what I had to do, and would not let me wash anywhere except with that pitcher and bowl. You are lucky it happened between your visiting days. Renna made sure I spent those days sweating from the time I woke to the time I fell asleep, exhausted. I am trying to fight them, but they are training me as surely as they’re training Pura.” She clapped a hand to her mouth, moaning through her teeth. “Her name is Ryma. I have to remember her
name, not the name they’ve put on her. She is Ryma, and she’s Yellow Ajah, and she has fought them as long and as hard as she could. It is no fault of hers that she hasn’t the strength left to fight any longer. I wish I knew who the other sister is that Ryma mentioned. I wish I knew her name. Remember both of us, Min. Ryma, of the Yellow Ajah, and Egwene al’Vere. Not Egwene the damane; Egwene al’Vere of Emond’s Field. Will you do that?”
“Stop it!” Min snapped. “You stop it right this instant! If you get shipped off to Seanchan, I’ll be right there with you. But I don’t think you will. You know I’ve read you, Egwene. I don’t understand most of it — I almost never do — but I see things I am sure link you to Rand, and Perrin, and Mat, and — yes, even Galad, the Light help you for a fool. How can any of that happen if the Seanchan take you off across the ocean?”
“Maybe they’re going to conquer the whole world, Min. If they conquer the world, there’s no reason Rand and Galad and the rest could not end up in Seanchan.”
“You ninnyheaded goose!”
“I am being practical,” Egwene said sharply. “I don’t intend to stop fighting, not as long as I can breathe, but I don’t see any hope that I’ll ever have the a’dam off me, either. Just as I don’t see any hope that anyone is going to stop the Seanchan. Min, if this ship captain will take you, go with him. At least then one of us will be free.”
The door swung open, and Renna stepped in.
Egwene jumped to her feet and bowed sharply, as did Min. The tiny room was crowded for bowing, but Seanchan insisted on protocol before comfort.
“Your visiting day, is it?” Renna said. “I had forgotten. Well, there is training to be done even on visiting days.”
Egwene watched sharply as the sul’dam took down the bracelet, opened it, and fastened it again around her wrist. She could not see how it was done. If she could have probed with the One Power, she would have, but Renna would have known that immediately. As the bracelet closed around Renna’s wrist a look came onto the sul’dam’s face that made Egwene’s heart sink.
“You have been channeling.” Renna’s voice was deceptively mild; there was a spark of anger in her eyes. “You know that is forbidden except when we are complete.” Egwene wet her lips. “Perhaps I have been too lenient with you. Perhaps you believe that because you are valuable now, you will be allowed license. I think I made a mistake letting you keep your old name. I had a kitten called Tuli when I was a child. From now on, your name is Tuli. You will go now, Min. Your visiting day with Tuli is ended.”
Min hesitated only long enough for one anguished look at Egwene before leaving. Nothing Min could say or do would do anything except make matters worse, but Egwene could not help looking longingly at the door as it closed behind her friend.
Renna took the chair, frowning at Egwene. “I must punish you severely for this.
We will both be called to the Court of the Nine Moons—you for what you can do; I as your sul’dam and trainer—and I will not allow you to disgrace me in the eyes of the Empress. I will stop when you tell me how much you love being damane and how obedient you will be after this. And, Tuli. Make me believe every word.”
The Great Hunt
Chapter 43
(A’dam) A Plan
Outside in the lowceilinged hallway, Min dug her nails into her palms at the first piercing cry from the room. She took a step toward the door before she could stop herself, and when she did stop, tears sprang up in her eyes. Light help me, all I can do it make it worse. Egwene, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Feeling worse than useless, she picked up her skirts and ran, and Egwene’s screams pursued her. She could not make herself stay, and leaving made her feel a coward. Half blind with weeping, she found herself in the street before she knew it. She had intended to go back to her room, but now she could not do it. She could not stand the thought that Egwene was being hurt while she sat warm and safe under the next roof. Scrubbing the tears from her eyes, she swept her cloak around her shoulders and started down the street. Every time she cleared her eyes, new tears began trickling along her cheeks. She was not accustomed to weeping openly, but then she was not accustomed to feeling so helpless, so useless. She did not know where she was going, only that it had to be as far as she could reach from Egwene’s cries.
“Min!”
The lowpitched shout brought her up short. At first, she could not make out who had called. Relatively few people walked the street this close to where the damane were housed. Aside from a lone man trying to interest two Seanchan soldiers in buying the picture he would draw of them with his colored chalks, everyone local tried to step along quickly without actually appearing to run. A pair of sul’dam strolled by, damane trailing behind with eyes down; the Seanchan women were talking about how many more marath’damane they expected to find before they sailed. Min’s eyes passed right over the two women in long fleece coats, then swung back in wonder as they came toward her. “Nynaeve? Elayne?”
“None other.” Nynaeve’s smile was strained; both women had tight eyes, as if they fought worried frowns. Min thought she had never seen anything as wonderful as the sight of them. “That color becomes you,” Nynaeve continued. “You should have taken up dresses long since. Though I’ve thought of breeches myself since I saw them on you.” Her voice sharpened as she drew close enough to see Min’s face. “What is the matter?”
“You’ve been crying,” Elayne said. “Has something happened to Egwene?”
Min gave a start and looked back over her shoulder. A sul’dam and damane came down the steps she had used and turned the other way, toward the stables and horse yards. Another woman with the lightning panels on her dress stood at the top of the stairs talking with someone still inside. Min grabbed her friends by the arms and hurried them down the street toward the harbor. “It’s dangerous for you two here. Light, it’s dangerous for you to be in Falme. There are damane everywhere,
and if they find you … You do know what damane are? Oh, you don’t know how good it is to see you both.”
“I imagine about as half as good as it is to see you,” Nynaeve said. “Do you know where Egwene is? Is she in one of those buildings? Is she all right?”
Min hesitated a fraction before saying, “She’s as well as can be expected.” Min could see it all too well, if she told them what was happening to Egwene right that moment. Nynaeve was as likely as not to go storming back in an attempt to stop it. Light, let it be over by now. Light, make her bend her stubborn neck just once before they almost break it first. “I don’t know how to get her out, though. I found a ship captain who I think will take us if we can reach his ship with her — he won’t help unless we make it that far, and I cannot say I blame him — but I have no idea how to do even that much.”
“A ship,” Nynaeve said thoughtfully. “I had meant to simply ride east, but I must say I’ve worried about it. As nearly as I can make out, we would have to be almost off Toman Head before we were clear of Seanchan patrols completely, and then there’s supposed to be fighting of some sort on Almoth Plain. I never thought of a ship. We have horses, and we do not have money for passage. How much does this man want?”
Min shrugged. “I never got that far. We don’t have any money, either. I thought I could put off paying until after we sail. Afterwards … well, I don’t think he’ll put into any port where there are Seanchan. Wherever he threw us off, it would have to be better than here. The problem is convincing him to sail at all. He wants to, but they patrol off the harbor, too, and there is no way of telling if there’s a damane on one of their ships until it’s too late. ‘Give me a damane of my own on my deck,’ he says, ‘and I will sail this instant.’ Then he starts talking about drafts and shoals and lee shores. I don’t understand any of that, but as long as I smile and nod every now and then, he keeps talking, and I think if I can keep him talking long enough, he’ll talk himself into sailing.” She drew a shuddering breath; her eyes started stinging again. “Only, I don’t think there’s time to let him talk himself into it anymore. Nynaeve, they’re going to send Egwene back to Seanchan, and soon.”
Elayne gasped. “But, why?”
“She is able to find ore,” Min said miserably. “A few days, she says, and I don’t know if a few days is enough for this man to convince himself to sail. Even if it is, how do we take that Shadowspawned collar off her? How do we get her out of the house?”
“I wish Rand were here.” Elayne sighed, and when they both looked at her, she blushed and quickly added, “Well, he does have a sword. I wish we had somebody with a sword. Ten of them. A hundred.”
“It isn’t swords or brawn we need now,” Nynaeve said, “but brains. Men usually think with the hair on their chests.” She touched her chest absently, as if feeling something through her coat. “Most of them do.”
“We would need an army,” Min said. “A large army. The Seanchan were
outnumbered when they faced the Taraboners, and the Domani, and they won every battle easily, from what I hear.” She hurriedly pulled Nynaeve and Elayne to the opposite side of the street as a damane and sul’dam climbed past them on the other side. She was relieved there was no need for urging; the other two watched the linked women go as warily as she. “Since we don’t have an army, the three of us will have to do it. I hope one of you can think of something I haven’t; I’ve wracked my brains, and I always stumble when it comes to the a’dam, the leash and collar. Sul’dam don’t like anyone watching too closely when they open them. I think I can get you inside, if that will help. One of you, anyway. They think of me as a servant, but servants may have visitors, as long as they keep to the servants’ quarters.”
Nynaeve wore a thoughtful frown, but her face cleared almost immediately, taking on a purposeful look. “Don’t you worry, Min. I have a few ideas. I have not spent my time here idly. You take me to this man. If he is any harder to handle than the Village Council with their backs up, I will eat this coat.”
Elayne nodded, grinning, and Min felt the first real hope she had had since arriving in Falme. For an instant Min found herself reading the auras of the other two women. There was danger, but that was to be expected — and new things, too, among the images she had seen before; it was like that, sometimes. A man’s ring of heavy gold floated above Nynaeve’s head, and above Elayne’s, a redhot iron and an axe. They meant trouble, she was sure, but it seemed distant, somewhere in the future. Only for a moment did the reading last, and then all she saw was Elayne and Nynaeve, watching her expectantly.
“It’s down near the harbor,” she said.
The sloping street became more crowded the further down they went. Street peddlers rubbed elbows with merchants who had brought wagons in from the inland villages and would not go out again until winter had come and gone, hawkers with their trays called to the passersby, Falmen in embroidered cloaks brushed past farm families in heavy fleece coats. Many people had fled here from villages further from the coast. Min saw no point to it—they had leaped from the possibility of a visit from the Seanchan to the certainty of Seanchan all around them—but she had heard what the Seanchan did when they first came to a village, and she could not blame the villagers too much for fearing another appearance. Everyone bowed when Seanchan walked past or a curtained palanquin was carried by up the steep street.
Min was glad to see Nynaeve and Elayne knew about the bowing. Barechested bearers paid no more mind to the people who bent themselves than did arrogant, armored soldiers, but failure to bow would surely catch their eyes.
They talked a little as they moved down the street, and she was surprised at first to learn they had been in the town only a few days less than Egwene and herself. After a moment, though, she decided it was no wonder they had not met earlier, not with the crowds in the streets. She had been reluctant to spend time further from Egwene than was necessary; there was always the fear that she would go for her allowed visit and find Egwene gone. And now she will be. Unless Nynaeve can
think of something.
The smell of salt and pitch grew heavy in the air, and gulls cried, wheeling overhead. Sailors appeared in the throng, many still barefoot despite the cold.
The inn had been hastily renamed The Three Plum Blossoms, but part of the word “Watcher” still showed through the slapdash paint work on the sign. Despite the crowds outside, the common room was little more than half full; prices were too high for many people to afford time sitting over ale. Roaring fires on hearths at either end of the room warmed it, and the fat innkeeper was in his shirtsleeves. He eyed the three women, frowning, and Min thought it was her Seanchan dress that stopped him from telling them to leave. Nynaeve and Elayne, in their farm women’s coats, certainly did not look as if they had money to spend.
The man she was looking for was alone at a table in a corner, in his accustomed place, muttering into his wine. “Do you have time to talk, Captain Domon?” she said.
He looked up, brushing a hand across his beard when he saw she was not alone. She still thought his bare upper lip looked odd with the beard. “So you do bring friends to drink up my coin, do you? Well, that Seanchan lord bought my cargo, so coin I have. Sit.” Elayne jumped as he suddenly bellowed, “Innkeeper! Mulled wine here!”
“It’s all right,” Min told her, taking a place on the end of one of the benches at the table. “He only looks and sounds like a bear.” Elayne sat down on the other end, looking doubtful.
“A bear, do I be?” Domon laughed. “Maybe I do. But what of you, girl? Have you given over thought of leaving? That dress do look Seanchan to me.”
“Never!” Min said fiercely, but the appearance of a serving girl with the steaming, spiced wine made her fall silent.
Domon was just as wary. He waited until the girl had gone with his coins before saying, “Fortune prick me, girl, I mean no offense. Most people only want to go on with their lives, whether their lords be Seanchan or any other.”
Nynaeve leaned her forearms on the table. “We also want to go on with our lives, Captain, but without any Seanchan. I understand you intend to sail soon.”
“I would sail today, if I could,” Domon said glumly. “Every two or three days that Turak do send for me to tell him tales of the old things I have seen. Do I look a gleeman to you? I did think I could spin a tale or two and be on my way, but now I think when I no entertain him any longer, it be an even wager whether he do let me go or have my head cut off. The man do look soft, but he be as hard as iron, and as coldhearted.”
“Can your ship avoid the Seanchan?” Nynaeve asked.
“Fortune prick me, could I make it out of the harbor without a damane rips Spray to splinters, I can. If I do no let a Seanchan ship with a damane come too close once I do make the sea. There be shoal waters all along this coast, and Spray do have a shallow draft. I can take her into waters those lumbering Seanchan hulks
can no risk. They must be wary of the winds close inshore this time of year, and once I do have Spray —”
Nynaeve cut him off. “Then we will take passage with you, Captain. There will be four of us, and I will expect you to be ready to sail as soon as we are aboard.”
Domon scrubbed a finger across his upper lip and peered into his wine. “Well, as to that, there still do be the matter of getting out of the harbor, you see. These damane — ”
“What if I tell you you will sail with something better than damane?” Nynaeve said softly. Min’s eyes widened as she realized what Nynaeve intended.
Almost under her breath, Elayne murmured, “And you tell me to be careful.”
Domon had eyes only for Nynaeve, and they were wary eyes. “What do you mean?” he whispered.
Nynaeve opened her coat to fumble at the back of her neck, finally pulling out a leather cord that had been tucked inside her dress. Two gold rings hung on the cord. Min gasped when she saw one — it was the heavy man’s ring she had seen when she read Nynaeve in the street—but she knew it was the other, slighter and made for a woman’s slender finger, that made Domon’s eyes bulge. A serpent biting its own tail.
“You know what this means,” Nynaeve said, starting to slip the Serpent ring from the cord, but Domon closed his hand over it.
“Put it away.” His eyes darted uneasily; no one was looking at them that Min could see, but he looked as if he thought everyone was staring. “That ring do be dangerous. If it be seen …”
“As long as you know what it means,” Nynaeve said with a calm that made Min envious. She pulled the cord from Domon’s hand and retied it around her neck.
“I know,” he said hoarsely. “I do know what it means. Maybe there do be a chance if you… Four, you say? This girl who do like to listen to my tongue wag, she do be one of the four, I take it. And you, and…” He frowned at Elayne. “Surely this child is no — no one like you.”
Elayne straightened angrily, but Nynaeve put a hand on her arm and smiled soothingly at Domon. “She travels with me, Captain. You might be surprised by what we can do even before we earn the right to a ring. When we sail, you will have three on your ship who can fight damane if need be.”
“Three,” he breathed. “There do be a chance. Maybe …” His face brightened for a moment, but as he looked at them, it grew serious again. “I should take you to Spray right now and cast off, but Fortune prick me if I can no tell you what you face here if you stay, and maybe even if you go with me. Listen to me, and mark what I do say.” He took another cautious look around, and still lowered his voice and chose his words carefully. “I did see a — a woman who wore a ring like that taken by the Seanchan. A pretty, slender little woman she was, with a big War — a big man with her who did look as if he did know how to use his sword. One of them must have been careless, for the Seanchan did have an ambush laid for them. The
big man put six, seven soldiers on the ground before he did die himself. The — the woman … Six damane they did put around her, stepping out of the alleys of a sudden. I did think she would … do something — you know what I mean — but … I know nothing of these things. One moment she did look as if she would destroy them all, then a look of horror did come on her face, and she did scream.”
“They cut her off from the True Source.” Elayne’s face was white.
“No matter,” Nynaeve said calmly. “We will not allow the same to be done to us.”
“Aye, mayhap it will be as you say. But I will remember it until I die. Ryma, help me. That is what she did scream. And one of the damane did fall down crying, and they did put one of those collars on the neck of the … woman, and I … I did run.” He shrugged, and rubbed his nose, and peered into his wine. “I have seen three women taken, and I have no stomach for it. I would leave my aged grandmother standing on the dock to sail from here, but I did have to tell you.”
“Egwene said they have two prisoners,” Min said slowly. “Ryma, a Yellow, and she didn’t know who the other is.” Nynaeve gave her a sharp look, and she fell silent, blushing. From the look on Domon’s face, it had not furthered their cause any to tell him the Seanchan held two Aes Sedai, not just one.
Yet abruptly he stared at Nynaeve and took a long gulp of wine. “Do that be why you are here? To free … those two? You did say there would be three of you.”
“You know what you need to know,” Nynaeve told him briskly. “You must be ready to sail on the instant anytime in the next two or three days. Will you do it, or will you remain here to see if they will cut off your head after all? There are other ships, Captain, and I mean to have passage assured on one of them today.”
Min held her breath; under the table, her fingers were knotted. Finally, Domon nodded. “I will be ready.”
When they returned to the street, Min was surprised to see Nynaeve sag against the front of the inn as soon as the door closed. “Are you ill, Nynaeve?” she asked anxiously.
Nynaeve drew a long breath and stood up straight, tugging at her coat. “With some people,” she said, “you have to be certain. If you show them one glimmer of doubt, they’ll sweep you off in some direction you don’t want to go. Light, but I was afraid he was going to say no. Come, we have plans yet to make. There are still one or two small problems to work out.”
“I hope you don’t mind fish, Min,” Elayne said.
One or two small problems? Min thought as she followed them. She hoped very much that Nynaeve was not just being certain again.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 44
(Flame of Tar Valon) Five Will Ride Forth
Perrin eyed the villagers warily, selfconsciously hitching at a tooshort cloak, embroidered on the chest and with some holes in it not even patched, but none of them gave him a second glance despite his strange mix of clothes and the axe on his hip. Hurin had a coat with blue spirals across the chest under his cloak, and Mat wore a pair of baggy trousers that made bunches where they were stuffed into his boots. That had been all they had been able to find that would fit back in the abandoned village. Perrin wondered if this one would be abandoned soon. Half the stone houses were empty, and in front of the inn, up the dirt street from them, three ox carts, loaded too heavily in great mounds and everything covered with roped canvas, stood with families gathered around them.
As he watched them, huddling together and saying their goodbyes to those who were staying, at least for the time being, Perrin decided it was not lack of interest in strangers on the villagers’ part; they were carefully avoiding looking at him and the others. These people had learned not to show curiosity about strangers, even strangers who were obviously not Seanchan. Strangers might be dangerous these days on Toman Head. They had encountered the same studious indifference in other villages. There were more towns here within a few leagues of the coast, every one holding itself independent. At any rate, they had until the Seanchan came.
“I say it’s time to go get the horses,” Mat said, “before they decide to start asking questions. There has to be a first time for it.”
Hurin was staring at a big, blackened circle of ground that marred the brown grass of the village green. It had a weathered look, but no one had done anything to erase it. “Maybe six or eight months ago,” he muttered, “and it still stinks. The whole Village Council and their families. Why would they do a thing like that?”
“Who knows why they do anything?” Mat muttered. “Seanchan don’t seem to need a reason for killing people. None I can figure out, anyway.”
Perrin tried not to look at the charred patch. “Hurin, are you sure about Fain? Hurin?” It had been hard to make the sniffer look at anything else since they entered the village. “Hurin!”
“What? Oh. Fain. Yes.” Hurin’s nostrils flared, and right away he wrinkled his nose. “There’s no mistaking that, even old as it is. Makes a Myrddraal smell like roses. He passed through here all right, but I think he was alone. No Trollocs, anyway, and if he had any Darkfriends with him, they hadn’t been up to much lately.”
There was some sort of agitation up by the inn, people shouting and pointing. Not at Perrin and the other two, but at something Perrin could not see in the low hills east of the village.
“Can we get the horses now?” Mat said. “That could be Seanchan.”
Perrin nodded, and they broke into a run for where they had tied their horses behind an abandoned house. As Mat and Hurin disappeared around the corner of the house, Perrin looked back toward the inn and stopped in astonishment. The Children of the Light were riding into town, a long column of them.
He leaped after the others. “Whitecloaks!”
They wasted only an instant staring at him in disbelief before they were scrambling into their saddles. Keeping houses between them and the main street of the village, the three galloped out of the village westward, watching over their shoulders for pursuit. Ingtar had told them to avoid anything that might slow them down, and Whitecloaks asking questions would certainly do that, even if they could manage answers that satisfied. Perrin kept an even closer watch than the other two; he had his own reasons for not wanting to meet Whitecloaks. The axe in my hands. Light, what I wouldn’t give to change that.
The lightly wooded hills soon hid the village, and Perrin began to think maybe there was nothing chasing them after all. He reined in and motioned the other two to stop. When they did, eyeing him questioningly, he listened. His ears were sharper than they once had been, but he heard no sounds of hoofbeats.
Reluctantly, he reached out with his mind in search of wolves. Almost immediately he found them, a small pack, lying up for the day in the hills above the village they had just left. There were moments of astonishment so strong he almost thought it was his own; these wolves had heard rumors, but they had not really believed there were twolegs who could talk to their kind. He sweated through the minutes it took to get past introducing himself — he gave the image of Young Bull in spite of himself, and added his own smell, according to the custom among wolves; wolves were great ones for formalities on first meetings — but finally he managed to get his question through. They really had no interest in any twolegs who could not talk to them, but at last they glided down to take a look, unseen by the dull eyes of the twolegs.
After a time, images came back to him, what the wolves saw. Whitecloaked men on horses crowding around the village, riding among the houses, riding around it, but none leaving. Especially not westward. The wolves said all they smelled moving west was himself and two other twolegs with three of the hardfooted tall ones.
Perrin let go the contact with the wolves gratefully. He was aware of Hurin and Mat looking at him.
“They aren’t following,” he said.
“How can you be sure?” Mat demanded.
“I am!” he snapped, then more softly, “I just am.”
Mat opened his mouth and closed it again, and finally said, “Well, if they aren’t coming after us, I say we go back to Ingtar and get on Fain’s trail. That dagger isn’t coming any closer just standing here.”
“We can’t pick it up again this close to that village,” Hurin said. “Not without
risking running into Whitecloaks. I don’t think Lord Ingtar would appreciate that, and not Verin Sedai, neither.”
Perrin nodded. “We’ll follow it on a few miles, anyway. But keep a close lookout. We can’t be too far from Falme, now. It won’t do any good to avoid the Whitecloaks and ride right into a Seanchan patrol.”
As they started out again, he could not help wondering what Whitecloaks were doing there.
Geofram Bornhald peered down the village street, sitting his saddle while the legion spread through the small town and surrounded it. There had been something about the heavyshouldered man who had dashed out of sight, something that tickled his memory. Yes, of course. The lad who claimed to be a blacksmith. What was his name?
Byar pulled up in front of him, hand on heart. “The village is secured, my Lord Captain.”
Villagers in heavy sheepskin coats milled uneasily as whitecloaked soldiers herded them together near the overloaded carts in front of the inn. Crying children clung to their mothers’ skirts, but no one looked defiant. Dull eyes stared out of the adult faces, waiting passively for whatever was going to happen. For that much, Bornhald was grateful. He had no real desire to make an example of any of these people, and no wish at all to waste time.
Dismounting, he tossed his reins to one of the Children. “See that the men are fed, Byar. Put the prisoners in the inn with as much food and water as they can carry, then nail all the doors and shutters closed. Make them think I am leaving some men to stand guard, yes?”
Byar touched his heart again and wheeled his horse to shout orders. The herding began anew, into the flatroofed inn, while other Children ransacked houses searching for hammers and nails.
Watching the sullen faces that filed past him, Bornhald thought it should be two or three days before any of them found enough courage to break out of the inn and find there were no guards. Two or three days was all he needed, but he did not intend to risk alerting the Seanchan to his presence now.
Leaving enough men behind to make the Questioners believe his entire legion was still scattered across Almoth Plain, he had brought more than a thousand of the Children nearly the length of Toman Head without giving alarm, so far as he knew. Three skirmishes with Seanchan patrols had ended quickly. The Seanchan had grown used to facing already defeated rabble; the Children of the Light had been a deadly surprise. Yet the Seanchan knew how to fight like the Dark One’s hordes, and he could not help remembering the one skirmish that had cost him better than fifty men. He was still not sure which of the two arrowriddled women he had stared at afterwards had been the Aes Sedai.
“Byar!” One of Bornhald’s men handed him water in a pottery cup from one of the carts; it was icy in his throat.
The gauntfaced man swung down from his saddle. “Yes, my Lord Captain?” “When I engage the enemy, Byar,” Bornhald said slowly, “you will not take
part. You will watch from a distance, and you will carry word to my son of what happens.”
“But my Lord Captain —!”
“That is my order, Child Byar!” he snapped. “You will obey, yes?”
Byar’s back stiffened, and he stared straight ahead. “As you command, my Lord Captain.”
Bornhald studied him for a moment. The man would do as he was told, but it would be better to give him another reason than letting Dain know how his father had died. It was not as if he did not have knowledge that was urgently needed in Amador. Since that skirmish with the Aes Sedai — Was it one of them, or both? Thirty Seanchan soldiers, good fighters, and two women cost me twice the casualties they did. — since then, he no longer expected to live to leave Toman Head. In the small chance the Seanchan did not see to it, very likely the Questioners would.
“When you have found my son — he should be with Lord Captain Eamon Valda near Tar Valon — and told him, you will ride to Amador, and report to the Lord Captain Commander. To Pedron Niall personally, Child Byar. You will tell him what we have learned of the Seanchan; I will write it out for you. Be sure he understands that we can no longer count on the Tar Valon witches being content with manipulating events from the shadows. If they fight openly for the Seanchan, we will surely face them elsewhere.” He hesitated. That last was the most important of all. They had to know under the Dome of Truth that for all their vaunted oaths, Aes Sedai would march into battle. It gave him a sinking feeling, a world where Aes Sedai wielded the Power in battle; he was not sure that he would regret leaving it. But there was one more message he wanted carried to Amador. “And, Byar … tell Pedron Niall how we were used by the Questioners.”
“As you command, my Lord Captain,” Byar said, but Bornhald sighed at the expression on his face. The man did not understand. To Byar, orders were to be obeyed whether they came from the Lord Captain or the Questioners, whatever they were.
“I will write that out for you to hand to Pedron Niall as well,” he said. He was not sure how much good it would do in any case. A thought came to him, and he frowned at the inn, where some of his men were loudly hammering nails through shutters and doors. “Perrin,” he muttered. “That was his name. Perrin, from the Two Rivers.”
“The Darkfriend, my Lord Captain?”
“Perhaps, Byar.” He was not entirely certain, himself, but surely a man who seemed to have wolves fight for him could be nothing else. Certainly, this Perrin had killed two of the Children. “I thought I saw him when we rode in, but I do not remember anyone among the prisoners who looked like a blacksmith.”
“Their blacksmith left a month ago, my Lord Captain. Some of them were complaining that they’d have been gone before we came if they had not had to mend their cartwheels themselves. Do you believe it was the man Perrin, my Lord Captain?”
“Whoever it was, he is not accounted for, no? And he may carry word of us to the Seanchan.”
“A Darkfriend would surely do so, my Lord Captain.”
Bornhald gulped the last of the water and tossed the cup aside. “There will be no meal for the men here, Byar. I will not let these Seanchan catch me napping, whether it is Perrin of the Two Rivers or someone else who warns them. Mount the legion, Child Byar!”
Far above their heads, a huge, winged shape circled, unnoticed.
In the clearing amid the hilltop thicket where they had made their camp, Rand worked the forms with his sword. He wanted to keep from thinking. He had had his chances to search with Hurin for Fain’s trail; they all had, in twos and threes so they would not attract attention, and they had all found nothing so far. Now they waited for Mat and Perrin to come back with the sniffer; they should have been back hours ago.
Loial was reading, of course, and there was no telling if his eartwitching was over his book or the scouting party’s lateness, but Uno and most of the Shienaran soldiers sat tensely, oiling their swords, or kept watch through the trees as if they expected Seanchan to appear any moment. Only Verin appeared unconcerned. The Aes Sedai sat on a log beside their small fire, murmuring to herself and writing in the dirt with a long stick; every so often she would shake her head and scrub it all out with her foot and start over again. All the horses were saddled and ready to go, the Shienarans’ animals each tied to a lance driven into the ground.
“Heron Wading in the Rushes,” Ingtar said. He sat with his back against a tree, sliding a sharpening stone along his sword and watching Rand. “You should not be bothering with that one. It leaves you completely open.”
For an instant Rand balanced on the ball of one foot, sword held reversed in both hands over his head, then shifted smoothly to the other foot. “Lan says it’s good for developing balance.” It was not easy keeping his balance. In the void it often seemed he could maintain his equilibrium atop a rolling boulder, but he did not dare assume the void. He wanted to too much to trust himself.
“What you practice too often, you use without thinking. You will put your sword in the other man with that, if you’re quick, but not before he has his through your ribs. You are practically inviting him. I don’t think I could see a man face me so open and not put my sword in him, even knowing he might strike home at me if I did.”
“It’s only for balance, Ingtar. ” Rand wavered on one foot, and had to put the other down to keep from falling. He slammed the blade into its scabbard and picked up the gray cloak that had been his disguise. It was motheaten, and ragged around
the bottom, but lined with thick fleece, and the wind was picking up, cold and out of the west. “I wish they’d come back.”
As if his wish had been a signal, Uno spoke up with quiet urgency. “Bloody horsemen coming, my Lord.” Scabbards rattled as men who did not already have their blades out bared them. Some leaped into their saddles, snatching up lances.
The tension faded as Hurin led the others into the clearing at a trot, and came again as he spoke. “We found the trail, Lord Ingtar.”
“We followed it almost to Falme,” Mat said as he dismounted. A flush in his pale cheeks seemed a mocking of health; the skin was tight over his skull. The Shienarans gathered around, as excited as he was. “It’s just Fain, but there isn’t anywhere else he could be going. He must have the dagger.”
“We found Whitecloaks, too,” Perrin said, swinging down from his saddle. “Hundreds of them.”
“Whitecloaks?” Ingtar exclaimed, frowning. “Here? Well, if they do not trouble us, we will not trouble them. Perhaps if the Seanchan are occupied with them, it will help us reach the Horn.” His eyes fell on Verin, still seated by the fire. “I suppose you will tell me I should have listened to you, Aes Sedai. The man did go to Falme.”
“The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills,” Verin said placidly. “With ta’veren, what happens is what was meant to happen. It may be the Pattern demanded these extra days. The Pattern puts everything in its place precisely, and when we try to alter it, especially if ta’veren are involved, the weaving changes to put us back into the Pattern as we were meant to be.” There was an uneasy silence that she did not seem to notice; she sketched on idly with the stick. “Now, however, I think perhaps we should make plans. The Pattern has brought us to Falme at last. The Horn of Valere has been taken to Falme.”
Ingtar squatted across the fire from her. “When enough people say the same thing, I tend to believe it, and the local people say the Seanchan do not seem to care who comes or goes in Falme. I will take Hurin and a few others into the town. Once he follows Fain’s trail to the Horn … well, then we shall see what we shall see.”
With her foot, Verin scrubbed out a wheel she had drawn in the dirt. In its place she drew two short lines that touched at one end. “Ingtar and Hurin. And Mat, as he can sense the dagger if he comes close enough. You do want to go, don’t you, Mat?”
Mat appeared torn, but he gave a jerky nod. “I have to, don’t I? I have to find that dagger.”
A third line made a bird track. Verin looked sideways at Rand.
“I’ll go,” he said. “That is why I came.” An odd light appeared in the Aes Sedai’s eyes, a knowing glimmer that made him uneasy. “To help Mat find the dagger,” he said sharply, “and Ingtar find the Horn.” And Fain, he added to himself. I have to find Fain if it isn’t already too late.
Verin scratched a fourth line, turning the bird track to a lopsided star. “And who else?” she said softly. She held the stick poised.
“Me,” Perrin said, a hair before Loial chimed in with, “I think I would like to go, too,” and Uno and the other Shienarans all began clamoring to join.
“Perrin spoke first,” Verin said, as if that settled it. She added a fifth line and drew a circle around all five. The hair on Rand’s neck stirred; it was the same wheel she had rubbed out in the first place. “Five ride forth,” she murmured.
“I really would like to see Falme,” Loial said. “I’ve never seen the Aryth Ocean.
Besides, I can carry the chest, if the Horn is still in it.”
“You’d better include me at least, my Lord,” Uno said. “You and Lord Rand will need another sword at your backs if those bloody Seanchan try to stop you.” The rest of the soldiers rumbled the same sentiment.
“Do not be silly,” Verin said sharply. Her stare silenced them all. “All of you cannot go. No matter how uncaring the Seanchan are about strangers, they will surely take notice of twenty soldiers, and you look like nothing else even without armor. And one or two of you will make no difference. Five is few enough to enter without attracting attention, and it is fitting that three of them should be the three ta’veren among us. No, Loial, you must stay behind, too. There are no Ogier on Toman Head. You would attract as many eyes as all the rest put together.”
“What about you?” Rand asked.
Verin shook her head. “You forget the damane.” Her mouth twisted around the word in distaste. “The only way I could help you would be if I channeled the Power, and that would be no help at all if I brought those down on you. Even if they were not close enough to see, one might well feel a woman — or a man, for that matter
— channeling, if care was not taken to keep the Power channeled small.” She did not look at Rand; to him, she seemed ostentatious in not doing so, and Mat and Perrin were suddenly intent on their own feet.
“A man,” Ingtar snorted. “Verin Sedai, why add problems? We have enough already without supposing men channeling. But it would be well if you were there. If we have need of you — ”
“No, you five must go alone.” Her foot scrubbed across the wheel drawn in the dirt, partially obliterating it. She studied each of them in turn, intent and frowning. “Five will ride forth.”
For a moment it seemed that Ingtar would ask again, but meeting her level gaze, he shrugged and turned to Hurin. “How long to reach Falme?”
The sniffer scratched his head. “If we left now and rode through the night, we could be there by sunrise tomorrow morning.”
“Then that is what we will do. I’ll waste no more time. All of you saddle your horses. Uno, I warn you to bring the others along behind us, but keep out of sight, and do not let anyone …”
Rand peered at the sketched wheel as Ingtar went on with his instructions. It was a broken wheel, now, with only four spokes. For some reason that made him shiver. He realized Verin was watching him, dark eyes bright and intent like a bird’s. It took an effort to pull his gaze away and begin getting his things together.
You’re letting fancies take you, he told himself irritably. She can’t do anything if she isn’t there.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 45
(HeronMark Sword Hilt) Blademaster
The rising sun pushed its crimson edge above the horizon and sent long shadows down the cobblestone streets of Falme toward the harbor. A sea breeze bent the smoke of breakfast cook fires inland from the chimneys. Only the early risers were already out of doors, their breath making steam in the morning cold. Compared to the crowds that would fill the streets in another hour, the town seemed nearly empty.
Sitting on an upended barrel in front of a stillclosed ironmonger’s shop, Nynaeve warmed her hands under her arms and surveyed her army. Min sat on a doorstep across the way, swathed in her Seanchan cloak and eating a wrinkled plum, and Elayne in her fleece coat huddled at the edge of an alley just down the street from her. A large sack, pilfered from the docks, lay neatly folded beside Min. My army, Nynaeve thought grimly. But there isn’t anybody else.
She caught sight of a sul’dam and a damane climbing the street, a yellowhaired woman wearing the bracelet and a dark woman the collar, both yawning sleepily. The few Falmen sharing the street with them averted their eyes and gave them a wide berth. As far as she could see down toward the harbor, there was not another Seanchan. She did not turn her head the other way. Instead, she stretched and shrugged as if working cold shoulders before settling back as she had been.
Min tossed her halfeaten plum aside, glanced casually up the street, and leaned back on the doorpost. The way was clear there, too, or she would have put her hands on her knees. Min had started rubbing her hands nervously, and Nynaeve realized that Elayne was now bouncing eagerly on her toes.
If they give us away, I’ll thump both their heads. But she knew if they were discovered, it would be the Seanchan who would say what happened to all three of them. She was all too aware that she had no real notion of whether what she planned would work or not. It could easily be her own failure that would give them away. Once again she resolved that if anything went wrong, she would somehow pull attention to herself while Min and Elayne escaped. She had told them to run if anything went wrong, and let them think she would run, too. What she would do then, she did not know. Except I won’t let them take me alive. Please, Light, not that.
Sul’dam and damane came up the street until they were bracketed by the three waiting women. A dozen Falmen walked wide of the linked pair.
Nynaeve gathered all of her anger. Leashed Ones and Leash Holders. They had put their filthy collar on Egwene’s neck, and they would put it on hers, and Elayne’s, if they could. She had made Min tell her how sul’dam enforced their will. She was sure Min had kept some back, the worst, but what she told was enough to heat Nynaeve to whitehot fury. In an instant a white blossom on a black, thorny branch
had opened to light, to saidar, and the One Power filled her. She knew there was a glow around her, for those who could see it. The paleskinned sul’dam gave a start, and the dark damane’s mouth fell open, but Nynaeve gave them no chance. It was only a trickle of the Power that she channeled, but she cracked it, a whip snapping a dust mote out of the air.
The silver collar sprang open and clattered to the cobblestones. Nynaeve heaved a sigh of relief even as she leaped to her feet.
The sul’dam stared at the fallen collar as if at a poisonous snake. The damane put a shaking hand to her throat, but before the woman in the lightningmarked dress had time to move, the damane turned and punched her in the face; the sul’dam’s knees buckled, and she almost fell.
“Good for you!” Elayne shouted. She was already running forward, too, and so was Min.
Before any of them reached the two women, the damane took one startled look around, then ran as hard as she could.
“We won’t hurt you!” Elayne called after her. “We are friends!”
“Be quiet!” Nynaeve hissed. She produced a handful of rags from her pocket and ruthlessly stuffed them into the gaping mouth of the still staggering sul’dam. Min hastily shook out the sack in a cloud of dust and plunged it over the sul’dam’s head, shrouding the woman to the waist. “We are already attracting too much attention.”
It was true, and yet not entirely true. The four of them stood in a rapidly emptying street, but the people who had decided to be elsewhere were avoiding looking at them. Nynaeve had been counting on that — people doing their best to ignore anything that had to do with Seanchan — to gain them a few moments. They would talk eventually, but in whispers; it might take hours for the Seanchan to learn anything had happened.
The hooded woman began to struggle, making ragmuffled shouts from the sack, but Nynaeve and Min threw their arms around her and wrestled her toward a nearby alley. The leash and collar trailed across the cobblestones behind them, clinking.
“Pick it up,” Nynaeve snapped at Elayne. “It won’t bite you!”
Elayne took a deep breath, then gathered the silver metal gingerly, as if she feared it very well might. Nynaeve felt some sympathy, but not much; everything rested on each of them doing as they had planned.
The sul’dam kicked and tried to throw herself free, but between them, Nynaeve and Min forced her along, down the alley into another, slightly wider passage behind houses, to yet another alley and at last into a rough wooden shed that had apparently once housed two horses, by the stalls. Few could afford to keep horses since the Seanchan came, and in a day of Nynaeve’s watching, no one had gone near it. The interior had a musty dustiness that spoke of abandonment. As soon as they were inside, Elayne dropped the silver leash and wiped her hands on some straw.
Nynaeve channeled another trickle, and the bracelet fell to the dirt floor. The sul’dam squalled and hurled herself about.
“Ready?” Nynaeve asked. The other two nodded, and they yanked the sacking off their prisoner.
The sul’dam wheezed, blue eyes teary from dust, but her red face was red as much from anger as from the sack. She darted for the door, but they caught her in the first step. She was not weak, yet they were three, and when they were done the sul’dam was stripped to her shift and lying in one of the stalls, bound hand and foot with stout cord, with another piece of cord to keep her from forcing the gag out.
Soothing a puffy lip, Min eyed the lightningpaneled dress and soft boots they had laid out. “It might fit you, Nynaeve. It won’t fit Elayne or me.” Elayne was picking straw out of her hair.
“I can see that. You were never a choice anyway, not really. They know you too well.” Nynaeve hurriedly removed her own clothes. She tossed them aside and donned the sul’dam’s dress. Min helped with the buttons.
Nynaeve wiggled her toes in the boots; they were a little tight. The dress was tight, too, across the bosom, and loose elsewhere. The hem hung almost to the ground, lower than sul’dam wore them, but the fit would have been even worse on any of the others. Snatching up the bracelet, she took a deep breath and closed it around her left wrist. The ends merged, and it seemed solid. It did not feel like anything except a bracelet. She had been afraid that it would.
“Get the dress, Elayne.” They had dyed a pair of dresses — one of hers and one of Elayne’s — to the gray damane wore, or as close as they could manage, and hidden them here. Elayne did not move except to stare at the open collar and lick her lips. “Elayne, you have to wear it. Too many of them have seen Min for her to do it. I would have worn it, if this dress had fit you instead.” She thought she would have gone mad if she had had to wear the collar; that was why she could not make her voice sharp with Elayne now.
“I know.” Elayne sighed. “I just wish I knew more of what it does to you.” She drew her redgold hair out of the way. “Min, help me, please.” Min began undoing the buttons down the back of her dress.
Nynaeve managed to pick up the silver collar without flinching. “There is one way to find out.” With only a moment of hesitation, she bent and snapped it around the neck of the sul’dam. She deserves it if anyone does, she told herself firmly. “She might be able to tell us something useful, anyway.” The blueeyed woman glanced at the leash trailing from her neck to Nynaeve’s wrist, then glared up at her contemptuously.
“It doesn’t work that way,” Min said, but Nynaeve barely heard.
She was … aware … of the other woman, aware of what she was feeling, cord digging into her ankles and into her wrists behind her back, the rank fish taste of the rags in her mouth, straw pricking her through the thin cloth of her shift. It was not as if she, Nynaeve, felt these things, but in her head was a lump of sensations that
she knew belonged to the sul’dam.
She swallowed, trying to ignore them — they would not go away — and addressed the bound woman. “I won’t hurt you if you answer my questions truthfully. We aren’t Seanchan. But if you lie to me …” She lifted the leash threateningly.
The woman’s shoulders shook, and her mouth curled around the gag in a sneer.
It took Nynaeve a moment to realize the sul’dam was laughing.
Her mouth tightened, but then a thought came to her. That bundle of sensation inside her head seemed to be everything physical that the other woman felt. Experimentally, she tried adding to it.
Eyes suddenly bulging out of her head, the sul’dam gave a cry that the gag only partially stopped. Fanning her hands behind her as if trying to ward off something, she humped through the straw in a vain effort to escape.
Nynaeve gaped, and hastily rid herself of the extra feelings she had added. The sul’dam sagged, weeping.
“What … What did you … do to her?” Elayne asked faintly. Min only stared, her mouth hanging open.
Nynaeve answered gruffly. “The same thing Sheriam did to you when you threw a cup at Marith.” Light, but this is a filthy thing.
Elayne gulped loudly. “Oh.”
“But an a’dam isn’t supposed to work that way,” Min said. “They always claimed it won’t work on any woman who cannot channel.”
“I do not care how it is supposed to work, so long as it does.” Nynaeve seized the silver metal leash right where it joined the collar, and pulled the woman up enough to look her in the eyes. Frightened eyes, she saw. “You listen to me, and listen well. I want answers, and if I don’t get them, I’ll make you think I have had the hide off you.” Stark terror rolled across the woman’s face, and Nynaeve’s stomach heaved as she suddenly realized the sul’dam had taken her literally. If she thinks I can, it’s because she knows. That is what these leashes are for. She took firm hold of herself to stop from clawing the bracelet off her wrist. Instead, she hardened her face. “Are you ready to answer me? Or do you need more convincing?”
The frantic headshaking was answer enough. When Nynaeve removed the gag, the woman only paused to swallow once before babbling, “I will not report you. I swear it. Only take this from my neck. I have gold. Take it. I swear, I will never tell anyone.”
“Be quiet,” Nynaeve snapped, and the woman shut her mouth immediately. “What is your name?”
“Seta. Please. I will answer you, but please take — it — off! If anyone sees it on me …” Seta’s eyes rolled down to stare at the leash, then squeezed shut. “Please?” she whispered.
Nynaeve realized something. She could never make Elayne wear that collar.
“Best we get on with it,” Elayne said firmly. She was down to her shift, too, now. “Give me a moment to put this other dress on, and — ”
“Put your own clothes back on,” Nynaeve said.
“Someone has to pretend to be a damane,” Elayne said, “or we will never reach Egwene. That dress fits you, and it cannot be Min. That leaves me.”
“I said put your clothes on. We have somebody to be our Leashed One.” Nynaeve tugged at the leash that held Seta, and the sul’dam gasped.
“No! No, please! If anyone sees me —” She cut off at Nynaeve’s cold stare.
“As far as I am concerned, you are worse than a murderer, worse than a Darkfriend. I can’t think of anything worse than you. The fact that I have to wear this thing on my wrist, to be the same as you for even an hour, sickens me. So if you think there is anything I’ll balk at doing to you, think again. You don’t want to be seen? Good. Neither do we. No one really looks at a damane, though. As long as you keep your head down the way a Leashed One is supposed to, no one will even notice you. But you had better do the best you can to make sure the rest of us aren’t noticed, either. If we are, you surely will be seen, and if that is not enough to hold you, I promise you I’ll make you curse the first kiss your mother ever gave your father. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes,” Seta said faintly. “I swear it.”
Nynaeve had to remove the bracelet in order for them to slide Elayne’s graydyed dress down the leash and over Seta’s head. It did not fit the woman well, being loose at the bosom and tight across the hips, but Nynaeve’s would have been as bad, and too short besides. Nynaeve hoped people really did not look at damane. She put the bracelet back on reluctantly.
Elayne gathered up Nynaeve’s clothes, wrapped the other dyed dress around them, and made a bundle, a bundle for a woman in farm clothes to be carrying as she followed a sul’dam and a damane. “Gawyn will eat his heart out when he hears about this,” she said, and laughed. It sounded forced.
Nynaeve looked at her closely, then at Min. It was time for the dangerous part. “Are you ready?”
Elayne’s smile faded. “I am ready.” “Ready,” Min said curtly.
“Where are you … we … going?” Seta said, quickly adding, “If I may ask?” “Into the lions’ den,” Elayne told her.
“To dance with the Dark One,” Min said.
Nynaeve sighed and shook her head. “What they are trying to say is, we are going where all the damane are kept, and we intend to free one of them.”
Seta was still gaping in astonishment when they hustled her out of the shed.
Bayle Domon watched the rising sun from the deck of his ship. The docks were already beginning to bustle, though the streets leading up from the harbor stood largely empty. A gull perched on a piling stared at him; gulls had pitiless eyes.
“Are you sure about this, Captain?” Yarin asked. “If the Seanchan wonder what
we’re all doing aboard — ”
“You just make certain there do be an axe near every mooring line,” Domon said curtly. “And, Yarin? Do any man try to cut a line before those women are aboard, I will split his skull.”
“What if they don’t come, Captain? What if it’s Seanchan soldiers instead?” “Settle your bowels, man! If soldiers come, I will make a run for the harbor
mouth, and the Light have mercy on us all. But until soldiers do come, I mean to wait for those women. Now go look as if you are no doing anything.”
Domon turned back to peering up into the town, toward where the damane were held. His fingers drummed a nervous tattoo on the railing.
The breeze from the sea brought the smell of breakfast cook fires to Rand’s nose, and tried to flap at his motheaten cloak, but he held it closed with one hand as Red neared the town. There had not been a coat to fit him in the clothes they had found, and he thought it best to keep the fine silver embroidery on his sleeves and the herons on his collar hidden. The Seanchan attitude toward conquered people carrying weapons might not extend to those with heronmark swords, either.
The first shadows of morning stretched out ahead of him. He could just see Hurin riding in among the wagon yards and horse lots. Only one or two men moved among the lines of merchant wagons, and they wore the long aprons of wheelwrights or blacksmiths. Ingtar, the first in, was already out of sight. Perrin and Mat followed behind Rand at spaced intervals. He did not look back to check on them. There was not supposed to be anything to connect them; five men coming into Falme at an early hour, but not together.
The horse lots surrounded him, horses already crowding the fences, waiting to be fed. Hurin put his head out from between two stables, their doors still closed and barred, saw Rand and motioned to him before ducking back. Rand turned the bay stallion that way.
Hurin stood holding his horse by the reins. He had on one of the long vests instead of his coat, and despite the heavy cloak that hid his short sword and swordbreaker, he shivered with the cold. “Lord Ingtar’s back there,” he said, nodding down the narrow passage. “He says we’ll leave the horses here and go the rest of the way on foot.” As Rand dismounted, the sniffer added, “Fain went right down that street, Lord Rand. I can almost smell it from here.”
Rand led Red down the way to where Ingtar had already tied his own behind the stable. The Shienaran did not look very much like a lord in a dirty fleece coat with holes worn through the leather in several places, and his sword looked odd belted over it. His eyes had a feverish intensity.
Tying Red alongside Ingtar’s stallion, Rand hesitated over his saddlebags. He had not wanted to leave the banner behind. He did not think any of the soldiers would have gone into the bags, but he could not say the same for Verin, nor predict what she would do if she found the banner. Still, it made him uneasy to have it with him. He decided to leave the saddlebags tied behind his saddle.
Mat joined them, and a few moments later Hurin came with Perrin. Mat wore baggy trousers stuffed into the tops of his boots, and Perrin his tooshort cloak. Rand thought they all looked like villainous beggars, but they had all passed largely unnoticed in the villages.
“Now,” Ingtar said, “Let us see what we see.”
They strolled out to the dirt street as if they had no particular destination in mind, talking among themselves, and ambled past the wagon yards onto sloping cobblestone streets. Rand was not sure what he himself said, much less anyone else. Ingtar’s plan had been for them to look like any other group of men walking together, but there were all too few people outofdoors. Five men made a crowd in those cold morning streets.
They walked in a bunch, but it was Hurin who led them, sniffing the air and turning up this street and down that. The rest turned when he did, as if that was what they had intended all along. “He’s crisscrossed this town,” Hurin muttered, grimacing. “His smell is everywhere, and it stinks so, it’s hard to tell old from new. At least I know he’s still here. Some of it cannot be older than a day or two, I’m sure. I am sure,” he added less doubtfully.
A few more people began to appear, here a fruit peddler setting his wares on tables, there a fellow hurrying along with a big roll of parchments under his arm and a sketchboard slung across his back, a knifesharpener oiling the shaft of his grinding wheel on its barrow. Two women walked by, headed the other way, one with downcast eyes and a silver collar around her neck, the other, in a dress worked with lightning bolts, holding a coiled silver leash.
Rand’s breath caught; it was an effort not to look back at them.
“Was that…?” Mat’s eyes were open wide, staring out of the hollows of his eye sockets. “Was that a damane?”
“That is the way they were described,” Ingtar said curtly. “Hurin, are we going to walk every street in this Shadowcursed town?”
“He’s been everywhere, Lord Ingtar,” Hurin said. “His stench is everywhere.” They had come into an area where the stone houses were three and four stories high, as big as inns.
They rounded a corner, and Rand was taken aback by the sight of a score of Seanchan soldiers standing guard in front of a big house on one side of the street — and by the sight of two women in lightningmarked dresses talking on the doorsteps of another across from it. A banner flapped in the wind over the house the soldiers protected; a golden hawk clutching lightning bolts. Nothing marked out the house where the women talked except themselves. The officer’s armor was resplendent in red and black and gold, his helmet gilded and painted to look like a spider’s head. Then Rand saw the two big, leatheryskinned shapes crouched among the soldiers and missed a step.
Grolm. There was no mistaking those wedgeshaped heads with their three eyes. They can’t be. Perhaps he was really asleep, and this was all a nightmare. Maybe we
haven’t even left for Falme yet.
The others stared at the beasts as they walked past the guarded house. “What in the name of the Light are they?” Mat asked.
Hurin’s eyes seemed as big as his face. “Lord Rand, they’re… Those are…” “It doesn’t matter,” Rand said. After a moment, Hurin nodded.
“We are here for the Horn,“ Ingtar said, ”not to stare at Seanchan monsters.
Concentrate on finding Fain, Hurin.”
The soldiers barely glanced at them. The street ran straight down to the round harbor. Rand could see ships anchored down there; tall, squarelooking ships with high masts, small in that distance.
“He’s been here a lot.” Hurin scrubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. “The street stinks of layer on layer of him. I think he might have been here as late as yesterday, Lord Ingtar. Maybe last night.”
Mat suddenly clutched his coat with both hands. “It’s in there,” he whispered. He turned arond and walked backwards, peering at the tall house with the banner. “The dagger is in there. I didn’t even notice it before, because of those—those things, but I can feel it.”
Perrin poked a finger in his ribs. “Well stop that before they start wondering why you’re goggling at them like a fool.”
Rand glanced over his shoulder. The officer was looking after them.
Mat turned around sullenly. “Are we just going to keep on walking? It’s in there, I tell you.”
“The Horn is what we are after,” Ingtar growled. “I mean to find Fain and make him tell me where it is.” He did not slow down.
Mat said nothing, but his entire face was a plea.
I have to find Fain, too, Rand thought. I have to. But when he looked at Mat’s face, he said, “Ingtar, if the dagger is in that house, Fain likely is too. I can’t see him letting the dagger or the Horn, either one, far out of his sight.”
Ingtar stopped. After a moment, he said, “It could be, but we will never know from out here.”
“We could watch for him to come out,” Rand said. “If he comes out at this time of the morning, then he spent the night there. And I’ll wager where he sleeps is where the Horn is. If he does come out, we can be back to Verin by midday and have a plan made before nightfall.”
“I do not mean to wait for Verin,” Ingtar said, “and neither will I wait for night. I’ve waited too long already. I mean to have the Horn in my hands before the sun sets again.”
“But we don’t know, Ingtar.”
“I know the dagger is in there,” Mat said.
“And Hurin says Fain was here last night.” Ingtar overrode Hurin’s attempts to qualify that. “It is the first time you have been willing to say anything closer than a day or two. We are going to take back the Horn now. Now!”
“How?” Rand said. The officer was no longer watching them, but there were still at least twenty soldiers in front of the building. And a pair of grolm. This is madness. There can’t be grolm here. Thinking it did not make the beasts disappear, though.
“There seem to be gardens behind all these houses,” Ingtar said, looking around thoughtfully. “If one of those alleys runs by a garden wall… Sometimes men are so busy guarding their front, they neglect their back. Come.” He headed straight for the nearest narrow passage between two of the tall houses. Hurin and Mat trotted right after him.
Rand exchanged looks with Perrin — his curlyhaired friend gave a resigned shrug — and they followed, too.
The alley was barely wider than their shoulders, but it ran between high garden walls until it crossed another alley big enough for a pushbarrow or small cart. That was cobblestoned, too, but only the backs of buildings looked down on it, shuttered windows and expanses of stone, and the high back walls of gardens overtopped by nearly leafless branches.
Ingtar led them along that alley until they were opposite the waving banner. Taking his steelbacked gauntlets from under his coat, he put them on and leaped up to catch the top of the wall, then pulled himself up enough to peek over. He reported in a low monotone. “Trees. Flower beds. Walks. There isn’t a soul to be — Wait! A guard. One man. He isn’t even wearing his helmet. Count to fifty, then follow me.” He swung a boot to the top of the wall and rolled over inside, disappearing before Rand could say a word.
Mat began to count slowly. Rand held his breath. Perrin fingered his axe, and Hurin gripped the hilts of his weapons.
“… fifty.” Hurin scrambled up and over the wall before the word was well out of Mat’s mouth. Perrin went right beside him.
Rand thought Mat might need some help—he looked so pale and drawn—but he gave no sign of it as he scrambled up. The stone wall provided plenty of handholds, and moments later Rand was crouched on the inside with Mat and Perrin and Hurin. The garden was in the grip of deep autumn, flower beds empty except for a few evergreen shrubs, tree branches nearly bare. The wind that rippled the banner stirred dust across the flagstone walks. For a moment Rand could not find Ingtar. Then he saw the Shienaran, flat against the back wall of the house, motioning them on with
sword in hand.
Rand ran in a crouch, more conscious of the windows blankly peering down from the house than of his friends running beside him. It was a relief to press himself against the house beside Ingtar.
Mat kept muttering to himself, “It’s in there. I can feel it.” “Where is the guard?” Rand whispered.
“Dead,” Ingtar said. “The man was overconfident. He never even tried to raise a cry. I hid his body under one of those bushes.”
Rand stared at him. The Seanchan was overconfident? The only thing that kept him from going back right then was Mat’s anguished murmurs.
“We are almost there.” Ingtar sounded as if he were speaking to himself, too. “Almost there. Come.”
Rand drew his sword as they started up the back steps. He was aware of Hurin unlimbering his shortbladed sword and notched swordbreaker, and Perrin reluctantly drawing his axe from the loop on his belt.
The hallway inside was narrow. A halfopen door to their right smelled like a kitchen. Several people were moving about in that room; there was an indistinguishable sound of voices, and occasionally the soft clatter of a pot lid.
Ingtar motioned Mat to lead, and they crept by the door. Rand watched the narrowing opening until they were around the next corner.
A slender young woman with dark hair came out of a door ahead of them, carrying a tray with one cup. They all froze. She turned the other way without looking in their direction. Rand’s eyes widened. Her long white robe was all but transparent. She vanished around another corner.
“Did you see that?” Mat said hoarsely. “You could see right through —”
Ingtar clapped a hand over Mat’s mouth and whispered, “Keep your mind on why we are here. Now find it. Find the Horn for me.”
Mat pointed to a narrow set of winding stairs. They climbed a flight, and he led them toward the front of the house. The furnishings in the hallways were sparse, and seemed all curves. Here and there a tapestry hung on a wall, or a folding screen stood against it, each painted with a few birds on branches, or a flower or two. A river flowed across one screen, but aside from rippling water and narrow strips of riverbank, the rest of it was blank.
All around them Rand could hear the sounds of people stirring, slippers scuffing on the floor, soft murmurs of speech. He did not see anyone, but he could imagine it all too well, someone stepping into the hall to see five slinking men with weapons in their hands, shouting an alarm…
“In there,” Mat whispered, pointing to a big pair of sliding doors ahead, carved handholds their only ornamentation. “At least, the dagger is.”
Ingtar looked at Hurin; the sniffer slid the doors open, and Ingtar leaped through with his sword ready. There was no one there. Rand and the others hurried inside, and Hurin quickly closed the doors behind them.
Painted screens hid all the walls and any other doors, and veiled the light coming through windows that had to overlook the street. At one end of the big room stood a tall, circular cabinet. At the other was a small table, the lone chair on the carpet turned to face it. Rand heard Ingtar gasp, but he only felt like heaving a sigh of relief. The curling golden Horn of Valere sat on a stand on the table. Below it, the ruby in the hilt of the ornate dagger caught the light.
Mat darted to the table, snatching Horn and dagger. “We have it,” he crowed, shaking the dagger in his fist. “We have both of them.”
“Not so loud,” Perrin said with a wince. “We don’t have them out of here, yet.” His hands were busy on the haft of his axe; they seemed to want to be holding something else.
“The Horn of Valere.” There was sheer awe in Ingtar’s voice. He touched the Horn hesitantly, tracing a finger along the silver script inlaid around the bell and mouthing the translation, then pulled his hand back with a shiver of excitement. “It is. By the Light, it is! I am saved.”
Hurin was moving the screens that hid the windows. He shoved the last out of his way and peered into the street below. “Those soldiers are all still there, looking like they’ve took root.” He shuddered. “Those … things, too.”
Rand went to join him. The two beasts were grolm; there was no denying it. “How did they …” As he lifted his eyes from the street, words died. He was looking over a wall into the garden of the big house across the street. He could see where further walls had been torn down, joining other gardens to it. Women sat on benches there, or strolled along the walks, always in pairs. Women linked, neck to wrist, by silver leashes. One of the women with a collar around her neck looked up. He was too far to make out her face clearly, but for an instant it seemed that their eyes met, and he knew. The blood drained from his face. “Egwene,” he breathed.
“What are you talking about?” Mat said. “Egwene is safe in Tar Valon. I wish I were.”
“She’s here,” Rand said. The two women were turning, walking toward one of the buildings on the far side of the joined gardens. “She is there, right across the street. Oh, Light, she’s wearing one of those collars!”
“Are you sure?” Perrin said. He came to peer from the window. “I don’t see her, Rand. And — and I could recognize her if I did, even at this distance.”
“I am sure,” Rand said. The two women disappeared into one of the houses that faced the next street over. His stomach was twisted into a knot. She is supposed to be safe. She’s supposed to be in the White Tower. “I have to get her out. The rest of you —”
“So!” The slurring voice was as soft as the sound of the doors sliding in their tracks. “You are not who I expected.”
For a brief moment, Rand stared. The tall man with the shaven head who had stepped into the room wore a long, trailing blue robe, and his fingernails were so long that Rand wondered if he could handle anything. The two men standing obsequiously behind him had only half their dark hair shaved, the rest hanging in a dark braid down each man’s right cheek. One of them cradled a sheathed sword in his arms.
It was only a moment he had for staring, then screens toppled to reveal, at either end of the room, a doorway crowded with four or five Seanchan soldiers, bareheaded but armored, and swords in hand.
“You are in the presence of the High Lord Turak,” the man who carried the sword began, staring at Rand and the others angrily, but a brief motion of a finger
with a bluelacquered nail cut him short. The other servant stepped forward with a bow and began undoing Turak’s robe.
“When one of my guards was found dead,” the shavenheaded man said calmly, “I suspected the man who calls himself Fain. I have been suspicious of him since Huon died so mysteriously, and he has always wanted that dagger.” He held out his arms for the servant to remove his robe. Despite his soft, almostsinging voice, hard muscles roped his arms and smooth chest, which was bare to a blue sash holding wide, white trousers that seemed made of hundreds of pleats. He sounded uninterested, and indifferent to the blades in their hands. “And now to find strangers with not only the dagger, but the Horn. It will please me to kill one or two of you for disturbing my morning. Those who survive will tell me of who you are and why you came.” He stretched out a hand without looking — the man with the scabbarded sword laid the hilt in the hand — and drew the heavy, curved blade. “I would not have the Horn damaged.”
Turak gave no other signal, but one of the soldiers stalked into the room and reached for the Horn. Rand did not know whether he should laugh, or not. The man wore armor, but his arrogant face seemed as oblivious to their weapons as Turak was.
Mat put an end to it. As the Seanchan reached out his hand, Mat slashed it with the rubyhilted dagger. With a curse, the soldier leaped back, looking surprised. And then he screamed. It chilled the room, held everyone where they stood in astonishment. The trembling hand he held up in front of his face was turning black, darkness creeping outwards from the bleeding gash that crossed his palm. He opened his mouth wide and howled, clawing at his arm, then his shoulder. Kicking, jerking, he toppled to the floor, thrashing on the silken carpet, shrieking as his face grew black and his dark eyes bulged like overripe plums, until a dark, swollen tongue gagged him. He twitched, choking raggedly, heels drumming, and did not move again. Every bit of his exposed flesh was black as putrid pitch and looked ready to burst at a touch.
Mat licked his lips and swallowed; his grip shifted uneasily on the dagger. Even Turak stared, openmouthed.
“You see,” Ingtar said softly, “we are no easy meat.” Suddenly he leaped over the corpse, toward the soldiers still goggling at what was left of the man who had stood at their shoulders only moments before. “Shinowa!” he cried. “Follow me!” Hurin leaped after him, and the soldiers fell back before them, the sounds of steel on steel rising.
The Seanchan at the other end of the room started forward as Ingtar moved, but then they were falling back, too, before Mat’s thrusting dagger even more than from the axe Perrin swung with wordless snarls.
In the space of heartbeats, Rand stood alone, facing Turak, who held his blade upright before him. His moment of shock was gone. His eyes were sharp on Rand’s face; the black and swollen body of one of his soldiers might as well not have
existed. It did not seem to exist for the two servants, either, any more than Rand and his sword existed, or the sounds of fighting, fading now from the rooms to either side out into the house. The servants had begun calmly folding Turak’s robe as soon as the High Lord took his sword, and had not looked up even for the dead soldier’s shrieks; now they knelt beside the door and watched with impassive eyes.
“I suspected it might come to you and me.” Turak spun his blade easily, a full circle one way, then the other, his longnailed fingers moving delicately on the hilt. His fingernails did not seem to hamper him at all. “You are young. Let us see what is required to earn the heron on this side of the ocean.”
Suddenly Rand saw. Standing tall on Turak’s blade was a heron. With the little training he had, he was facetoface with a real blademaster. Hastily he tossed the fleecelined cloak aside, ridding himself of weight and encumbrance. Turak waited.
Rand desperately wanted to seek the void. It was plain he would need every shred of ability he could muster, and even then his chances of leaving the room alive would be small. He had to leave alive. Egwene was almost close enough for him to shout to her, and he had to free her, somehow. But saidin waited in the void. The thought made his heart leap with eagerness at the same time that it turned his stomach. But just as close as Egwene were those other women. Damane. If he touched saidin, and if he could not stop himself channeling, they would know, Verin had told him. Know and wonder. So many, so close. He might survive Turak only to die facing damane, and he could not die before Egwene was free. Rand raised his blade.
Turak glided toward him on silent feet. Blade rang on blade like hammer on anvil.
From the first it was clear to Rand that the man was testing him, pushing only hard enough to see what he could do, then pushing a little harder, then just a little harder still. It was quick wrists and quick feet that kept Rand alive as much as skill. Without the void, he was always half a heartbeat behind. The tip of Turak’s heavy sword made a stinging trench just under his left eye. A flap of coat sleeve hung away from his shoulder, the darker for being wet. Under a neat slash beneath his right arm, precise as a tailor’s cut, he could feel warm dampness spreading down his ribs.
There was disappointment on the High Lord’s face. He stepped back with a gesture of disgust. “Where did you find that blade, boy? Or do they here truly award the heron to those no more skilled than you? No matter. Make your peace. It is time to die.” He came on again.
The void enveloped Rand. Saidin flowed toward him, glowing with the promise of the One Power, but he ignored it. It was no more difficult than ignoring a barbed thorn twisting in his flesh. He refused to be filled with the Power, refused to be one with the male half of the True Source. He was one with the sword in his hands, one with the floor beneath his feet, one with the walls. One with Turak.
He recognized the forms the High Lord used; they were a little different from
what he had been taught, but not enough. The Swallow Takes Flight met Parting the Silk. Moon on the Water met The Wood Grouse Dances. Ribbon in the Air met Stones Falling From the Cliff. They moved about the room as in a dance, and their music was steel against steel.
Disappointment and disgust faded from Turak’s dark eyes, replaced by surprise, then concentration. Sweat appeared on the High Lord’s face as he pressed Rand harder. Lightning of Three Prongs met Leaf on the Breeze.
Rand’s thoughts floated outside the void, apart from himself, hardly noticed. It was not enough. He faced a blademaster, and with the void and every ounce of his skill he was barely managing to hold his own. Barely. He had to end it before Turak finally did. Saidin? No! Sometimes it is necessary to Sheath the Sword in your own flesh. But that would not help Egwene, either. He had to end it now. Now.
Turak’s eyes widened as Rand glided forward. So far he had only defended; now he attacked, all out. The Boar Rushes Down the Mountain. Every movement of his blade was an attempt to reach the High Lord; now all Turak could do was retreat and defend, down the length of the room, almost to the door.
In an instant, while Turak still tried to face the Boar, Rand charged. The River Undercuts the Bank. He dropped to one knee, blade slashing across. He did not need Turak’s gasp, or the feel of resistance to his cut to know. He heard two thumps and turned his head, knowing what he would see. He looked down the length of his blade, wet and red, to where the High Lord lay, sword tumbled from his limp hand, a dark dampness staining the birds woven in the carpet under his body. Turak’s eyes were still open, but already filmed with death.
The void shook. He had faced Trollocs before, faced Shadowspawn. Never before had he confronted a human being with a sword except in practice or bluff. I just killed a man. The void shook, and saidin tried to fill him.
Desperately he clawed free, breathing hard as he looked around. He gave a start when he saw the two servants still kneeling beside the door. He had forgotten them, and now he did not know what to do about them. Neither man appeared armed, yet all they had to do was shout …
They never looked at him, or at each other. Instead, they stared silently at the High Lord’s body. They produced daggers from under their robes, and he tightened his grip on the sword, but each man placed the point to his own breast. “From birth to death,” they intoned in unison, “I serve the Blood.” And plunged the daggers into their own hearts. They folded forward almost peacefully, heads to the floor as if bowing deeply to their lord.
Rand stared at them in disbelief. Mad, he thought. Maybe I will go mad, but they already were.
He was getting to his feet shakily when Ingtar and the others came running back. They all bore nicks and cuts; the leather of Ingtar’s coat was stained in more than one place. Mat still had the Horn and his dagger, its blade darker than the ruby in its hilt. Perrin’s axe was red, too, and he looked as if he might be sick at any
moment.
“You dealt with them?” Ingtar said, looking at the bodies. “Then we’re done, if no alarm is given. Those fools never cried for help, not once.”
“I will see if the guards heard anything,” Hurin said, and darted for the window. Mat shook his head. “Rand, these people are crazy. I know I’ve said that before, but these people really are. Those servants …” Rand held his breath, wondering if they had all killed themselves. Mat said, “Whenever they saw us fighting, they fell on their knees, put their faces to the floor, and wrapped their arms around their heads. They never moved, or cried out; never tried to help the soldiers, or give an
alarm. They’re still there, as far as I know.”
“I would not count on them staying on their knees,” Ingtar said dryly. “We are leaving now, as fast as we can run.”
“You go,” Rand said. “Egwene —”
“You fool!” Ingtar snapped. “We have what we came for. The Horn of Valere. The hope of salvation. What can one girl count, even if you love her, alongside the Horn, and what it stands for?”
“The Dark One can have the Horn for all I care! What does finding the Horn count if I abandon Egwene to this? If I did that, the Horn couldn’t save me. The Creator couldn’t save me. I would damn myself.”
Ingtar stared at him, his face unreadable. “You mean that exactly, don’t you?” “Something’s happening out here,” Hurin said urgently. “A man just came
running up, and they’re all milling like fish in a bucket. Wait. The officer is coming inside!”
“Go!” Ingtar said. He tried to take the Horn, but Mat was already running. Rand hesitated, but Ingtar grabbed his arm and pulled him into the hall. The others were streaming after Mat; Perrin only gave Rand one pained look before he went. “You cannot save the girl if you stand here and die!”
He ran with them. Part of him hated himself for running, but another part whispered, I’ll come back. I’ll free her somehow.
By the time they reached the bottom of the narrow, winding staircase, he could hear a man’s deep voice raised in the front part of the house, angrily demanding that someone stand up and speak. A serving girl in her nearly transparent robe knelt at the bottom of the stairs, and a grayhaired woman all in white wool, with a long floury apron, knelt by the kitchen door. They were both exactly as Mat had described, faces to the floor and arms wrapped around their heads, and they did not stir a hair as Rand and the others hurried by. He was relieved to see the motions of breathing.
They crossed the garden at a dead run, climbing over the back wall rapidly. Ingtar cursed when Mat tossed the Horn of Valere ahead of him, and tried again to take it when he dropped outside, but Mat snatched it up with a quick, “It isn’t even scratched,” and scampered up the alley.
More shouts rose from the house they had just left; a woman screamed, and
someone began tolling a gong.
I will come back for her. Somehow. Rand sped after the others as fast as he could.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 46
(RubyHilted Dagger)
To Come Out of the Shadow
Nynaeve and the others heard distant shouts as they approached the buildings where the damane were housed. The crowds were beginning to pick up, and there was a nervousness to the people in the street, an extra quickness to their step, an extra wariness in the way they glanced past Nynaeve, in her lightningpaneled dress, and the woman she held by a silver leash.
Shifting her bundle nervously, Elayne peered toward the noise of shouts, one street over, where the golden hawk clutching lightning rippled in the wind. “What is happening?”
“Nothing to do with us,” Nynaeve said firmly.
“You hope,” Min added. “And so do I” She increased her pace, hurrying up the steps ahead of the others, and disappeared inside the tall stone house.
Nynaeve shortened her grip on the leash. “Remember, Seta, you want us to make it through this safely as much as we do.”
“I do,” the Seanchan woman said fervently. She kept her chin on her chest, to hide her face. “I will cause you no trouble, I swear.”
As they turned up the gray stone steps, a sul’dam and a damane appeared at the head of the stairs, coming down as they went up. After one glance to make sure the woman in the collar was not Egwene, Nynaeve did not look at them again. She used the a’dam to keep Seta close by her side, so if the damane sensed the ability to channel in one of them, she would think it was Seta. She felt sweat trickling down her spine, though, until she realized they were paying her no more attention than she gave them. All they saw was a dress with lightning panels and a gray dress, the women wearing them linked by the silver length of an a’dam. Just another Leash Holder with a Leashed One, and a local girl hurrying along behind with a bundle belonging to the sul’dam.
Nynaeve pushed open the door, and they went in.
Whatever the excitement beneath Turak’s banner, it did not extend here, not yet. There were only women moving about in the entry hall, all easily placed by their dress. Three graydressed damane, with sul’dam wearing the bracelets. Two women in dresses paneled with forked lightning stood talking, and three crossed the hall alone. Four dressed like Min, in plain dark woolens, hurried on their way with trays. Min stood waiting down the entry hall when they went in; she glanced at them once, then started deeper into the house. Nynaeve guided Seta down the hall after Min, with Elayne scurrying along in their wake. No one gave them a second glance, it seemed to Nynaeve, but she thought the trickle of sweat down her backbone might become a river soon. She kept Seta moving quickly so no one would have a chance for a good look — or worse, a question. With her eyes fixed on her toes, Seta needed so little urging that Nynaeve thought she would have been running if
not for the physical restraint of the leash.
Near the back of the house, Min took a narrow stairs that spiraled upwards. Nynaeve pushed Seta up it ahead of her, all the way to the fourth floor. The ceilings were low, there, the halls empty and silent except for the soft sounds of weeping. Weeping seemed to fit the air of the chilly halls.
“This place …” Elayne began, then shook her head. “It feels …”
“Yes, it does,” Nynaeve said grimly. She glared at Seta, who kept her face down. A pallor of fear made the Seanchan woman’s skin paler than it was normally.
Wordlessly, Min opened a door and went in, and they followed. The room beyond had been divided into smaller rooms by roughly made wooden walls, with a narrow hallway running to a window. Nynaeve crowded after Min as she hurried to the last door on the right and pushed in.
A slender, darkhaired girl in gray sat at a small table with her head resting on folded arms, but even before she looked up, Nynaeve knew it was Egwene. A ribbon of shining metal ran from the silver collar around Egwene’s neck to a bracelet hanging on a peg on the wall. Her eyes widened at the sight of them, her mouth working silently. As Elayne closed the door, Egwene gave a sudden giggle, and pressed her hands to her mouth to stifle it. The tiny room was more than crowded with all of them in it.
“I know I’m not dreaming,” she said in a quivering voice, “because if I was dreaming, you’d be Rand and Galad on tall stallions. I have been dreaming. I thought Rand was here. I couldn’t see him, but I thought …” Her voice trailed off.
“If you’d rather wait for them …” Min said dryly.
“Oh, no. No, you are all beautiful, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Where did you come from? How did you do it? That dress, Nynaeve, and the a’dam, and who is …” She gave an abrupt squeak. “That’s Seta. How … ?” Her voice hardened so that Nynaeve barely recognized it. “I’d like to put her in a pot of boiling water.” Seta had her eyes squeezed shut, and her hands clutched her skirts; she was trembling.
“What have they done to you?” Elayne exclaimed. “What could they do to make you want something like that?”
Egwene never took her eyes off the Seanchan woman. “I’d like to make her feel it. That’s what she did to me, made me feel like I was neck deep in …” She shuddered. “You do not know what it is like wearing one of these, Elayne. You don’t know what they can do to you. I can never decide whether Seta is worse than Renna, but they’re all hateful.”
“I think I know,” Nynaeve said quietly. She could feel the sweat soaking Seta’s skin, the cold tremors that shook her limbs: The yellowhaired Seanchan was terrified. It was all she could do not to make Seta’s terrors come true then and there.
“Can you take this off of me?” Egwene asked, touching the collar. “You must be able to if you could put that one on — ”
Nynaeve channeled, a pinpoint trickle. The collar on Egwene’s neck provided
anger enough, and if it had not, Seta’s fear, the knowledge of how deserved it truly was, and her own knowledge of what she wanted to do to the woman, would have done it. The collar sprang open and fell away from Egwene’s throat. With an expression of wonder, Egwene touched her neck.
“Put on my dress and coat,” Nynaeve told her. Elayne was already unbundling the clothes on the bed. “We will walk out of here, and no one will even notice you.” She considered holding her contact with saidar — she was certainly angry enough, and it felt so wonderful — but, reluctantly, she let it go. This was the one place in Falme where there was no chance of a sul’dam and damane coming to investigate if they sensed someone channeling, but they would certainly do so if a damane saw a woman she thought was a sul’dam with the glow of channeling around her. “I don’t know why you aren’t gone already. Alone here, even if you could not figure out how to get that thing off you, you could have just picked it up and run.”
As Min and Elayne hurriedly helped her change into Nynaeve’s old dress, Egwene explained about moving the bracelet from where a sul’dam left it, and how channeling made her sick unless a sul’dam wore the bracelet. Just that morning she had discovered how the collar could be opened without the Power — and found that touching the catch with the intention of opening it made her hand knot into uselessness. She could touch it as much as she wanted so long as she did not think of undoing the catch; the merest hint of that, though, and …Nynaeve felt sick herself. The bracelet on her wrist made her sick. It was too horrible. She wanted it off her wrist before she learned more about a’dam, before she perhaps learned something that would make her feel soiled forever for having worn it.
Unfastening the silver cuff, she pulled it loose, snapped it closed, and hung it on one of the pegs. “Don’t think that means you can shout for help now.” She shook a fist under Seta’s nose. “I can still make you wish you were never born if you open your mouth, and I do not need that bloody … thing.”
“You — you do not mean to leave me here with it,” Seta said in a whisper. “You cannot. Tie me. Gag me so I cannot give an alarm. Please!”
Egwene gave a mirthless laugh. “Leave it on her. She won’t call for help even without a gag. You had better hope whoever finds you will remove the a’dam and keep your little secret, Seta. Your dirty secret, isn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?” Elayne said.
“I have thought about it a great deal,” Egwene said. “Thinking was all I could do when they left me alone up here. Sul’dam claim they develop an affinity after a few years. Most of them can tell when a woman is channeling whether they’re leashed to her or not. I wasn’t sure, but Seta proves it.”
“Proves what?” Elayne demanded, and then her eyes widened in sudden realization, but Egwene went on.
“Nynaeve, a’dam only work on women who can channel. Don’t you see? Sul’dam can channel the same as damane.” Seta groaned through her teeth, shaking her head in violent denial. “A sul’dam would die before admitting she could
channel, even if she knew, and they never train the ability, so they cannot do anything with it, but they can channel.”
“I told you,” Min said. “That collar shouldn’t have worked on her.” She was doing up the last buttons down Egwene’s back. “Any woman who couldn’t channel would be able to beat you silly while you tried to control her with it.”
“How can that be?” Nynaeve said. “I thought the Seanchan put leashes on any woman who can channel.”
“All of those they find,” Egwene told her. “But those they can find are like you, and me, and Elayne. We were born with it, ready to channel whether anyone taught us or not. But what about Seanchan girls who aren’t born with the ability, but who could be taught? Not just any woman can become a — a Leash Holder. Renna thought she was being friendly telling me about it. It is apparently a feastday in Seanchan villages when the sul’dam come to test the girls. They want to find any like you and me, and leash them, but they let all the others put on a bracelet to see if they can feel what the poor woman in the collar feels. Those who can are taken away to be trained as sul’dam. They are the women who could be taught.”
Seta was moaning under her breath. “No. No. No.” Over and over again.
“I know she is horrible,” Elayne said, “but I feel as if I should help her somehow. She could be one of our sisters, only the Seanchan have twisted it all.”
Nynaeve opened her mouth to say they had better worry about helping themselves, and the door opened.
“What is going on here?” Renna demanded, stepping into the room. “An audience?” She stared at Nynaeve, hands on hips. “I never gave permission for anyone else to link with my pet, Tuli. I do not even know who you — ” Her eyes fell on Egwene — Egwene wearing Nynaeve’s dress instead of damane gray. Egwene with no collar around her throat — and her eyes grew as big as saucers. She never had a chance to yell.
Before anyone else could move, Egwene snatched the pitcher from her washstand and smashed it into Renna’s midriff. The pitcher shattered, and the sul’dam lost all her breath in a gurgling gasp and doubled over. As she fell, Egwene leaped on her with a snarl, shoving her flat, grabbing for the collar she had worn where it still lay on the floor, snapping it around the other woman’s neck. With one jerk on the silver leash, Egwene pulled the bracelet from the peg and fitted it to her own wrist. Her lips were pulled back from her teeth, her eyes fixed on Renna’s face with a terrible concentration. Kneeling on the sul’dam’s shoulders, she pressed both hands over the woman’s mouth. Renna gave a tremendous convulsion, and her eyes bulged in her face; hoarse sounds came from her throat, screams held back by Egwene’s hands; her heels drummed on the floor.
“Stop it, Egwene!” Nynaeve grabbed Egwene’s shoulders, pulling her off of the other woman. “Egwene, stop it! That isn’t what you want!” Renna lay grayfaced and panting, staring wildly at the ceiling.
Suddenly Egwene threw herself against Nynaeve, sobbing raggedly at her
breast. “She hurt me, Nynaeve. She hurt me. They all did. They hurt me, and hurt me, until I did what they wanted. I hate them. I hate them for hurting me, and I hate them because I couldn’t stop them from making me do what they wanted.”
“I know,” Nynaeve said gently. She smoothed Egwene’s hair. “It is all right to hate them, Egwene. It is. They deserve it. But it isn’t all right to let them make you like they are.”
Seta’s hands were pressed to her face. Renna touched the collar at her throat disbelievingly, with a shaking hand.
Egwene straightened, brushing her tears away quickly. “I’m not. I am not like them.” She almost clawed the bracelet off of her wrist and threw it down. “I’m not. But I wish I could kill them.”
“They deserve it.” Min was staring grimly at the two sul’dam.
“Rand would kill someone who did a thing like that,” Elayne said. She seemed to be steeling herself. “I am sure he would.”
“Perhaps they do,” Nynaeve said, “and perhaps he would. But men often mistake revenge and killing for justice. They seldom have the stomach for justice.” She had often sat in judgment with the Women’s Circle. Sometimes men came before them, thinking women might give them a better hearing than the men of the Village Council, but men always thought they could sway the decision with eloquence, or pleas for mercy. The Women’s Circle gave mercy where it was deserved, but justice always, and it was the Wisdom who pronounced it. She picked up the bracelet Egwene had discarded and closed it. “I would free every woman here, if I could, and destroy every last one of these. But since I cannot…” She slipped the bracelet over the same peg that held the other one, then addressed herself to the sul’dam. Not Leash Holders any longer, she told herself. “Perhaps, if you are very quiet, you will be left alone here long enough to manage to remove the collars. The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, and it may be that you’ve done enough good to counterbalance the evil you have done, enough that you will be allowed to remove them. If not, you will be found, eventually. And I think whoever finds you will ask a great many questions before they remove those collars. I think perhaps you will learn at first hand the life you have given to other women. That is justice,” she added, to the others.
Renna wore a fixed stare of horror. Seta’s shoulders shook as she sobbed into her hands. Nynaeve hardened her heart — It is justice, she told herself. It is — and herded the others out of the room.
No one paid any more attention to them going out than they had coming in. Nynaeve supposed she had the sul’dam dress to thank for that, but she could not wait to change into something else. Anything else. The dirtiest rag would feel cleaner on her skin.
The girls were silent, walking close behind her, until they were out on the cobblestone street again. She did not know if it was what she had done or the fear that someone might stop them. She scowled. Would they have felt better if she had
let them work themselves up to cutting the women’s throats?
“Horses,” Egwene said. “We will need horses. I know the stable where they took Bela, but I don’t think we can get to her.”
“We have to leave Bela here,” Nynaeve told her. “We are leaving by ship.” “Where is everybody?” Min said, and suddenly Nynaeve realized the street was
empty.
The crowds were gone, not a sign of them to be seen; every shop and window along the street were shuttered tight. But up the street from the harbor came a formation of Seanchan soldiers, a hundred or more in ordered ranks, with an officer at their head in his painted armor. They were still halfway down the street from the women, but they marched with a grim, implacable step, and it seemed to Nynaeve that every eye was fixed on her. That’s ridiculous. I can’t see their eyes inside those helmets, and if anybody had given an alarm, it would be behind us. She stopped anyway.
“There are more behind us,” Min murmured. Nynaeve could hear those boots, now. “I don’t know which will reach us first.”
Nynaeve took a deep breath. “They are nothing to do with us.” She looked beyond the approaching soldiers, to the harbor, filled with tall, boxy Seanchan ships. She could not make out Spray; she prayed it was still there, and ready. “We will walk right past them.” Light, I hope we can.
“What if they want you to join them, Nynaeve?” Elayne asked. “You are wearing that dress. If they start asking questions …”
“I will not go back,” Egwene said grimly. “I’ll die first. Let me show them what they’ve taught me.” To Nynaeve’s eye, a golden nimbus suddenly seemed to surround her.
“No!” she said, but it was too late.
With a roar like thunder, the street under the first ranks of Seanchan erupted, dirt and cobblestones and armored men thrown aside like Spray from a fountain. Still glowing, Egwene spun to stare up the street, and the thunderous roar was repeated. Dirt rained down on the women. Shouting Seanchan soldiers scattered in good order to shelter in alleys and behind stoops. In moments they were all out of sight, except for those who lay around the two large holes marring the street. Some of those stirred feebly, and moans drifted along the street.
Nynaeve threw up her hands, trying to look in both directions at once. “You fool! We are trying not to attract attention!” There was no hope of that now. She only hoped they could manage to work their way around the soldiers to the harbor through the alleys. The damane must know, too, now. They could not have missed that.
“I won’t go back to that collar,” Egwene said fiercely. “I won’t!” “Look out!” Min shouted.
With a shrill whine, a fireball as big as a horse arched into the air over the rooftops and began to fall. Directly toward them.
“Run!” Nynaeve shouted, and threw herself into a dive toward the nearest alleyway, between two shuttered shops.
She landed awkwardly on her stomach with a grunt, losing half her breath, as the fireball struck. Hot wind washed over her down the narrow passage. Gulping air, she rolled onto her back and stared back into the street.
The cobblestones where they had been standing were chipped and cracked and blackened in a circle ten paces across. Elayne was crouched just inside another alley on the other side of the street. Of Min and Egwene, there was no sign. Nynaeve clapped a hand to her mouth in horror.
Elayne seemed to understand what she was thinking. The DaughterHeir shook her head violently and pointed down the street. They had gone that way.
Nynaeve heaved a sigh of relief that immediately turned to a growl. Fool girl! We could have gotten by them! There was no time for recriminations, though. She scooted to the corner and peered cautiously around the edge of the building.
A headsized fireball flashed down the street toward her. She leaped back just before it exploded against the corner where her own head had been, showering her with stone chips.
Anger had her awash in the One Power before she was aware of it. Lightning flashed out of the sky, striking somewhere up the street with a crash near the origin of the fireball. Another jagged bolt split the sky, and then she was running down the alley. Behind her, lightning lanced the mouth of the alley.
If Domon doesn’t have that ship waiting, I’ll … Light, let us all reach it safely. Bayle Domon jerked erect as lightning streaked across the slategray sky,
striking somewhere in the town, then again. There do no be enough clouds for that!
Something rumbled loudly up in the town, and a ball of fire smashed into a rooftop just above the docks, throwing splintered slates in wide arcs. The docks had emptied themselves of people a while back, except for a few Seanchan; they ran wildly, now, drawing swords and shouting. A man appeared from one of the warehouses with a grolm at his side, running to keep up with the beast’s long leaps as they vanished into one of the streets leading up from the water.
One of Domon’s crewmen jumped for an axe and swung it high over a mooring cable.
In two strides, Domon seized the upraised axe with one hand and the man’s throat with the other. “Spray do stay till I do say sail, Aedwin Cole!”
“They’re going mad, Captain!” Yarin shouted. An explosion sent echoes rumbling across the harbor, sending the gulls into screaming circles, and lightning flickered again, crashing to earth inside Falme. “The damane will kill us all! Let us go while they’re busy killing one another. They will never notice us till we are gone!”
“I did give my word,” Domon said. He wrenched the axe from Cole’s hand and threw it clattering onto the deck. “I did give my word.” Hurry, woman, he thought, Aes Sedai or whatever you be. Hurry!
Geofram Bornhald eyed the lightning flashing over Falme and dismissed it from his mind. Some huge flying creature — one of the Seanchan monsters, no doubt — flew wildly to escape the bolts. If there was a storm, it would hinder the Seanchan as much as it did him. Nearly treeless hills, a few topped by sparse thickets, still hid the town from him, and him from it.
His thousand men lay spread out to either side of him, one long, mounted rank rippling along the hollows between hills. The cold wind tossed their white cloaks and flapped the banner at Bornhald’s side, the wavyrayed golden sun of the Children of the Light.
“Go now, Byar,” he commanded. The gauntfaced man hesitated, and Bornhald put a snap into his voice. “I said, go, Child Byar!”
Byar touched hand to heart and bowed. “As you command, my Lord Captain.” He turned his horse away, every line of him shouting reluctance.
Bornhald put Byar out of his mind. He had done what he could, there. He raised his voice. “The legion will advance at a walk!”
With a creak of saddles the long line of whitecloaked men moved slowly toward Falme.
Rand peered around the corner at the approaching Seanchan, then ducked back into the narrow alley between two stables with a grimace. They would be there soon. There was blood crusted on his cheek. The cuts he had from Turak burned, but there was nothing to be done for them now. Lightning flashed across the sky again; he felt the rumble of its plummet through his boots. What in the name of the Light is happening?
“Close?” Ingtar said. “The Horn of Valere must be saved, Rand.” Despite the Seanchan, despite the lightning and strange explosions down in the town proper, he seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts. Mat and Perrin and Hurin were down at the other end of the alley, watching another Seanchan patrol. The place where they had left the horses was close, now, if they could only reach it.
“She’s in trouble,” Rand muttered. Egwene. There was an odd feeling in his head, as if pieces of his life were in danger. Egwene was one piece, one thread of the cord that made his life, but there were others, and he could feel them threatened. Down there, in Falme. And if any of those threads was destroyed, his life would never be complete, the way it was meant to be. He did not understand it, but the feeling was sure and certain.
“One man could hold fifty here,” Ingtar said. The two stables stood close together, with barely room for the pair of them to stand side by side between them. “One man holding fifty at a narrow passage. Not a bad way to die. Songs have been made about less.”
“There’s no need for that,” Rand said. “I hope.” A rooftop in the town exploded. How am I going to get back in here? I have to reach her. Reach them? Shaking his head, he peeked around the corner again. The Seanchan were closer, still coming.
“I never knew what he was going to do,” Ingtar said softly, as if talking to
himself. He had his sword out, testing the edge with his thumb. “A pale little man you didn’t seem to really notice even when you were looking at him. Take him inside Fal Dara, I was told, inside the fortress. I did not want to, but I had to do it. You understand? I had to. I never knew what he intended until he shot that arrow. I still don’t know if it was meant for the Amyrlin, or for you.”
Rand felt a chill. He stared at Ingtar. “What are you saying?” he whispered.
Studying his blade, Ingtar did not seem to hear. “Humankind is being swept away everywhere. Nations fail and vanish. Darkfriends are everywhere, and none of these southlanders seem to notice or care. We fight to hold the Borderlands, to keep them safe in their houses, and every year, despite all we can do, the Blight advances. And these southlanders think Trollocs are myths, and Myrddraal a gleeman’s tale.” He frowned and shook his head. “It seemed the only way. We would be destroyed for nothing, defending people who do not even know, or care. It seemed logical. Why should we be destroyed for them, when we could make our own peace? Better the Shadow, I thought, than useless oblivion, like Carallain, or Hardan, or … It seemed so logical, then.”
Rand grabbed Ingtar’s lapels. “You aren’t making any sense.” He can’t mean what he’s saying. He can’t. “Say it plain, whatever you mean. You are talking crazy!”
For the first time Ingtar looked at Rand. His eyes shone with unshed tears. “You are a better man than I. Shepherd or lord, a better man. The prophecy says, ‘Let who sounds me think not of glory, but only salvation.’ It was my salvation I was thinking of. I would sound the Horn, and lead the heroes of the Ages against Shayol Ghul. Surely that would have been enough to save me. No man can walk so long in the Shadow that he cannot come again to the Light. That is what they say. Surely that would have been enough to wash away what I have been, and done.”
“Oh, Light, Ingtar.” Rand released his hold on the other man and sagged back against the stable wall. “I think… I think wanting to is enough. I think all you have to do is stop being … one of them.” Ingtar flinched as if Rand had said it out. Darkfriend.
“Rand, when Verin brought us here with the Portal Stone, I — I lived other lives. Sometimes I held the Horn, but I never sounded it. I tried to escape what I’d become, but I never did. Always there was something else required of me, always something worse than the last, until I was … You were ready to give it up to save a friend. Think not of glory. Oh, Light, help me.”
Rand did not know what to say. It was as if Egwene had told him she had murdered children. Too horrible to be believed. Too horrible for anyone to admit to unless it was true. Too horrible.
After a time, Ingtar spoke again, firmly. “There has to be a price, Rand. There is always a price. Perhaps I can pay it here.”
“Ingtar, I —”
“It is every man’s right, Rand, to choose when to Sheathe the Sword. Even one
like me.”
Before Rand could say anything, Hurin came running down the alley. “The patrol turned aside,” he said hurriedly, “down into the town. They seem to be gathering down there. Mat and Perrin went on.” He took a quick look down the street and pulled back. “We’d better do the same, Lord Ingtar, Lord Rand. Those bugheaded Seanchan are almost here.”
“Go, Rand,” Ingtar said. He turned to face the street and did not look at Rand or Hurin again. “Take the Horn where it belongs. I always knew the Amyrlin should have given you the charge. But all I ever wanted was to keep Shienar whole, to keep us from being swept away and forgotten.”
“I know, Ingtar.” Rand drew a deep breath. “The Light shine on you, Lord Ingtar of House Shinowa, and may you shelter in the palm of the Creator’s hand.” He touched Ingtar’s shoulder. “The last embrace of the mother welcome you home.” Hurin gasped.
“Thank you,” Ingtar said softly. A tension seemed to go out of him. For the first time since the night of the Trolloc raid on Fal Dara, he stood as he had when Rand first saw him, confident and relaxed. Content.
Rand turned and found Hurin staring at him, staring at both of them. “It is time for us to go.”
“But Lord Ingtar —”
“— does what he has to,” Rand said sharply. “But we go.” Hurin nodded, and Rand trotted after him. Rand could hear the steady tread of the Seanchan’s boots, now. He did not look back.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 47
(Horn)
The Grave Is No Bar to My Call
Mat and Perrin were mounted by the time Rand and Hurin reached them. Far behind him, Rand heard Ingtar’s voice rise. “The Light, and Shinowa!” The clash of steel joined the roar of other voices.
“Where’s Ingtar?” Mat shouted. “What’s going on?” He had the Horn of Valere lashed to the high pommel of his saddle as if it were just any horn, but the dagger was in his belt, the rubytipped hilt cupped protectively in a pale hand that seemed made of nothing but bone and sinew.
“He’s dying,” Rand said harshly as he swung onto Red’s back.
“Then we have to help him,” Perrin said. “Mat can take the Horn and the dagger on to —”
“He is doing it so we can all get away,” Rand said. For that, too. “We will all take the Horn to Verin, and then you can help her take it wherever she says it belongs.”
“What do you mean?” Perrin asked. Rand dug his heels into the bay’s flanks, and Red leaped away toward the hills beyond the town.
“The Light, and Shinowa!” Ingtar’s shout soared after him, sounding triumphant, and lightning crashed across the sky in answer.
Rand whipped Red with his reins, then lay against the stallion’s neck as the bay laid out in a dead run, mane and tail streaming. He wished he did not feel as if he were running away from Ingtar’s cry, running from what he was supposed to do. Ingtar, a Darkfriend. I don’t care. He was still my friend. The bay’s gallop could not take him away from his own thoughts. Death is lighter than a feather, duty heavier than a mountain. So many duties. Egwene. The Horn. Fain. Mat and his dagger. Why can’t there just be one at a time? I have to take care of all of them. Oh, Light, Egwene!
He reined in so suddenly that Red slid to a halt, sitting back on his haunches. They were in a scanty copse of barebranched trees atop one of the hills overlooking Falme. The others galloped up behind him.
“What do you mean?” Perrin demanded. “We can help Verin take the Horn where it’s supposed to go? Where are you going to be?”
“Maybe he’s going mad already,” Mat said. “He wouldn’t want to stay with us if he was going mad. Would you, Rand?”
“You three take the Horn to Verin,” Rand said. Egwene. So many threads, in so much danger. So many duties. “You do not need me.”
Mat caressed the dagger’s hilt. “That’s all very well, but what about you? Burn me, you can’t be going mad yet. You can’t!” Hurin gaped at them, not understanding half of it.
“I’m going back,” Rand said. “I should never have left.” Somehow, that did not
sound exactly right in his own ears; it did not feel right inside his head. “I have to go back. Now.” That sounded better. “Egwene is still there, remember. With one of close collars around her neck.”
“Are you sure?” Mat said. “I never saw her. Aaaah! If you say she is there, then she’s there. We’ll all take the Horn to Verin, and then we will all go back for her. You don’t think I would leave her there, do you?”
Rand shook his head. Threads. Duties. He felt as if he were about to explode like a firework. Light, what’s happening to me? “Mat, Verin must take you and that dagger to Tar Valon, so you can finally be free of it. You don’t have any time to waste.”
“Saving Egwene isn’t wasting time!” But Mat’s hand had tightened on the dagger till it shook.
“We aren’t any of us going back,” Perrin said. “Not yet. Look.” He pointed back toward Falme.
The wagon yards and horse lots were turning black with Seanchan soldiers, thousands of them rank on rank, with troops of cavalry riding scaled beasts as well as armored men on horses, colorful gonfanons marking the officers. Grolm dotted the ranks, and other strange creatures, almost but not quite like monstrous birds and lizards, and great things like nothing he could describe, with gray, wrinkled skin and huge tusks. At intervals along the lines stood sul’dam and damane by the score. Rand wondered if Egwene were one of them. In the town behind the soldiers, a rooftop still exploded now and again, and lightning still streaked the sky. Two flying beasts, with leathery wings twenty spans tip to tip, soared high overhead, keeping well away from where the bright bolts danced.
“All that for us?” Mat said incredulously. “Who do they think we are?”
An answer came to Rand, but he shoved it away before it had a chance to form completely.
“We aren’t going the other way either, Lord Rand,” Hurin said. “Whitecloaks.
Hundreds of them.”
Rand wheeled his horse to look where the sniffer was pointing. A long, whitecloaked line rippled slowly toward them across the hills.
“Lord Rand,” Hurin muttered, “if that lot lays an eye on the Horn of Valere, we’ll never get it close to an Aes Sedai. We’ll never get close to it again ourselves.”
“Maybe that’s why the Seanchan are gathering,” Mat said hopefully. “Because of the Whitecloaks. Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with us at all.”
“Whether it does or not,” Perrin said dryly, “there is going to be a battle here in a few minutes.”
“Either side could kill us,” Hurin said, “even if they never see the Horn. If they do …”
Rand could not manage to think about the Whitecloaks, or the Seanchan. I have to go back. Have to. He was staring at the Horn of Valere, he realized. They all were. The curled, golden Horn hung at Mat’s pommel, the focus of every eye.
“It has to be there at the Last Battle,” Mat said, licking his lips. “Nothing says it can’t be used before then.” He pulled the Horn free of its lashings and looked at them anxiously. “Nothing says it can’t.”
No one else said anything. Rand did not think he could speak; his own thoughts were too urgent to allow room for speech. Have to go back. Have to go back. The longer he looked at the Horn, the more urgent his thoughts became. Have to. Have to.
Mat’s hand shook as he raised the Horn of Valere to his lips.
It was a clear note, golden as the Horn was golden. The trees around them seemed to resonate with it, and the ground under their feet, the sky overhead. That one long sound encompassed everything.
Out of nowhere, a fog began to rise. First thin wisps hanging in the air, then thicker billows, and thicker, until it blanketed the land like clouds.
Geofram Bornhald stiffened in his saddle as a sound filled the air, so sweet he wanted to laugh, so mournful he wanted to cry. It seemed to come from every direction at once. A mist began to rise, growing even as he watched.
The Seanchan. They are trying something. They know we are here.
It was too soon, the town too far, but he drew his sword — a clatter of scabbards ran down the rank of his half legion — and called, “The legion will advance at a trot.”
The fog covered everything, now, but he knew Falme was still there, ahead. The pace of the horses picked up; he could not see them, but he could hear.
Abruptly the ground ahead flew up with a roar, showering him with dirt and pebbles. From the white blindness to his right he heard another roar, and men and horses screamed, then from his left, and again. Again. Thunder and screams, hidden by the fog.
“The legion will charge!” His horse leaped forward as he dug in his heels, and he heard the roar as the legion, as much of it as still lived, followed.
Thunder and screams, wrapped in whiteness.
His last thought was regret. Byar would not be able to tell his son Dain how he had died.
Rand could not see the trees around them any longer. Mat had lowered the Horn, eyes wide with awe, but the sound of it still rang in Rand’s ears. The fog hid everything in rolling waves as white as the finest bleached wool, yet Rand could see. He could see, but it was mad. Falme floated somewhere beneath him, its landward border black with the Seanchan ranks, lightning ripping its streets. Falme hung over his head. There Whitecloaks charged and died as the earth opened in fire beneath their horses’ hooves. There men ran about the decks of tall, square ships in the harbor, and on one ship, a familiar ship, fearful men waited. He could even recognize the face of the captain. Bayle Domon. He clutched his head with both hands. The trees were hidden, but he could still see each of the others clearly. Hurin anxious. Mat muttering, fearful. Perrin looking as if he knew this was meant to be.
The fog roiled up all around them.
Hurin gasped. “Lord Rand!” There was no need for him to point.
Down the billowing fog, as if it were the side of a mountain, rode shapes on horses. At first the dense mists hid more than that, but slowly they came closer, and it was Rand’s turn to gasp. He knew them. Men, not all in armor, and women. Their clothes and their weapons came from every Age, but he knew them all.
Rogosh Eagleeye, a fatherly looking man with white hair and eyes so sharp as to make his name merely a hint. Gaidal Cain, a swarthy man with the hilts of his two swords sticking above his broad shoulders. Goldenhaired Birgitte, with her gleaming silver bow and quiver bristling with silver arrows. More. He knew their faces, knew their names. But he heard a hundred names when he looked at each face, some so different he did not recognize them as names at all, though he knew they were. Michael instead of Mikel. Patrick instead of Paedrig. Oscar instead of Otarin.
He knew the man who rode at their head, too. Tall and hooknosed, with dark, deepset eyes, his great sword Justice at his side. Artur Hawkwing.
Mat gaped at them as they reined in before him and the others. “Is this… ?
Is this all of you?” They were little more than a hundred, Rand saw, and realized that somehow he had known that they would be. Hurin’s mouth hung open; his eyes bulged almost out of his head.
“It takes more than bravery to bind a man to the Horn.” Artur Hawkwing’s voice was deep and carrying, a voice used to giving commands.
“Or a woman,” Birgitte said sharply.
“Or a woman,” Hawkwing agreed. “Only a few are bound to the Wheel, spun out again and again to work the will of the Wheel in the Pattern of the Ages. You could tell him, Lews Therin, could you but remember when you wore flesh.” He was looking at Rand.
Rand shook his head, but he would not waste time with denials. “Invaders have come, men who call themselves Seanchan, who use chained Aes Sedai in battle. They must be driven back into the sea. And — and there is a girl. Egwene al’Vere. A novice from the White Tower. The Seanchan have her prisoner. You must help me free her.”
To his surprise, several of the small host behind Artur Hawkwing chuckled, and Birgitte, testing her bowstring, laughed. “You always choose women who cause you trouble, Lews Therin.” It had a fond sound, as between old friends.
“My name is Rand al’Thor,” he snapped. “You have to hurry. There isn’t much time.”
“Time?” Birgitte said, smiling. “We have all of time.” Gaidal Cain dropped his reins and, guiding his horse with his knees, drew a sword in either hand. All along the small band of heroes there was an unsheathing of swords, an unlimbering of bows, a hefting of spears and axes.
Justice shone like a mirror in Artur Hawkwing’s gauntleted fist. “I have fought
by your side times beyond number, Lews Therin, and faced you as many more. The Wheel spins us out for its purposes, not ours, to serve the Pattern. I know you, if you do not know yourself. We will drive these invaders out for you.” His warhorse pranced, and he looked around, frowning. “Something is wrong here. Something holds me.” Suddenly he turned his sharpeyed gaze on Rand. “You are here. Have you the banner?” A murmur ran through those behind him.
“Yes.” Rand tore open the straps of his saddlebags and pulled out the Dragon’s banner. It filled his hands and hung almost to his stallion’s knees. The murmur among the heroes rose.
“The Pattern weaves itself around our necks like halters,” Artur Hawkwing said. “You are here. The banner is here. The weave of this moment is set. We have come to the Horn, but we must follow the banner. And the Dragon.” Hurin made a faint sound as if his throat had seized.
“Burn me,” Mat breathed. “It’s true. Burn me!”
Perrin hesitated only an instant before swinging down off his horse and striding into the mist. There came a chopping sound, and when he returned, he carried a straight length of sapling shorn of its branches. “Give it to me, Rand,” he said gravely. “If they need it … Give it to me.”
Hastily, Rand helped him tie the banner to the pole. When Perrin remounted, pole in hand, a current of air seemed to ripple the pale length of the banner, so the serpentine Dragon appeared to move, alive. The wind did not touch the heavy fog, only the banner.
“You stay here,” Rand told Hurin. “When it’s over … You will be safe, here.”
Hurin drew his short sword, holding it as if it might actually be of some use from horseback. “Begging your pardon, Lord Rand, but I think not. I don’t understand the tenth part of what I’ve heard … or what I’m seeing” — his voice dropped to a mutter before picking up again — “but I’ve come this far, and I think I’ll go the rest of the way.”
Artur Hawkwing clapped the sniffer on the shoulder. “Sometimes the Wheel adds to our number, friend. Perhaps you will find yourself among us, one day.” Hurin sat up as if he had been offered a crown. Hawkwing bowed formally from his saddle to Rand. “With your permission … Lord Rand. Trumpeter, will you give us music on the Horn? Fitting that the Horn of Valere should sing us into battle. Bannerman, will you advance?”
Mat sounded the Horn again, long and high — the mists rang with it — and Perrin heeled his horse forward. Rand drew the heronmark blade and rode between them.
He could see nothing but thick billows of white, but somehow he could still see what he had before, too. Falme, where someone used the Power in the streets, and the harbor, and the Seanchan host, and the dying Whitecloaks, all of it beneath him, all of him hanging above, all of it just as it had been. It seemed as if no time at all had passed since the Horn was first blown, as though time had paused while the
heroes answered the call and now resumed counting.
The wild cries Mat wrung from the Horn echoed in the fog, and the drumming of hooves as the horses picked up speed. Rand charged into the mists, wondering if he knew where he was headed. The clouds thickened, hiding the far ends of the rank of heroes galloping to either side of him, obscuring more and more, till he could see only Mat and Perrin and Hurin clearly. Hurin crouched low in his saddle, wideeyed, urging his horse on. Mat sounding the Horn, and laughing between. Perrin, his yellow eyes glowing, the Dragon’s banner streaming behind him. Then they were gone, too, and Rand rode on alone, as it seemed.
In a way, he could still see them, but now it was the way he could see Falme, and the Seanchan. He could not tell where they were, or where he was. He tightened his grip on his sword, peered into the mists ahead. He charged alone through the fog, and somehow he knew that was how it was meant to be.
Suddenly Ba’alzamon was before him in the mists, throwing his arms wide.
Red reared wildly, hurling Rand from his saddle. Rand clung to his sword desperately as he soared. It was not a hard landing. In fact, he thought with a sense of wonder that it was very much like landing on… nothing at all. One instant he was sailing through the mists, and the next he was not.
When he climbed to his feet, his horse was gone, but Ba’alzamon was still there, striding toward him with a long, blackcharred staff in his hands. They were alone, only they and the rolling fog. Behind Ba’alzamon was shadow. The mist was not dark behind him; this blackness excluded the white fog.
Rand was aware of the other things, too. Artur Hawkwing and the other heroes meeting the Seanchan in dense fog. Perrin, with the banner, swinging his axe more to fend off those who tried to reach him than harm them. Mat, still blowing wild notes on the Horn of Valere. Hurin down from his saddle, fighting with short sword and swordbreaker in the way he knew. It seemed as if the Seanchan numbers would overwhelm them in one rush, yet it was the darkarmored Seanchan who fell back.
Rand went forward to meet Ba’alzamon. Reluctantly, he assumed the void, reached for the True Source, was filled with the One Power. There was no other way. Perhaps he had no chance against the Dark One, but whatever chance he did have lay in the Power. It soaked into his limbs, seemed to suffuse everything about him, his clothes, his sword. He felt as if he should be glowing like the sun. It thrilled him; it made him want to vomit.
“Get out of my way,” he grated. “I am not here for you!”
“The girl?” Ba’alzamon laughed. His mouth turned to flame. His burns were all but healed, leaving only a few pink scars that were already fading. He looked like a handsome man of middle years. Except for his mouth, and his eyes. “Which one, Lews Therin? You will not have anyone to help you this time. You are mine, or you are dead. In which case, you are mine anyway.”
“Liar!” Rand snarled. He struck at Ba’alzamon, but the staff of charred wood turned his blade in a shower of sparks. “Father of Lies!”
“Fool! Did those other fools you summoned not tell you who you are?” The fires of Ba’alzamon’s face roared with laughter.
Even floating in emptiness, Rand felt a chill. Would they have lied? I don’t want to be the Dragon Reborn. He firmed his grip on his sword. Parting the Silk, but Ba’alzamon beat every cut aside; sparks flew as from a blacksmith’s forge and hammer. “I have business in Falme, and none with you. Never with you,” Rand said. I have to hold his attention until they can free Egwene. In that odd way, he could see the battle rage among the fogshrouded wagon yards and horse lots.
“You pitiful wretch. You have sounded the Horn of Valere. You are linked to it, now. Do you think the worms of the White Tower will ever release you, now? They will put chains around your neck so heavy you will never cut them.”
Rand was so surprised he felt it inside the void. He doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t know! He was sure it must show on his face. To cover it, he rushed at Ba’alzamon. Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose. The Moon on the Water. The Swallow Rides the Air. Lightning arched between sword and staff. Coruscating glitter showered the fog. Yet Ba’alzamon fell back, his eyes blazing in furious furnaces.
At the edge of his awareness, Rand saw the Seanchan falling back in the streets of Falme, fighting desperately. Damane tore the earth with the One Power, but it could not harm Artur Hawkwing, nor the other heroes of the Horn.
“Will you remain a slug beneath a rock?” Ba’alzamon snarled. The darkness behind him boiled and stirred. “You kill yourself while we stand here. The Power rages in you. It burns you. It is killing you! I alone in all the world can teach you how to control it. Serve me, and live. Serve me, or die!”
“Never!” Have to hold him long enough. Hurry, Hawkwing. Hurry! He launched himself at Ba’alzamon again. The Dove Takes Flight. The Falling Leaf.
This time it was he who was driven back. Dimly, he saw the Seanchan fighting their way back in among the stables. He redoubled his efforts. The Kingfisher Takes a Silverback. The Seanchan gave way to a charge, Artur Hawkwing and Perrin side by side in the van. Bundling Straw. Ba’alzamon caught his blow in a fountain like crimson fireflies, and he had to leap away before the staff split his head; the wind of the blow ruffled his hair. The Seanchan surged forward. Striking the Spark. Sparks flew like hail, Ba’alzamon jumped from his stroke, and the Seanchan were driven back to the cobblestone streets.
Rand wanted to howl aloud. Suddenly he knew that the two battles were linked. When he advanced, the heroes called by the Horn drove the Seanchan back; when he fell back, the Seanchan rose up.
“They will not save you,” Ba’alzamon said. “Those who might save you will be carried far across the Aryth Ocean. If ever you see them again, they will be collared slaves, and they will destroy you for their new masters.”
Egwene. I can’t let them do that to her.
Ba’alzamon’s voice rode over his thoughts. “You have only one salvation, Rand
al’Thor. Lews Therin Kinslayer. I am your only salvation. Serve me, and I will give you the world. Resist, and I will destroy you as I have so often before. But this time I will destroy you to your very soul, destroy you utterly and forever.”
I have won again, Lews Therin. The thought was beyond the void, yet it took an effort to ignore it, not to think of all the lives where he had heard it. He shifted his sword, and Ba’alzamon readied his staff.
For the first time Rand realized that Ba’alzamon acted as if the heronmark blade could harm him. Steel can’t hurt the Dark One. But Ba’alzamon watched the sword warily. Rand was one with the sword. He could feel every particle of it, tiny bits a thousand times too small to be seen with the eye. And he could feel the Power that suffused him running into the sword, as well, threading through the intricate matrices wrought by Aes Sedai during the Trolloc Wars.
It was another voice he heard then. Lan’s voice. There will come a time when you want something more than you want life. Ingtar’s voice. It is every man’s right to choose when to Sheathe the Sword. The picture formed of Egwene, collared, living her life as a damane. Threads of my life in danger. Egwene. If Hawking gets into Falme, he can save her. Before he knew it, he had taken the first position of Heron Wading in the Rushes, balanced on one foot, sword raised high, open and defenseless. Death is lighter than a feather, duty heavier than a mountain.
Ba’alzamon stared at him. “Why are you grinning like an idiot, fool? Do you not know I can destroy you utterly?”
Rand felt a calmness beyond that of the void. “I will never serve you, Father of Lies. In a thousand lives, I never have. I know that. I’m sure of it. Come. It is time to die.”
Ba’alzamon’s eyes widened; for an instant they were furnaces that put sweat on Rand’s face. The blackness behind Ba’alzamon boiled up around him, and his face hardened. “Then die, worm!” He struck with the staff, as with a spear.
Rand screamed as he felt it pierce his side, burning like a whitehot poker. The void trembled, but he held on with the last of his strength, and drove the heronmark blade into Ba’alzamon’s heart. Ba’alzamon screamed, and the dark behind him screamed. The world exploded in fire.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 48
(Dragon’s Fang) First Claiming
Min struggled up the cobblestone street, pushing through crowds that stood whitefaced and staring, those who were not screaming hysterically. A few ran, seemingly without any idea of where they were running, but most moved like poorly handled puppets, more afraid to go than to stay. She searched the faces, hoping to find Egwene, or Elayne, or Nynaeve, but all she saw were Falmen. And there was something drawing her on, as surely as if she had a string tied to her.
Once she turned to look back. Seanchan ships burned in the harbor, and she could see more in flames off the harbor mouth. Many squarish vessels were already small against the setting sun, sailing west as fast as damane could make the winds drive them, and one small ship was beating away from the harbor, tilting to catch a wind to take it along the coast. Spray. She did not blame Bayle Domon for not waiting longer, not after what she had seen; she thought it a wonder he had remained so long.
There was one Seanchan vessel in the harbor not burning, though its towers were black from fires already extinguished. As the tall ship crept toward the harbor mouth, a figure on horseback suddenly appeared around the cliffs skirting the harbor. Riding across the water. Min’s mouth fell open. Silver glittered as the figure raised a bow; a streak of silver lanced to the boxy ship, a gleaming line connecting bow and ship. With a roar she could hear even at that distance, fire engulfed the foretower anew, and sailors rushed about the deck.
Min blinked, and when she looked again, the mounted figure was gone. The ship still slowly made way toward the ocean, the crew fighting the flames.
She gave herself a shake and started to climb the street again. She had seen too much that day for someone riding a horse across water to be more than a momentary distraction. Even if it really was Birgitte and her bow. And Artur Hawkwing. I did see him. I did.
In front of one of the tall stone buildings, she stopped uncertainly, ignoring the people who brushed past her as if stunned. It was in there, somewhere, that she had to go. She rushed up the stairs and pushed open the door.
No one tried to stop her. As far as she could tell, there was no one in the house. Most of Falme was out in the streets, trying to decide whether they had all gone mad together. She went on through the house, into the garden behind, and there he was.
Rand lay sprawled on his back under an oak, face pale and eyes closed, left hand gripping a hilt that ended in a foot of blade that appeared to have been melted at the end. His chest rose and fell too slowly, and not with the regular rhythm of someone breathing normally.
Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she went to see what she could do for him.
First was to get rid of that stub of a blade; he could hurt himself, or her, if he started thrashing. She pried his hand open, and winced when the hilt stuck to his palm. She tossed it aside with a grimace. The heron on the hilt had branded itself into his hand. But it was obvious to her that that was not what had him lying there unconscious. How did he come by that? Nynaeve can put a salve on it later.
A hasty examination showed that most of his cuts and bruises were not new — at least, the blood had had time to dry in a crust, and the bruises had started to turn yellow at the edges — but there was a hole burned through his coat on the left side. Opening his coat, she pulled up his shirt. Breath whistled through her teeth. There was a wound burned into his side, but it had cauterized itself. What shook her was the feel of his flesh. It had a touch of ice in it; he made the air seem warm.
Grabbing his shoulders, she began to drag him toward the house. He hung limp, a dead weight. “Great lummox,” she grunted. “You couldn’t be short, and light, could you? You have to have all that leg and shoulder. I ought to let you lie out here.”
But she struggled up the steps, careful not to bump him any more than she could avoid, and pulled him inside. Leaving him just within the door, she knuckled the small of her back, muttering to herself about the Pattern, and made a hasty search. There was a small bedroom in the back of the house, perhaps a servant’s room, with a bed piled high with blankets, and logs already laid on the hearth. In moments, she had the blankets thrown back and the fire lit, as well as a lamp on the bedside table. Then she went back for Rand.
It was no small task getting him to the room, or up onto the bed, but she managed it with only a little hard breathing, and covered him up. After a moment, she stuck a hand under the blankets; she winced and shook her head. The sheets were icy cold; he had no body warmth for the blankets to hold. With a putupon sigh, she wriggled under the covers beside him. Finally, she put his head on her arm. His eyes were still closed, his breathing ragged, but she thought he would be dead by the time she came back if she left to find Nynaeve. He needs an Aes Sedai, she thought. All I can do is try to give him a little warmth.
For a time she studied his face. It was only his face she saw; she could never read anyone who was not conscious. “I like older men,” she told him. “I like men with education, and wit. I have no interest in farms, or sheep, or shepherds. Especially boy shepherds.” With a sigh, she smoothed back the hair from his face; he had silky hair. “But then, you aren’t a shepherd, are you? Not anymore. Light, why did the Pattern have to catch me up with you? Why couldn’t I have something safe and simple, like being shipwrecked with no food and a dozen hungry Aielmen?”
There was a sound in the hall, and she raised her head as the door opened. Egwene stood there, staring at them by the light of the fire and the lamp. “Oh,” was all she said.
Min’s cheeks colored. Why am I behaving like I’m done something wrong?
Fool! “I … I’m keeping him warm. He is unconscious, and he’s as cold as ice.” Egwene did not come any further into the room. “I — I felt him pulling at me.
Needing me. Elayne felt it, too. I thought it must be something to do with — with what he is, but Nynaeve didn’t feel anything.” She drew a deep, unsteady breath. “Elayne and Nynaeve are getting the horses. We found Bela. The Seanchan left most of their horses behind. Nynaeve says we should go as soon as we can, and — and … Min, you know what he is, don’t you, now?”
“I know.” Min wanted to take her arm from under Rand’s head, but she could not make herself move. “I think I do, anyway. Whatever he is, he is hurt. I can do nothing for him except keep him warm. Maybe Nynaeve can.”
“Min, you know … you do know that he cannot marry. He isn’t … safe … for any of us, Min.”
“Speak for yourself,” Min said. She pulled Rand’s face against her breast. “It’s like Elayne said. You tossed him aside for the White Tower. What should you care if I pick him up?”
Egwene looked at her for what seemed a long time. Not at Rand, not at all, only at her. She felt her face growing hotter and wanted to look away, but she could not.
“I will bring Nynaeve,” Egwene said finally, and walked out of the room with her back straight and her head high.
Min wanted to call out, to go after her, but she lay there as if frozen. Frustrated tears stung her eyes. It’s what has to be. I know it. I read it in all of them. Light, I don’t want to be part of this. “It’s all your fault,” she told Rand’s still shape. “No, it isn’t. But you will pay for it, I think. We’re all caught like flies in a spiderweb. What if I told her there’s another woman yet to come, one she doesn’t even know? For that matter, what would you think of that, my fine Lord Shepherd? You aren’t badlooking at all, but … Light, I don’t even know if I am the one you’ll choose. I don’t know if I want you to choose me. Or will you try to dandle all three of us on your knee? It may not be your fault, Rand al’Thor, but it isn’t fair.”
“Not Rand al’Thor,” said a musical voice from the door. “Lews Therin Telamon.
The Dragon Reborn.”
Min stared. She was the most beautiful woman Min had ever seen, with pale, smooth skin, and long, black hair, and eyes as dark as night. Her dress was a white that would make snow seem dingy, belted in silver. All her jewelry was silver. Min felt herself bristle. “What do you mean? Who are you?”
The woman came to stand over the bed — her movements were so graceful, Min felt a stab of envy, though she had never before envied any woman anything — and smoothed Rand’s hair as if Min were not there. “He doesn’t believe yet, I think. He knows, but he does not believe. I have guided his steps, pushed him, pulled him, enticed him. He was always stubborn, but this time I will shape him. Ishamael thinks he controls events, but I do.” Her finger brushed Rand’s forehead as if drawing a mark; Min thought uneasily that it looked like the Dragon’s Fang. Rand stirred, murmuring, the first sound or movement he had made since she found him.
“Who are you?” Min demanded. The woman looked at her, only looked, but she found herself shrinking back into the pillows, clutching Rand to her fiercely.“I am called Lanfear, girl.”
Min’s mouth was abruptly so dry she could not have spoken if her life depended on it. One of the Forsaken! No! Light, no! All she could do was shake her head. The denial made Lanfear smile.
“Lews Therin was and is mine, girl. Tend him well for me until I come for him.” And she was gone.
Min gaped. One moment she was there, then she was gone. Min discovered she was hugging Rand’s unconscious form tightly. She wished she did not feel as if she wanted him to protect her.
Gaunt face set with grim purpose, Byar galloped with the sinking sun behind him and never looked back. He had seen all he needed to, all he could with that accursed fog. The legion was dead, Lord Captain Geofram Bornhald was dead, and there was only one explanation for that; Darkfriends had betrayed them, Darkfriends like that Perrin of the Two Rivers. That word he had to carry to Dain Bornhald, the Lord Captain’s son, with the Children of the Light watching Tar Valon. But he had worse to tell, and to none less than Pedron Niall himself. He had to tell what he had seen in the sky above Falme. He flogged his horse with his reins and never looked back.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 49
(Serpent and Wheel) What Was Meant To Be
Rand opened his eyes and found himself staring up at sunlight slanting through the branches of a leatherleaf, its broad, tough leaves still green despite the time of year. The wind stirring the leaves carried a hint of snow, come nightfall. He lay on his back, and he could feel blankets covering him under his hands. His coat and shirt seemed to be gone, but something was binding his chest, and his left side hurt. He turned his head, and Min was sitting there on the ground, watching him. He almost did not know her, wearing skirts. She smiled uncertainly.
“Min. It is you. Where did you come from? Where are we?” His memory came in flashes and patches. Old things he could remember, but the last few days seemed like bits of broken mirror, spinning through his mind, showing glimpses that were gone before he could see them clearly.
“From Falme,” she said. “We’re five days east of there, now, and you’ve been asleep all that time.”
“Falme.” More memory. Mat had blown the Horn of Valere. “Egwene! Is she …
? Did they free her?” He held his breath.
“I don’t know what ‘they’ you mean, but she’s free. We freed her ourselves.” “We? I don’t understand.” She’s free. At least she is —
“Nynaeve, and Elayne, and me.”
“Nynaeve? Elayne? How? You were all in Falme?” He struggled to sit up, but she pushed him back down easily and stayed there, hands on his shoulders, eyes intent on his face. “Where is she?”
“Gone.” Min’s face colored. “They’re all gone. Egwene, and Nynaeve, and Mat, and Hurin, and Verin. Hurin didn’t want to leave you, really. They’re on their way to Tar Valon. Egwene and Nynaeve back to their training in the Tower, and Mat for whatever the Aes Sedai have to do about that dagger. They took the Horn of Valere with them. I can’t believe I actually saw it.”
“Gone,” he muttered. “She didn’t even wait till I woke up.” The red in Min’s cheeks deepened, and she sat back, staring at her lap.
He raised his hands to run them over his face, and stopped, staring at his palms in shock. There was a heron branded across his left palm, too, now, to match the one on his right, every line clean and true. Once the heron to set his path; Twice the heron to name him true. “No!”
“They are gone,” she said. “Saying ‘no’ won’t change it.”
He shook his head. Something told him the pain in his side was important. He could not remember being injured, but it was important. He started to lift his blankets to look, but she slapped his hands away.
“You can’t do any good with that. It isn’t healed all the way, yet. Verin tried Healing, but she said it didn’t work the way it should.” She hesitated, nibbling her
lip. “Moiraine says Nynaeve must have done something, or you wouldn’t have lived till we carried you to Verin, but Nynaeve says she was too frightened to light a candle. There is… something wrong with your wound. You will have to wait for it to heal naturally.” She seemed troubled.
“Moiraine is here?” He barked a bitter laugh. “When you said Verin was gone, I thought I was free of Aes Sedai again.”
“I am here,” Moiraine said. She appeared, all in blue and as serene as if she stood in the White Tower, strolling up to stand over him. Min was frowning at the Aes Sedai. Rand had the odd feeling that she meant to protect him from Moiraine.
“I wish you weren’t here,” he told the Aes Sedai. “As far as I am concerned, you can go back to wherever you’ve been hiding and stay there.”
“I have not been hiding,” Moiraine said calmly. “I have been doing what I could, here on Toman Head, and in Falme. It was little enough, though I learned much. I failed to rescue two of my sisters before the Seanchan herded them onto the ships with the Leashed Ones, but I did what I could.”
“What you could. You sent Verin to shepherd me, but I’m no sheep, Moiraine.
You said I could go where I wanted, and I mean to go where you are not.”
“I did not send Verin.” Moiraine frowned. “She did that on her own. You are of interest to a great many people, Rand. Did Fain find you, or you him?”
The sudden change of topic took him by surprise. “Fain? No. A fine hero I make. I tried to rescue Egwene, and Min did it before me. Fain said he would hurt Emond’s Field if I didn’t face him, and I never laid eyes on him. Did he go with the Seanchan, too?”
Moiraine shook her head. “I do not know. I wish I did. But it is as well you did not find him, not until you know what he is, at least.”
“He’s a Darkfriend.”
“More than that. Worse than that. Padan Fain was the Dark One’s creature to the depths of his soul, but I believe that in Shadar Logoth he fell afoul of Mordeth, who was as vile in fighting the Shadow as ever the Shadow itself was. Mordeth tried to consume Fain’s soul, to have a human body again, but found a soul that had been touched directly by the Dark One, and what resulted … What resulted was neither Padan Fain nor Mordeth, but something far more evil, a blend of the two. Fain — let us call him that — is more dangerous than you can believe. You might not have survived such a meeting, and if you had, you might have been worse than turned to the Shadow.”
“If he is alive, if he did not go with the Seanchan, I have to—” He cut off as she produced his heronmark sword from under her cloak. The blade ended abruptly a foot from the hilt, as if it had been melted. Memory came crashing back. “I killed him,” he said softly. “This time I killed him.”
Moiraine put the ruined sword aside like the useless thing it now was, and wiped her hands together. “The Dark One is not slain so easily. The mere fact that he appeared in the sky above Falme is more than merely troubling. He should not
be able to do that, if he is bound as we believe. And if he is not, why has he not destroyed us all?” Min stirred uneasily.
“In the sky?” Rand said in wonder.
“Both of you,” Moiraine said. “Your battle took place across the sky, in full view of every soul in Falme. Perhaps in other towns on Toman Head, too, if half what I hear is to be believed.”
“We — we saw it all,” Min said in a faint voice. She put a hand over one of Rand’s comfortingly.
Moiraine reached under her cloak again and came out with a rolled parchment, one of the large sheets such as the street artists in Falme used. The chalks were a little smudged when she unfurled it, but the picture was still clear enough. A man whose face was a solid flame fought with a staff against another with a sword among clouds where lightning danced, and behind them rippled the Dragon banner. Rand’s face was easily recognizable.
“How many have seen that?” he demanded. “Tear it up. Burn it.”
The Aes Sedai let the parchment roll back up. “It would do no good, Rand. I bought that two days gone, in a village we passed through. There are hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, and the tale is being told everywhere of how the Dragon battled the Dark One in the skies above Falme.”
Rand looked at Min. She nodded reluctantly, and squeezed his hand. She looked frightened, but she did not flinch away. I wonder if that’s why Egwene left. She was right to leave.
“The Pattern weaves itself around you even more tightly,” Moiraine said. “You need me now more than ever.”
“I don’t need you,” he said harshly, “and I don’t want you. I will not have anything to do with this.” He remembered being called Lews Therin; not only by Ba’alzamon, but by Artur Hawkwing. “I won’t. Light, the Dragon is supposed to Break the World again, to tear everything apart. I will not be the Dragon.”
“You are what you are,” Moiraine said. “Already you stir the world. The Black Ajah has revealed itself for the first time in two thousand years. Arad Doman and Tarabon were on the brink of war, and it will be worse when news of Falme reaches them. Cairhien is in civil war.”
“I did nothing in Cairhien,” he protested. “You can’t blame that on me.”
“Doing nothing was always a ploy in the Great Game,” she said with a sigh, “and especially as they play it now. You were the spark, and Cairhien exploded like an Illuminator’s firework. What do you think will happen when word of Falme reaches Arad Doman and Tarabon? There have always been men willing to proclaim for any man who called himself the Dragon, but they have never before had such signs as this. There is more. Here.” She tossed a pouch on his chest.
He hesitated a moment before opening it. Within lay shards of what seemed to be blackandwhite glazed pottery. He had seen their like before. “Another seal on the Dark One’s prison,” he mumbled. Min gasped; her grip on his hand sought comfort,
now, rather than offering it.
“Two,” Moiraine said. “Three of the seven are broken now. The one I had, and two I found in the High Lord’s dwelling in Falme. When all seven are broken, perhaps even before, the patch men put over the hole they drilled into the prison the Creator made will be torn asunder, and the Dark One will once more be able to put his hand through that hole and touch the world. And the only hope of the world is that the Dragon Reborn will be there to face him.”
Min tried to stop Rand from throwing back the blankets, but he pushed her gently aside. “I need to walk.” She helped him up, but with a great many sighs and grumbles about him making his wound worse. He discovered that his chest was wrapped round with bandages. Min draped one of the blankets about his shoulders like a cloak.
For a moment he stood staring down at the heronmark sword, what was left of it, lying on the ground. Tam’s sword. My father’s sword. Reluctantly, more reluctantly than he had ever done anything in his life, he let go of the hope that he would discover Tam really was his father. It felt as if he were tearing his heart out. But it did not change the way he felt about Tam, and Emond’s Field was the only home he had ever known. Fain is the important thing. I have one duty left. Stopping him.
The two women had to support him, one on either arm, down to where the campfires were already burning, not far from a road of hardpacked dirt. Loial was there, reading a book, To Sail Beyond the Sunset, and Perrin, staring into one of the fires. The Shienarans were making preparations for their evening meal. Lan sat under a tree sharpening his sword; the Warder gave Rand a careful look, then a nod. There was something else, too. The Dragon banner rippled on the wind over the middle of the camp. Somewhere they had found a proper staff to replace Perrin’s
sapling.
Rand demanded, “What is that doing out where anybody who passes by can see
it?”
“It is too late to hide, Rand,” Moiraine said. “It was always too late for you to
hide.”
“You don’t have to put up a sign saying ‘here I am,’ either. I’ll never find Fain if somebody kills me because of that banner.” He turned to Loial and Perrin. “I’m glad you stayed. I would have understood if you hadn’t.”
“Why would I not stay?” Loial said. “You are even more ta’veren than I believed, true, but you are still my friend. I hope you are still my friend.” His ears twitched uncertainly.
“I am,” Rand said. “For as long as it’s safe for you to be around me, and even after, too.” The Ogier’s grin nearly split his face in two.
“I’m staying as well,” Perrin said. There was a note of resignation, or acceptance, in his voice. “The Wheel weaves us tight in the Pattern, Rand. Who would have thought it, back in Emond’s Field?”
The Shienarans were gathering around. To Rand’s surprise, they all fell to their knees. Every one of them watched him.
“We would pledge ourselves to you,” Uno said. The others kneeling with him nodded.
“Your oaths are to Ingtar, and Lord Agelmar,” Rand protested. “Ingtar died well, Uno. He died so the rest of us could escape with the Horn.” There was no need to tell them or anyone else the rest. He hoped that Ingtar had found the Light again. “Tell Lord Agelmar that when you return to Fal Dara.”
“It is said,” the oneeyed man said carefully, “that when the Dragon is Reborn, he will break all oaths, shatter all ties. Nothing holds us, now. We would give our oaths to you.” He drew his sword and laid it before him, hilt toward Rand, and the rest of the Shienarans did the same.
“You battled the Dark One,” Masema said. Masema, who hated him. Masema, who looked at him as if seeing a vision of the Light. “I saw you, Lord Dragon. I saw. I am your man, to the death.” His dark eyes shone with fervor.
“You must choose, Rand,” Moiraine said. “The world will be broken whether you break it or not. Tarmon Gai’don will come, and that alone will tear the world apart. Will you still try to hide from what you are, and leave the world to face the Last Battle undefended? Choose.”
They were all watching him, all waiting. Death is lighter than a feather, duty heavier than a mountain. He made his decision.
The Great Hunt
Chapter 50
(Serpent and Wheel) After
By ship and horse the stories spread, by merchant wagon and man on foot, told and retold, changing yet always alike at the heart, to Arad Doman and Tarabon and beyond, of signs and portents in the sky above Falme. And men proclaimed themselves for the Dragon, and other men struck them down and were struck down in turn.
Other tales spread, of a column that rode from the sinking sun across Almoth Plain. A hundred Bordermen, it was said. No, a thousand. No, a thousand heroes come back from the grave to answer the call of the Horn of Valere. Ten thousand. They had destroyed a legion of the Children of the Light entire. They had thrown Artur Hawkwing’s returned armies back into the sea. They were Artur Hawkwing’s armies returned. Toward the mountains they rode, toward the dawn.
Yet one thing every tale had the same. At their head rode a man whose face had been seen in the sky above Falme, and they rode under the banner of the Dragon Reborn.
And men cried out to the Creator, praying, O Light of the Heavens, Light of the World, let the Promised One be born of the mountain, according to the Prophecies, as he was in Ages past and will be in Ages to come. Let the Prince of the Morning sing to the land that green things will grow and the valleys give forth lambs. Let the arm of the Lord of the Dawn shelter us from the Dark, and the great sword of justice defend us. Let the Dragon ride again on the winds of time.
—from Charal Drianaan te Calamon, The Cycle of the Dragon,
Author unknown, the Fourth Age The End
of the Second Book of The Wheel of Time