(Spears and Shield) Beyond the Stone
Egwene stumbled, flinging her arms around Mist’s neck as the ground tilted under her feet. All about her, Aiel contended with braying, sliding pack mules on a steep rocky slope where nothing grew. Heat remembered from Tel’aran’rhiod hammered her. The air shimmered before her eyes: the ground burned her feet through the soles of her shoes. Her skin prickled painfully for a moment, then sweat gushed from every pore. It only dampened her dress, and the sweat seemed to evaporate immediately.
The struggling mules and tall Aiel nearly hid the surroundings from her, but she saw a bit in flashes between them. A thick gray stone column angled out of the ground not three paces from her, scoured by windblown sand until there was no telling whether it had ever been twin to the Portal Stone in Tear. Rugged slabsided mountains that looked carved by a mad giant’s axe broiled beneath a blazing sun in a cloudless sky. Yet in the center of the long, barren valley far below, a mass of dense fog hung, billowing like clouds; that scalding sun should surely have burned it off in moments, but the fog rolled untouched. And out of that roiling gray stuck the tops of towers, some spired, some ending abruptly as though the masons still worked.
“He was right,” she murmured to herself. “A city in clouds.”
Clutching his gelding’s bridle, Mat Was staring around wide eyed. “We made it!” He laughed at her. “We made it, Egwene, and without any… . Burn me, we made it!” He tugged open his shirt laces at the neck. “Light, it’s hot. Burn me for true!”
Abruptly she realized Rand was on his knees, head down, supporting himself with one hand on the ground. Pulling her mare behind her, she pushed through the milling Aiel to him just as Lan helped him to his feet. Moiraine was already there, studying Rand with apparent calm — and the slight tightness at the corners of her mouth that meant she would like to box his ears.
“I did it,” Rand panted, looking around. The Warder was all that was holding him upright; his face was drained and drawn, like a man on his deathbed.
“You came close,” Moiraine said coolly. Very coolly. “The angreal was not sufficient to the task. You must not do this again. If you take chances, they must be reasoned and for a strong purpose. They must be.”
“I don’t take chances, Moiraine. Mat’s the fellow for chances.” Rand forced his right hand open; the angreal, the fat little man, had driven the point of its sword into his flesh, right into the branded heron. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I did need one a little stronger. A little bit, maybe…” He gave a huffing laugh. “It worked, Moiraine. That is what’s important. I’ve outrun them all. It worked.”
“That is what matters,” Lan said, nodding.
Egwene made a vexed tsk. Men. One almost killed himself, then tried to make a joke of it, and another told him he had done the right thing. Did they never grow up?
“The fatigue of channeling is not like other tiredness,” Moiraine said. “I cannot rid you of it completely, not when you have channeled as much as you did, but I will do what I can. Perhaps what remains will remind you to be more careful in future.” She was angry; there was a definite hint of satisfaction in her voice.
The glow of saidar surrounded the Aes Sedai as she reached up to take Rand’s head in her hands. A shuddering gasp burst out of him, and he shivered uncontrollably, then jerked back from her, pulling free of Lan as well.
“Ask, Moiraine,” Rand said coldly, stuffing the angreal into his belt pouch. “Ask, first. I’m not your pet dog that you can do whatever you want to whenever you want.” He scrubbed his hands together to rub away the tiny trickle of blood.
Egwene made that vexed sound again. Childish, and ungrateful to boot. He could stand by himself now, though his eyes still looked weary, and she did not have to see his palm to know the tiny puncture was gone as if it had never been. Purely ungrateful. Surprisingly, Lan did not call him down for speaking to Moiraine in that fashion.
It came to her that the Aiel had gone absolutely still now that they had the mules quieted. They stared outward warily, not toward the valley and the fog shrouded city that must be Rhuidean, but at two camps, one to either side of them perhaps half a mile away. The two clusters of dozens upon dozens of low, opensided tents, one twice as large as the other, clung to the mountain slope and very nearly disappeared against it, but the graybrown Aiel in each camp were clearly visible, short spears and arrownocked horn bows in hand, veiling themselves if they were not already. They seemed poised on the balls of their feet, ready to attack.
“The peace of Rhuidean,” a woman’s voice called from upslope, and Egwene could feel the tension leaving the Aiel surrounding her. Those among the tents began lowering their veils, though they still watched cautiously.
There was a third, much smaller encampment farther up the mountain, she realized, a few of the low tents on a small level patch. Four women were walking down from that camp, sedate and dignified in dark bulky skirts and loose white blouses, with brown or gray shawls around their shoulders despite heat that was beginning to make Egwene feel light headed, and many necklaces and bracelets of ivory and gold. Two had white hair, one hair the color of the sun, flowing down their backs to the waist and held back from their faces by folded kerchiefs tied around the forehead.
Egwene recognized one of the white haired women: Amys, the Wise One she had met in Tel’aran’rhiod. Again she was struck by the contrast between Amys’s sundarkened features and her snowy hair; the Wise One just did not look old enough. The second whitehaired woman had a creased grandmotherly face, and one of the others, with graystreaked dark hair, seemed almost as old. She was sure all
four were Wise Ones, very likely the same who had signed that letter to Moiraine.
The Aiel women stopped ten paces upslope from the gathering around the Portal Stone and the grandmotherly woman spread her open hands, speaking in an aged yet powerful voice. “The peace of Rhuidean be on you. Who comes to Chaendaer may return to their holds in peace. There shall be no blood on the ground.”
With that the Aiel from Tear began to separate, quickly apportioning the pack animals and the contents of the hampers. They were not dividing by societies now; Egwene saw Maidens going with several groups, some of which immediately began making their way around the mountain, avoiding each other and the camps, peace of Rhuidean or no. Others strode toward one or the other large cluster of tents, where finally weapons were being put down.
Not everyone had been sure of the peace of Rhuidean. Lan released the hilt of his stillsheathed sword, although Egwene had not seen him put his hands on it, and Mat hastily slipped a pair of knives back into his sleeves. Rand stood with his thumbs tucked behind his belt, but there was clear relief in his eyes.
Egwene looked for Aviendha, to ask a few questions before she approached Amys. Surely the Aiel woman would be a little more forthcoming about the Wise Ones here, in her own land. She spotted the Maiden, carrying a large clinking jute sack, and two rolled wall hangings over her shoulder, as she started briskly for one of the big encampments.
“You will stay, Aviendha,” the Wise One with gray streaks in her hair said loudly. Aviendha stopped in her tracks, not looking at anyone.
Egwene started to go to her, but Moiraine murmured, “Best not to interfere. I doubt she will want sympathy, or see anything else if you offer it.”
Egwene nodded in spite of herself. Aviendha did look as if she wanted to be left alone. What did the Wise Ones want with her? Had she broken some rule, some law?
She herself would not have minded some more company. She felt very exposed standing there with no Aiel around her, and all those among the tents watching. The Aiel who had come from the Stone had been courteous even when not exactly friendly; the watchers looked neither. It was a temptation to embrace saidar. Only Moiraine, serene and cool as ever despite perspiration on her face, and Lan, as unperturbed as the rocks around them, kept her from it. They would know if there was danger. As long as they accepted the situation, she would. But she did wish those Aiel would stop staring.
Rhuarc climbed the slope with a smile. “I am come back, Amys, though not by the way you expected, I will wager.”
“I knew you would be here today, shade of my heart.” She reached up to touch his cheek, letting her brown shawl fall down onto her arms. “My sisterwife sends her heart to you.”
“That’s what you meant about Dreaming,” Egwene said softly to Moiraine. Lan was the only other close enough to hear. “That’s why you were willing to let Rand
try to bring us here by Portal Stone. They knew about it, and told you in that letter. No, that doesn’t make sense. If they had mentioned a Portal Stone, you wouldn’t have tried talking him out of it. They knew we’d be here, though.”
Moiraine nodded without taking her eyes from the Wise Ones. “They wrote that they would meet us here, on Chaendaer, today. I thought it… unlikely… until Rand mentioned the Stones. When he was sure — certain beyond my dissuading — that one existed here… Let us just say it suddenly seemed very likely we would reach Chaendaer today.”
Egwene took a deep breath of hot air. So that was one of the things Dreamers could do. She could not wait to start learning. She wanted to go after Rhuarc and introduce herself to Amys — reintroduce herself — but Rhuarc and Amys were looking into one another’s eyes in a way that excluded intruders.
A man had come out from each of the camps, one tall and broadshouldered, flamehaired and still short of his middle years, the other older and darker, no less tall but more slender. They stopped a few paces to either side of Rhuarc and the Wise Ones. The older, leatheryfaced man carried no visible weapon except his heavy bladed belt knife, but the other carried spears and hide buckler, and held his head high with a fiercely prideful scowl directed at Rhuarc.
Rhuarc ignored him, turning to the older man. “I see you, Heirn. Has one of the sept chiefs decided I am already dead? Who seeks to take my place?”
“I see you, Rhuarc. No one of the Taardad has entered Rhuidean or seeks to. Amys said she would come meet you here today, and these other Wise Ones traveled with her. I brought these men of the Jindo sept to see they arrived safely.”
Rhuarc nodded solemnly. Egwene had the feeling something important had just been said, or hinted at. The Wise Ones did not look at the fieryhaired man, and neither did Rhuarc or Heirn, but from the color rising in the fellow’s cheeks, they might as well have been staring at him. She glanced at Moiraine and got a tiny shake of the head; the Aes Sedai did not understand either.
Lan leaned down between them, speaking quietly. “A Wise One can go anywhere safely, into any hold regardless of clan. I think not even blood feud touches a Wise One. This Heirn came to protect Rhuarc from whoever the other camp is, but it would not be honorable to say it.” Moiraine lifted one eyebrow a trifle, and he added, “I don’t know much of them, but I fought them often before I met you. You have never asked me about them.”
“I will remedy that,” the Aes Sedai said dryly.
Turning back to the Wise Ones and the three men made Egwene’s head swim. Lan pushed an unstoppered leather water bottle into her hands, and she tilted her head back to drink gratefully. The water was lukewarm and smelled of leather, but in the heat it tasted fresh from the spring. She offered the half empty bottle to Moiraine, who drank sparingly and handed it back. Egwene was glad to gulp down the rest, closing her eyes; water splashed over her head, and she opened them again quickly. Lan was emptying another water bottle over her, and Moiraine’s hair
already dripped.
“This heat can kill if you are not used to it,” the Warder explained as he wet down a pair of plain white linen scarves pulled from his coat. At his instructions, she and Moiraine tied the soaked cloths around their foreheads. Rand and Mat were doing the same. Lan left his own head unprotected to the sun; nothing seemed to faze the man.
The silence between Rhuarc and the Aielmen with him had stretched out, but the clan chief finally turned to the flamehaired man. “Do the Shaido lack a clan chief, then, Couladin?”
“Suladric is dead,” the man answered. “Muradin has entered Rhuidean. Should he fail, I will enter.”
“You have not asked, Couladin,” the grandmotherly Wise One said in that reedy yet strong voice. “Should Muradin fail, ask then. We are four, enough to say yes or no.”
“It is my right, Bair,” Couladin said angrily. He had the look of a man not used to being balked.
“It is your right to ask,” the thin voiced woman replied. “It is ours to answer. I do not think you will be allowed to enter, whatever happens to Muradin. You are flawed within, Couladin.” She shifted her gray shawl, rewrapping it around her angular shoulders in a way that suggested she had said more than she considered necessary.
The flamehaired man’s face grew red. “My firstbrother will return marked as clan chief, and we will lead the Shaido to great honor! We mean to —!” He snapped his mouth shut, almost quivering.
Egwene thought she would keep an eye on him if he remained anywhere close to her. He reminded her of the Congars and the Coplins back home, full of boasts and trouble. She had certainly never before seen any Aiel display so much raw emotion.
Amys seemed to have dismissed him already. “There is one who came with you, Rhuarc,” she said. Egwene expected the woman to speak to her, but Amys’s eyes swept straight to Rand. Moiraine was obviously not surprised. Egwene wondered what had been in that letter from these four Wise Ones that the Aes Sedai had not revealed.
Rand looked taken aback for a moment, hesitating, but then he strode up the slope to stand near Rhuarc at eye level to the women. Sweat plastered his white shirt to his body and made darker patches on his breeches. With a twisted white cloth tied around his head, he certainly did not look so grand as he had in the Heart of the Stone. He made an odd bow; left foot advanced, left hand on knee, right hand outstretched palm upward.
“By the right of blood,” he said, “I ask leave to enter Rhuidean, for the honor of our ancestors and the memory of what was.”
Amys blinked in evident surprise, arid Bair murmured, “An ancient form, but
the question has been asked. I answer yes.”
“I also answer yes, Bair,” Amys said. “Seana?”
“This man is no Aiel,” Couladin broke in angrily. Egwene suspected he was very nearly always angry. “It is death for him to be on this ground! Why has Rhuarc brought him? Why —?”
“Do you wish to be a Wise One, Couladin?” Bair asked, a frown deepening the creases on her face. “Put on a dress and come to me, and I will see if you can be trained. Until then, be silent when Wise Ones speak!”
“My mother was Aiel,” Rand said in a strained voice.
Egwene stared at him. Kari al’Thor had died while Egwene was barely out of her cradle, but if Tam’s wife had been Aiel, Egwene would certainly have heard of it. She glanced at Moiraine; the Aes Sedai was watching, smooth faced, calm. Rand did look a great deal like the Aielmen, with his height and gray blue eyes and reddish hair, but this was ridiculous.
“Not your mother,” Amys said slowly. “Your father.” Egwene shook her head. This approached madness. Rand opened his mouth, but Amys did not let him speak. “Seana, how do you say?”
“Yes,” the woman with gray streaked hair said. “Melaine?”
The last of the four, a handsome woman with goldenred hair, no more than ten or fifteen years older than Egwene, hesitated. “It must be done,” she said finally, and unwillingly. “I answer yes.”
“You have been answered,” Amys told Rand. “You may go into Rhuidean, and
—” She cut off as Mat scrambled up to copy Rand’s bow awkwardly. “I also ask to enter Rhuidean,” he said shakily.
The four Wise Ones stared at him. Rand’s head whipped around in surprise. Egwene thought no one could be more shocked than she was, but Couladin proved her wrong. Lifting one of his spears with a snarl, he stabbed at Mat’s chest.
The glow of saidar surrounded Amys and Melaine, and flows of Air lifted the fiery haired man and flung him back a dozen paces.
Egwene stared, wide eyed. They could channel. At least, two of them could. Suddenly Amys’s youthfully smooth features beneath that white hair leaped out at her for what they were, something very close to Aes Sedai agelessness. Moiraine was absolutely still. Egwene could almost hear her thoughts buzzing, though. This was plainly as much of a surprise to the Aes Sedai as to herself.
Couladin scrambled to his feet in a crouch. “You accept this outlander as one of us,” he rasped, pointing at Rand with the spear he had attempted to use on Mat. “If you say it, then so be it. He is still a soft wetlander, and Rhuidean will kill him.” The spear swung to Mat, who was trying to slip a knife back up his sleeve without being noticed. “But he — it is death for him to be here, and sacrilege for him to even ask to enter Rhuidean. None but those of the blood may enter. None!”
“Go back to your tents, Couladin,” Melaine said coldly. “And you, Heirn. And you, as well, Rhuarc. This is business of Wise Ones, and none of men save those
who have asked. Go!” Rhuarc and Heirn nodded and walked away toward the smaller set of tents, talking together. Couladin glared at Rand and Mat, and at the Wise Ones, before jerking around and stalking off toward the larger camp.
The Wise Ones exchanged glances. Troubled glances, Egwene would have said, though they were almost as good as Aes Sedai at keeping their faces blank when they wanted to.
“It is not permitted,” Amys said finally. “Young man, you do not know what you have done. Go back with the others.” Her eyes brushed across Egwene and Moiraine and Lan, standing alone now with the horses near the windscoured Portal Stone. Egwene could not find any recognition for her in that glance.
“I can’t.” Mat sounded desperate. “I’ve come this far, but this doesn’t count, does it? I have to go to Rhuidean.”
“It is not permitted,” Melaine said sharply, her long redgold hair swinging as she shook her head. “You have no Aiel blood in your veins.”
Rand had been studying Mat all this time. “He comes with me,” he said suddenly. “You gave me permission, and he can come with me whether you say he can or not.” He stared back at the Wise Ones, not defiantly, merely determined, set in his mind. Egwene knew him like this; he would not back down whatever they said.
“It is not permitted,” Melaine said firmly, addressing her sisters. She pulled her shawl up to cover her head. “The law is clear. No woman may go to Rhuidean more than twice, no man more than once, and none at all save they have the blood of Aiel.”
Seana shook her head. “Much is changing, Melaine. The old ways…”
“If he is the one,” Bair said, “the Time of Change is upon us. Aes Sedai stand on Chaendaer, and Aan’allein with his shifting cloak. Can we hold to the old ways still? Knowing how much is to change?”
“We cannot hold,” Amys said. “All stands on the edge of change, now. Melaine?” The golden haired woman looked at the mountains around them, and the fog shrouded city below, then sighed and nodded. “It is done,” Amys said, turning to Rand and Mat. “You,” she began, then paused. “By what name do you call yourself?”
“Rand al’Thor.” “Mat. Mat Cauthon.”
Amys nodded. “You, Rand al’Thor, must go into the heart of Rhuidean, to the very center. If you wish to go with him, Mat Cauthon, so be it, but know that most men who enter Rhuidean’s heart do not come back, and some return mad. You may carry neither food nor water, in remembrance of our wanderings after the Breaking. You must go to Rhuidean unarmed, save with your hands and your own heart, to honor the Jenn. If you have weapons, place them on the ground before us. They will be here for you when you return. If you return.”
Rand unsheathed his belt knife and laid it at Amys’s feet, then after a moment
added the green stone carving of the round little man. “That is the best I can do,” he said.
Mat began with his belt knife and kept right on, pulling knives from his sleeves and under his coat, even one from down the back of his neck, fashioning a pile that seemed to impress even the Aiel women. He made as if to stop, looked at the women, then took two more from each boot top. “I forgot them,” he said with a grin and shrug. The Wise Ones’ unblinking looks wiped his grin away.
“They are pledged to Rhuidean,” Amys said formally, looking over the men’s heads, and the other three responded together, “Rhuidean belongs to the dead.”
“They may not speak to the living until they return,” she intoned, and again the others answered. “The dead do not speak to the living.”
“We do not see them, until they stand among the living once more.” Amys drew her shawl across her eyes, and one by one the other three did the same. Faces hidden, they spoke in unison. “Begone from among the living, and do not haunt us with memories of what is lost. Speak not of what the dead see.” Silent then, they stood there, holding their shawls up, waiting.
Rand and Mat looked at one another. Egwene wanted to go to them, to speak to them — they wore the fixed toosteady faces of men who did not want anyone to know they were uneasy or afraid — but that might break the ceremony.
Finally Mat barked a laugh. “Well, I suppose the dead can talk to each other, at least. I wonder if this counts for…. No matter. Do you suppose it’s all right if we ride?”
“I don’t think so,” Rand said. “I think we have to walk.”
“Oh, burn my aching feet. We might as well get on with it then. It’ll take half the afternoon just to get there. If we’re lucky.”
Rand gave Egwene a reassuring smile as they started down the mountain, as if to convince her there was no danger, nothing untoward. Mat’s grin was the sort he wore when doing something particularly foolish, like trying to dance on the peak of a roof.
“You aren’t going to do anything… crazy… are you?” Mat said. “I mean to come back alive.”
“So do I,” Rand replied. “So do I.”
They passed from hearing, growing smaller and smaller as they descended. When they had dwindled to tiny shapes, barely distinguishable as people, the Wise Ones lowered their shawls.
Straightening her dress, and wishing she were not so sweaty, Egwene climbed the short distance to them leading Mist. “Amys? I am Egwene al’Vere. You said I should —”
Amys cut her off with a raised hand, and looked to where Lan was leading Mandarb and Pips and Jeade’en, behind Moiraine and Aldieb. “This is women’s business, now, Aan’allein. You must stand aside. Go to the tents. Rhuarc will offer you water and shade.”
Lan waited for Moiraine’s slight nod before bowing and walking off in the direction Rhuarc had gone. The shifting cloak hanging down his back sometimes gave him the appearance of a disembodied head and arms floating across the ground ahead of the three horses.
“Why do you call him that?” Moiraine asked when he was out of earshot. “One Man. Do you know him?”
“We know of him, Aes Sedai.” Amys made the title sound an address between equals. “The last of the Malkieri. The man who will not give up his war against the Shadow though his nation is long destroyed by it. There is much honor in him. I knew from the dream that if you came, it was almost certain Aan’allein would as well, but I did not know he obeyed you.”
“He is my Warder,” Moiraine said simply.
Egwene thought the Aes Sedai was troubled despite her tone, and she knew why. Almost certain Lan would come with Moiraine? Lan always followed Moiraine; he would follow her into the Pit of Doom without blinking. Nearly as interesting to Egwene was “if you came.” Had the Wise Ones know they were coming or not? Perhaps interpreting the Dream was not as straightforward as she hoped. She was about to ask, when Bair spoke.
“Aviendha? Come here.”
Aviendha had been squatting disconsolately off to one side, arms wrapped around her knees, staring at the ground. She stood slowly. If Egwene had not known better, she would have thought the other woman was afraid. Aviendha’s feet dragged as she climbed to where the Wise Ones stood and set her bag and rolled wall hangings at her feet.
“It is time,” Bair said, not ungently. Still, there was no compromise in her pale blue eyes. “You have run with the spears as long as you can. Longer than you should have.”
Aviendha flung up her head defiantly. “I am a Maiden of the Spear. I do not want to be a Wise One. I will not be!”
The Wise Ones’ faces hardened. Egwene was reminded of the Women’s Circle back home confronting a woman who was heading off into some foolishness.
“You have already been treated more gently than it was in my day,” Amys said in a voice like stone. “I, too, refused when called. My spearsisters broke my spears before my eyes. They took me to Bair and Coedelin bound hand and foot and wearing only my skin.”
“And a pretty little doll tucked under your arm,” Bair said dryly, “to remind you how childish you were. As I remember, you ran away nine times in the first month.” Amys nodded grimly. “And was made to blubber like a child for each of them. I only ran away five times the second month. I thought I was as strong and hard as a woman could be. I was not smart, though; it took me half a year to learn you were stronger and harder than I could ever be, Bair. Eventually I learned my duty, my obligation to the people. As you will, Aviendha. Such as you and I, we have that
obligation. You are not a child. It is time to put away dolls — and spears — and become the woman you are meant to be.”
Abruptly, Egwene knew why she had felt such a kinship with Aviendha from the first, knew why Amys and the others meant her to be a Wise One. Aviendha could channel. Like herself, like Elayne and Nynaeve — and Moiraine, for that matter — she was one of those rare women who not only could be taught to channel, but who had the ability born in her, so she would touch the True Source eventually whether she knew what she was doing or not. Moiraine’s face was still, calm, but Egwene saw confirmation in her eyes. The Aes Sedai had surely known from the first time she came within arm’s reach of the Aiel woman, Egwene realized she could feel that same kinship with Amys and Melaine. Not with Bair or Seana, though. Only the first two could channel; she was sure of it. And now she could sense the same in Moiraine. It was the first time she had ever felt that. The Aes Sedai was a distant woman.
Some of the Wise Ones, at least, apparently saw more in Moiraine’s face. “You meant to take her to your White Tower,” Bair said, “to make her one of you. She is Aiel, Aes Sedai.”
“She can be very strong if she is trained properly,” Moiraine replied. “As strong as Egwene will be. In the Tower, she can reach that strength.”
“We can teach her as well, Aes Sedai.” Melaine’s voice was smooth enough, but contempt tinged her unwavering greeneyed stare. “Better. I have spoken with Aes Sedai. You coddle women in the Tower. The Threefold Land is no place for coddling. Aviendha will learn what she can do while you would still have her playing games.”
Egwene gave Aviendha a concerned look; the other woman was staring at her feet, defiance gone. If they thought training in the Tower was coddling. She had
been worked harder and disciplined more strictly as a novice than ever before in her life. She felt a true pang of sympathy for the Aiel woman.
Amys held out her hands, and Aviendha reluctantly laid her spears and buckler in them, flinching when the Wise One threw them aside to clatter on the ground. Slowly Aviendha slid her cased bow from her back and surrendered it, unbuckled the belt holding her quiver and sheathed knife. Amys took each offering and tossed it away like rubbish; Aviendha gave a little jerk each time. A tear trembled at the corner of one bluegreen eye.
“Do you have to treat her this way?” Egwene demanded angrily. Amys and the others turned flat stares on her, but she was not about to be intimidated. “You are treating things she cares about as trash.”
“She must see them as trash,” Seana said. “When she returns — if she returns
— she will burn them and scatter the ashes. The metal she will give to a smith to make simple things. Not weapons. Not even a carving knife. Buckles, or pots, or puzzles for children. Things she will give away with her own hands when they are made.”
“The Threefold Land is not soft, Aes Sedai,” Bair said. “”Soft things die, here.” “The cadin’sor, Aviendha.” Amys gestured to the discarded weapons. “Your new
clothes will await your return.”
Mechanically, Aviendha stripped, tossing coat and breeches, soft boots, everything onto the pile. Naked, she stood without wriggling a toe, though Egwene thought her own feet would blister through her shoes. She remembered watching as the clothes she had worn to the White Tower were burned, a severing of ties to an earlier life, but it had not been like this. Not this stark.
When Aviendha started to add the sack and the wall hangings to the pile, Seana took them from her. “These you can have back. If you return. If not, they will go to your family, for remembrance.”
Aviendha nodded. She did not seem afraid. Reluctant, angry, even sullen, but not afraid.
“In Rhuidean,” Amys said, “you will find three rings, arranged so.” She drew three lines in the air, joining together in the middle. “Step through any one. You will see your future laid before you, again and again, in variation. They will not guide you wholly, as is best, for they will fade together as do stories heard long ago, yet you will remember enough to know some things that must be, for you, despised as they may be, and some that must not, cherished hopes that they are. This is the beginning of being called wise. Some women never return from the rings; perhaps they could not face the future. Some who survive the rings do not survive their second trip to Rhuidean, to the heart. You are not giving up a hard and dangerous life for a softer, but for a harder and more dangerous.”
A ter’angreal. Amys was describing a ter’angreal. What kind of place was this Rhuidean? Egwene found herself wanting to go down there herself, to find out. That was foolish. She was not here to take unnecessary risks with ter’angreal she knew nothing about.
Melaine cupped Aviendha’s chin and turned the younger woman’s face to her. “You have the strength,” she said with quiet conviction. “A strong mind and a strong heart are your weapons now, but you hold them as surely as you ever held a spear. Remember them, use them, and they will see you through anything.”
Egwene was surprised. Of the four, she would have picked the sunhaired woman last to show compassion.
Aviendha nodded, and even managed a smile. “I will beat those men to Rhuidean. They cannot run.”
Each Wise One in turn kissed her lightly on each cheek, murmuring, “Come back to us.”
Catching Aviendha’s hand, Egwene squeezed it and got a squeeze in return. Then the Aiel woman was running down the mountainside in leaps. It seemed she might well catch up to Rand and Mat. Egwene watched her go worriedly. This was something like being raised to Accepted, it seemed, but without any novice training first, without anyone to give small comfort afterward. What would it have been like
to be raised Accepted on her first day in the Tower? She thought she might have gone mad. Nynaeve had been raised so, because of her strength; she thought at least some of Nynaeve’s distaste for Aes Sedai came from what she had experienced then. Come back to us, she thought. Be steadfast.
When Aviendha passed out of sight, Egwene sighed and turned back to the Wise Ones. She had her own purpose here, and holding back from it would help no one. “Amys, in Tel’aran’rhiod you told me I should come to you to learn. I have.”
“Haste,” the white haired woman said. “We have been hasty, because Aviendha struggled so long against her toh, because we feared the Shaido might don veils, even here, if we did not send Rand al’Thor into Rhuidean before they could think.”
“You believe they’d have tried to kill him?” Egwene said. “But he’s the one you sent people over the Dragonwall to find. He Who Comes With the Dawn.”
Bair shifted her shawl. “Perhaps he is. We shall see. If he lives.”
“He has his mother’s eyes,” Amys said, “and much of her in his face as well as something of his father, but Couladin could see only his clothes, and his horse. The other Shaido would have as well, and perhaps the Taardad, too. Outlanders are not allowed on this ground, and now there are five of you. No, four; Rand al’Thor is no outlander, wherever he was raised. But we have already allowed one to enter Rhuidean, which is also forbidden. Change comes like an avalanche whether we want it or not.”
“It must come,” Bair said, not sounding happy. “The Pattern plants us where it will.”
“You knew Rand’s parents?” Egwene asked cautiously. Whatever they said, she still thought of Tam and Kari al’Thor as Rand’s parents.
“That is his story,” Amys said, “if he wants to hear it.” By the firmness of her mouth, she would not say another word on the subject.
“Come,” Bair said. “There is no need for haste, now. Come. We offer you water and shade.”
Egwene’s knees nearly buckled at the mention of shade. The oncesopping kerchief around her forehead was almost dry; the top of her head felt baked, and the rest of her scarcely less. Moiraine seemed just as grateful to follow the Wise Ones up to one of the small clusters of low, opensided tents.
A tall man in sandals and hooded white robes took their horses’ reins. His Aiel face looked odd in the deep soft cowl, with downcast eyes.
“Give the animals water,” Bair said before ducking into the low, unwalled tent, and the man bowed to her back, touching his forehead.
Egwene hesitated over letting the man lead Mist away. He seemed confident, but what would an Aiel know of horses? Still, she did not think he would harm them, and it did look wonderfully darker inside the tent. It was, and delightfully cool compared to outside.
The roof of the tent rose to a peak around a hole, but even under that there was barely room to stand. As if to make up for the drab colors the Aiel wore, large gold
tasseled red cushions lay scattered over brightly colored carpets layered thickly enough to pad the hard ground beneath. Egwene and Moiraine imitated the Wise Ones, sinking to the carpet and leaning on one elbow on a cushion. They were all in a circle, nearly close enough to touch the next woman.
Bair struck a small brass gong, and two young women entered with silver trays, bending gracefully, robed in white, with deep cowls and downturned eyes, like the man who had taken the horses. Kneeling in the middle of the tent, one filled a small silver cup with wine for each of the women reclining on a cushion, and the other poured larger cups of water. Without a word, they backed out bowing, leaving the gleaming trays and pitchers, beaded with condensation.
“Here is water and shade,” Bair said, lifting her water, “freely given. Let there be no constraints between us. All here are welcome, as firstsisters are welcome.”
“Let there be no constraints,” Amys and the other two murmured. After one sip of water, the Aiel women named themselves formally. Bair, of the Haido sept of the Shaarad Aiel. Amys, of the Nine Valleys sept of the Taardad Aiel. Melaine, of the Jhirad sept of the Goshien Aiel. Seana, of the Black Cliff sept of the Nakai Aiel.
Egwene and Moiraine followed the ritual, though Moiraine’s mouth tightened when Egwene called herself an Aes Sedai of the Green Ajah.
As if the sharing of water and names had broken down a wall, the mood in the tent changed palpably. Smiles from the Aiel women, a subtle relaxation, and said formalities were done.
Egwene was more grateful for the water than for the wine. It might be cooler in the tent than outside, but just breathing still dried her throat. At Amys’s gesture she eagerly poured a second cup.
The people in white had been a surprise. It was foolish, but she realized she had been thinking that except for the Wise Ones Aiel were all like Rhuarc and Aviendha, warriors. Of course they had blacksmiths and weavers and other craftsmen; they must. Why not servants? Only, Aviendha had been disdainful of the servants in the Stone, not letting them do anything for her that she could avoid. These people with their humble demeanor did not act like Aiel at all. She did not recall seeing any white in the two large camps. “Is it only Wise Ones who have servants?” she asked.
Melaine choked on her wine. “Servants?” she gasped. “They are gai’shain, not servants.” She sounded as if that should explain everything,
Moiraine frowned slightly over her winecup. “Gai’shain? How does that translate? ‘Those sworn to peace in battle’?”
“They are simply gai’shain,” Amys said. She seemed to realize they did not understand. “Forgive me, but do you know of ji’e’toh?”
“Honor and obligation,” Moiraine replied promptly. “Or perhaps honor and duty.”
“Those are the words, yes. But the meaning. We live by ji’e’toh, Aes Sedai.” “Do not try to tell them all, Amys,” Bair cautioned. “I once spent a month trying
to explain ji’e’toh to a wetlander, and at the end she had more questions than at the beginning.”
Amys nodded. “I will stay to the core. If you wish it explained, Moiraine.”
Egwene would as soon have begun talk of Dreaming, and training, but to her irritation, the Aes Sedai said, “Yes, if you will.”
With a nod to Moiraine, Amys began. “I will follow the line of gai’shain simply. In the dance of spears, the most ji, honor, is earned by touching an armed enemy without killing, or harming in any way.”
“The most honor because it is so difficult,” Seana said, bluish gray eyes crinkling wryly, “and thus so seldom done.”
“The smallest honor comes from killing,” Amys continued. “A child or a fool can kill. In between is the taking of a captive. I pare it down, you see. There are many degrees. Gai’shain are captives taken so, though a warrior who has been touched may sometimes demand to be taken gai’shain to reduce his enemy’s honor and his own loss.”
“Maidens of the Spear and Stone Dogs especially are known for this,” Seana put in, bringing a sharp look from Amys.
“Do I tell this, or do you? To continue. Some may not be taken gai’shain, of course. A Wise One, a blacksmith, a child, a woman with child or one who has a child under the age of ten. A gai’shain has toh to his or her captor. For gai’shain, this is to serve one year and a day, obeying humbly, touching no weapon, doing no violence.”
Egwene was interested in spite of herself. “Don’t they try to escape? I certainly would.” I’ll never let anyone make me a prisoner again!
The Wise Ones looked shocked. “It has happened,” Seana said stiffly, “but there is no honor in it. A gai’shain who ran away would be returned by his or her sept to begin the year and a day anew. The loss of honor is so great that a firstbrother or firstsister might go as gai’shain as well to discharge the sept’s toh. More than one, if they feel the loss of ji is great.”
Moiraine seemed to be taking it all in calmly, sipping her water, but it was all Egwene could do not to shake her head. The Aiel were insane; that was all there was to it. It got worse.
“Some gai’shain now make an arrogance of humbleness,” Melaine said disapprovingly. “They think they earn honor by it, taking obedience and meekness to the point of mockery. This is a new thing and foolish. It has no part in ji’e’toh.”
Bair laughed, a startling rich sound compared to her reedy voice. “There have always been fools. When I was a girl, and the Shaarad and the Tomanelle were stealing each other’s cattle and goats every night, Chenda, the roofmistress of Mainde Cut, was pushed aside by a young Haido Water Seeker during a raid. She came to Bent Valley and demanded the boy make her gai’shain; she would not allow him to gain the honor of having touched her because she had a carving knife in her hands when he did. A carving knife! It was a weapon, she claimed, as if she were a
Maiden. The boy had no choice but to do as she demanded, for all the laughter when he did. One does not send a roofmistress barefoot back to her hold. Before the year and a day was done, the Haido sept and the Jenda sept exchanged spears, and the boy soon found himself married to Chenda’s eldest daughter. With his secondmother still gai’shain to him. He tried to give her to his wife as part of his bride gift, and both women claimed he was trying to rob them of honor. He nearly had to take his own wife as gai’shain. It came close to raiding between Haido and Jenda again before the toh was discharged.” The Aiel women almost fell over laughing, Amys and Melaine wiping their eyes.
Egwene understood little of the story — certainly not why it was funny — but she managed a polite laugh.
Moiraine set her water aside for the small silver cup of wine. “I have heard men speak of fighting the Aiel, but I have never heard of this before. Certainly not of an Aiel surrendering because he was touched.”
“It is not surrender,” Amys said pointedly. “It is ji’e’toh.”
“No one would ask to be made gai’shain to a wetlander,” Melaine said. “Outlanders do not know of ji’e’toh.”
The Aiel women exchanged looks. They were uncomfortable. Why? Egwene wondered. Oh. To the Aiel, not to know ji’e’toh must be like not knowing manners, or not being honorable. “There are honorable men and women among us,” Egwene said. “Most of us. We know right from wrong.”
“Of course you do,” Bair murmured in a tone that said that was not the same thing at all.
“You sent a letter to me in Tear,” Moiraine said, “before I ever reached there. You said a great many things, some of which have proven true. Including that I would — must — meet you here today; you Very nearly commanded me to be here. Yet earlier you said if I came. How much of what you wrote did you know to be true?”
Amys sighed and set aside her cup of wine, but it was Bair who spoke. “Much is uncertain, even to a dream walker. Amys and Melaine are the best of us, and even they do not see all that is, or all that can be.”
“The present is much clearer than the future even in Tel’aran’rhiod,” the sunhaired Wise One said. “What is happening or beginning is more easily seen than what will happen, or may. We did not see Egwene or Mat Cauthon at all. It was no more than an even chance that the young man who calls himself Rand al’Thor would come. If he did not, it was certain that he would die, and the Aiel too. Yet he has come, and if he survives Rhuidean, some of the Aiel at least will survive. This we know. If you had not come, he would have died. If Aan’allein had not come, you would have died. If you do not go through the rings —” She cut off as if she had bitten her tongue.
Egwene leaned forward intently. Moiraine had to enter Rhuidean? But the Aes Sedai appeared to give no notice, and Seana spoke up quickly to cover Melaine’s
slip.
“There is no one set path to the future. The Pattern makes the finest lace look coarsewoven sacking, or tangled string. In Tel’aran’rhiod it is possible to see some ways the future may be woven. No more than that.”
Moiraine took a sip of wine. “The Old Tongue is often difficult to translate.” Egwene stared at her. The Old Tongue? What about the rings, the ter’angreal? But Moiraine went blithely on. “Tel’aran’rhiod means the World of Dreams, or perhaps the Unseen World. Neither is really exact; it is more complex than that. Aan’allein. One Man, but also The Man Who Is an Entire People, and two or three other ways to translate it as well. And the words we have taken for common use, and never think of their meanings in the Old Tongue. Warders are called ‘Gaidin,’ which was ‘brothers to battle.’ Aes Sedai meant ‘servant of all.’ And ‘Aiel’. ‘Dedicated,’ in the Old Tongue. Stronger than that; it implies an oath written into your bones. I have often wondered what the Aiel are dedicated to.” The Wise Ones’ faces had gone to iron, but Moiraine continued. “And ‘Jenn Aiel’. ‘The true dedicated,’ but again stronger. Perhaps ‘the only true dedicated.’ The only true Aiel?” She looked at them questioningly, just as if they did not suddenly have eyes of stone. None of them spoke.
What was Moiraine doing? Egwene did not intend to allow the Aes Sedai to ruin her chances of learning whatever the Wise Ones could teach her. “Amys, could we talk of Dreaming now?”
“Tonight will be time enough,” Amys said. “But —”
“Tonight, Egwene. You may be Aes Sedai, but you must become a pupil again. You cannot even go to sleep when you wish yet, or sleep lightly enough to tell what you see before you wake. When the sun begins to set, I will begin to teach you.”
Ducking her head, Egwene peered under the edge of the tent roof. From that deep shade, the light outside glared piercingly through heat shimmers in the air; the sun stood no more than halfway to the mountaintops.
Abruptly Moiraine rose to her knees; reaching behind her, she began undoing her dress. “I presume that I must go as Aviendha did,” she said, not as a question.
Bair gave Melaine a hard stare that the younger woman met only for a moment before dropping her eyes. Seana said in a resigned voice, “You should not have been told. It is done, now. Change. One not of the blood has gone to Rhuidean, and now another.”
Moiraine paused. “Does that make a difference, that I have been told?” “Perhaps a great difference,” Bair said reluctantly, “perhaps none. We often
guide, but we do not tell. When we saw you go to the rings, each time it was you who brought up going, who demanded the right though you have none of the blood. Now one of us has mentioned it first. Already there are changes from anything we saw. Who can say what they are?”
“And what did you see if I do not go?”
Bair’s wrinkled face was expressionless, but sympathy touched her pale blue eyes. “We have told too much already, Moiraine. What a dream walker sees is what is likely to happen, not what surely will. Those who move with too much knowledge of the future inevitably find disaster, whether from complacency at what they think must come or in their efforts to change it.”
“It is the mercy of the rings that the memories fade,” Amys said. “A woman knows some things — a few — that will happen; others she will not recognize until the decision is upon her, if then. Life is uncertainty and struggle, choice and change; one who knew how her life was woven into the Pattern as well as she knew how a thread was laid into a carpet would have the life of an animal. If she did not go mad. Humankind is made for uncertainty, struggle, choice and change.”
Moiraine listened with no outward show of impatience, though Egwene suspected it was there; the Aes Sedai was used to lecturing, not being lectured. She was silent while Egwene helped her out of her dress, not speaking until she crouched naked at the edge of the carpets, peering down the mountainside toward the fogshrouded city in the valley. Then she said, “Do not let Lan follow me. He will try, if he sees me.”
“It will be as it will be,” Bair replied. Her thin voice sounded cold and final.
After a moment, Moiraine gave a grudging nod and slipped out of the tent into the blazing sunlight. She began to run immediately, barefoot down the scorching slope. . Egwene grimaced. Rand and Mat, Aviendha, now Moiraine, all going into Rhuidean. “Will she… survive? If you dreamed of this, you must know.”
“There are some places one cannot enter in Tel’aran’rhiod,” Seana said. “Rhuidean. Ogier stedding. A few others. What happens there is shielded from a dreamwalker’s eyes.”
That was not an answer — they could have seen whether she came out of Rhuidean — but it was obviously all she was going to get. “Very well. Should I go, too?” She did not relish the thought of experiencing the rings; it would be like being raised to Accepted again. But if everyone else was going…
“Do not be foolish,” Amys said vigorously.
“We saw nothing of this for you,” Bair added in a milder tone. “We did not see you at all.”
“And I would not say yes if you asked,” Amys went on. “Four are required for permission, and I would say no. You are here to learn to dreamwalk.”
“In that case,” Egwene said, settling back on her cushion, “teach me. There must be something you can begin with before tonight.”
Melaine frowned at her, but Bair chuckled dryly. “She is as eager and impatient as you were once you decided to learn, Amys.”
Amys nodded. “I hope she can keep her eagerness and lose the impatience, for her sake. Hear me, Egwene. Though it will be hard, you must forget that you are Aes Sedai if you are to learn. You must listen, remember, and do as you are told. Above all, you must not enter Tel’aran’rhiod again until one of us says you may.
Can you accept this?”
It would not be hard to forget she was Aes Sedai when she was not. For the rest, it sounded ominously like becoming a novice again. “I can accept it.” She hoped she did not sound doubtful.
“Good,” Bair said. “I will now tell you about dreamwalking and Tel’aran’rhiod, in a very general way. When I am done, you will repeat back to me what I have said. If you fail to touch all points, you will scrub the pots in place of the gai’shain tonight. If your memory is so poor that you cannot repeat what I say after a second hearing. Well, we will discuss that when it happens. Attend.
“Almost anyone can touch Tel’aran’rhiod, but few can truly enter it. Of all the Wise Ones, we four alone can dreamwalk, and your Tower has not produced a dreamwalker in nearly five hundred years. It is not a thing of the One Power, though Aes Sedai believe it is. I cannot channel, nor can Seana, yet we dreamwalk as well as Amys or Melaine. Many people brush the World of Dreams in their sleep. Because they only brush against it, they wake with aches or pains where they should have broken bones or mortal hurts. A dreamwalker enters the dream fully, therefore her injuries are real on waking. For one who is fully in the dream, dreamwalker or not, death there is death here. To enter the dream too completely, though, is to lose touch with the flesh; there is no way back, and the flesh dies. It is said that once there were those who could enter the dream in the flesh, and no longer be in this world at all. This was an evil thing, for they did evil; it must never be attempted, even if you believe it possible for you, for each time you will lose some part of what makes you human. You must learn to enter Tel’aran’rhiod when you wish, to the degree you wish. You must learn to find what you need to find and read what you see, to enter the dreams of another close by in order to aid healing, to recognize those who are in the dream fully enough to harm you, to. ”
Egwene listened intently. It fascinated her, hinting at things she had never suspected were possible, but beyond that she had no intention of ending up scrubbing pots. It did not seem fair, somehow. Whatever Rand and Mat and the others faced in Rhuidean, they were not going to be sent off to scrub pots. And I agreed to it! It just was not fair. But then, she doubted they could get any more out of Rhuidean than she would from these women.
The Shadow Rising
Chapter 24
(Dice) Rhuidean
The smooth pebble in Mat’s mouth was not making moisture anymore, and had not been for some time. Spitting it out, he squatted beside Rand and stared at the billowing gray wall maybe thirty paces in front of them. Fog. He hoped at least it was cooler in there than out here. And some water would be appreciated. His lips were cracking. He pulled the scarf from around his head and wiped his face, but there was not much sweat to dampen the cloth. Not much sweat remained in him to come out. A place to sit down. His feet felt like cooked sausages inside his boots; he felt pretty well cooked all over, for that matter. The fog stretched left and right better than a mile and bulked over his head like a towering cliff. A cliff of thick mist in the middle of a barren blistered valley. There had to be water in there.
Why doesn’t it burn off? He did not like that part of it. Fooling with the Power had brought him here, and now it seemed he had to fool with it again. Light, I want free of the Power and Aes Sedai. Burn me, I do! Anything not to think of stepping into that fog, for just a minute more. “That was Egwene’s Aiel friend I saw running,” he croaked. Running! In this heat. Just thinking of it made his feet hurt worse. “Aviendha. Whatever her name is.”
“If you say so,” Rand said, studying the fog. He sounded as if he had a mouthful of dust, his face was sunburned, and he wavered unsteadily in his crouch. “But what would she be doing down here? And naked?”
Mat let it go. Rand had not seen her — he had hardly taken his eyes off the roiling mist since starting down the mountain — and he did not believe Mat had seen her either. Running like a madwoman and keeping wide of the two of them. Heading for this strange fog, it had seemed to him. Rand appeared no more eager to step into that than he was. He wondered whether he looked as bad as Rand did. Touching his cheek, he winced. He expected he did.
“Are we going to stay out here all night? This valley is pretty deep. It’ll be dark down here in another couple of hours. Might be cooler then, but I don’t think I would like to meet whatever runs around this place in the night. Lions, probably. I’ve heard there are lions in the Waste.”
“Are you sure you want to do this, Mat? You heard what the Wise Ones said. You can die in there, or go mad. You can make it back to the tents. You left water bottles and a waterbag on Pips’s saddle.”
He wished Rand had not reminded him. Best not to think about water. “Burn me, no, I don’t want to. I have to. What about you? Isn’t being the bloody Dragon Reborn enough for you? Do you have to be a flaming Aiel clan chief, too? Why are you here?”
“I have to be, Mat. I have to be.” Resignation came through the parch in his voice, but something else, too. A hint of eagerness. The man really was mad; he
wanted to do this.
“Rand, maybe that’s the answer they give everybody. Those snake people, I mean. Go to Rhuidean. Maybe we don’t have to be here at all.” He did not believe it, but with that fog staring him in the face…
Rand turned his head to look at him, not speaking. Finally he said, “They never mentioned Rhuidean to me, Mat.”
“Oh, burn me,” he muttered. Somehow or other he meant to find a way back through that twisted doorway in Tear. Absently he pulled the gold Tar Valon mark from his coat pocket, rolled it across the backs of his fingers and thrust it back. Those snaky folk were going to give him a few more answers whether they wanted to or not. Somehow.
Without another word, Rand rose and started toward the fog in an unsteady stride, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Mat hurried after him. Burn me. Burn me. I do not want to do this.
Rand plunged right into the dense mist, but Mat hesitated a moment before following. It had to be the Power maintaining the fog, after all, with its edge boiling so but never advancing or retreating an inch. The bloody Power, and no bloody choice. That first step was a blessed relief, cool and damp; he opened his mouth to let the mist moisten his tongue. Three steps more and he began to worry. Beyond the tip of his nose was only featureless gray. He could not make out even a shadow that could be Rand.
“Rand?” The sound might as well not have come from his mouth; the murk seemed to swallow it before it reached his own ears. He was not even sure of his direction anymore, and he could always remember his way. Anything might be ahead of him. Or under his feet. He could not see his feet; the fog shrouded him completely below the waist. He picked up his pace regardless. And suddenly stepped out beside Rand into a peculiar shadowless light.
The fog made an enormous hollow dome hiding the sky, its bubbling inner surface glowing in a pale sharp blue. Rhuidean was not nearly so big as Tear or Caemlyn, but the empty streets were broad as any he had ever seen, with wide strips of bare dirt down their centers as if trees had grown there once, and great fountains with statues. Huge buildings flanked the streets, odd flatsided palaces of marble and crystal and cut glass, ascending hundreds of feet in steps or sheer walls. There was not a small building to be seen, nothing that might have been a. simple tavern or an inn or a stable. Only immense palaces, with gleaming columns fifty feet thick climbing a hundred paces in red or white or blue, and grand towers, fluted and spiraled, some piercing the glowing clouds above.
For all its grandeur, the city had never been finished. Many of those tremendous structures ended in the sawteeth of abandoned construction. Colored glass made images in some huge windows: serenely majestic men and women thirty feet tall or more, sunrises and starry night skies; others gaped emptily. Unfinished and long deserted. No water splashed in any fountain. Silence covered the city as completely
as the dome of fog. The air was cooler than outside, but just as arid. Dust grated under foot on pale smooth paving stones.
Mat trotted to the nearest fountain anyway, just on the off chance, and leaned on the waist high white rim. Three unclothed women, twice as tall as he and supporting an odd widemouthed fish over their heads, peered down into a wide dusty basin no dryer than his mouth.
“Of course,” Rand said behind him. “I should have thought of this before.”
Mat looked over his shoulder. “Thought of what?” Rand was staring at the fountain, shaking with silent laughter. “Get hold of yourself, Rand. You didn’t go crazy in the last minute. You should have thought of what?”
A hollow gurgling whipped Mat’s eyes back to the fountain. Abruptly water gushed out of the fish’s mouth, a stream as thick as his leg. He scrambled into the basin and ran to stand under the downpour, head back and mouth open. Cold sweet water, cold enough to make him shiver, sweeter than wine. It soaked his hair, his coat, his breeches. He drank until he thought he would drown, finally staggering over to lean panting against a woman’s stone leg.
Rand was still standing there staring at the fountain, face red and lips cracked, laughing softly. “No water, Mat. They said we couldn’t bring water, but they did not say anything about what was already here.”
“Rand? Aren’t you going to drink?”
Rand gave a start, then stepped into the now ankle deep basin and splashed across to stand where Mat had been, drinking in the same way, eyes closed and face tilted up to let the water pour over him.
Mat watched worriedly. Not mad, exactly; not yet. But how long would Rand have stood there laughing while thirst turned his throat to stone if he had not spoken? Mat left him there and climbed out of the fountain. Some of the water drenching his clothes had seeped down into his boots. He ignored the squish he made at every step; he was not sure he could get his boots back on if he pulled them off. Besides, it felt good.
Peering at the city, he wondered what he was doing there. Those people had said he would die, otherwise, but was just being in Rhuidean enough? Do I have to do something? What?
The empty streets and halffinished palaces were shadowless in the pale azure light. A prickling grew between his shoulder blades. All those empty windows looking down on him, all those gaptoothed lines of forsaken stonework. Anything could be hiding in there, and in a place like this, anything could be… Any bloody thing at all. He wished he still had his boot knives, at least. But those women, those Wise Ones, had stared at him as if they knew he was holding out on them. And they had channeled, one or all of them. It was not wise to step on the wrong side of women who could channel if you could avoid it. Burn me, if I could get shut of Aes Sedai, I’d never ask for another thing. Well, not for a good long while, anyway. Light, I wonder if anything is hiding in here.
“The heart has to be that way, Mat.” Rand was climbing out of the basin, dripping wet.
“The heart?”
“The Wise Ones said I had to go to the heart. They must mean the center of the city.” Rand looked back at the fountain and suddenly the flow dwindled to a trickle, then ceased. “There’s an ocean of good water down there. Deep. So deep I nearly didn’t find it. If I could bring it up… No need to waste it, though. We can get another good drink when it’s time to leave.”
Mat shifted his feet uncomfortably. Fool! Where did you think it came from? Of course he bloody channeled. Did you think it just started flowing again after the Light knows how long? “Center of the city. Of course. Lead on.”
They kept to the middle of the wide street, walking along the edge of the bare strips of dirt, past more dry fountains, some with only the stone basin and a marble base where the statues should have been. Nothing was broken in the city, only… incomplete. The palaces loomed to either side like cliffs. There had to be things inside. Furniture, maybe, if it had not rotted. Maybe gold. Knives. Knives would not rust away in this dry air no matter how long they had been there.
There could be a bloody Myrddraal in there for all you know. Light, why did I have to think of that? If only he had thought to bring a quarterstaff with him when he left the Stone. Maybe he could have convinced the Wise Ones it was a walking staff. No use thinking of it, now. A tree would do, if he had a way to cut a good branch and trim it. If, again. He wondered whether whoever built this city had managed to grow any trees. He had worked on his father’s farm too long not to know good dirt when he saw it. These long ribbons of exposed soil were poor, no good for growing anything besides weeds, and not many of those. None, now.
After they had walked a mile, the street suddenly ended at a great plaza, perhaps as far across as they had walked and surrounded by those palaces of marble and crystal. Startlingly, a tree stood in the huge square, a good hundred feet tall and spreading its thick, leafy limbs over a hide of dusty white paving stones, near what appeared to be concentric rings of clear, glittering glass columns, thin as needles compared to their height, nearly as much as the tree’s. He would have wondered how a tree could grow here, without sunlight, if he had not been too busy staring at the astounding jumble filling the rest of the square.
A clear lane led from each street Mat could see, straight to the columned rings, but in the spaces between, statues stood haphazardly, lifesized down to half that, in stone or crystal or metal, set right down on the pavement. All among them were… He did not know what to call them, at first. A flat silvery ring, ten feet across and thin as a blade. A tapering crystal plinth a pace tall that might have held one of the smaller statues. A shiny black metal spire, narrow as a spear and no longer, yet standing on end as if rooted. Hundreds of things, maybe thousands, in every shape imaginable, every material imaginable, dotting the huge plaza with no more than a dozen feet between any two.
It was the black metal spear, so unnaturally erect, that suddenly told him what they must be. Ter’angreal. Some sort of things to do with the Power, anyway. Some of them had to be. That twisted stone doorway in the Stone’s Great Holding had resisted falling over, too.
He was ready to turn around and go back right then, but Rand continued on, barely looking at what lined his way. Once Rand paused, staring down at two figurines that hardly seemed to deserve a place with the other things. Two statuettes maybe a foot tall, a man and a woman, each holding a crystal sphere aloft in one hand. He half bent as if to touch them, but straightened so quickly it could almost have been Mat’s imagination.
After a minute, Mat followed, hurrying to catch up. The closer they came to the scintillating rings of columns, the more he tensed. Those things all around them had to do with the Power, and so did the columns. He just knew it. Those impossibly tall thin shafts sparkled in the bluish light, dazzling the eye. All they said was I had to come here. Well, I’m here. They didn’t say anything about the bloody Power.
Rand stopped so suddenly that Mat went three strides nearer the columned rings before realizing it. Rand was staring at the tree, Mat saw. The tree. Mat found himself moving toward it as if drawn. No tree had those trefoil leaves. No tree but one; a tree of legend.
“Avendesora,” Rand said softly. “The Tree of Life. It’s here.”
Under the spreading branches, Mat leaped to catch one of those leaves; his outstretched fingers fell a good pace short of the lowest. He satisfied himself with walking deeper beneath that leafy roof and leaning back against the thick bole. After a moment he slid down to sit against it. The old stories were true. He felt…. Contentment. Peace. Well being. Even his feet did not bother him much.
Rand sat down crosslegged nearby. “I can believe the stories. Ghoetam, sitting beneath Avendesora for forty years to gain wisdom. Right now, I can believe.”
Mat let his head fall back against the trunk. “I don’t know that I’d trust birds to bring me food, though. You’d have to get up sometime.” But an hour or so would not be bad. Even all day. “It doesn’t make sense anyway. What kind of food could birds bring in here? What birds?”
“Maybe Rhuidean wasn’t always like this, Mat. Maybe… I don’t know. Maybe Avendesora was somewhere else, then.”
“Somewhere else,” Mat murmured. “I would not mind being somewhere else.” It feels… good… though.
“Somewhere else?” Rand twisted around to look at the tall thin columns, shining so close. “Duty is heavier than a mountain,” he sighed.
That was part of a saying he had picked up in the Borderlands. “Death is lighter than a feather, duty heavier than a mountain.” It sounded like pure foolishness to Mat, but Rand was getting up. Mat copied him reluctantly. “What do you think we’ll find in there?”
“I think I have to go on alone from here,” Rand said slowly.
“What do you mean?” Mat demanded. “I’ve come this far, haven’t I? I am not going to turn tail now.” Wouldn’t I just like to, though!
“It isn’t that, Mat. If you go in there, you come out a clan chief, or you die. Or come out mad. I don’t believe there’s any other choice. Unless maybe the Wise Ones go in there.”
Mat hesitated. To die and live again. That was what they had said. He had no intention of trying to be an Aiel clan chief, though; the Aiel would probably stick spears through him. “We’ll leave it to luck,” he said, pulling the Tar Valon mark from his pocket. “Getting to be my lucky coin. Flame, I go in with you; head, I stay out.” He flipped the gold coin quickly, before Rand could object.
Somehow he missed grabbing it; the mark careened off his fingertips, clinked to the pavement, bounced twice… And landed on edge.
He glared at Rand accusingly. “Do you do this sort of thing on purpose? Can’t you control it?”
“No.” The coin fell over, showing an ageless woman’s face surrounded by stars. “It looks like you stay out here, Mat.”
“Did you just… ?” He wished Rand would not channel around him. “Oh, burn me, if you want me to stay out here, I’ll stay.” Snatching the coin up, he stuffed it back into his pocket. “Listen, you go in, do whatever it is you have to, and get back out. I want to leave this place, and I am not going to stand here forever twiddling my thumbs waiting for you. And you needn’t think I’ll come in after you, either, so you had best be careful.”
“I wouldn’t think that of you, Mat,” Rand said.
Mat stared at him suspiciously. What was he grinning at? “So long as you understand I won’t. Aaah, go on and be a bloody Aiel chief. You have the face for it.”
“Don’t come in there, Mat. Whatever happens, don’t.” He waited until Mat nodded before turning away.
Mat stood, watching him walk in among the glittering columns. In the shifting dazzle he seemed to vanish almost immediately. A trick of the eye, Mat told himself. That was all it was. A bloody trick of the eye.
He started around the array, keeping well back, peering in an effort to spot Rand again. “You look out what you’re bloody doing,” he shouted. “You leave me alone in the Waste with Moiraine and the bloody Aiel, and I’ll strangle you, Dragon Reborn or no!” After a minute, he added, “I’m not coming in there after you if you get yourself in trouble! You hear me?” There was no answer. If he’s not out of there in an hour “He’s mad just going in there,” he muttered. “Well, I’ll not be the one
to pull his bacon off the coals. He’s the one who can channel. If he’s put his head in a hornets’ nest, he can bloody channel his way out of it.” I’ll give him an hour. And then he would leave, whether Rand was back or not. Just turn around and leave. Just go. That was what he would do. He would.
The way those thin shafts of glass caught the bluish light, refracting and
reflecting, merely looking too hard was enough to give him a headache. He turned away, wandering back the way he had come, uneasily eyeing the ter’angreal — or whatever they were — filling the plaza. What was he doing there? Why?
Suddenly he stopped dead, staring at one of those strange objects. A large doorframe of polished redstone, twisted in some way he could not quite catch so his eye seemed to slip trying to follow it around. Slowly he made his way to it, between glittering faceted spires as tall as his head and low golden frames filled with what appeared to be sheets of glass, barely noticing them, never taking his eyes off the doorway.
It was the same. The same polished redstone, the same size, the same eye wrenching corners. Along each upright ran three lines of triangles, points down. Had the one in Tear had those? He could not remember; he had not been trying to remember all the details last time. It was the same; it had to be. Maybe he could not step through the other again, but this one… ? Another chance to get at those snake people, make them answer a few more questions.
Squinting against the glitters, he peered back toward the columns. An hour, he had given Rand. In an hour, he could be through this thing and back with time to spare. Maybe it would not even work for him, since he had used its twin. They are the same. Then again, maybe it would. It just meant rubbing up against the Power one more time.
“Light,” he muttered. “Ter’angreal. Portal Stones. Rhuidean. What difference can one more time make?”
He stepped through. Through a wall of blinding white light, through a roar so vast it annihilated sound.
Blinking, he looked around and bit back the vilest oath he knew. Wherever this was, it was not where he had gone before.
The twisted doorway stood in the middle of a huge chamber that appeared to be starshaped, as near as he could make out through a forest of thick columns, each deeply fluted with eight ridges, the sharp edges yellow and glowing softly for light. Glossy black except for the glowing bits, they rose from a dull white floor into murky gloom far overhead where even the yellow stripes faded away. The columns and floor almost looked to be glass, but when he bent to rub a hand across the floor, it felt like stone. Dusty stone. He wiped his hand on his coat. The air had a musty smell, and his own footprints were the only marks in the dust. No one had been here in a very long time.
Disappointed, he turned back to the ter’angreal. “A very long time.”
Mat spun back, snatching at his coatsleeve for a knife that was lying back on the mountainside. The man standing among the columns looked nothing at all like the snaky folk. He made Mat regret giving up those last blades to the Wise Ones.The fellow was tall, taller than an Aiel, and sinewy, but with shoulders too wide for his narrow waist, and skin as white as the finest paper. Pale leather straps studded with
silver crisscrossed his arms and bare chest, and a black kilt hung to his knees. His eyes were too big and almost colorless, set deep in a narrow jawed face. His short cut, palely reddish hair stood up like a brush, and his ears, lying flat against his head, had a hint of a point at the top. He leaned toward Mat, inhaling, opening his mouth to pull in more air, flashing sharp teeth. The impression he gave was of a fox about to leap on a cornered chicken.
“A very long time,” he said, straightening. His voice was rough, almost a growl. “Do you abide by the treaties and agreements? Do you carry iron, or instruments of music, or devices for making light?”
“I have none of those things,” Mat replied slowly. This was not the same place, but this fellow asked the same questions. And he behaved the same, with all that smelling. Rummaging through my bloody experiences, is he? Well, let him. Maybe he’ll jog some loose so I can remember them, too. He wondered if he was speaking the Old Tongue again. It was uncomfortable, not knowing, not being able to tell. “If you can take me to where I can get a few questions answered, lead the way. If not, I will be going, with apologies for bothering you.”
“No!” Those big colorless eyes blinked in agitation; “You must not go. Come. I will take you where you may find what you need. Come.” He backed away, gesturing with both hands. “Come.”
Glancing at the ter’angreal, Mat followed. He wished the man had not grinned at him just then. Maybe he meant to be reassuring, but those teeth… Mat decided he would never give up all of his knives again, not for Wise Ones or the Amyrlin Seat herself.
The large fivesided doorway looked more like a tunnel mouth, for the corridor beyond was exactly the same size and shape, with those softly glowing yellow strips running along the bends, edging floor and ceiling. It seemed to stretch ahead forever, fading into a murky distance, broken at intervals by more of the great fivesided doorways. The kilted man did not turn to lead until they were both in the hallway, and even then he kept glancing over a wide shoulder as if to make certain Mat was still there. The air was no longer musty; instead it held a faint hint of something unpleasant, something tickling familiarity but not strong enough to recognize.
At the first of the doorways, Mat glanced through in passing, and sighed. Beyond starshaped black columns, a twisted red stone doorway stood on a dull glassy white floor where dust showed the marks of one set of boots coming from the ter’angreal, led toward the corridor by the prints of narrow bare feet. He looked over his shoulder. Instead of ending fifty paces back in another chamber like this, the hallway ran back as far as he could see, a mirror image of what lay ahead. His guide gave him a sharptoothed smile; the fellow looked hungry.
He knew he should have expected something of the sort after what he had seen on the other side of the doorway in the Stone. Those spires moving from where they should be to where they could not, logically. If spires, why not rooms. I should have
stayed out there waiting for Rand, is what I should have done. I should have done a lot of things. At least he would have no trouble finding the ter’angreal again, if all of the doorways ahead were the same.
He peered into the next and saw black columns, the redstone ter’angreal, his footprints and his guide’s in the dust. When the narrow jawed man looked over his shoulder again, Mat gave him a toothy grin. “Never think you have caught a babe in your snare. If you try to cheat me, I will have your hide for a saddlecloth.”
The fellow started, pale eyes widening, then shrugged and adjusted the silver studded straps across his chest; his mocking smile seemed tailored to draw attention to what he was doing. Suddenly Mat found himself wondering where that pale leather came from. Surely not… Oh, Light, I think it is. He managed to stop himself from swallowing, but only just. “Lead, you son of a goat. Your hide is not worth silver studding. Take me where I want to go.”
With a snarl, the man hurried on, stiffbacked. Mat did not care if the fellow was offended. He did wish he had just one knife, though. I’ll be burned if I’ll let some foxfaced goat brain make a harness out of my hide.
There was no way of telling how long they walked. The corridor never changed, with its bent walls and its glowing yellow strips. Every doorway showed the identical chamber, ter’angreal, footprints and all. The sameness made time slip into formlessness. Mat worried about how long he had been there. Surely longer than the hour he had given himself. His clothes were only damp now; his boots no longer made squishing noises. But he walked, staring at his guide’s back, and walked.
Suddenly the corridor ended ahead in another doorway. Mat blinked. He could have sworn that a moment before the hall had stretched on as far as he could see. But he had been watching the sharptoothed fellow more than what lay ahead. He looked back, and nearly swore. The corridor ran back until the glowing yellow strips seemed to come together in a point. And there was not an opening to be seen anywhere along it.
When he turned, he was alone in front of the big fivesided doorway. Burn me, I wish they wouldn’t do that. Taking a deep breath, he walked through.
It was another whitefloored starshaped chamber, not so large as the one — or ones — with columns. An eightpointed star with a glassy black pedestal standing in each point, like a two span slice out of one of those columns. Glowing yellow strips ran up the sharp edges of room and pedestals. The unpleasant smell was stronger here; he recognized it now. The smell of a wild animal’s lair. He hardly noticed it, though, because the chamber was empty except for him.
Turning slowly, he frowned at the pedestals. Surely someone should be up on them, whoever was supposed to answer his questions. He was being cheated. If he could come here, he should be able to get answers.
Suddenly he spun in a circle, searching not the pedestals but the smooth gray walls. The doorway was gone; there was no way out.
Yet before he completed a second turn there was someone standing on each
pedestal, people like his guide, but dressed differently. Four were men, the others women, their stiff hair rising in a crest before spilling down their backs. All wore long white skirts that hid their feet. The women had on white blouses that fell below their hips, with high lace necks and pale ruffles at their wrists. The men wore even more straps than the guide, wider and studded with gold. Each harness supported a pair of bare bladed knives on the wearer’s chest. Bronze blades, Mat judged from the color, but he would have given all the gold in his possession for just one of them.
“Speak,” one of the women said in that growling voice. “By the ancient treaty, here is agreement made. What is your need? Speak.”
Mat hesitated. That was not what the snaky people had said. They were all staring at him like foxes staring at dinner. “Who is the Daughter of the Nine Moons and why do I have to marry her?” He hoped they would count that as one question.
No one answered. None of them spoke. They just continued to stare at him with those big pale eyes.
“You are supposed to answer,” he said. Silence. “Burn your bones to ash, answer me! Who is the Daughter of the Nine Moons and why do I have to marry her? How will I die and live again? What does it mean that I have to give up half the light of the world? Those are my three questions. Say something!”
Dead silence. He could hear himself breathing, hear the blood throbbing in his ears.
“I have no intention of marrying. And I have no intention of dying, either, whether I am supposed to live again or not. I walk around with holes in my memory, holes in my life, and you stare at me like idiots. If I had my way, I would want those holes filled, but at least answers to my questions might fill some in my future. You have to answer—!”
“Done,” one of the men growled, and Mat blinked.
Done? What was done? What did he mean? “Burn your eyes,” he muttered. “Burn your souls! You are as bad as Aes Sedai. Well, I want a way to be free of Aes Sedai and the Power, and I want to be away from you and back to Rhuidean, if you will not answer me. Open up a door, and let me —”
“Done,” another man said, and one of the women echoed, “Done.”
Mat scanned the walls, then glared, turning to take them all in, standing up there on their pedestals staring down at him. “Done? What is done? I see no door. You lying goatfathered —”
“Fool,” a woman said in a whispered growl, and others repeated it. Fool. Fool.
Fool.
“Wise to ask leavetaking, when you set no price, no terms.” “Yet fool not to first agree on price.”
“We will set the price.”
They spoke so quickly he could not tell which said what. “What was asked will be given.”
“The price will be paid.”
“Burn you,” he shouted, “what are you talking!?”
Utter darkness closed around him. There was something around his throat. He could not breathe. Air. He could not….
The Shadow Rising
Chapter 25
(Serpent and Wheel) The Road to the Spear
Not hesitating at the first row of columns, Rand made himself walk in among them. There could be no turning back now, no looking back. Light, what is supposed to happen in here? What does it really do?
Clear as the finest glass, perhaps a foot thick and standing three paces or more apart, the columns were a forest of dazzling light filled with cascading ripples and glares and odd rainbows. The air was cooler here, enough to make him wish he had a coat, but the same gritty dust covered the smooth white stone under his boots. Not a breeze stirred, yet something made each hair on his body shift, even under his shirt.
Ahead and to the right he could just see another man, in the grays and browns of Aiel, stiff and statuestill in the changing lights. That must be Muradin, Couladin’s brother. Stiff and still; something was happening. Strangely, considering the brilliance, Rand could make out the Aiel’s face clearly. Eyes wide and staring, face tight, mouth quivering on the brink of a snarl. Whatever he was seeing, he did not like it. But Muradin had survived that far, at least. If he could do it, Rand could. The man was six or seven paces ahead of him at best. Wondering why he and Mat had not seen Muradin go in, he took another step.
He rode behind a set of eyes, feeling but not controlling a body. The owner of those eyes crouched easily among boulders on a barren mountainside, beneath a sun blasted sky, peering down at strange halfmade stone structures — No! Less than halfmade. That’s Rhuidean, but without any fog, and only just begun — peering down contemptuously. He was Mandein, young for a sept chief at forty. Separateness faded; acceptance came. He was Mandein.
“You must agree,” Sealdre said, but for the moment he ignored her.
The Jenn had made things to draw up water and spill it into great stone basins. He had fought battles over less water than one of those tanks held, with people walking by as though water was of no consequence. A strange forest of glass rose in the center of all their activity, glittering in the sun, and near it the tallest tree he had ever seen, at least three spans high. Their stone structures looked as if each was meant to contain an entire hold, an entire sept, when done. Madness. This Rhuidean could not be defended. Not that anyone would attack the Jenn, of course. Most avoided the Jenn as they avoided the accursed Lost Ones, who wandered searching for the songs they claimed would bring back lost days.
A procession snaked out of Rhuidean toward the mountain, a few dozen Jenn and two palanquins, each carried by eight men. There was enough wood in each of those palanquins for a dozen chief’s chairs. He had heard there were still Aes Sedai among the Jenn.
“You must agree to whatever they ask, husband,” Sealdre said.
He looked at her then, wanting for a moment to run his hands through her long golden hair, seeing the laughing girl who had laid the bridal wreath at his feet and asked him to marry her. She was serious now, though, intent and worried. “Will the others come?” he asked.
“Some. Most. I have talked to my sisters in the dream, and we have all dreamed the same dream. The chiefs who do not come, and those who do not agree… Their septs will die, Mandein. Within three generations they will be dust, and their holds and cattle belong to other septs. Their names will be lost.”
He did not like her talking to the Wise Ones of other septs, even in dreams. But the Wise Ones dreamed true. When they knew, it was true. “Stay here,” he told her. “If I do not return, help our sons and daughters to hold the sept together.”
She touched his cheek. “I will, shade of my life. But remember. You must agree.”
Mandein motioned, and a hundred veiled shapes followed him down the slope, ghosting from boulder to boulder, bows and spears ready, grays and browns blending with the barren land, vanishing even to his eyes. They were all men; he had left all the women of the sept who carried the spear with the men around Sealdre. If anything went wrong and she decided on something senseless to save him, the men would probably follow her in it; the women would see her back to the hold whatever she wanted, to protect the hold and the sept. He hoped they would. Sometimes they could be fiercer than any man, and more foolish.
The procession from Rhuidean had stopped on the cracked clay flat by the time he reached the lower slope. He motioned his men to ground and went on alone, lowering his veil. He was aware of other men moving out from the mountain to his right and left, coming across the baked ground from other directions. How many? Fifty? Maybe a hundred? Some faces he had expected to see were missing. Sealdre was right as usual; some had not listened to their Wise Ones’ dream. There were faces he had never seen before, and faces of men he had tried to kill, men who had tried to kill him. At least none were veiled. Killing in front of a Jenn was almost as bad as killing a Jenn. He hoped the others remembered that. Treachery from one, and the veils would be donned; the warriors each chief had brought would come down from the mountains, and this dry clay would be muddied with blood. He halfexpected to feel a spear through his ribs any moment.
Even trying to watch a hundred possible sources of death, it was hard not to stare at the Aes Sedai as the bearers lowered their ornately carved chairs to the ground. Women with hair so white it almost seemed transparent. Ageless faces with skin that looked as if the wind might tear it. He had heard the years did not touch Aes Sedai. How old must these two be? What had they seen? Could they remember when his greatfather Comran first found Ogier stedding in the Dragonwall and began to trade with them? Or maybe even when Comran’s greatfather Rhodric led the Aiel to kill the men in iron shirts who had crossed the Dragonwall? The Aes Sedai turned their eyes on him — sharp blue and dark, dark brown, the first dark
eyes he had ever seen — and seemed to see inside his skull, inside his thoughts. He knew himself chosen out, and did not know why. With an effort he pulled away from those twin gazes, which knew him better than he knew himself.
A gaunt whitehaired man, tall if stooped, came forward from the Jenn flanked by two graying women who might have been sisters, with the same deepset green eyes and the same way of tilting their heads when they looked at anything. The rest of the Jenn stared uneasily at the earth rather than at the Aiel, but not these three.
“I am Dermon,” the man said in a deep strong voice, his blue eyed scrutiny as steady as any Aiel’s. “These are Mordaine and Narisse.” He gestured to the women beside him in turn. “We speak for Rhuidean, and the Jenn Aiel.”
A stir ran through the men around Mandein. Most of them liked the Jenn claiming to be Aiel no better than he did. “Why have you called us here?” he demanded, though it burned his tongue to admit being summoned.
Instead of answering, Dermon said, “Why do you not carry a sword?” That brought angry mutters.
“It is forbidden,” Mandein growled. “Even Jenn should know that.” He lifted his spears, touched the knife at his waist, the bow on his back. “These are weapons enough for a warrior.” The mutters became approving, including some from men who had sworn to kill him. They still would, given the chance, but they approved of what he had said. And they seemed content to let him talk, with those Aes Sedai watching.
“You do not know why,” Mordaine said, and Narisse added, “There is too much you do not know. Yet you must know.”
“What do you want?” Mandein demanded.
“You.” Dermon ran his eyes across the Aiel, making that one word fit them all. “Whoever would lead among you must come to Rhuidean and learn where we came from, and why you do not carry swords. Who cannot learn, will not live.”
“Your Wise Ones have spoken to you,” Mordaine said, “or you would not be here. You know the cost to those who refuse.”
Charendin pushed his way to the front, alternately glaring at Mandein and the Jenn. Mandein had put that long puckered scar down his face; they had nearly killed each other three times. “Just come to you?” Charendin said. “Whichever of us comes to you will lead the Aiel?”
“No.” The word came thin as a whisper, but strong enough to fill every ear. It came from the dark eyed Aes Sedai sitting in her carved chair with a blanket across her legs as if she felt cold under the broiling sun. “That one will come later,” she said. “The stone that never falls will fall to announce his coming. Of the blood, but not raised by the blood, he will come from Rhuidean at dawn, and tie you together with bonds you cannot break. He will take you back, and he will destroy you.”
Some of the sept chiefs moved as if to leave, but none took more than a few steps. Each had listened to the Wise One of his sept. Agree, or we will be destroyed as if we never were. Agree, or we will destroy ourselves.
“This is some trick,” Charendin shouted. Under Aes Sedai stares he lowered his voice, but it held anger yet. “You mean to gain control of the septs. Aiel bend knee to no man or woman.” He jerked his head, avoiding the Aes Sedai’s eyes. “To no one,” he muttered.
“We seek no control,” Narisse told them.
“Our days dwindle,” Mordaine said. “A day will come when the Jenn are no more, and only you will remain to remember the Aiel. You must remain, or all is for nothing, and lost.”
The flatness of her voice, the calm sureness, silenced Charendin, but Mandein had one more question. “Why? If you know your doom, why do this?” He gestured toward the structures rising in the distance.
“It is our purpose,” Dermon replied calmly. “For long years we searched for this place, and now we prepare it, if not for the purpose we once thought. We do what we must, and keep faith.”
Mandein studied the man’s face. There was no fear in it. “You are Aiel,” he said, and when some of the other chiefs gasped, he raised his voice. “I will go to the Jenn Aiel. ”
“You may not come to Rhuidean armed,” Dermon said.
Mandein laughed aloud at the temerity of the man. Asking an Aiel to go unarmed. Shedding his weapons, he stepped forward. “Take me to Rhuidean, Aiel. I will match your courage.”
Rand blinked in the flickering lights. He had been Mandein; he could still feel contempt for the Jenn fading into admiration. Were the Jenn Aiel, or were they not? They had looked the same, tall, with lightcolored eyes in sundarkened faces, dressed in the same clothes except for lacking veils. But there had not been a weapon among them save for simple belt knives, suitable for work. There was no such thing as an Aiel without weapons.
He was farther into the columns than a single step could account for, and closer to Muradin than he had been. The Aiel’s fixed stare had become a dire frown.
Gritty dust crunched under Rand’s boots as he stepped forward.
His name was Rhodric, and he was nearly twenty. The sun was a golden blister in the sky, but he kept his veil up and his eyes alert. His spears were ready — one in his right hand, three held with his small bullhide buckler — and he was ready. Jeordam was down on the brown grass flat to the south of the hills, where most of the bushes were puny and withered. The old man’s hair was white, like that thing called snow the old ones talked of, but his eyes were sharp, and watching the welldiggers haul up filled waterbags would not occupy all of his attention.
Mountains rose to the north and east, the northern range tall and sharp and whitetipped but dwarfed by the eastern monsters. Those looked as if the world was trying to touch the heavens, and perhaps did. Maybe that white was snow? He would not find out. Faced with this, the Jenn must decide to turn east. They had trailed north along that mountainous wall for long months, painfully dragging their
wagons behind them, trying to deny the Aiel that followed them. At least there had been water when they crossed a river, even if not much. It had been years since Rhodric had seen a river he could not wade across; most were only cracked dry day away from the mountains. He hoped the rains would come again, and make things green once more. He remembered when the world was green.
He heard the horses before he saw them, three men riding across the brown hills in long leather shirts sewn all over with metal discs, two with lances. He knew the one on the lead, Garam, son of the chief of the town just out of sight back the way they came and not much older than himself. They were blind, these townsmen. They did not see the Aiel who stirred after they passed, then settled back to near invisibility in the sere land. Rhodric lowered his veil; there would be no killing unless the riders began it. He did not regret it — not exactly — but he could not make himself trust men who lived in houses and towns. There had been too many battles with that kind. The stories said it had always been so.
Garam drew rein, raising his right hand in salute. He was a slight darkeyed man, like his two followers, but all three looked tough and competent. “Ho, Rhodric. Have your people finished filling their waterskins, yet?”
“I see you, Garam.” He kept his voice level and expressionless. It made him uneasy, seeing men on horses, even more so than their carrying swords. The Aiel had pack animals, but there was something unnatural about sitting atop a horse. A man’s legs were good enough. “We are close. Does your father withdraw his permission for us to take water on his lands?” No other town had ever given permission before. Water had to be fought for if men were near, just like everything else, and if there was water, then men were near. It would not be easy to take these three by himself. He shifted his feet in readiness to dance, and likely die.
“He does not,” Garam said. He had not even noticed Rhodric’s shift. “We have a strong spring in the town, and my father says that when you go, we will have the new wells you have dug until we go ourselves. But your grandfather seemed to want to know if the others started to move, and they have.” He leaned an elbow on the front of his saddle. “Tell me, Rhodric, are they truly the same people as yourselves?”
“They are the Jenn Aiel; we, the Aiel. We are the same, yet not. I cannot explain it further, Garam.” He did not really understand it himself.
“Which way do they move?” Jeordam asked.
Rhodric bowed to his greatfather calmly; he had heard a footfall, the sound of a soft boot, and had known it for an Aiel’s. The townsmen had not noticed Jeordam’s approach, though, and they jerked their reins in surprise. Only Garam’s upflung hand stopped the other two from lowering their lances. Rhodric and his greatfather waited.
“East,” Garam said when he had his horse under control again. “Across the Spine of the World.” He gestured to the mountains that stabbed the sky.
Rhodric winced, but Jeordam said coolly, “What lies on the other side?”
“The end of the world, for all I know,” Garam replied. “I am not sure there is a way across.” He hesitated. “The Jenn have Aes Sedai with them. Dozens, I have heard. Does it not make you uneasy traveling close to Aes Sedai? I have heard the world was different once, but they destroyed it.”
The Aes Sedai made Rhodric very nervous, though he kept his face blank. They were only four, not dozens, but enough to make him remember stories that the Aiel had failed the Aes Sedai in some way that no one knew. The Aes Sedai must know; they had seldom left the Jenn’s wagons in the year since their arrival, but when they did, they looked at the Aiel with sad eyes. Rhodric was not the only one who tried to avoid them.
“We guard the Jenn,” Jeordam said. “It is they who travel with Aes Sedai.”
Garam nodded as if that made a difference, then leaned forward again, lowering his voice. “My father has an Aes Sedai advisor, though he tries to keep it from the town. She says we must leave these hills and move east. She says the dry rivers will run again, and we will build a great city beside one. She says many things. I hear the Aes Sedai plan to build a city — they have found Ogier to build it for them. Ogier!” He shook his head, pulling himself from legends back to reality. “Do you think they mean to rule the world once more? The Aes Sedai? I think we should kill them before they can destroy us again.”
“You must do as you think best.” Jeordam’s voice gave no hint of his own thoughts. “I must ready my people to cross those mountains.”
The darkhaired man straightened in his saddle, plainly disappointed. Rhodric suspected he had wanted Aiel help in killing Aes Sedai. “The Spine of the World,” Garam said brusquely. “It has another name. Some call it the Dragonwall.”
“A fitting name,” Jeordam replied.
Rhodric stared at the towering mountains in the distance. A fitting name for Aiel. Their own secret name, told to no one, was People of the Dragon. He did not know why, only that it was not spoken aloud except when you received your spears. What lay beyond this Dragonwall? At least there would be people to fight. There always were. In the whole world there were only Aiel, Jenn, and enemies. Only that. Aiel, Jenn, and enemies.
Rand drew a deep breath that rasped as if he had not breathed for hours. Eyesplitting rings of light ran up the columns around him. The words still echoed in his mind. Aiel, Jenn, and enemies; that was the world. They had not been in the Waste, certainly. He had seen — lived — a time before the Aiel came to their Threefold Land.
He was nearer still to Muradin. The Aiel’s eyes shifted uneasily, and he seemed to struggle against taking another step.
Rand moved forward.
Squatting easily on the whitecloaked hillside, Jeordam ignored the cold as he watched five people tramp toward him. Three cloaked men, two women in bulky dresses, making hard work of the snow. Winter should have been over long since,
according to the old ones, but then they told stories of the seasons changing from what they had always been. They claimed the earth used to shake, too, and mountains rose or sank like the water in a summer pond when you threw a rock in. Jeordam did not believe it. He was eighteen, born in the tents, and this was the only life he had ever known. The snow, the tents, and the duty to protect.
He lowered his veil and stood slowly, leaning on his long spear so as not to frighten the wagon folk, but they stopped abruptly anyway, staring at the spear, at the bow slung across his back and the quiver at his waist. None appeared any older than himself. “You have need of us, Jenn?” he called.
“You name us that to mock us,” a tall, sharpnosed fellow shouted back, “but it is true. We are the only true Aiel. You have given up the Way.”
“That is a lie!” Jeordam snapped. “I have never held a sword!” He drew a deep breath to calm himself. He had not been put out here to grow angry with Jenn. “If you are lost, your wagons are that way.” He pointed southward with his spear.
One woman placed a hand on sharpnose’s arm and spoke quietly. The others nodded, and finally sharpnose did, too, if reluctantly. She was pretty, with yellow wisps of hair escaping the dark shawl wrapped around her head. Facing Jeordam, she said, “We are not lost.” She peered at him suddenly, seeming to see him for the first time, and tightened her shawl around her.
He nodded; he had not thought they were. The Jenn usually managed to avoid anyone from the tents even when they needed help. The few who did not came only in desperation, for the help they could not find elsewhere. “Follow me.”
It was a mile across the hills to his father’s tents, low shapes partially covered by the last snowfall, clinging to the slopes. His own people watched the new arrivals cautiously, but did not stop what they were doing, whether cooking or tending weapons or tossing snowballs with a child. He was proud of his sept, nearly two hundred people, largest of the ten camps scattered north of the wagons. The Jenn did not seem much impressed, though. It irritated him that there were so many more Jenn than Aiel.
Lewin came out of his tent, a tall, graying man with a hard face; Lewin never smiled, they said, and Jeordam had certainly never seen it. Maybe he had before Jeordam’s mother died of a fever, but Jeordam did not believe it.
The yellowhaired woman — her name was Morin — told a story much as Jeordam had expected. The Jenn had traded with a village, a place with a log wall, and then men from the village had come in the night, taking back what had been traded for, taking more. The Jenn always thought they could trust people who lived in houses, always thought the Way would protect them. The dead were listed — fathers, a mother, firstbrothers. The captives — firstsisters, a sistermother, a daughter. That last surprised Jeordam; it was Morin who spoke bitterly of a fiveyearold daughter carried off to be raised by some other woman. Studying her more closely, he mentally added a few years to her age.
“We will bring them back,” Lewin promised. He took a bundle of spears handed
to him and thrust them pointdown into the ground. “You may stay with us if you wish, so long as you are willing to defend yourselves and the rest of us. If you stay, you will never be allowed back among the wagons.” The sharpnosed fellow turned at that and hurried back the way they had come. Lewin went on; it was seldom that only one left at this point. “Those who wish to come with us to this village, take a spear. But remember, if you take the spear to use against men, you will have to stay with us.” His voice and eyes were stone. “You will be dead as far the Jenn are concerned.”
One of the remaining men hesitated, but each finally pulled a spear from the ground. So did Morin. Jeordam gaped at her, and even Lewin blinked.
“You do not have to take a spear just to stay,” Lewin told her, “or for us to bring back your people. Taking the spear means a willingness to fight, not just to defend yourself. You can put it down; there is no shame.”
“They have my daughter,” Morin said.
To Jeordam’s shock, Lewin barely paused before nodding. “There is a first time for all things. For all things. So be it.” He began tapping men on the shoulder, walking through the camps, naming them to visit this logwalled village. Jeordam was the first tapped; his father had always chosen him first since the day he was old enough to carry a spear. He would have had it no other way.
Morin was having problems with the spear, the haft tangling in her long skirts. “You do not have to go,” Jeordam told her. “No woman ever has before. We will
bring your daughter to you.”
“I mean to bring Kirin out of there myself,” she said fiercely. “You will not stop me.” A stubborn woman.
“In that case, you must dress like this.” He gestured to his own graybrown coat and breeches. “You cannot walk cross country in the night in a dress.” He took the spear away from her before she could react. “The spear is not easily learned.” The two men who had come with her, awkwardly receiving instruction and nearly falling over their own feet, were proof of that. He found a hatchet and chopped a pace from the spear shaft, leaving four feet, counting nearly a foot of steel point. “Stab with it. No more than that. Just stab. The haft is used for blocking, too, but I will find you something to use as a shield in your other hand.”
She looked at him strangely. “How old are you?” she asked, even more oddly.
He told her, and she only nodded thoughtfully.
After a moment, he said, “Is one of those men your husband?” They were still tripping over their spears.
“My husband mourns Kirin already. He cares more for the trees than his own daughter.”
“The trees?”
“The Trees of Life.” When he still looked at her blankly, she shook her head. “Three little trees planted in barrels. They care for them almost as well as they do for themselves. When they find a place of safety, they mean to plant them; they say
the old days will return, then. They. I said they. Very well. I am not Jenn anymore.” She hefted the shortened spear. “This is my husband now.” Eyeing him closely, she asked, “If someone stole your child, would you talk of the Way of the Leaf and suffering sent to test us?” He shook his head, and she said, “I thought not. You will make a fine father. Teach me to use this spear.”
An odd woman, but pretty. He took the spear back and began to show her, working out what he was doing while he did. With the short haft, it was quick and agile.
Morin was watching him with that strange smile, but the spear had caught him up. “I saw your face in the dream,” she said softly, but he did not really hear. With a spear like this, he could be quicker than a man with a sword. In his mind’s eye he could see the Aiel defeating all the men with swords. No one would stand against them. No one.
Lights flashed through the glass columns, halfblinding Rand. Muradin was only a pace or two ahead, staring straight in front of him, teeth bared, snarling silently. The columns were taking them back, into the time lost history of the Aiel. Rand’s feet moved of their own accord. Forward. And back in time.
Lewin adjusted the dustveil across his face and peered down into the small camp where the coals of a dying fire still glowed beneath an iron cookpot. The wind brought him a smell of half burned stew. Mounds of blankets surrounded the coals in the moonlight. There were no horses in sight. He wished he had brought some water, but only the children were allowed water except with meals. He vaguely remembered a time when there had been more water, when the days were not so hot and dusty and the wind had not blown all the time. Night was only a small relief, trading a dull, fiery red sun for cold. He wrapped himself tighter in the cape of wild goatskins he used for a blanket.
His companions scrambled closer, bundled as he was, kicking rocks and muttering until he was sure they would wake the men below. He did not complain; he was no more used to this than they. Dustveils hid their faces, but he could make out who was who. Luca, with his shoulders half again as wide as anyone else’s; he liked to play tricks. Gearan, lanky as a stork and the best runner among the wagons. Charlin and Alijha, alike as reflections except for Charlin’s habit of tilting his head when he was worried, as he was now; their sister Colline was down in that camp. And Maigran, Lewin’s sister.
When the girls’ gathering bags were found on ground torn by a struggle, everyone else was ready to mourn and go on as they had done so many times before. Even Lewin’s greatfather. If Adan had known what the five of them planned, he would have stopped them. All Adan did now was mutter about keeping faith with the Aes Sedai Lewin had never seen, that and try to keep the Aiel alive. The Aiel as a people, but not any one given Aiel. Not even Maigran.
“They are four,” Lewin whispered. “The girls are this side of the fire. I will wake them — quietly — and we will sneak them away while the men sleep.” His
friends looked at each other, nodded. He supposed they should have made a plan before this, but all they had been able to think of was coming to get the girls, and how to leave the wagons without being seen. He had not been certain they could follow these men, or find them before they reached the village they came from, a collection of rough huts where the Aiel had been driven away with stones and sticks. There would be nothing to be done if the takers got that far.
“What if they do wake?” Gearan asked.
“I will not leave Colline,” Charlin snapped, right on top of his brother’s quieter “We are taking them back, Gearan.”
“We are,” Lewin agreed. Luca poked Gearan’s ribs, and Gearan nodded.
Making their way down in the darkness was no easy task. Drought dried twigs snapped under their feet; rocks and pebbles showered down the dry slope ahead of them. The harder Lewin tried to move silently, the more noise he seemed to make. Luca fell into a thornbush that cracked loudly, but managed to extract himself with no more than heavy breathing. Charlin slipped, and slid halfway to the bottom. But nothing moved below.
Short of the camp Lewin paused, exchanging anxious looks with his friends, then tiptoed in. His own breath sounded thunderous in his ears, as loud as the snores coming from one of the four large mounds. He froze as the rough snorts stopped and one of the mounds heaved. It settled, the snoring began again, and Lewin let himself breathe.
Carefully he crouched beside one of the smaller heaps and flipped aside a rough woolen blanket stiff with dirt. Maigran stared up at him, face bruised and swollen, her dress torn to little better than rags. He clapped a hand over her mouth to keep her from crying out, but she only continued to stare blankly, not even blinking.
“I am going to carve you like a pig, boy.” One of the larger mounds tumbled aside, and a wildbearded man in filthy clothes got to his feet, the long knife in his hand glittering dully in the moonlight, picking up the red glow of the coals. He kicked the mounds to either side of him, producing grunts and stirrings. “Just like a pig. Can you squeal, boy, or do you people just run?”
“Run,” Lewin said, but his sister only stared dully. Frantic, he seized her shoulders, pulled to try starting her toward where the others were waiting. “Run!” She came out of the blankets stiffly, almost a dead weight. Colline was awake — he could hear her whimpering — but she seemed to be drawing her dirty blankets around her even more tightly, trying to hide in them. Maigran stood there, staring at nothing, seeing nothing.
“Seems you cannot even do that.” Grinning, the man was coming around the fire, his knife held low. The others were sitting up in their blankets now, laughing, watching the fun.
Lewin did not know what to do. He could not leave his sister. All he could do was die. Maybe that would give Maigran a chance to run. “Run, Maigran! Please run!” She did not move. She did not even seem to hear him. What had they done to
her?
The bearded man came closer, taking his time, chuckling, enjoying his slow advance.
“Nooooooooooooooo!” Charlin came hurtling out of the night, throwing his arms around the man with the knife, carrying him to the ground. The other men bounded to their feet. One, his head shaved and shining in the pale light, raised a sword to slash at Charlin.
Lewin was not sure exactly how it happened. Somehow he had the heavy kettle by its iron handle, swinging; it struck the shaved head with a loud crunch. The man collapsed as if his bones had melted. Off balance, Lewin stumbled trying to avoid the fire, and fell beside it, losing the cookpot. A dark man with his hair in braids lifted another sword, ready to skewer him. He scrambled away on his back like a spider, eyes on the sword’s sharp point, hands searching frenziedly for something to fend the man off, a stick, anything. His palm fell on rounded wood. He jerked it around, pushed it at the snarling man. The man’s dark eyes widened, the sword dropped from his grasp; blood poured from his mouth. Not a stick. A spear.
Lewin’s hands sprang away from the haft as soon as he realized what it was. Too late. He crawled backward to avoid the man as he fell, stared at him, trembling. A dead man. A man he had killed. The wind felt very cold.
After a time it came to him to wonder why one of the others had not killed him. He was surprised to see the rest of his friends there around the coals. Gearan and Luca and Alijha, all panting and wild eyed above their dustveils. Colline still emitted soft sniffling sobs from beneath her blankets, and Maigran still stood staring. Charlin was huddled on his knees, holding himself. And the four men, the villagers Lewin stared from one motionless bloody shape to another.
“We… killed them.” Luca’s voice shook. “We… Mercy of the Light, be with us now.”
Lewin crawled to Charlin and touched his shoulder. “Are you hurt?”
Charlin fell over. Red wetness slicked his hands, gripping the hilt of the knife driven into his belly. “It hurts, Lewin,” he whispered. He shuddered once, and the light went out of his eyes.
“What are we going to do?” Gearan asked. “Charlin is dead, and we Light,
what have we done? What do we do?”
“We will take the girls back to the wagons.” Lewin could not pull his eyes away from Charlin’s glazed stare. “We will do that.”
They gathered up everything that was useful, the cookpot and the knives, mainly. Metal things were hard to come by. “We might as well,” Alijha said roughly. “They certainly stole it from someone just like us.”
When Alijha started to pick up one of the swords, though, Lewin stopped him. “No, Alijha. That is a weapon, made to kill people. It has no other use.” Alijha said nothing, only ran his eyes over the four dead bodies, looked at the spears Luca was winding with blankets to carry Charlin’s body on. Lewin refused to look at the
villagers. “A spear can put food in the pots, Alijha. A sword cannot. It is forbidden by the Way.”
Alijha was still silent, but Lewin thought he sneered behind his dustveil. Yet when they finally started away into the night, the swords remained by the dying coals and the dead men.
It was a long walk back through the darkness, carrying the makeshift stretcher bearing Charlin, the wind sometimes gusting to raise choking clouds of dust. Maigran stumbled along, staring straight ahead; she did not know where she was, or who they were. Colline seemed half terrified, even of her own brother, jumping if anyone touched her. This was not how Lewin had imagined their return. In his mind the girls had been laughing, happy to return to the wagons; they had all been laughing. Not carrying Charlin’s corpse. Not hushed by the memory of what they had done.
The lights of the cook fires came into view, and then the wagons, harnesses already spread for men to take their places at sunrise. No one left the shelter of the wagons after dark, so it surprised Lewin to see three shapes come hurrying toward them. Adan’s white hair stood out in the night. The other two were Nerrine, Colline’s mother, and Saralin, his and Maigran’s. Lewin lowered his dustveil with foreboding.
The women rushed to their daughters with comforting arms and soft murmurs. Colline sank into her mother’s embrace with a welcoming sigh; Maigran hardly appeared to notice Saralin who looked close to tears at the bruises on her daughter’s face.
Adan frowned at the young men, permanent creases of worry deepening in his face. “In the name of the Light, what happened? When we found you were gone, too . . .” He trailed off when he saw the stretcher holding Charlin. “What happened?” he asked again, as if dreading the answer.
Lewin opened his mouth slowly, but Maigran spoke first.
“They killed them.” She was staring at something in the distance, her voice as simple as a child’s. “The bad men hurt us. They… Then Lewin came and killed them.”
“You must not say things like that, child,” Saralin said soothingly. “You —” She stopped, peering into her daughter’s eyes, then turned to stare uncertainly at Lewin. “Is it… ? Is it true?”
“We had to,” Alijha said in a pained voice. “They tried to kill us. They did kill Charlin.”
Adan stepped back. “You… killed? Killed men? What of the Covenant? We harm no one. No one! There is no reason good enough to justify killing another human being. None!”
“They took Maigran, greatfather,” Lewin said. “They took Maigran and Colline, and hurt them. They —”
“There is no reason!” Adan roared, shaking with rage. “We must accept what
comes. Our sufferings are sent to test our faithfulness. We accept and endure! We do not murder! You have not strayed from the Way, you have abandoned it. You are Da’shain no longer. You are corrupt, and I will not have the Aiel corrupted by you. Leave us, strangers. Killers! You are not welcome in the wagons of the Aiel.” He turned his back and strode away as if they no longer existed. Saralin and Nerrine started after him, guiding the girls.
“Mother?” Lewin said, and flinched when she looked back at him with cold eyes. “Mother, please ”
“Who are you that addresses me so? Hide your face from me, stranger. I had a son, once, with a face like that. I do not wish to see it on a killer.” And she led Maigran after the others.
“I am still Aiel,” Lewin shouted, but they did not look back. He thought he heard Luca crying. The wind rose, picking up dust, and he veiled his face. “I am Aiel!”
Wildly darting lights bored into Rand’s eyes. The pain of Lewin’s loss still clung to him, and his mind tumbled furiously. Lewin had not carried a weapon. He had not known how to use a weapon. Killing terrified him. It did not make sense.
He was almost abreast of Muradin now, but the man was not aware of him. Muradin’s snarl was a rictus; sweat beaded on his face; he quivered as though wanting to run.
Rand’s feet took him forward, and back.
The Shadow Rising
Chapter 26
(Serpent and Wheel) The Dedicated Forward, and back.
Adan lay in the sandy hollow clutching his dead son’s weeping children, shielding their eyes against his ragged coat. Tears rolled down his face, too, but silently, as he peered cautiously over the edge. At five and six, Maigran and Lewin deserved the right to cry; Adan was surprised he had any tears left, himself.
Some of the wagons were burning. The dead lay where they had fallen. The horses had already been driven off, except for those still hitched to a few wagons that had been emptied onto the ground. For once he took no notice of the crated things the Aes Sedai had given into Aiel charge, toppled carelessly into the dirt. It was not the first time he had seen that, or dead Aiel, but this time he could not care. The men with the swords and spears and bows, the men who had done the killing, were loading those empty wagons. With women. He watched Rhea, his daughter, shoved up into a wagon box with the others, crowded together like animals by laughing killers. The last of his children. Elwin dead of hunger at ten, Sorelle at twenty of fever her dreams told her was coming, and Jaren, who threw himself off a cliff a year ago, at nineteen, when he found he could channel. Marind, this morning. He wanted to scream. He wanted to rush out there and stop them from taking his last child. Stop them, somehow. And if he did rush out? They would kill him, and take Rhea anyway. They might well kill the children, too. Some of those bodies
sprawled in their own blood were small.
Maigran clutched at him as if she sensed he might leave her, and Lewin stiffened as if he wanted to hold tighter but thought himself too old. Adan smoothed their hair and kept their faces pressed against his chest. He made himself watch, though, until the wagons wheeled away surrounded by whooping riders, after the horses that were already almost out of sight toward the smoking mountains that lined the horizon.
Only then did he stand up, prying the children loose. “Wait here for me,” he told them. “Wait until I come back.” Clinging to each other, they stared at him with tearstained white faces, nodded uncertainly.
He walked out to one of the bodies, rolled her over gently. Siedre could have been asleep, her face just the way it appeared beside him when he woke each morning. It always surprised him to notice gray in her redgold hair; she was his love, his life, and ever young and new to him. He tried not to look at the blood soaking the front of her dress or the gaping wound below her breasts.
“What do you mean to do now, Adan? Tell us that! What?”
He brushed Seidre’s hair from her face — she liked to be neat — and stood, turning slowly to confront the knot of angry, frightened men. Sulwin was the leader, a tall man with deepset eyes. He had let his hair grow, Sulwin had, as if to hide
being Aiel. A number of men had. It had made no difference, to these last raiders or those who had come before.
“I mean to bury our dead and go on, Sulwin.” His eyes drifted back to Siedre. “What else is there?”
“Go on, Adan? How can we go on? There are no horses. There is almost no water, no food. All we have left are wagons full of things the Aes Sedai will never come for. What are they, Adan? What are they that we should give our lives to haul them across the world, afraid to touch them even. We cannot go on as before!”
“We can!” Adan shouted. “We will! We have legs; we have backs. We will drag the wagons, if need be. We will be faithful to our duty!” He was startled to see his own brandished fist. A fist. His hand trembled as he unclenched it and put it down by side.
Sulwin stepped back, then held his ground with his companions. “No, Adan. We are supposed to find a place of safety, and some of us mean to do that. My greatfather used to tell me stories he heard as a boy, stories of when we lived in safety and people came to hear us sing. We mean to find a place where we can be safe, and sing again.”
“Sing?” Adan scoffed. “I have heard those old stories, too, that Aiel singing was a wondrous thing, but you know those old songs no more than I do. The songs are gone, and the old days are gone. We will not give up our duty to the Aes Sedai to chase after what is lost forever.”
“Some of us will, Adan.” The others behind Sulwin nodded. “We mean to find that safe place. And the songs, too. We will!”
A crash whipped Adan’s head around. More of Sulwin’s cronies were unloading one of the wagons, and a large flat crate had fallen, half breaking open to reveal what looked like a polished doorframe of dark red stone. Other wagons were being emptied, too, and by more than Sulwin’s friends. At least a quarter of the people he saw were hard at work clearing wagons of everything but food or water.
“Do not try to stop us,” Sulwin cautioned.
Adan made his fist loosen again. “You are not Aiel,” he said. “You betray everything. Whatever you are, you are no longer Aiel!”
“We keep the Way of the Leaf as well as you, Adan.”
“Go!” Adan shouted. “Go! You are not Aiel! You are lost! Lost! I do not want to look at you! Go!” Sulwin and the others stumbled in their haste to get away from him.
His heart sank lower as he surveyed the wagons, and the dead lying among the litter. So many dead, so many wounded moaning as they were tended. Sulwin and his lost ones were taking some care in their unloading. The men with the swords had broken open crates until they realized there was no gold inside, no food. Food was more precious than gold. Adan studied the stone doorframe, tumbled piles of stone figurines, odd shapes in crystal standing among the potted chora cuttings Sulwin’s folk had no use for. Was there a use for any of it? Was this what they were
being faithful for? If it was, then so be it. Some could be saved. There was no way to tell what Aes Sedai might consider most important, but some could be saved.
He saw Maigran and Lewin clutching their mother’s skirts. He was glad Saralin was alive to look after them; his last son, her husband, the children’s father, had died from the very first arrow that morning. Some could be saved. He would save the Aiel, whatever it took.
Kneeling, he gathered Siedre in his arms. “We are still faithful, Aes Sedai,” he whispered. “How long must we be faithful?” Putting his head down on his wife’s breast, he wept.
Tears stung Rand’s eyes; silently, he mouthed, “Siedre.” The Way of the Leaf? That was no Aiel belief. He could not think dearly; he could hardly think at all. The lights spun faster and faster. Beside him, Muradin’s mouth was open in a soundless howl; the Aiel’s eyes bulged as if witnessing the death of everything. They stepped forward together.
Jonai stood at the edge of the cliff staring out westward over the sunsparkled water. A hundred leagues in that direction lay Comelle. Had lain Comelle. Comelle had clung to the mountains overlooking the sea. A hundred leagues west, where the sea now ran. If Alnora were still alive, perhaps it would have been easier to take. Without her dreams, he scarcely knew where to go or what to do. Without her, he hardly cared to live. He felt every gray hair as he turned to trudge back to the wagons, waiting a mile away. Fewer wagons, now, and showing wear. Fewer people, too, a handful of thousands where there had been tens. But too many for the remaining wagons. No one rode now save children too small to walk.
Adan met him at the first wagon, a tall young man, his blue eyes too wary. Jonai always expected to see Willim if he looked around quickly enough. But Willim had been sent away, of course, years ago, when he began to channel no matter how hard he tried to stop. The world had too many men channeling, still; they had to send away boys who showed the signs. They had to. But he wished he had his children back. When had Esole died? So little to be laid in a hastily dug hole, wasted with sickness there was no Aes Sedai to Heal.
“There are Ogier, father,” Adan said excitedly. Jonai suspected his son had always thought his stories of the Ogier were just that, stories. “They came from the north.”
It was a bedraggled band Adan led him to, no more than fifty in number, hollowcheeked, sadeyed, tufted ears drooping. He had become accustomed to his own people’s drawn faces and worn, patched clothing, but seeing the same on Ogier shocked him. Yet he had people to care for, and duties to discharge for the Aes Sedai. How long since he had seen an Aes Sedai? Just after Alnora died. Too late for Alnora. The woman had Healed the sick who still lived, taken some of the sa’angreal, and gone on her way, laughing bitterly when he asked her where there was a place of safety. Her dress had been patched, and worn at the hem. He was not sure she had been sane. She claimed one of the Forsaken was only partly trapped, or
maybe not at all; Ishamael still touched the world, she said. She had to be as mad as the remaining male Aes Sedai.
He pulled his mind back to the Ogier as they stood, unsteady on their great legs. His thoughts wandered too much since Alnora’s death. They had bread and bowls in their hands. He was shocked to feel a prick of anger that someone had shared their meager stock of food. How many of his people could eat on what fifty Ogier could consume? No. To share was the way. To give freely. A hundred people? Two hundred?
“You have chora cuttings,” one of the Ogier said. His thick fingers gently brushed the trefoil leaves of the two potted plants tied to the side of a wagon.
“Some,” Adan said curtly. “They die, but the old folk keep new cuttings before they do.” He had no time for trees. He had a people to look after. “How bad is it in the north?”
“Bad,” an Ogier woman replied. “The Blighted Lands have grown southward, and there are Myrddraal and Trollocs.”
“I thought they were all dead.” Not north, then. They could not turn north. South? The Sea of Jeren lay ten days south. Or did it, any longer? He was tired. So tired.
“You have come from the east?” another Ogier asked. He wiped his bowl with a heel of bread and gulped it down. “How is it to the east?”
“Bad,” Jonai replied. “Perhaps not so bad for you, though. Ten — no, twelve days ago, some people took a third of our horses before we could escape. We had to abandon wagons.” That pained him. Wagons left behind, and what was in them. The things the Aes Sedai had placed in Aiel charge, abandoned. That it was not the first time only made it worse. “Almost everyone we meet takes things, whatever they want. Perhaps they will not be so with Ogier, though.”
“Perhaps,” an Ogier woman said as if she did not believe it. Jonai was not certain he did either; there was no safe place. “Do you know where any of the stedding are?”
Jonai stared at her. “No. No, I do not. But surely you can find the stedding.” “We have run so far, so long,” an Ogier back in the huddle said, and another
added in a mournful rumble, “The land has changed so much.”
“I think we must find a stedding soon or die,” the first Ogier woman said. “I feel a… longing… in my bones. We must find a stedding. We must.”
“I cannot help you,” Jonai said sadly. He felt a tightness in his chest. The land changed beyond knowing, changing still so the plain traveled last year might be mountains this. The Blighted Lands growing. Myrddraal and Trollocs still alive. People stealing, people with faces like animals, people who did not recognize Da’shain or know them. He could barely breathe. The Ogier, lost. The Aiel, lost. Everything lost. The tightness broke in pain, and he sank to his knees, doubled over, clutching his chest. A fist held his heart, squeezing.
Adan knelt beside him worriedly. “Father, what is it? What is the matter? What
can I do?”
Jonai managed to seize his son’s frayed collar and pull his face close. “Take — the people — south.” He had to force the words out between spasms that seemed to be ripping his heart out.
“Father, you are the one who —”
“Listen. Listen! Take them — south. Take — the Aiel — to safety. Keep — the Covenant. Guard — what the Aes Sedai — gave us — until they — come for it. The Way — of the Leaf. You must —” He had tried. Solinda Sedai must understand that. He had tried. Alnora.
Alnora. The name faded, the pain in Rand’s chest loosened. No sense. It made no sense. How could these people be Aiel?
The columns flashed in blinding pulses. The air stirred, swirling.
Beside him, Muradin’s mouth stretched wide in an effort to scream. The Aiel clawed at his veil, clawed at his face, leaving deep bloody scratches.
Forward.
Jonai hurried down the empty streets, trying not to look at shattered buildings and dead chora trees. All dead. At least the last of the long abandoned jocars had been hauled away. Aftershocks still troubled the ground beneath his feet. He wore his work clothes, his cadin’sor, of course, though the work he had been given was nothing he had been trained for. He was sixtythree, in the prime of life, not yet old enough for gray hairs, but he felt a tired old man.
No one questioned his entering the Hall of the Servants; there was no one at the great columned entrance to question anyone, or give greeting. Plenty of people darted about inside, arms filled with papers or boxes, eyes anxious, but none so much as looked at him. There was a feel of panic about them, and it grew by increments every time the ground shook. Distressed, he crossed the anteroom and trotted up the broad stairs. Mud stained the silvery white elstone. No one could spare time. Perhaps no one cared.
There was no need to knock at the door he sought. Not one of the great gilded doors to an ingathering hall, but a door plain and unobtrusive. He slipped in quietly, though, and was glad he had. Half a dozen Aes Sedai stood around the long table, arguing, apparently not noticing when the building trembled. They were all women. He shivered, wondering if men would ever stand in a meeting such as this again.
When he saw what was on the table, the shiver became a shudder. A crystal sword
— perhaps an object of the Power, perhaps only an ornament; he had no way of telling — held down the Dragon banner of Lews Therin Kinslayer, spread out like a tablecloth and spilling onto the floor. His heart clenched. What was that doing here? Why had it not been destroyed, and memory of the cursed man as well?“What good is your Foretelling,” Oselle was almost shouting, “if you cannot tell us when?” Her long black hair swayed as she shook with anger. “The world rests on this! The future! The Wheel itself!”
Dark eyed Deindre faced her with a more usual calm. “I am not the Creator. I
can only tell you what I Foretell.”
“Peace, sisters.” Solinda was the calmest of them all, her oldfashioned streith gown only a pale blue mist. The sunred hair falling to her waist was nearly the color of his own. His greatfather had served her as a young man, but she looked younger than he; she was Aes Sedai. “The time for contention among ourselves is past. Jaric and Haindar will both be here by tomorrow.”
“Which means we cannot afford mistakes, Solinda.” “We must know…”
“Is there any chance of… ?”
Jonai stopped listening. They would see him when they were ready. He was not the only one in the room besides the Aes Sedai. Someshta sat against the wall near the door, a great shape seemingly woven of vines and leaves, his head a little above Jonai’s even so. A fissure of withered brown and charred black ran up the Nym’s face and furrowed the green grass of his hair, and when he looked at Jonai, his hazelnut eyes seemed troubled.
When Jonai nodded to him, he fingered the rift and frowned. “Do I know you?” he said softly.
“I am your friend,” Jonai replied sadly. He had not seen Someshta in years, but he had heard of this. Most of the Nym were dead, he had heard. “You rode me on your shoulders when I was a child. Do you remember nothing of it?”
“Singing,” Someshta said. “Was there singing? So much is gone. The Aes Sedai say some will return. You are a Child of the Dragon, are you not?”
Jonai winced. That name had caused trouble, no less for not being true. But how many citizens now believed the Da’shain Aiel had once served the Dragon and no other Aes Sedai?
“Jonai?”
He turned at the sound of Solinda’s voice, went to one knee as she approached.
The others were still arguing, but more quietly. “All is in readiness, Jonai?” she said.
“All, Aes Sedai. Solinda Sedai…” He hesitated, took a deep breath. “Solinda Sedai, some of us wish to remain. We can serve, still.”
“Do you know what happened to the Aiel at Tzora?” He nodded, and she sighed, reaching out to smooth his short hair as if he were a child. “Of course you do. You Da’shain have more courage than… Ten thousand Aiel linking arms and singing, trying to remind a madman of who they were and who he had been, trying to turn him with their bodies and a song. Jaric Mondoran killed them. He stood there, staring as though at a puzzle, killing them, and they kept closing their lines and singing. I am told he listened to the last Aiel for almost an hour before destroying him. And then Tzora burned, one huge flame consuming stone and metal and flesh. There is a sheet of glass where the second greatest city in the world once stood.”
“Many people had time to flee, Aes Sedai. The Da’shain earned them time to
flee. We are not afraid.”
Her hand tightened painfully in his hair. “The citizens have already fled Paaren Disen, Jonai. Besides, the Da’shain yet have a part yet to play, if Deindre could only see far enough to say what. In any case, I mean to save something here, and that something is you.”
“As you say,” he said reluctantly. “We will care for what you have given into our charge until you want them again.”
“Of course. The things we gave you.” She smiled at him and loosened her grip, smoothing his hair once more before folding her hands. “You will carry the… things… to safety, Jonai. Keep moving, always moving, until you find a place of safety, where no one can harm you.”
“As you say, Aes Sedai.”
“What of Coumin, Jonai? Has he calmed?”
He did not know any way but to tell her; he would rather have bitten his tongue out. “My father is hiding somewhere in the city. He tried to talk us into… resisting. He would not listen, Aes Sedai. He would not listen. He found an old shocklance somewhere, and…” He could not go on. He expected her to be angry, but her eyes glistened with tears.
“Keep the Covenant, Jonai. If the Da’shain lose everything else, see they keep the Way of the Leaf. Promise me.”
“Of course, Aes Sedai,” he said, shocked. The Covenant was the Aiel, and the Aiel were the Covenant; to abandon the Way would be to abandon what they were. Coumin was an aberration. He had been strange since he was a boy, it was said, hardly Aiel at all, though no one knew why.
“Go now, Jonai. I want you far from Paaren Disen by tomorrow. And remember
— keep moving. Keep the Aiel safe.”
He bowed where he knelt, but she was already being drawn back into the argument.
“Can we trust Kodam and his fellows, Solinda?”
“We must, Oselle. They are young and inexperienced, but barely touched by the taint, and… And we have no choice.”
“Then we will do what we must. The sword must wait. Someshta, we have a task for the last of the Nym, if you will do it. We have asked too much of you; now we must ask more.”
Jonai bowed his way out formally as the Nym rose, his head brushing the ceiling. Already immersed in their plans, they were not looking at him, but he did them this last honor anyway. He did not think he would ever see them again.
He ran from the Hall of the Servants, all the way out of the city to where the great gathering waited. Thousands of wagons in ten lines stretching nearly two leagues, wagons loaded with food and water barrels, wagons loaded with the crated things the Aes Sedai had given into Aiel charge, angreal and sa’angreal and ter’angreal, all the things that had to be kept from the hands of men going mad
while they wielded the One Power. Once there would have been other ways to carry them, jocars and jumpers, hoverflies and huge showings. Now painfully assembled horses and wagons had to suffice. Among the wagons stood the people, enough to populate a city but perhaps all the Aiel left alive in the world.
A hundred came to meet him, men and women, the representatives demanding word of whether the Aes Sedai had granted leave for some to stay. “No,” he told them. Some frowned reluctantly, and he added, “We must obey. We are Da’shain Aiel, and we obey the Aes Sedai.”
They dispersed back to their wagons slowly, and he thought he heard Coumin’s name mentioned, but he could not let it trouble him. He hurried to his own wagon, at the head of one of the center lines. The horses were all nervous with the ground shaking at intervals.
His sons were already up on the seat — Willim, fifteen, with the reins, and Adan, ten, beside him, both grinning with nervous excitement. Little Esole lay playing with a doll on top of the canvas tied over their possessions — and, more important, their charges from the Aes Sedai. There was no room for any to ride but the young and the very old. A dozen rooted chora cuttings in clay pots sat behind the wagon seat, to be planted when they found a place of safety. A foolish thing to carry, perhaps, but no wagon was without its potted cuttings. Something from a time long gone; symbol of a better time to come. People needed hope, and symbols. Alnora waited beside the team, glossy black hair tumbling about her shoulders and reminding him of the first time he saw her as a girl. But worry had etched lines
around her eyes now.
He managed a smile for her, hiding the worry in his own heart. “All will be well, wife of my heart.” She did not answer, and he added, “Have you dreamed?”
“Of no time soon,” she murmured. “All will be well, all will be well, and all manner of thing will be well.” Smiling tremulously, she touched his cheek. “With you I know it will be so, husband of my heart.”
Jonai waved his arms over his head, and the signal rippled down the lines.
Slowly the wagons began to move, the Aiel leaving Paaren Disen.
Rand shook his head. Too much. Memories crowding together. The air seemed filled with sheet lightning. The wind swirled gritty dust into dancing whirlwinds. Muradin had clawed deep furrows in his face; he was digging at his eyes now. Forward.
Coumin knelt at the edge of the plowed ground in his working clothes, plain brownish gray coat and breeches and soft laced boots, in a line with others like him that surrounded the field, ten men of the Da’shain Aiel at twice stretched arms’ length and then an Ogier, all the way around. He could see the next field, lined the same way, beyond the soldiers with their shocklances sitting atop armored jocars. A hoverfly buzzed overhead in its patrol, a deadly black metal wasp containing two men. He was sixteen, and the women had decided his voice was finally deep enough to join in the seed singing.
The soldiers fascinated him, men and Ogier, the way a colorful poisonous snake might. They killed. His father’s greatfather, Charn, claimed there had been no soldiers once, but Coumin did not believe it. If there were no soldiers, who would stop the Nightriders and the Trollocs from coming to kill everyone? Of course, Charn claimed there had not been any Myrddraal or Trollocs then, either. No Forsaken, no Shadowwrought. He had many stories he claimed were from a time before soldiers and Nightriders and Trollocs, when he said the Dark Lord of the Grave had been bound away, and no one knew his name, or the word “war.” Coumin could not imagine such a world; the war had been old when he was born.
He enjoyed Charn’s stories even if he could not make himself believe, but some earned the old man frowns and scoldings. Like when he claimed to have served one of the Forsaken, once. Not just any Forsaken, but Lanfear herself. As well say he had served Ishamael. If Charn had to make up stories, Coumin wished he could say he had served Lews Therin, the great leader himself. Of course, everyone would ask why he was not serving the Dragon now, but that would be better than the way things were. Coumin did not like the way citizens looked at Charn when he said that Lanfear had not always been evil.
A stir at the end of the field told him one of the Nym was approaching. The great form, head and shoulders and chest taller than any Ogier, stepped out onto the seeded ground, and Coumin did not have to see to know he left footprints filled with sprouting things. It was Someshta, surrounded by clouds of butterflies, white and yellow and blue. Excited murmurs rose from the townspeople and the folk whose fields these were, gathered to watch. Each field would have its Nym, now.
Coumin wondered if he could ask Someshta about Charn’s stories. He had spoken to him once, and Someshta was old enough to know if Charn was telling the truth; the Nym were older than anyone. Some said the Nym never died, not so long as plants grew. But this was no time to be thinking of questioning a Nym.
The Ogier began it, as was fitting, standing to sing, great bass rumbles like the earth singing. The Aiel rose, men’s voices lifting in their own song, even the deepest at a higher pitch than the Ogier’s. Yet the songs braided together, and Someshta took those threads and wove them into his dance, gliding across the field in swooping strides, arms wide, butterflies swirling about him, landing on his spread fingertips.
Coumin could hear the seed singing around the other fields, hear the women clapping to urge the men on, their rhythm the heartbeat of new life, but it was a distant knowledge. The song caught him up, and he almost felt that it was himself, not the sounds he made, that Someshta wove into the soil and around the seeds. Seeds no longer, though. Zemais sprouts covered the field, taller wherever the Nym’s foot had trod. No blight would touch those plants, nor any insect; seed sung, they would eventually grow twice as high as a man and fill the town’s grainbarns. This was what he had been born for, this song and the other seed songs. He did not regret the fact that the Aes Sedai had passed him over at ten, saying he lacked the
spark. To have been trained as Aes Sedai would have been wondrous, but surely no more so than this moment.
The song faded slowly, the Aiel guiding its end. Someshta danced a few steps more after the last voices ceased, and it seemed the song still hung faintly in the air for as long as he moved. Then he stopped, and it was done.
Coumin was surprised to see that the townspeople were gone, but he had no time to wonder where they had gone or why. The women were coming, laughing, to congratulate the men. He was one of the men now, not a boy any longer, though the women alternated between kissing him on the lips and reaching up to ruffle his short red hair.
It was then that he saw the soldier, only a few steps away, watching them. He had left his shocklance and fancloth battle cape somewhere, but he still wore his helmet, like some monstrous insect’s head, its mandibles hiding his face though his black shockvisor was raised. As if realizing he still stood out, the soldier pulled off the helmet, revealing a dark young man no more than four or five years older than Coumin. The soldier’s unblinking brown eyes met his, and Coumin shivered. The face was only four or five years older, but those eyes… The soldier would have been chosen to begin his training at ten, too. Coumin was glad Aiel were spared that choosing.
One of the Ogier, Tomada, came over, tufted ears slanted forward inquisitively. “Do you have news, warman? I saw excitement among the jocars while we sang.”
The soldier hesitated. “I suppose I can tell you, though it is not confirmed. We have a report that Lews Therin led the Companions on a strike at Shayol Ghul this morning at dawn. Something is disrupting communications, but the report is the Bore has been sealed, with most of the Forsaken on the other side. Maybe all of them.”
“Then it is over.” Tomada breathed. “Over at last, the Light be praised.”
“Yes.” The soldier looked around, suddenly seeming lost. “I… suppose it is. I suppose…” He peered at his hands, then let them fall to his sides again. He sounded weary. “The local folk could not wait to begin celebrating. If the news is true, it might go on for days. I wonder if… ? No, they will not want soldiers joining them. Will you?”
“For tonight, perhaps,” Tomada said. “But we have three more towns to visit before our circuit is done.”
“Of course. You still have work to do. You have that.” The soldier looked around again. “There are still Trollocs. Even if the Forsaken are gone, there are still Trollocs. And Nightriders.” Nodding to himself, he started back toward the jo cars.
Tomada did not appear excited at all, of course, but Coumin felt as stunned as the young soldier. The war was over? What would the world be like without war? Suddenly he had to talk to Charn.
Sounds of merrymaking rolled out to meet him before he reached the town — laughing, singing. The bells in the town hall tower began ringing exuberantly.
Townspeople danced in the streets, men and women and children. Coumin dodged between them, searching. Charn had elected to stay at one of the inns where the Aiel were putting up instead of coming to the singing — even the Aes Sedai could no longer do much for the aches in his aged knees — but surely he would be out for this.
Abruptly something struck Coumin in the mouth and his legs buckled; he was pushing himself to his knees before he realized he was down. A hand put to his mouth came away bloody. He looked up to find an angry faced townsman standing over him, nursing a fist. “Why did you do that?” he asked.
The townsman spat at him. “The Forsaken are dead. Dead, do you hear? Lanfear will not protect you anymore. We will root out all of you who served the Forsaken while pretending to be on our side, and treat the lot of you as we treated that crazy old man.”
A woman was tugging at the man’s arm. “Come away, Toma. Come away, and hold your foolish tongue! Do you want the Ogier to come for you?” Suddenly wary, the man let her pull him away into the crowd.
Struggling to his feet, Coumin began to run, heedless of the blood oozing down his chin.
The inn was empty, silent. Not even the innkeeper was there, or the cook, or her helpers. Coumin ran through the building shouting, “Charn? Charn? Charn?”
Out back, maybe. Charn liked to sit under the spiceapple trees behind the inn, and tell his stories of the days when he was young.
Coumin ran out the back door, and tripped, falling on his face. It was an empty boot that had caught his toe. One of Charn’s red dress boots that he wore all the time, now that he no longer joined in the singing. Something made Coumin look up. Charn’s whitehaired body hung from a rope pulled over the ridgepole, one foot bare where he had kicked his boot off, the fingers of one hand caught at his neck
where he had tried to pull the rope free.
“Why?” Coumin said. “We are Da’shain. Why?” There was no one to answer. Clutching the boot to his chest, he knelt there, staring up at Charn, as the noise of revelry washed over him.
Rand quivered. The light from the columns was a shimmering blue haze that seemed solid, that seemed to claw the nerves out of his skin. The wind howled, one vast whirlwind sucking inward. Muradin had managed to veil himself; bloody sockets stared blindly above the black veil. The Aiel was chewing, and bloody froth dripped onto his chest. Forward.
Charn made his way down the side of the wide, crowded street beneath the spreading chora trees, their trefoil leaves spreading peace and contentment in the shadows of silvery buildings that touched the sky. A city without choras would seem bleak as wilderness. Jocars hummed quietly down the street, and a great white showing darted across the sky, carrying citizens to Comelle or Tzora or somewhere. He seldom used the showings, himself — if he needed to go very far, an Aes Sedai
usually Traveled with him — but tonight he would, to M’jinn. Today was his twentyfifth naming day, and tonight he intended to accept Nalla’s latest offer of marriage. He wondered if she would be surprised; he had been putting her off for a year, not wanting to settle down. It would mean changing his service to Zorelle Sedai, whom Nalla served, but Mierin Sedai had already given her blessing.
He rounded a corner and just had time to see a dark, wideshouldered man with a fashionably narrow beard before the man’s shoulder sent him crashing to his back, head bouncing on the walkway so he saw spots. Dazed, he lay there.
“Watch where you are going,” the bearded man said irritably, adjusting his sleeveless red coat and flicking the lace at his wrists. His black hair, hanging to his shoulders, was gathered in back. That was the latest fashion, too, as near as anyone who had not sworn to the Covenant would come to imitating Aiel.
The palehaired woman with him laid a hand on his arm, her dress of shimmery white streith becoming more opaque with her sudden embarrassment. “Jom, look at his hair. He is Aiel, Jom.”
Feeling his head to see if it was cracked, Charn’s fingers brushed through shortcut, reddishgold hair. He gave the longer tail at his nape a tug in lieu of shaking his head. A bruise, he thought, but no more.
“So he is.” The man’s annoyance vanished in consternation. “Forgive me, Da’shain. I am the one who should be watching where he walks. Let me help you up.” He was already suiting his words, hoisting Charn to his feet. “Are you all right? Let me call a jumper to take you where you are going.”
“I am not hurt, citizen,” Charn said mildly. “Truly, it was my fault.” It had been, hurrying like that. He could have injured the man. “Did I harm you? Please, forgive me.”
The man opened his mouth to protest — citizens always did; they seemed to think Aiel were made of spinglass — but before he could speak, the ground rippled under their feet. The air rippled, too, in spreading waves. The man looked about uncertainly, pulling his stylish fancloth cloak around himself and his lady so their heads seemed to float disembodied. “What is it, Da’shain?”
Others who had seen Charn’s hair were gathering around him anxiously asking the same questions, but he ignored them, not even thinking of whether he was being rude. He actually began to push through the crowd, his eyes fixed on the Sharom; the white sphere, a thousand feet in diameter, floated as high above the blue and silver domes of the Collam Daan.
Mierin had said today was the day. She said she had found a new source for the One Power. Female Aes Sedai and male would be able to tap the same source, not separate halves. What men and women could do united would be even greater now that there would be no differences. And today she and Beidomon would tap it for the first time — the last time men and women would work together wielding a different Power. Today.
What seemed a tiny chip of white spun away from the Sharom in a jet of black
fire; it descended, deceptively slow, insignificant. Then a hundred gouts spurted everywhere around the huge white sphere. The Sharom broke apart like an egg and began to drift down, falling, an obsidian inferno. Darkness spread across the sky, swallowing the sun in unnatural night, as if the light of those flames was blackness. People were screaming, screaming everywhere.
With the first spurt of fire, Charn broke into a run toward the Collam Daan, but he knew he was too late. He was sworn to serve Aes Sedai, and he was too late. Tears rolled down his face as he ran.
Blinking to dispel the spots fluttering across his vision, Rand squeezed his head with both hands. The image still drifted through his head, that huge sphere, burning black, falling. Did I really see the hole being drilled into the Dark One’s prison? Did I? He stood at the edge of the glass columns, staring out at Avendesora. A chora tree. A city is a wilderness without chora. And now there’s only one. The columns sparkled in the blue glow from the dome of fog above, but once again the light seemed only brilliant reflections. There was no sign of Muradin; he did not think the Aiel had come out of the glass forest. Or ever would.
Suddenly something caught his eye, low in the branches of the Tree of Life. A shape swinging slowly. A man, hanging from a pole laid across two branches by a rope around his neck.
With a wordless roar, he ran for the tree, grabbing at saidin, the fiery sword coming into his hands as he leaped, slashing at the rope. He and Mat hit the dusty white paving stones with twin thuds. The pole jarred free and clattered down beside them; not a pole, but an odd blackhafted spear with a short sword blade in place of a spearpoint, slightly curved and single edged. Rand would not have cared if it was made of gold and cuendillar set with sapphires and firedrops.
Letting sword and Power go, he ripped the rope away from Mat’s neck and pressed an ear to his friend’s chest. Nothing. Desperately, he tore open Mat’s coat and shirt, breaking the leather cord that held a silver medallion on Mat’s chest. He tossed the medallion aside, listened again. Nothing. No heartbeat. Dead. No! He’d be all right if I hadn’t let him follow me here. I can’t let him be dead!
As hard as he could he pounded his fist against Mat’s chest, listened. Nothing. Again he hammered, listened. Yes. There. A faint heartbeat. It was. So faint, so slow. And slowing. But Mat was still alive despite the heavy purple welt around his neck. He might yet be kept alive.
Filling his lungs, Rand scrambled around to breathe into Mat’s mouth as strongly as he could. Again. Again. Then he leaped astride Mat, seized the waist of his breeches and heaved upward, lifting his hips off the pavement. Up and down, three times, and then back to breathing into his mouth. He could have channeled; he might have been able to do something that way. The memory of that girl in the Stone stopped him. He wanted Mat to live. Live, not be a puppet moved by the Power. Once back in Emond’s Field he had seen Master Luhhan revive a boy who had been found floating in the Winespring Water. So he breathed and heaved,
breathed and heaved and prayed.
Abruptly Mat jerked, coughed. Rand knelt beside him as he put both hands to his throat and rolled onto his side, sucking air in an agonized rattle.
Mat touched the piece of rope with one hand and shivered. “Those flaming — sons — of goats,” he muttered hoarsely. “They tried — to kill me.”
“Who did?” Rand asked, looking around warily. Halffinished palaces around the great littered square stared back at him. Surely Rhuidean was empty except for the two of them. Unless Muradin was still alive, somewhere.
“The folk — on the other side — of that — twisted doorway.” Swallowing painfully, Mat sat up and took a deep unsteady breath. “There’s one here, too, Rand.” He still sounded as if his throat had been rasped.
“You could go through it? Did they answer questions?” That could be useful. He desperately needed more answers. A thousand questions, and too few answers.
“No answers,” Mat said huskily. “They cheat. And they tried to kill me.” He picked up the medallion, a silver foxhead that almost filled his palm, and after a moment stuffed it into his pocket with a grimace. “I got something out of them, at least.” Pulling the strange spear to him, he ran his fingers along the black shaft. A line of some strange cursive script ran its length, bracketed by a pair of birds inlaid in metal even darker than the wood. Ravens, Rand thought they were. Another pair were engraved on the blade. With a rough wry laugh, Mat levered himself to his feet, halfleaning on the spear, the sword blade beginning just level with his head. He did not bother to lace up his shirt or button his coat. “I’ll keep this, too. Their joke, but I will keep it.”
“A joke?”
Mat nodded. “What it says.
‘Thus it our treaty written; thus is agreement made. Thought is the arrow of time; memory never fades. What was asked is given. The price is paid.’
“A pretty joke, you see. I’ll slice them with their own wit if I ever get the chance. I’ll give them ‘thought and memory.’ ” He winced, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Light, but my head hurts. It’s spinning, like a thousand bits of dreams, and every one a needle. Do you think Moiraine will do something for it if I ask?”
“I am sure she will,” Rand replied slowly. Mat had to be hurting badly if he sought the Aes Sedai’s help. He looked at the dark spear shaft again. Most of the script was hidden by Mat’s hand, but not all. Whatever it was, he had no idea what it said. How had Mat? Rhuidean’s empty windows stared at him mockingly. We hide many secrets still, they seemed to say. More than you know. Worse than you know. “Let’s go back now, Mat. I don’t care if we have to cross the valley in the night. As you said, it will be cooler. I don’t want to stay in here any longer.”
“That sounds just fine to me,” Mat said, coughing. “As long as we can get another drink of water at that fountain.”
Rand kept his pace to Mat’s, which was slow at first, hobbling along using the
odd spear as a walking staff. He paused once to look at the two figurines of a man and a woman holding crystal spheres, but he left them there. Not yet. Not for a long time yet, if he was lucky.
When they left the square behind, the unfinished palaces rearing along the street had a threatening look, their jagged tops like the walls of great fortresses. Rand embraced saidin, though he saw no real threat. But he felt it, as though murderous eyes were boring into his back. Rhuidean lay peaceful and empty, shadowless in the blue glow of its fog roof. The dust in the streets rippled in the wind… The wind. There was no wind.
“Oh, burn me,” Mat muttered. “I think we’re in trouble, Rand. It’s what I get for staying around you. You always get me in trouble.”
The ripples came faster, sliding together to make thicker lines, quivering still. “Can you walk faster?” Rand asked.
“Walk? Blood and ashes, I can run.” Slanting the spear across his chest, Mat suited his words with a lurching gallop.
Running alongside, Rand brought his sword back, uncertain of what he could do with it against shivering lines of dust, uncertain that there really was need. It was only dust. No, it bloody isn’t. It’s one of those bubbles. The Dark One’s evil, drifting along the Pattern, seeking out bloody ta’veren. I know it is.
All around them dust rippled and shivered ever thicker, bunching and gathering. Suddenly, right in front of them, a shape reared up in the basin of a dry fountain, a solid man shape, dark and featureless, with fingers like sharp claws. Silently it leaped at them.
Rand moved instinctively — the Moon Rises Over Water — and the blade of Power sliced through that dark figure. In a twinkling it was only a thick cloud of dust, drifting toward the pavement.
Others replaced it, though, black faceless shapes rushing in from all sides, no two alike, but all with reaching claws. Rand danced the forms among them, blade weaving intricate patterns in the air, leaving floating motes behind. Mat used his spear like a quarterstaff, a spinning blur, but bringing the sword blade into it as if he had always used the weapon. The creatures died or at least returned to dust but they were many, and quick. Blood poured down Rand’s face, and the old wound in his side burned on the point of splitting open. Red spread across Mat’s face, too, and down his chest. Too many, and too quick.
You do not do the tenth part of what you are capable of already. That was what Lanfear had told him. He laughed as he danced the forms. Learn from one of the Forsaken. He could do that, if not the way she intended. Yes, he could. He channeled, wove strands of the Power, and sent a whirlwind into the middle of each black shape. They exploded in clouds of dust that left him coughing. As far as he could see, dust settled from the air.
Hacking and panting, Mat leaned on his dark shafted spear. “Did you do that?” he wheezed, wiping blood away from his eyes. “About time. If you knew how, why
didn’t you bloody do it in the first place?”
Rand started to laugh again — Because I didn’t think of it. Because I didn’t know how until I did it — but it froze in his mouth. Dust drifted out of the air, and as it settled on the ground, it began to ripple. “Run,” he said. “We have to get out of here. Run!”
Side by side they sped for the fog, slashing at any lines of dust that seemed to be thickening, kicking at them, anything to keep them from coalescing. Rand sent whirlwinds swirling wildly in every direction. Dispelled dust began shivering back together immediately, even before it reached the ground now. They kept running, into the fog and through, bursting out into dim, sharpshadowed light.
Side aching, Rand spun, ready to try lightning, or fire, anything. Nothing came through the fog after them. Maybe the mist was a wall to those dark shapes. Maybe it held them in. Maybe…. He did not know. He did not really care, so long as the things could not follow.
“Burn me,” Mat muttered hoarsely, “we were in there all night. It’s nearly sunrise. I didn’t think it was that long.”
Rand stared at the sky. The sun had not topped the mountains yet; a painfully brilliant nimbus outlined the jagged peaks. Long shadows covered the valley floor. He will come from Rhuidean at dawn, and tie you together with bonds you cannot break. He will take you back, and he will destroy you.
“Let’s go back up the mountain,” he said quietly. “They will be waiting for us.” For me.
The Shadow Rising
Chapter 27
(Leaf)
Within the Ways
The darkness of the Ways compressed the light of Perrin’s polelantern to a sharpedged pool around himself and Gaul. The creak of his saddle, the gritty click of hooves on stone, seemed to reach no further than light’s rim. There was no smell to the air; nothing. The Aielman strode along beside Stepper easily, keeping an eye on the dimly seen lanternglow from Loial’s party ahead. Perrin refused to call it Faile’s. The Ways did not seem to bother Gaul, for all their reputation. Perrin himself could not help listening, as he had for nearly two days, or what passed for days in this lightless place. His ears would be first to catch the sound that meant they were all going to die or worse, the sound of wind rising where no wind ever blew. No wind but Machin Shin, the Black Wind that ate souls. He could not help thinking that traveling the Ways was slackwitted folly, but when need called, what was foolish changed.
The faint light ahead stopped, and he drew rein in the middle of what appeared to be an ancient stone bridge arching through utter blackness, ancient because of the breaks in the bridge walls, the pits and shallow ragged craters freckling the roadbed. Very likely it had stood close to three thousand years, but it seemed ready to fall, now. Maybe right now.
The packhorse crowded up behind Stepper: the animals whickered to each other and rolled their eyes uneasily at the surrounding dark. Perrin knew how the horses felt. A few more people for company would have lifted some of the endless night’s weight. Still, he would not have gone any closer to the lanterns ahead even had he been alone. Not and risk a repeat of what happened back on that first Island, right after entering the Waygate in Tear. He scratched his curly beard irritably. He was not sure what he had expected, but not…
The pole lantern bobbed as he stepped down from his saddle and led Stepper and the packhorse to the Guiding, a tall slab of white stone covered with cursive silver inlays vaguely reminiscent of vines and leaves, all pitted as if splashed with acid. He could not read it, of course — Loial had to do that; it was Ogier script — and after a moment he walked around it, studying the Island. It was the same as the others he had seen, with a chest high wall of white stone, simple curves and rounds fitted in an intricate pattern. At intervals bridges pierced the wall, arching out into the darkness, and rail less ramps running up or down with no means of support he could see. There were cracks everywhere, ragged pits and shallow craters, as though the stone were rotting. When the horses moved there was a grainy sound of stone flaking away beneath their hooves. Gaul peered into the dark with no visible nervousness, but then, he did not know what might be out there. Perrin did, too well.
When Loial and the others arrived, Faile immediately hopped from her black
mare and strode straight to Perrin, eyes intent on his face. He was already regretting making her worry, but she did not look worried at all. He could not have said what her expression was, besides fixed.
“Have you decided to talk to me instead of over my hea—?”
Her full armed slap made spots dance in front of his eyes. “What did you mean,” she practically spat, “charging in here like a wild boar? You have no regard. None!”
He took a slow, deep breath. “I asked you before not to do that.” Her dark, tilted eyes widened as if he had said something infuriating. He was rubbing his cheek when her second slap caught him on the other side, nearly unhinging his jaw. The Aiel were watching interestedly, and Loial with his ears drooping.
“I told you not to do that,” he growled. Her fist was not very big, but her sudden punch to his shortribs drove most of the air from his lungs, hunching him over sideways, and she drew back her fist again. With a snarl, he seized her by the scruff of her neck and…
Well, it was her own fault. It was. He had asked her not to hit him, told her. Her own fault. He was surprised she had not tried to pull one of her knives, though; she seemed to carry as many as Mat.
She had been furious, of course. Furious with Loial for trying to intervene; she could take care of herself, thank you very much. Furious with Bain and Chiad for not intervening; she had been taken aback when they said they did not think she would want them to interfere in a fight she had picked. When you choose the fight, Bain had said, you must take the consequences, win or lose. But she did not seem even the tiniest bit angry with him any longer. That made him nervous. She had only stared at him, her dark eyes glistening with unshed tears, which made him feel guilty, which in turn made him angry. Why should he be guilty? Was he supposed to stand there and let her hit him to her heart’s content? She had mounted Swallow and sat there, very stiffbacked, refusing to sit gingerly,
staring at him with an unreadable expression. It made him very nervous. He almost wished she had pulled a knife. Almost.
“They are moving again,” Gaul said.
Perrin jerked back to the present. The other light was moving. Now it paused. One of them had noticed his light was not following yet. Probably Loial. Faile might not mind if he got lost, and the two Aiel women had twice tried to talk him into walking off a little way with them. He had not needed the slight shake of Gaul’s head to refuse. He heeled Stepper forward, leading the packhorse.
The Guiding here was more pocked than most he had seen, but he rode on past it with only a glance. The light of the other lanterns was already starting down one of the gently sloping ramps, and he followed with a sigh. He hated the ramps. Sided only by darkness, it began to curve, down and around, with nothing discernible beyond the squashed light of the lantern swaying above his head. Something told him that a fall over the edge would never end. Stepper and the packhorse kept to the
middle without any urging, and even Gaul avoided the brink. Worse, when the ramp ended on another Island, there was no way to escape the conclusion that it lay directly beneath the one they had just left. He was glad to see Gaul glancing upward, glad he was not alone in wondering what held the Islands up and whether it was still sound.
Once more Loial and Faile’s lanterns had stopped by the Guiding, so he reined up again, just off the ramp. This time they did not move on, though. After a few moments, Faile’s voice called, “Perrin.”
He exchanged looks with Gaul, and the Aiel shrugged. She had not spoken to Perrin since he…
“Perrin, come here.” Not peremptory, exactly, but not asking, either.
Bain and Chiad were squatting easily beside the Guiding, and Loial and Faile sat their horses close by, polelanterns in hand. The Ogier had their packhorses’ lead line; his ear tufts twitched as he looked from Faile to Perrin and back again. She, on the other hand, seemed completely absorbed in adjusting her riding gloves, of soft green leather with golden falcons embroidered on their backs. She had changed her dress, too. The new one was cut in the same fashion, with a high neck and narrow divided skirts, but it was a dark green brocaded silk, and somehow it seemed to emphasize her bosom. Perrin had never seen the dress before.
“What do you want?” he asked warily.
She looked up as if surprised to see him, tilted her head thoughtfully, then smiled as though it had just occurred to her. “Oh, yes. I wanted to see if you could be taught to come when I call.” Her smiled deepened; it had to be because she had heard his teeth grinding. He scrubbed at his nose; there was a faint rank smell here.
Gaul chuckled softly. “As well try to understand the sun, Perrin. It simply is, and it is not to be understood. You cannot live without it, but it exacts a price. So with women.”
Bain leaned over to whisper in Chiad’s ear, and they both laughed. From the way they looked at Gaul and him, Perrin did not think he would like hearing what the women found so funny.
“It is not that at all,” Loial rumbled, ears shifting testily. He gave Faile an accusing look, which did not abash her at all; she smiled at him vaguely and went back to her gloves, snugging each finger all over again. “I am sorry, Perrin. She insisted on being the one to call you. This is why. We are there.” He pointed to the base of the Guiding, where a wide pitbroken white line ran off, not to bridge or ramp, but into the darkness. “The Waygate at Manetheren, Perrin.”
Perrin nodded, saying nothing. He was not about to suggest they follow the line, not and have Faile call him down for trying to take over. He rubbed his nose again absently; that almost imperceptible scent of rankness was irritating. He was not going to make even the most sensible suggestion. If she wanted to lead, let her. But she sat her saddle, fooling with her gloves, obviously waiting for him to speak so she could make some witty remark. She liked wittiness; he preferred saying what he
meant. Irritably, he turned Stepper, meaning to go on without her or Loial. The line led to the Waygate, and he could pick out the Avendesora leaf that opened it himself.
Suddenly his ear caught a muffled click of hooves from the darkness, and the fetid smell slammed home in his mind. “Trollocs!” he shouted.
Gaul pivoted smoothly to slide a spear into the blackmailed chest of a wolfsnouted Trolloc dashing into the light with scythelike sword upraised; in the same effortless motion the Aiel pulled his spearpoint free and sidestepped to let the huge shape fall. More came behind it, though, all goatsnouts and boar’s tusks, cruel beaks and twisted horns, with curved swords and spiked axes and hooked spears. The horses danced and screamed.
Holding his polelantern high — the thought of facing these things in the dark gave him cold sweat — Perrin clawed for a weapon, swung at a face distorted by a sharp toothed snout. He was surprised to realize he had pulled the hammer free of its lashings on his saddlebags, but if it did not have the axe’s sharp edge, ten pounds of steel wielded by a blacksmith’s arm still sent the Trolloc staggering back shrieking and clutching a ruined face.
Loial dashed his polelantern against a goathorned head, and the lantern broke; bathed in burning oil, the Trolloc ran howling into the dark. The Ogier flailed about him with the stout pole, a switch in his huge hands, but one that landed with sharp cracks of splintering bone. One of Faile’s knives blossomed in an alltoohuman eye above a tusked snout. The Aiel danced the spears, having somehow found time to veil themselves. Perrin struck, and struck, and struck. A whirlwind of death that lasted. A minute? Five? It seemed an hour. But suddenly the Trollocs were down,
those not already dead kicking in their death throes.
Perrin sucked air into his lungs; his right arm felt as if the weight of the hammer might pull it off. There was a burning sensation on his face, a wetness trickling down his side, another on his leg, where Trolloc steel had gotten through. Each of the Aiel had at least one damp patch darkening their brown and gray clothes, and Loial wore a bloody gash down his thigh. Perrin’s eyes went right past them, seeking Faile. If she was hurt… She sat atop her black mare, a knife in her hand ready to throw. She had actually managed to pull off her gloves and tuck them neatly behind her belt. He could not see a wound on her. In all the blood smell — human, Ogier, Trolloc — he could not have picked out hers if she were bleeding, but he knew her scent, and she did not have the pained smell of injury. Bright lights hurt Trolloc eyes; they did not adapt quickly. Very likely the only reason they were still alive and the Trollocs dead was that abrupt entry from darkness into light.
That was all the time they had, a moment’s respite, long enough to glance around, take breath. With a roar like a hundred pounds of bone falling into a huge meat grinder, a Fade leaped into the light, eyeless stare a stare of death, black sword flickering like lightning. The horses screamed, trying to bolt.
Gaul barely managed to turn that blade with his buckler, losing a slice from the
side of it as if the layers of cured bullhide were only paper. He stabbed, eluded a thrust — barely — and stabbed again. Arrows sprouted in the Myrddraal’s chest. Bain and Chiad had thrust their spears through the harness holding the cased bows on their backs and were using those curved horn bows. More arrows, pincushioning the Halfman’s chest. Gaul’s spear, darting, stabbing. One of Faile’s knives suddenly stood out in that smooth maggot white face. The Fade would not fall, would not stop trying to kill. Only the wildest dodging kept its sword from finding flesh.
Perrin bared his teeth in an unconscious snarl. He hated Trollocs as an enemy of his blood, but the Neverborn… ? It was worth dying to kill a Neverborn. To put my teeth in its throat… ! Careless of whether he blocked Bain and Chiad’s arrows, he guided Stepper closer to the Neverborn’s back, forcing the reluctant dun nearer with reins and knees. At the last instant, the creature spun away from Gaul, seemingly ignoring a spearpoint that thrust between its shoulders and came out below its throat, staring up at Perrin with the eyeless gaze that sent fear into every man’s soul. Too late. Perrin’s hammer fell, shattering head and eyeless gaze alike.
Even down and virtually headless, the Myrddraal still thrashed, lashing aimlessly with its Thakan’darwrought blade. Stepper danced back, whickering nervously, and suddenly Perrin felt as if he had been doused in icy water. That black steel made wounds even Aes Sedai found hard to Heal, and he had ridden in uncaring. My teeth in its… Light, I have to keep hold of myself. I have to!
He could still hear smothered sounds from the darkness at the far end of the Island, the clatter of hoofed feet, the scrape of boots, harsh breathing and guttural murmurs. More Trollocs; how many he could not say. A pity they had not been linked to the Myrddraal, yet perhaps they might hesitate to attack without it to drive them. Trollocs were usually cowards in their way, preferring strong odds and easy kills. But even lacking a Myrddraal they could work themselves up to come again eventually.
“The Waygate,” he said. “We have to get out before they decide what to do without that.” He used the bloody hammer to gesture to the still flailing Fade.
Faile reined Swallow around immediately, and he was so surprised, he blurted, “You aren’t going to argue?”
“Not when you speak sense,” she said briskly. “Not when you speak sense.
Loial?”
The Ogier took the lead on his tall, hairy fetlocked mount. Perrin backed Stepper after Faile and Loial, hammer in hand, the Aiel siding him, all with bows ready now. Shuffling hooves and boots followed in the blackness, and harsh mutters in a language too rough for human tongues. Back and back, with the mutters edging closer, working up courage.
Another sound floated to Perrin, like silk sighing across silk. It sent shivers along his bones. Louder, a distant giant’s exhalation, rising, falling, rising higher. “Hurry!” he shouted. “Hurry!”
“I am,” Loial barked. “I — That sound! Is it —? The Light illumine our souls,
and the Creator’s hand shelter us! It’s opening. It is opening! I must be last. Out! Out! But not too — No, Faile!”
Perrin risked a glance over his shoulder. Twin gates of apparently living leaves were swinging open, revealing a smoked glass view of mountainous country. Loial had dismounted to remove the Avendesora leaf to unlock the gate, and Faile had their pack animals’ leads and his huge mount’s reins. With a hasty shout of “Follow me! Quickly!” she booted Swallow’s ribs, and the Tairen mare sprang toward the opening.
“After her,” Perrin told the Aiel. “Hurry! You cannot fight this.” Wisely they hesitated only a heartbeat before peeling back, Gaul seizing the packhorse’s lead line. Stepper came abreast of Loial. “Can you lock it shut some way? Block it?” A frantic edge had entered the harsh mutterings; the Trollocs had recognized the sound too, now. Machin Shin was coming. Living meant getting out of the Ways.
“Yes,” Loial said. “Yes. But go. Go!”
Perrin reined Stepper back quickly toward the Gate, yet before he knew what he was doing he had thrown back his head and howled, defiance and challenge. Foolish, foolish, foolish! Still, he kept his eyes on that pitch dark and backed Stepper into the Waygate. An icy ripple slid across him hair by hair, and time stretched out. The jolt of leaving the Ways hit him, as if he had gone from a dead gallop to a stop in one step.
The Aiel were still turning to face the Waygate, spreading out across the slope with arrows nocked, among low bushes and stunted mountain trees, windtwisted pine and fir and leatherleaf. Faile was just picking herself up from where she had tumbled from Swallow’s saddle, the black mare nuzzling her. Galloping out of a Waygate was at least as bad as galloping in; she was lucky she had not broken her neck, and her horse’s, too. Loial’s tall horse and her packhorses were trembling as though hit between the eyes. Perrin opened his mouth, and she glared at him, daring him to make any comment at all, maybe a sympathetic one least of all. He grimaced wryly and wisely kept silent.
Abruptly Loial came hurtling out of the Waygate, leaping out of a dull silvery mirror with his own reflection growing behind him, and rolled across the ground. Almost on his heels, two Trollocs appeared, ram’s horns and snout, eagle’s beak and feathered crest, but before they were more than halfway out, the shimmering surface turned dead black, bubbling and bulging, clinging to them.
Voices whispered in Perrin’s head, a thousand babbling mad voices clawing at the inside of his skull. Bitter blood. Blood so bitter. Drink the blood and crack the bone. Crack the bone and suck the marrow. Bitter marrow, sweet the screams. Singing screams. Sing the screams. Tiny souls. Acrid souls. Gobble them down. So sweet the pain. On and on.
Shrieking, howling, the Trollocs beat at the blackness boiling around them, clawed to pull free as it sucked them deeper, deeper, till only one hairy hand remained, clutching frantically, then only darkness, bulging outward, seeking.
Slowly the Waygates appeared, sliding together, squeezing the blackness so it oozed back inside between them. The voices in Perrin’s head finally stopped. Loial rushed forward quickly to place not one but two threelobed leaves among the myriad leaves and vines. The Waygate became stone again, a section of stone wall, carved in intricate detail, standing alone on a sparsely wooded mountainside. Among the myriad leaves and vines was not one, but two Avendesora leaves. Loial had replaced the trefoil leaf from inside on the outside.
The Ogier heaved a deep, relieved sigh. “That is the best I can do. It can only be opened from this side now.” He gave Perrin a look at once anxious and firm. “I could have locked it forever by not replacing the leaves, but I will not ruin a Waygate, Perrin. We grew the Ways and tended them. Perhaps they can be cleansed someday. I cannot ruin a Waygate.”
“It will do,” Perrin told him. Had the Trollocs been coming to this Waygate, or had it just been a chance encounter? In either case, it would do.
“Was that —?” Faile began unsteadily, then stopped to swallow. Even the Aiel looked shaken for once.
“Machin Shin,” Loial said. “The Black Wind. A creature of the Shadow, or a thing grown of the Ways’ own taint — no one knows. I pity the Trollocs. Even them.”
Perrin was not sure he did, not even dying like that. He had seen what Trollocs left when they got their hands on humans. Trollocs ate anything, so long as it was meat, and sometimes they liked to keep their meat alive while they butchered. He would not let himself pity Trollocs.
Stepper’s hooves crunched on gritty dirt as Perrin turned him to see where they were.
Cloudcapped mountains rose all around; it was the everpresent clouds that gave them their name, the Mountains of Mist. The air was cool at this altitude, even in summer, especially compared to Tear. The lateafternoon sun sat on the western peaks, glinting on streams running down to the river that coursed along the floor of the long valley below. The Manetherendrelle, it was called once it had traveled out of the mountains and much farther west and south, but Perrin had grown up calling the length of it that ran along the south edge of the Two Rivers the White River, an uncrossable stretch of rapids that churned its waters to froth. The Manetherendrelle. Waters of the Mountain Home.
Where bare rock showed in the valley below or on the surrounding slopes, it glittered like glass. Once a city had stood there, covering valley and mountains. Manetheren, city of soaring spires and splashing fountains, capital of a great nation of the same name, perhaps the most beautiful city in the world, according to old Ogier tales. Gone now without a trace, except for the allbutindestructible Waygate that had stood in the Ogier grove. Burned to barren rock more than two thousand years ago, while the Trolloc Wars still raged, destroyed by the One Power after the death of its last king, Aemon al’Caar al’Thorin, in his last bloody battle against the
Shadow. Aemon’s Field, men had named that place, where the village called Emond’s Field now stood.
Perrin shivered. That was long ago. Trollocs had come once since, on Winternight more than a year gone, the night before he and Rand and Mat were forced to flee in the darkness with Moiraine. That seemed long ago, too, now. It could not happen again, with the Waygate locked. It’s Whitecloaks I have to worry about, not Trollocs.
A pair of whitewinged hawks wheeled above the far end of the valley. Perrin’s eyes barely caught the streak of a rising arrow. One of the hawks cartwheeled and fell, and Perrin frowned. Why would anyone shoot a hawk up here in the mountains? Over a farm, if it was after the chickens or the geese, but up here? Why would anyone even be up here? Two Rivers people avoided the mountains.
The second hawk swooped on snowy wings toward where its mate had fallen, but suddenly it was climbing desperately. A black cloud of ravens burst from the trees, surrounding it in wild melee, and when they settled again, the hawk was gone. Perrin made himself breathe. He had seen ravens, and other birds, attack a hawk that came too close to their nests before, but he could not make himself believe it that simple this time. The birds had burst up from about where the arrow had risen. Ravens. The Shadow used animals as spies, sometimes. Rats and others that fed on death, usually. Ravens, especially. He had sharp memories of running from
sweeping lines of ravens that had hunted him as though they had intelligence. “What are you staring at?” Faile asked, shading her eyes to peer down the
valley. “Were those birds?”
“Just birds,” he said. Maybe they were. I can’t frighten everybody until I’m sure.
Not while they’re still shaky from Machin Shin.
He was still holding his bloody hammer, he realized, slick with black Myrddraal blood. His fingers found drying blood on his cheek, matting in his short beard. When he climbed down, his side and his leg burned. He found a shirt in his saddlebags to clean the hammer before the Fade’s blood etched the metal. In a moment he would find out if there was anything to fear in these mountains. If it was more than men, the wolves would know.
Faile began unbuttoning his coat. “What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Tending your wounds,” she snapped back. “I’ll not have you bleeding to death on me. That would be just like you, to die and leave me the work of burying you. You have no consideration. Hold still.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly, and she looked surprised.
She made him strip off everything but his smallclothes, so she could wash his wounds, rub them with ointment fetched from her saddlebags. He could not see the cut on his face, of course, but it seemed small and shallow, if uncomfortably close to his eye. The slash across his left side was over a hand long, though, straight along a rib, and the hole a spear had made in his right thigh was deep. Faile had to
put stitches in that, with needle and thread from her sewing kit. He took it stoically; she was the one who winced at every stitch. She muttered angrily under her breath the whole time she worked, especially while rubbing her dark stinging cream into his cheek, looking almost as if the hurts were hers, and his fault, yet she tied bandages around his ribs and his thigh with a gentle hand. It made a startling contrast, her soft touch and her furious grumbles. Purely confusing.
While he donned a clean shirt and a spare pair of breeches from his saddlebags, Faile stood fingering the slice in the side of his coat. Two inches to the right, and he would not have left that Island. Stamping his feet in his boots, he reached for his coat — and she flung it at him.
“You needn’t think I will sew that up for you. I’ve done all the sewing for you I mean to! Do you hear me, Perrin Aybara?”
“I didn’t ask ”
“You needn’t think it! That’s all!” She stalked away to help the Aiel tend each other and Loial. That was an odd group, the Ogier with his baggy breeches off, Gaul and Chiad eyeing each other like strange cats, Faile spreading her ointment and wrapping bandages and all the while shooting accusing glares at him. What was he supposed to have done now?
Perrin shook his head. Gaul was right, he decided; as well try to understand the sun.
Even knowing what he had to do now, he was reluctant, especially after what had happened in the Ways, with the Fade. Once he had seen a man who had forgotten he was human. The same could happen to him. Fool. You only have to hold out a few more days. Just till you find the Whitecloaks. And he had to know. Those ravens.
He sent his mind questing across the valley for the wolves. There were always wolves where men were not, and if they were close, he could talk with them. Wolves avoided men, ignored them as much as possible, but they hated Trollocs for unnatural things, and despised Myrddraal with a hatred too deep to hold. If Shadowspawn were in the Mountains of Mist, the wolves could tell him.
But he found no wolves. None. They should have been there, in this wilderness. He could see deer browsing down in the valley. Perhaps it was just that no wolves were close enough. They could talk over some distance, but even a mile was too far. Maybe it was less in mountains. That could be it.
His gaze swept across the cloudcapped peaks and settled on the valley’s far end, where the ravens had come from. Maybe he would find wolves tomorrow. He did not want to think of the alternatives.
The Shadow Rising
Chapter 28
(Wolf)
To the Tower of Ghenjei
With night so near, they had no choice but to camp there on the mountain near the Waygate. In two camps. Faile insisted on it.
“That is done with,” Loial told her in a displeased rumble. “We are out of the Ways, and I have kept my oath. It is finished.” Faile put on one of her stubborn expressions, with chin up and fists on hips.
“Leave it alone, Loial,” Perrin said. “I’ll camp over there a bit.” Loial glanced at Faile, who had turned to the two Aiel women as soon as she heard Perrin agree, then shook his huge head and made as if to join Perrin and Gaul. Perrin motioned him back, with a small gesture he hoped none of the women noticed.
He made it a small bit, less than twenty paces. The Waygate might be locked, but there were still the ravens, and whatever they might presage. He wanted to be near if needed. If Faile complained, she could just complain. He was so set to ignore her protests that it irked him when she made none.
Disregarding twinges from his leg and side, he unsaddled Stepper and unloaded the packhorse, hobbled both animals and fitted them with nose bags with a few handfuls of barley and some oats. There was certainly no grazing up here. As to what there was, though… He strung his bow and laid it across his quiver near the fire, slipped the axe free of its belt loop.
Gaul joined him in making a fire, and they had a meal of bread and cheese and dried beef, eaten in silence and washed down with water. The sun slid behind the mountains, silhouetting the peaks and painting the undersides of the clouds red. Shadows blanketed the valley, and the air began to grow crisp.
Dusting crumbs from his hands, Perrin dug his good green wool cloak out of his saddlebags. Perhaps he had grown more accustomed to Tear’s heat than he had thought. The women were certainly not eating in silence around their shadowshrouded fire; he could hear them laughing, and the bits of what they said that he picked up made his ears burn. Women would talk about anything; they had no restraint at all. Loial had moved as far away from them as he could and still be in the light, and was trying to bury himself in a book. They probably did not even realize they were embarrassing the Ogier; they probably thought they were talking quietly enough for Loial not to hear.
Muttering to himself, Perrin sat back down across the fire from Gaul. The Aiel seemed to be taking no notice of the chill. “Do you know any funny stories?”
“Funny stories? I cannot think of one, offhand.” Gaul’s eyes half turned to the other fire, and the laughter. “I would if I could. The sun, remember?”
Perrin laughed noisily and made his voice loud enough to carry. “I do. Women!” The hilarity in the other camp faded for a moment before rising again. That should show them. Other people could laugh. Perrin stared glumly into the fire. His
wounds ached.
After a moment, Gaul said, “This place begins to look more like the Threefold Land than most of the wetlands. Too much water, still, and the trees are still too big and too many, but it is not so strange as the places called forests.”
The soil was poor here where Manetheren had died in fire, the widely scattered trees all stunted and thickboled, odd windbent shapes, none as much as thirty feet high. Perrin thought it about as desolate a spot as he had ever seen.
“I wish I could see your Threefold Land someday, Gaul.” “Perhaps you will, when we are done here.”
“Perhaps.” Not much chance of it, of course. None, really. He could have told the Aielman that, but he did not want to talk of it now, or think of it.
“This is where Manetheren stood? You are of Manetheren’s blood?”
“This was Manetheren,” Perrin replied. “And I suppose I am.” It was hard to believe that the small villages and quiet farms of the Two Rivers held the last of Manetheren’s blood, but that was what Moiraine had said. The old blood runs strong in the Two Rivers, she had said. “That was a long time ago, Gaul. We are farmers, shepherds; not a great nation, not great warriors.”
Gaul smiled slightly. “If you say it. I have seen you dance the spears, and Rand al’Thor, and the one called Mat. But if you say it.”
Perrin shifted uncomfortably. How much had he changed since leaving home? Himself, and Rand, and Mat? Not his eyes, and the wolves, or Rand’s channeling; he did not mean that. How much of what was inside remained unchanged? Mat was the only one who still seemed to be just himself, only more so. “You know about Manetheren?”
“We know more of your world than you think. And less than we believed. Long before I crossed the Dragonwall I had read books brought by peddlers. I knew of ‘ships’ and ‘rivers’ and ‘forests,’ or thought I did.” Gaul made them sound like words in a strange tongue. “This is how I envisioned a ‘forest.’ ” He gestured at the sparse trees, dwarfed from the height they should have had. “To believe a thing is not to make it true. What of the Nightrunner, and Leafblighter’s get? Do you believe it just coincidence they came near this Waygate?”
“No.” Perrin sighed. “I saw ravens, down the valley. Maybe that’s all they were, but I don’t want to take the chance, not after the Trollocs.”
Gaul nodded. “They could have been Shadoweyes. If you plan for the worst, all surprises are pleasant.”
“I could do with a pleasant surprise.” Perrin felt for wolves again, and again found nothing. “I may be able to find out something tonight. Maybe. If anything happens here, you might have to kick me to wake me.” That sounded odd, he realized, but Gaul only nodded again. “Gaul, you’ve never mentioned my eyes, or even given them a second glance. None of the Aiel have.” He knew they were glowing golden now, in the firelight.
“The world is changing,” Gaul said quietly. “Rhuarc, and Jheran, my own clan
chief — the Wise Ones, too — they tried to hide it, but they were uneasy when they sent us across the Dragonwall searching for He Who Comes With the Dawn. I think perhaps the change will not be what we have always believed. I do not know how it will be different, but it will be. The Creator put us in the Threefold Land to shape us as well as to punish our sin, but for what have we been shaped?” He shook his head suddenly, ruefully. “Colinda, the Wise One of Hot Springs Hold, tells me I think too much for a Stone Dog, and Bair, the eldest Wise One of the Shaarad, threatens to send me to Rhuidean when Jheram dies whether I want to go or not. Beside all of that, Perrin, what does the color of a man’s eyes matter?”
“I wish everybody thought that way.” The merriment had finally stopped at the other fire. One of the Aiel women — Perrin could not tell which — was taking the first watch, her back to the light, and everyone else had settled down for sleep. It had been a tiring day. Sleep should be easy to find, and the dream he needed. He stretched out beside the fire, pulling his cloak around him. “Remember. Kick me awake, if need be.”
Sleep enfolded him while Gaul was still nodding, and the dream came at once.
It was daylight, and he stood alone near the Waygate, which looked like an elegantly carved length of wall, incongruous on the mountainside. Except for that there was no sign any human had ever set foot on that slope. The sky was bright and fine, and a soft breeze up the valley brought him the scent of deer and rabbits, quail and dove, a thousand distinct smells, of water and earth and trees. This was the wolf dream.
For a moment the sense of being a wolf rolled over him. He had paws, and… No! He ran his hands over himself, relieved to find only his own body, in his own coat and cloak. And the wide belt that normally held his axe, but with the hammer haft thrust through the loop instead.
He frowned at that, and surprisingly, for a moment, the axe flickered there instead, insubstantial and misty. Abruptly it was the hammer again. Licking his lips, he hoped it stayed that way. The axe might be a better weapon, but he preferred the hammer. He could not remember anything like that happening before, something changing, but he knew little of this strange place. If it could be called a place. It was the wolf dream, and odd things happened there, surely as odd as in any ordinary dream.
As though thinking of the oddities triggered one of them, a patch of sky against the mountains darkened suddenly, became a window to somewhere else. Rand stood amid swirling stormwinds, laughing wildly, even madly, arms upraised, and on the winds rode small shapes, gold and scarlet, like the strange figure on the Dragon banner; hidden eyes watched Rand, and there was no telling whether he knew it. The odd “window” winked out, only to be replaced by another farther over, where Nynaeve and Elayne stalked cautiously through a demented landscape of twisted, shadowed buildings, hunting some dangerous beast. Perrin could not have said how he knew it was dangerous, but he did. That vanished, and another black
blotch spread across the sky. Mat, standing where a road forked ahead of him. He flipped a coin, started down one branch, and suddenly was wearing a wide brimmed hat and walking with a staff bearing a short sword blade. Another “window,” and Egwene and a woman with long white hair were staring at him in surprise while behind them the White Tower crumbled stone by stone. Then they were gone, too.
Perrin drew a deep breath. He had seen the like before, here in the wolf dream, and he thought the sightings were real in some way, or meant something. Whatever they were, the wolves never saw them. Moiraine had suggested that the wolf dream was the same as something called Tel’aran’rhiod, and then would say no more. He had overheard Egwene and Elayne speaking of dreams, once, but Egwene already knew too much about him and wolves, perhaps as much as Moiraine. It was not something he could talk about, not even with her.
There was one person he could have talked to. He wished he could find Elyas Machera, the man who had introduced him to the wolves. Elyas had to know about these things. When he thought of the man, it seemed for a moment he heard his own name whispered faintly in the wind, but when he listened, there was only the wind. It was a lonely sound. Here there was only himself.
“Hopper!” he called, and in his mind, Hopper! The wolf was dead, and yet not dead, here. The wolf dream was where wolves came when they died, to await being born again. It was more than that, to wolves; they seemed in some way to be aware of the dream even while awake. One was almost as real — maybe as real — as the other, to them. “Hopper!” Hopper! But Hopper did not come.
This was all useless. He was there for a reason, and he might as well get on with it. At best, getting down to where he had seen the ravens rise would take hours.
He took a step — the land around him blurred — and his foot came down near a narrow brook beneath stunted hemlock and mountain willow, with cloudcapped peaks towering above. For a moment he stared in amazement. He was at the far end of the valley from the Waygate. In fact, he was at the very spot he had been aiming for, the place where the ravens had come from, and the arrow that killed the first hawk. Such a thing had never happened to him before. Was he learning more of the wolf dream — Hopper had always said he was ignorant — or was it different this time?
He was more cautious with his next step, but it was only a step. There was no evidence of archer or ravens, no track, no feather, no scent. He was not sure what he had expected. There would be no sign unless they had been in the dream, too. But if he could find wolves in the dream, they could help him find their brothers and sisters in the waking world, and those wolves could tell him if there were Shadowspawn in the mountains. Perhaps if he were higher up they could hear him call.
Fixing his eye on the highest peak bordering the valley, just below the clouds, he stepped. The world blurred, and he was standing on the mountainside, with white billows not five spans overhead. In spite of himself, he laughed. This was fun. From
here he could see the entire valley stretched out below. “Hopper!” No answer.
He leaped to the next mountain, calling, and the next, and the next, eastward, toward the Two Rivers. Hopper did not answer. More troubling, Perrin did not sense any other wolves, either. There were always wolves in the wolf dream. Always.
From peak to peak he sped in blurred motion, calling, seeking. The mountains lay empty beneath him, except for deer and other game. Yet there were occasional signs of men. Ancient signs. Twice great carved figures took nearly an entire mountainside, and in another place strange angular letters two spans high had been incised across a cliff a shade too smooth and sheer. Weathering had worn away the figures’ faces, and eyes less sharp than his might have taken the letters themselves for the work of wind and rain. Mountains and cliffs gave way to the Sand Hills, great rolling mounds sparsely covered with tough grass and stubborn bushes, once the shore of a great sea before the Breaking. And suddenly he saw another man, atop a sandy hill.
The fellow was too distant to see clearly, just a tall, darkhaired man, but plainly not a Trolloc or anything of the sort, in a blue coat with a bow on his back, stooping over something on the ground hidden by the low brush. Yet there was something familiar about him.
The wind rose, and Perrin caught his smell faintly. A cold scent, that was the only way to describe it. Cold, and not really human. Suddenly his own bow was in his hand, an arrow nocked, and the weight of a filled quiver tugged at his belt.
The other man looked up, saw Perrin. For a heartbeat he hesitated, then turned and became a streak, slashing away across the hills.
Perrin leaped down to where he had stood, stared at what had occupied the fellow, and without thought pursued, leaving the halfskinned corpse of a wolf behind. A dead wolf in the wolf dream. It was unthinkable. What could kill a wolf here? Something evil.
His prey ran ahead of him in strides that covered miles, never more than barely in sight. Out of the hills and across the tangled Westwood with its wide scattered farms, over cleared farmland, a quilt of hedged fields and small thickets, and past Watch Hill. It was odd to see the thatched village houses covering the hill with no people in the streets, and farmhouses standing as if abandoned. But he kept his eye on the man fleeing ahead of him. He had become so used to this pursuit that he felt no surprise when one leaping stride put him down on the south bank of the River Taren and the next amid barren hills without trees or grass. North and east he ran, over streams and roads and villages and rivers, intent only on the man ahead. The land grew flat and grassy, broken by scattered thickets, without any sign of man. Then something glittered ahead, sparkling in the sun, a tower of metal. His quarry sped straight for it, and vanished. Two leaps brought Perrin there as well.
Two hundred feet the tower rose, and forty thick, gleaming like burnished steel. It might as well have been a solid column of metal. Perrin walked around it twice
without seeing any opening, not so much as a crack, not even a mark on that smooth, sheer wall. The smell hung here, though, that cold, inhuman stink. The trail ended here. The man — if man he was — had gone inside somehow. He only had to find the way to follow.
Stop! It was a raw flow of emotion that Perrin’s mind put a word to. Stop!
He turned as a great gray wolf as tall as his waist, grizzled and scarred, alighted as if he had just leaped down from the sky. He might well have. Hopper had always envied eagles their ability to fly, and here, he could too. Yellow eyes met yellow eyes.
“Why should I stop, Hopper? He killed a wolf.”
Men have killed wolves, and wolves men. Why does anger seize your throat like fire this time?
“I don’t know,” Perrin said slowly. “Maybe because it was here. I didn’t know it was possible to kill a wolf here. I thought wolves were safe in the dream.”
You chase Slayer, Young Bull. He is here in the flesh, and he can kill.
“In the flesh? You mean not just dreaming? How can he be here in the flesh?”
I do not know. It is a thing dimly remembered from long ago, come again as so much else. Things of the Shadow walk the dream, now. Creatures of Heartfang. There is no safety.
“Well, he’s inside, now.” Perrin studied the featureless metal tower. “If I can find how he got in, I can put an end to him.”
Cub foolish, digging in a groundwasps’ nest. This place a evil. All know this.
And you would chase evil into evil. Slayer can kill.
Perrin paused. There was a sense of finality to the emotions his mind attached the word “kill” to. “Hopper, what happens to a wolf who dies in the dream?”
The wolf was silent for a time. If we die here, we die forever, Young Bull. I do not know if the same is true for you, but I believe it is.
“A dangerous place, archer. The Tower of Ghenjei is a bad place for umankind.” Perrin whirled, halfraising his bow before he saw the woman standing a few paces away, her golden hair in a thick braid to her waist, almost the way women wore it in the Two Rivers, but more intricately woven. Her clothes were oddly cut, a short white coat and voluminous trousers of some thin pale yellow material gathered at the ankles above short boots. Her dark cloak seemed to hide something
that glinted silver at her side.
She shifted, and the metallic flicker vanished. “You have sharp eyes, archer. I thought that the first time I saw you.”
How long had she been watching? It was embarrassing that she had sneaked up without him hearing. At the least Hopper should have warned him. The wolf was lying down in the knee high grass, muzzle on his forepaws, watching him.
The woman seemed vaguely familiar, though Perrin was certain he would have remembered her had he ever seen her before. Who was she, to be in the wolf dream? Or was it Moiraine’s Tel’aran’rhiod, too? “Are you Aes Sedai?”
“No, archer.” She laughed. “I only came to warn you, despite the prescripts. Once entered, the Tower of Ghenjei is hard enough to leave in the world of men. Here it is all but impossible. You have a Bannerman’s courage, which some say cannot be told from foolhardiness.”
Impossible to leave? The fellow — Slayer — surely had gone in. Why would he do that if he could not leave? “Hopper said it’s dangerous, too. The Tower of Ghenjei? What is it?”
Her eyes widened, and she glanced at Hopper, who still lay stretched out on the grass ignoring her and watching Perrin. “You can talk to wolves? Now that is a thing long lost in legend. So that is how you are here. I should have known. The tower? It is a doorway, archer, to the realms of the Aelfinn and the Eelfinn.” She said the names as if he should recognize them. When he looked at her blankly, she said, “Did you ever play the game called Snakes and Foxes?”
“All children do. At least, they do in the Two Rivers. But they give it up when they get old enough to realize there’s no way to win.”
“Except to break the rules,” she said. “ ‘Courage to strengthen, fire to blind, music to daze, iron to bind.’ ”
“That’s a line from the game. I don’t understand. What does it have to do with this tower?”
“Those are the ways to win against the snakes and the foxes. The game is a remembrance of old dealings. It does not matter so long as you stay away from the Aelfinn and the Eelfinn. They are not evil the way the Shadow is evil, yet they are so different from humankind they might as well be. They are not to be trusted, archer. Stay clear of the Tower of Ghenjei. Avoid the World of Dreams, if you can. Dark things walk.”
“Like the man I was chasing? Slayer.”
“A good name for him. This Slayer is not old, archer, but his evil is ancient.” She almost appeared to be leaning slightly on something invisible; perhaps that silver thing he had never quite seen. “I seem to be telling you a great deal. I do not understand why I spoke in the first place. Of course. Are you ta’veren, archer?”
“Who are you?” She seemed to know a lot about the tower, and the wolf dream. But she was surprised I could talk to Hopper. “I’ve met you before somewhere, I think.”
“I have broken too many of the prescripts already, archer.”
“Prescripts? What prescripts?” A shadow fell on the ground behind Hopper, and Perrin turned quickly, angry at being caught by surprise again. There was no one there. But he had seen it; the shadow of a man with the hilts of two swords rising above his shoulders. Something about that image teased his memory.
“He is right,” the woman said behind him. “I should not be talking to you.”
When he turned back, she was gone. As far as he could see were only grassland and scattered thickets. And the gleaming, silvery tower.
He frowned at Hopper, who finally lifted his head from his paws. “It’s a wonder
you aren’t attacked by chipmunks,” Perrin muttered. “What did you make of her?” Her? A she? Hopper stood, looking around. Where?
“I was talking to her. Right here. Just now.”
You made noises at the wind, Young Bull. There was no she here. None but you and I.
Perrin scratched his beard irritably. She had been there. He had not been talking to himself. “Strange things can happen here,” he told himself. “She agreed with you, Hopper. She told me to stay away from this tower.”
She is wise. There was an element of doubt in the thought; Hopper still did not believe there had been any “she.”
“I’ve come awfully far afield from what I intended,” Perrin muttered. He explained his need to find wolves in the Two Rivers, or the mountains above, explained about the ravens, and the Trollocs in the Ways.
When he was done, Hopper remained silent for a long time, his bushy tail held low and stiff. Finally… Avoid your old home, Young Bull. The image Perrin’s mind called “home” was of the land marked by a wolfpack. There are no wolves there now. Those who were and did not flee are dead. Slayer walks the dream there.
“I have to go home, Hopper. I have to.”
Take care, Young Bull. The day of the Last Hunt draws near. We will run together in the Last Hunt.
“We will,” Perrin said sadly. It would be nice if he could come here when he died; he was half wolf already, it seemed sometimes. “I have to go now, Hopper.”
May you know good hunting, Young Bull, and shes to give you many cubs. “Goodbye, Hopper.”
He opened his eyes to the dim light of dying coals on the mountainside. Gaul was squatting just beyond the edge of the light, watching the night. In the other camp, Faile was up, taking her turn at guard. The moon hung above the mountains, turning the clouds to pearly shadows. Perrin estimated he had been asleep two hours.
“I’ll keep guard awhile,” he said, tossing off his cloak. Gaul nodded and settled himself on the ground where he was. “Gaul?” The Aiel raised his head. “It may be worse in the Two Rivers than I thought.”
“Things often are,” Gaul replied quietly. “It is the way of life.” The Aielman calmly put his head down for sleep.
Slayer. Who was he? What was he? Shadowspawn at the Waygate, ravens in the Mountains of Mist, and this man called Slayer in the Two Rivers. It could not be coincidence, however much he wished it.
The Shadow Rising
Chapter 29
(Dragon’s Fang) Homecoming
The journey into the Westwood that had taken him perhaps half a dozen strides or so in the wolf dream, out of the mountains and across the Sand Hills, lasted three long days on horses. The Aid had no trouble keeping up afoot, but then the animals themselves could not manage much speed with the land mostly up and down as it was. Perrin’s wounds itched fiercely, healing; Faile’s ointment seemed to be working.
It was a quiet journey by and large, broken more often by the bark of a hunting fox or the echoing cry of a hawk than by anyone speaking. At least they saw no more ravens. More than once he thought Faile was about to bring her mare over close to him, about to say something, but each time she restrained herself. He was glad of it; he wanted to talk to her more than anything, but what if he found himself making up with her? He berated himself for wanting to. She had tricked Loial, tricked him. She was going to make everything worse; make it harder. He wished he could kiss her again. He wished she would decide she had had her fill of him and go. Why did she have to be so stubborn?
She and the two Aiel women kept to themselves, Bain and Chiad striding along on either side of Swallow when one or the other was not ranging ahead. Sometimes the three of them murmured softly among themselves, after which they avoided looking at him so pointedly that they might as well have thrown rocks. Loial rode with them at Perrin’s request, though the situation obviously upset him no end. Loial’s ears twitched as if he wished he had never heard of humans. Gaul seemed to find the entire thing vastly amusing; whenever Perrin looked at him, he wore an inward grin.
For himself, Perrin traveled wrapped in worry, and kept his strung bow across the tall pommel of his saddle. Did this man called Slayer rove the Two Rivers only in the wolf dream, or was he in the waking world, too? Perrin suspected the latter, and that Slayer was the one who had shot the hawk for no reason. It was another complication he could do without, on top of the Children of the Light.
His family lived on a sprawling farm more than half a day beyond Emond’s Field, almost to the Waterwood. His father and mother, his sisters, his baby brother. Paetram would be nine now, no doubt objecting more strenuously than ever to being called the baby, Deselle a plump twelve, and Adora sixteen, probably ready to braid her hair. Uncle Eward, his da’s brother, and Aunt Magde, stout and looking nearly alike, and their children. Aunt Neain, who visited Uncle Carlin’s grave every morning, and their children, and Great Aunt Ealsin, who had never married, with her sharp nose and sharper eye for discovering what everyone for miles around was up to. Once apprenticed to Master Luhhan, he had seen them only on feastdays; the distance was too great for casual travel, and there had always been work to do. If
the Whitecloaks hunted for Aybaras, they were easy to find. They were his responsibility, not this Slayer. He could only do so much. Protect his family, and Faile. That was first. Then came the village, and the wolves, and this Slayer last. One man could not manage everything.
The Westwood grew on stony soil broken by bramble covered outcrops, a hard, thickly treed land with few farms or paths. He had wandered these heavy woods as a boy, alone or with Rand and Mat, hunting with bow or sling, setting snares for rabbits or simply roaming for the sake of roaming. Bushytailed squirrels chittering in the trees, speckled thrushes warbling on branches imitated by blackwinged mockers, bluebacked quail bursting up out of the brush in front of the travelers — all spoke to him of home. The very smell of the dirt the horses’ hooves turned was a recognition.
He could have headed straight for Emond’s Field, but instead he angled more northward through the forest, finally crossing the wide, rough track called the Quarry Road as the sun slanted down toward the treetops. Why “quarry” no one in the Two Rivers knew, and it scarcely looked a road at all, only a weedy stretch that you did not even notice was bare of trees until you saw the overgrown ruts from generations of wagons and carts. Sometimes shards of old pavement worked their way to the surface. Perhaps it had led to a quarry for Manetheren.
The farm Perrin sought lay not far from the road, beyond rows of apple and pear trees where fruit was setting. He smelled the farm before he saw it. The smell of char; not new, yet a full year would not soften that smell.
He reined in at the edge of the trees and sat staring before he made himself ride into what had been the al’Thor farm, the packhorse trailing behind his dun. Only the stone walled sheep pen still stood, railed gate open and hanging by one hinge. The sootblackened chimney cast a slanting shadow across the tumbled burned beams of the farmhouse. The barn and the tabaccuring shed were only ashes. Weeds choked the tabac field and the vegetable garden, and the garden had a trampled look; most of what was not sawleaf or feathertop lay broken and brown.
He did not even think of nocking an arrow. The fire was weeks old, the burned wood slicked and dulled by past rains. Chokevine needed nearly a month to grow that tall. It had even enveloped the plow and harrow lying beside the field; rust showed under the pale, narrow leaves.
The Aiel searched carefully, though, spears ready and eyes wary, quartering the ground and poking through the ashes. When Bain clambered out of the ruins of the house, she looked at Perrin and shook her head. At least Tam al’Thor had not died in there.
They know. They know, Rand. You should have come. It was very nearly more than he could do to stop from putting Stepper to a gallop, keeping him there all the way to his family’s farm. Trying to, at least; even Stepper would fall dead before he ran that far. Maybe this was Trolloc work. If it was Trollocs, maybe his family was still working their farm, still safe. He drew a deep breath, but the char obliterated
any other smell.
Gaul stopped beside him. “Whoever did this is long gone. They killed some of the sheep and scattered the rest. Someone came later to gather the flock and drive it off north. Two men, I think, but the tracks are too old to be sure.”
“Is there any clue to who did it?” Gaul shook his head. It could have been Trollocs. Strange, to wish for a thing like that. And foolish. The Whitecloaks knew his name, and they knew Rand’s as well, it seemed. They know my name. He looked at the ashes of the al’Thor farmhouse, and Stepper moved as the reins trembled in his hands.
Loial had dismounted at the edge of the fruit trees, but his head was still in the branches. Faile rode toward Perrin, studying his face, her mare stepping delicately. “Is this… ? Do you know the people who lived here?”
“Rand and his father.”
“Oh. I thought it might be…” The relief and sympathy in her voice were enough to finish the sentence. “Does your family live near?”
“No,” he said curtly, and she recoiled as if slapped. But she still watched him, waiting. What did he have to do to drive her away? More than he could bring himself to, if he had not managed it already.
The shadows were growing longer, the sun sitting on the treetops. He reined Stepper around, rudely turning his back on her. “Gaul, we will have to camp close by tonight. I want to start early in the morning.” He sneaked a glance over his shoulder; Faile was riding back to Loial, sitting stiff in her saddle. “In Emond’s Field, they will know…” Where the Whitecloaks were, so he could turn himself in before they hurt his family. If his family was all right. If the farm where he had been born was not already like this. No. He had to be in time to stop that. “They’ll know how things are.”
“Early, then.” Gaul hesitated. “You will not drive her off. That one is almost Far Dareis Mai, and if a Maiden loves you, you cannot escape her however hard you run.”
“You let me worry about Faile.” He softened his voice; it was not Gaul he wanted to be rid of. “Very early. While Faile is still asleep.”
Both camps, beneath the apple trees, were quiet that night. Several times one or the other of the Aid women stood, staring toward the small fire where he and Gaul sat, but an owl hooting and the horses stamping were the only sounds. Perrin could not sleep, and it was still an hour short of first light, with the full moon setting, when he and Gaul slipped away, the Aiel silent in his soft boots and the horses’ hooves making little more noise. Bain, or maybe Chiad, watched them go. He could not tell which, but she did not wake Faile, and he was grateful.
The sun had climbed well up by the time they came out of the Westwood a little below the village, amid cart tracks and paths, most bordered by hedges or low rough stone walls. Smoke made feathery gray plumes above farmhouse chimneys, goodwives doing the morning’s baking, by the smell. Men dotted the fields of tabac
or barley, and boys watched flocks of blackfaced sheep in the pastures. Some people took note of their passing, but Perrin kept Stepper at a fast walk and hoped none were close enough to recognize him or wonder at the strangeness of Gaul’s clothes, or his spears.
People would be out and about in Emond’s Field, too, so he circled around to the east, wide of the village, wide of the hard packed dirt streets and thatched roofs clustered around the Green, where the Winespring itself gushed from a stone outcrop with enough force to knock a man down and gave birth to the Winespring Water. The damage he remembered from Winternight a year gone, the burned houses and charred roofs, were all rebuilt and repaired. The Trollocs might as well never have come back then. He prayed no one would have to live through that again. The Winespring Inn stood practically at the eastern end of Emond’s Field, between the stout wooden Wagon Bridge across the rushing Winespring Water and a huge old stone foundation with a great oak growing up through the middle of it. Tables beneath the thick branches were where folk sat of a fine afternoon and watched the play at bowls. At this hour of the morning, the tables were empty, of course. There were only a few houses farther east. The inn itself was river rock on the first floor, with a whitewashed second story jutting out all the way around and a dozen chimneys rising above a glittering red tile roof, the only tile roof for miles.
Tying Stepper and the packhorse to a hitchpost near the kitchen door, Perrin glanced at the thatch roofed stable. He could hear men working in there, probably Hu and Tad, mucking out the stalls where Master al’Vere kept the big Dhurran team he rented out for heavy hauling. There were sounds from the other side of the inn, too, the murmur of voices on the Green, geese honking, the rumble of a wagon. What was on the horses, he left; this would be a short stop. He motioned for Gaul to follow and hurried inside, carrying his bow, before either stableman could come out.
The kitchen was empty, both iron stoves and all but one fireplace cold, though the smell of baking still hung in the air. Bread and honeycakes. The inn seldom had guests except when merchants came down from Baerlon to buy wool or tabac, or a monthly peddler when snow had not made the road impassable, and the village folk who might come for a drink or a meal later in the day would all be hard at work at their own homes now. Someone might be there, though, so Perrin tiptoed along the short hallway leading from the kitchen to the common room and cracked the door to peek inside.
He had seen that square room a thousand times, with its fireplace of river stones stretching half the room’s length, the lintel as high as a man’s shoulder, Master al’Vere’s polished tabac canister and prized clock sitting on the mantel. It all seemed smaller than it had, somehow. The tallbacked chairs in front of the fireplace were where the Village Council met. Brandelwyn al’Vere’s books sat on a shelf opposite the fireplace — once, Perrin had been unable to imagine more books in one place than those few dozen mostly worn volumes — and casks of ale and wine lined
another wall. Scratch, the inn’s yellow cat, sprawled asleep as usual atop one.
Except for Bran al’Vere himself and his wife, Marin, in long white aprons, polishing the inn’s silver and pewter at one of the tables, the common room stood empty. Master al’Vere was a wide, round man, with a sparse fringe of gray hair; Mistress al’Vere was slender and motherly, her thick, graying braid pulled over one shoulder. She smelled of baking, and under that of roses. Perrin remembered them as smiling people, but both looked intent now, and the Mayor wore a frown that surely had nothing to do with the silver cup in his hands.
“Master al’Vere?” He pushed open the door and went in. “Mistress al’Vere. It’s Perrin.”
They sprang to their feet, knocking their chairs over and making Scratch jump. Mistress al’Vere clapped her hands to her mouth; she and her husband gaped as much at him as they did at Gaul. It was enough to make Perrin shift his bow awkwardly from hand to hand. Especially when Bran hurried to one of the front windows — he moved with surprising lightness for a man of his bulk — and twitched the summer curtains aside to peer out, as though for more Aiel outside.
“Perrin?” Mistress al’Vere murmured disbelievingly. “It is you. I almost didn’t know you, with that beard, and — Your cheek. Were you—? Is Egwene with you?”
Perrin touched the halfhealed slash across his cheek selfconsciously, wishing he had cleaned up, or at least left the bow and axe in the kitchen. He had not considered how his appearance might frighten them. “No. This has nothing to do with her. She is safe.” Safer on her way back to Tar Valon, perhaps, than if still in Tear with Rand, but safe in either case. He supposed he had to give Egwene’s mother something more than that bald statement. “Mistress al’Vere, Egwene is studying to be Aes Sedai. Nynaeve, too.”
“I know,” she said quietly, touching the pocket on her apron. “I have three letters from her in Tar Valon. From what she writes she sent more, and Nynaeve at least one, but only three of Egwene’s have reached us. She tells something of her training, which I must say sounds very hard.”
“It is what she wants.” Three letters? Guilt made him shrug uncomfortably. He had not written a letter to anyone, not since the notes he had left for his family and Master Luhhan the night Moiraine took him away from Emond’s Field. Not one.
“So it seems, though not what I had envisioned for her. It isn’t something I can tell many people about, now is it? She says she’s made friends, anyway, nice girls by the sound of them. Elayne, and Min. Do you know them?”
“We have met. I think you could call them nice girls.” How much had Egwene told in those letters? Not much, evidently. Let Mistress al’Vere think what she would; he had no intention of worrying her over things she could do nothing about. What was past, was past. Egwene was safe enough now.
Abruptly realizing that Gaul was just standing there, he made hasty introductions. Bran blinked when Gaul was named Aiel, and frowned at his spears and the black veil hanging down his chest from his shoufa, but his wife merely said,
“Be welcome to Emond’s Field, Master Gaul, and to the Winespring Inn.”
“May you always have water and shade, roofmistress,” Gaul said formally, bowing to her. “I ask leave to defend your roof and hold.”
She barely hesitated before replying as if that were exactly what she was used to hearing. “A gracious offer. But you must allow me to decide when it is needed.”
“As you say, roofmistress. Your honor is mine.” From under his coat, Gaul produced a gold saltcellar, a small bowl balanced on the back of a cunningly made lion, and extended it to her. “I offer this small guest gift to your roof.”
Marin al’Vere made over it as she would have any gift, hardly showing her shock. Perrin doubted there was a piece to equal it in the whole Two Rivers, certainly not in gold. There was little enough gold coin in the Two Rivers, much less gold ornaments. He hoped she never found out it had been looted from the Stone of Tear; at least he would have wagered that it had.
“My boy,” Bran said, “perhaps I should be saying ‘welcome home,’ but why did you return?”
“I heard about the Whitecloaks, sir,” Perrin replied simply.
The Mayor and his wife shared somber looks, and Bran said, “Again, why did you return? You cannot stop anything, my boy, or change anything. Best that you go. If you don’t have a horse, I will give you one. If you do, climb back in your saddle and ride north. I thought the Whitecloaks were guarding Taren Ferry… Did they give you that decoration on your face?”
“No. It —”
“Then it doesn’t matter. If you got past them coming in, you can get past to leave. Their main camp is up at Watch Hill, but their patrols can be anywhere. Do it, my boy. ”
“Don’t wait, Perrin,” Mistress al’Vere added quietly but firmly, in that voice that usually ended with people doing as she said. “Not even an hour. I’ll make you a bundle to take with you. Some fresh bread and cheese, some ham and roast beef, pickles. You must go, Perrin.”
“I cannot. You know they are after me, or you’d not want me to go.” And they had not commented on his eyes, even to ask if he was ill. Mistress al’Vere had barely been surprised. They knew. “If I give myself up, I can stop some of it. I can keep my family —” He jumped as the hall door banged open to admit Faile, followed by Bain and Chiad.
Master al’Vere ran a hand over his bald head; even taking in the Aiel women’s garb and obviously identifying them with Gaul, he only seemed a little bemused that they were women. Mainly he looked irritated at the intrusion. Scratch sat up to stare suspiciously at all these strangers. Perrin wondered whether the cat considered him one, as well. He wondered how they had found him, too, and where Loial was. Anything to avoid wondering how he was going to manage Faile now.
She gave him little time to ponder, planting herself in front of him with fists on hips. Somehow she managed that trick women had, making herself seem taller
through pure quivering outrage. “Give yourself up? Give yourself up! Have you been planning this from the start? You have, haven’t you? You utter idiot! Your brain has frozen solid, Perrin Aybara. It was nothing but muscle and hair to begin, but now it isn’t even that. If Whitecloaks are hunting you, they will hang you if you surrender to them. Why should they want you?”
“Because I killed Whitecloaks.” Looking down at her, he ignored Mistress al’Vere’s gasp. “Those the night I met you, and two before that. They know about those two, Faile, and they think I’m a Darkfriend.” She would learn that much soon enough. Brought to the point of it, he might have told her why, had they been alone. At least two Whitecloaks, Geofram Bornhald and Jaret Byar, suspected something of his connection with wolves. Not nearly all, but for them the little was enough. A man who ran with wolves had to be a Darkfriend. Maybe one or both was with the Whitecloaks here. “They believe it for true.”
“You are no more a Darkfriend than I,” she whispered harshly. “The sun could be a Darkfriend first.”
“It makes no difference, Faile. I have to do what I have to do.”
“You addlebrained lummox! You don’t have to do any such crackpate thing!
You goosebrain! If you try it, I’ll hang you myself!”
“Perrin,” Mistress al’Vere said quietly, “would you introduce me to this young woman who thinks so highly of you?”
Faile’s face went bright red when she realized she had been ignoring Master and Mistress al’Vere, and she began making elaborate curtsies and offered flowery apologies. Bain and Chiad did as Gaul had, asking leave to defend Mistress al’Vere’s roof and giving her a small golden bowl worked in leaves and an ornate silver pepper mill bigger than Perrin’s two fists, topped by some fanciful creature half horse, half fish.
Bran al’Vere stared and frowned, rubbed his head and muttered to himself. Perrin caught the word “Aiel” more than once in an incredulous tone. The Mayor kept glancing at the windows, too. Not wondering about more Aiel; he had been surprised to learn Gaul was Aiel. Maybe he was worried about Whitecloaks.
Marin al’Vere, on the other hand, took it all in stride, treating Faile and Bain and Chiad the same as any other young women travelers who came to the inn, commiserating with them over how tiring travel was, complimenting Faile on her riding dress — dark blue silk, today — and telling the Aiel women how she admired the color and sheen of their hair. Perrin suspected that Bain and Chiad, at least, did not know quite what to make of her, but in short order, with a sort of calm motherly firmness, she had all three women settled at a table with damp towels to wipe journey dust from hands and faces, sipping tea she poured from a large redstriped pot he remembered well.
It might have been amusing seeing those fierce women — he certainly included Faile — suddenly eager to assure Mistress al’Vere that they were more than comfortable, was there nothing they could do to help, she was doing too much, all
of them wide eyed as children, with a child’s chance of resisting her. It would have been amusing if she had not included himself and Gaul, sweeping them just as firmly to the table, insisting on clean hands and clean faces before they got a cup of tea. Gaul wore a small grin the whole time; Aiel had a strange sense of humor.
Surprisingly, she never glanced at his bow or axe, or the Aiel’s weapons. People seldom carried even a bow in the Two Rivers, and she always insisted such be set aside before anyone took a place at one of her tables. Always. But she just ignored them now.
Another surprise came when Bran placed a silver cup of apple brandy at Perrin’s elbow, not the small tot that men usually drank at the inn, barely enough to cover the last joint of the thumb, but halffull. When he had left he would have been offered cider if not milk, or perhaps wellwatered wine, a halfcup with a meal or a full one on a feastday. It was gratifying to be recognized as a grown man, but he only held it. He was used to wine now, but he seldom drank anything stronger.
“Perrin,” the Mayor said as he took a chair beside his wife, “no one believes you a Darkfriend. No one with any sense. There is no reason for you to let yourself be hanged.”
Faile nodded in fierce agreement, but Perrin ignored her. “I won’t be turned aside, Master al’Vere. The Whitecloaks want me, and if they do not get me, they might turn to the next Aybara they can find. Whitecloaks don’t need much to decide somebody is guilty. They are not pleasant people.”
“We know,” Mistress al’Vere said softly.
Her husband stared at his hands on the table. “Perrin, your family is gone.” “Gone? You mean the farm is burned already?” Perrin’s fist tightened around the
silver cup. “I hoped I was in time. I should have known better, I suppose. Too long before I heard. Maybe I can help my da and Uncle Eward rebuild. Who are they staying with? I want to see them first, at least.”
Bran grimaced, and his wife stroked his shoulder comfortingly. But strangely her eyes stayed on Perrin, all sadness and comfort.
“They are dead, my boy,” Bran said in a rush.
“Dead? No. They can’t be —” Perrin frowned as wetness suddenly slopped over his hand, stared at the crumpled cup as though wondering where it had come from. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to —” He pulled at the flattened silver, trying to force it back out with his fingers. That would not work. Of course not. Very carefully, he put the ruined cup in the middle of the table. “I will replace it. I can —” He wiped his hand on his coat, and suddenly found he was caressing the axe hanging at his belt. Why was everyone looking at him so oddly? “Are you sure?” His voice sounded far away. “Adora and Deselle? Paet? My mother?”
“All of them,” Bran told him. “Your aunts and uncles, too, and your cousins. Everybody on the farm. I helped bury them, my boy. On that low hill, the one with the apple trees.”
Perrin stuck his thumb in his mouth. Fool thing to do, cutting himself on his
own axe. “My mother likes apple blossoms. The Whitecloaks. Why would they —? Burn me, Paet was only nine. The girls…” His voice was very flat. He thought he should have had some emotion in those words. Some emotion.
“It was Trollocs,” Mistress al’Vere said quickly. “They have come back, Perrin. Not the way they did when you went away, not attacking the village, but out in the countryside. Most farms without close neighbors have been abandoned. No one goes outside at night, even near to the village. It is the same down to Deven Ride and up to Watch Hill, maybe to Taren Ferry. The Whitecloaks, bad as they are, are our only real protection. They’ve saved two families that I know, when Trollocs attacked their farms.”
“I wished — I hoped —” He could not quite remember what it was he had wished. Something about Trollocs. He did not want to remember. The Whitecloaks protecting the Two Rivers? It was almost enough to make him laugh. “Rand’s father. Tam’s farm. Was that Trollocs, too?”
Mistress al’Vere opened her mouth, but Bran cut her off. “He deserves the truth, Marin. That was Whitecloaks, Perrin. That, and the Cauthon place.”
“Mat’s people too. Rand’s, and Mat’s, and mine.” Strange. He sounded as if he were talking about whether it might rain. “Are they dead, too?”
“No, my boy. No, Abell and Tam are hiding in the Westwood somewhere. And Mat’s mother and sisters… They’re alive, too.”
“Hiding?”
“There is no need to go into that,” Mistress al’Vere said briskly. “Bran, bring him another cup of brandy. And you drink this one, Perrin.” Her husband sat where he was, but she only frowned at him and went on. “I would offer you a bed, but it isn’t safe. Some people are like as not to run off hunting for Lord Bornhald if they find out you are here. Eward Congar and Hari Coplin fawn after the Whitecloaks like heelhounds, eager to please and name names, and Cenn Buie isn’t much better. And Wit Congar will carry tales, too, if Daise doesn’t stop him. She is the Wisdom, now. Perrin, it is best for to go. Believe me.”
Perrin shook his head slowly; it was too much to take in. Daise Congar the Wisdom? The woman was like a bull. Whitecloaks protecting Emond’s Field. Hari and Eward and Wit cooperating. Not much more could be expected from Congars or Coplins, but Cenn Buie was on the Village Council. Lord Bornhald. So Geofram Bornhald was there. Faile was watching him, her eyes large and moist. Why should she be on the edge of tears?
“There is more, Brandelwyn al’Vere,” Gaul said. “Your face says so.”
“There is,” Bran agreed. “No, Marin,” he added firmly when she gave a small shake of her head. “He deserves the truth. The whole truth.” She folded her hands with a sigh; Marin al’Vere very nearly always got her way — except when Bran’s face was set, as now, with his eyebrows drawn down hard as a plow.
“What truth?” Perrin asked. His mother liked apple blossoms.
“First off, Padan Fain is with the Whitecloaks,” Bran said. “He calls himself
Ordeith now, and he won’t answer to his own name at all, but it’s him, stare down his nose as he will.”
“He’s a Darkfriend,” Perrin said absently. Adora and Deselle always put apple blossoms in their hair in the spring. “Admitted from his own mouth. He brought the Trollocs, on Winternight.” Paet liked to climb in the apple trees; he would throw apples at you from the branches if you did not watch him.
“Is he, now,” the Mayor said grimly. “Now, that is interesting. He has some authority with the Whitecloaks. The first we heard they were here was after they burned Tam’s farm. That was Fain’s work; he led the Whitecloaks that did it. Tam feathered four or five of them with arrows before he made it to the woods, and he reached the Cauthon farm in the nick to stop them taking Abell. But they arrested Natti and the girls. And Haral Luhhan, and Alsbet, too. I think Fain might have hung them, except Lord Bornhald wouldn’t allow it. Not that he let them go, either. They haven’t been harmed, as far as I can discover, but they’re being held in the Whitecloak camp up at Watch Hill. For some reason, Fain has a hate for you, and Rand, and Mat. He’s offered a hundred pieces of gold for anyone related to the three of you; two hundred for Tam or Abell. And Lord Bornhald seems to have some interest in you, especially. When a Whitecloak patrol comes here, he usually comes, too, and asks questions about you.”
“Yes,” Perrin said. “Of course. He would.” Perrin of the Two Rivers, who ran with wolves. Darkfriend. Fain could have told them the rest. Fain, with the Children of the Light? It was a distant thought. Better than thinking about Trollocs, though. He grimaced at his hands, made them be still on the table. “They protect you from the Trollocs.”
Marin al’Vere leaned toward him, frowning. “Perrin, we need the Whitecloaks. Yes, they burned Tam’s farm, and Abell’s, they’ve arrested people, and they stamp around as if they own everything they see, but Alsbet and Natti and the rest are unharmed, only held, and that can be straightened out somehow. The Dragon’s Fang has been scrawled on a few doors, but nobody except the Congars and Coplins pay any mind, and they’re likely the ones who did the scrawling. Tam and Abell can stay in hiding until the Whitecloaks go. They have to go sooner or later. But as long as there are Trollocs here, we do need them. Please understand. It isn’t that we would not rather have you than them, but we need them and we don’t want them to hang you.”
“You call this being protected, roofmistress?” Bain said. “If you ask the lion to protect you from wolves, you have only chosen to end in one belly instead of another.”
“Can you not protect yourselves?” Chiad added. “I have seen Perrin fight, and Mat Cauthon, and Rand al’Thor. They are the same blood as you.”
Bran sighed heavily. “We are farmers, simple people. Lord Luc talks of organizing men to fight the Trollocs, but that means leaving your family unprotected while you go off with him, and no one much likes that idea.”
Perrin was confused. Who was Lord Luc? He asked as much, and Mistress al’Vere answered.
“He came about the time the Whitecloaks did. He’s a Hunter of the Horn. You know the story, The Great Hunt of the Horn? Lord Luc thinks the Horn of Valere is somewhere in the Mountains of Mist above the Two Rivers. But he gave over his hunt because of our problems. Lord Luc is a great gentleman, with the finest manners.” Smoothing her hair, she gave an approving smile; Bran looked at her sideways and grunted sourly.
Hunters of the Horn. Trollocs. Whitecloaks. The Two Rivers hardly seemed the same place he had left. “Faile is a Hunter of the Horn, too. Do you know this Lord Luc, Faile?”
“I have had enough,” she announced. Perrin frowned as she stood and came around the table to him. Seizing his head, she pulled his face into her midriff. “Your mother is dead,” she said quietly. “Your father is dead. Your sisters are dead, and your brother. Your family is dead, and you cannot change it. Certainly not by dying yourself. Let yourself grieve. Don’t hold it inside where it can fester.”
He took her by the arms, meaning to move her, but for some reason his hands tightened till that grip was the only thing holding him up. It was only then that he realized he was crying, sobbing into her dress like a baby. What must she think of him? He opened his mouth to tell her he was all right, to apologize for breaking down, but what came out was, “I couldn’t get here any faster. I couldn’t — I —” He gritted his teeth to shut himself off.
“I know,” she murmured, stroking his hair for all the world as if he were a child. “I know.”
He wanted to stop, but the more she whispered understanding, the more he wept, as though her hands soft on his head were smoothing the tears out of him.
The Shadow Rising
Chapter 30
(Flame of Tar Valon) Beyond the Oak
With Faile holding his head beneath her breasts, Perrin lost track of how long he cried. Images of his family flashed in his thoughts, his father smiling as he showed him how to hold a bow, his mother singing while she spun wool, Adora and Deselle teasing him when he shaved the first time, Paet wideeyed at a gleeman during Sunday long ago. Pictures of graves, cold and lonely in a row. He wept until there were no more tears in him. When he finally pulled back, the two of them were alone except for Scratch, washing himself atop the ale barrel. He was glad the others had not remained to watch him. Faile was bad enough. In a way he was glad she had stayed; he only wished she had not seen or heard.
Taking his hands in hers, Faile sat in the next chair. She was so beautiful, with her slightly tilted eyes, large and dark, and her high cheekbones. He did not know how he was going to be able to make up to her for the way he had treated her these last few days. No doubt she would find a means to make him pay for it.
“Have you given up the notion of surrendering to the Whitecloaks?” she asked.
There was no hint in her voice that she had just watched him cry like a baby.
“It seems it wouldn’t do any good. They’ll be after Rand’s father, and Mat’s, whatever I do. My family…” He quickly loosened his grip on her hands, but she smiled instead of wincing. “I have to get Master Luhhan and his wife free, if I can. And Mat’s mother and sisters; I promised him I would look after them. And do what I can about the Trollocs.” Maybe this Lord Luc had some ideas. At least the Waygate was blocked; no more would come through the Ways. He especially wanted to do something about the Trollocs. “I can’t manage any of that if I let them hang me.”
“I am very glad you see that,” she told him dryly. “Any more fool notions about sending me away?”
“No.” He braced himself for the storm, but she simply nodded as if the one word were what she expected and all she wanted. A small thing, nothing worth arguing over. She was going to make him pay large.
“We are five, Perrin, six if Loial is willing. And if we can find Tam al’Thor and Abell Cauthon… Are they as good with a bow as you?”
“Better,” he said truthfully. “Much better.”
She gave him a slight, disbelieving nod. “That will make eight. A beginning. Maybe others will join us. And then there’s Lord Luc. He will probably want to take charge, but if he’s not a crackbrain, it won’t matter. Not everyone who took the Hunter’s Oath is sensible, though. I’ve met some who think they know everything, and are stubborn as mules besides.”
“I know.” She looked at him sharply, and he managed to keep the smile off his face. “That you’ve met some like that, I mean. I saw a pair of them once,
remember.”
“Oh, them. Well, we can hope Lord Luc is not a boasting liar.” Her eyes became intent, and her grip tightened on his hands, not uncomfortably, but as though she was trying to add her strength to his. “You will want to visit your family’s farm, your home. I will come with you, if you will let me.”
“When I can, Faile.” Not now, though. Not yet. If he looked at those graves below the apple trees now… It was strange. He had always taken his own strength for granted, and now it turned out that he was not strong at all. Well, he was done with weeping like a babe. It was past time to be doing something. “First things first. Finding Tam and Abell, I suppose.”
Master al’Vere put his head into the common room, and came the rest of the way when he saw them sitting apart. “There is an Ogier in the kitchen,” he told Perrin with a bemused look. “An Ogier. Drinking tea. The biggest cup looks…” He held two fingers as though gripping a thimble. “Maybe Marin could pretend Aiel walk in here every day, but she nearly fainted when she saw this Loial. I gave her a double tot of brandy, and she tossed it down like water. Nearly coughed herself to death; she doesn’t take more than wine, usually. I think she’d have drunk another, if I’d given it to her.” He pursed his lips and affected an interest in a nonexistent spot on his long white apron. “Are you all right now, my boy?”
“I’m fine, sir,” Perrin said hastily. “Master al’Vere, we cannot remain here much longer. Someone might tell the Whitecloaks you sheltered me.”
“Oh, there are not many would do that. Not all the Coplins, and not some of the Congars, even.” But he did not suggest they stay.
“Do you know where I can find Master al’Thor and Master Cauthon?”
“In the Westwood somewhere, usually,” Bran said slowly. “That’s all I know for sure. They move about.” Locking his fingers over his broad belly, he tilted his gray fringed head to one side. “You aren’t leaving are you? Well. I told Marin you would not, but she doesn’t believe me. She thinks it best for you to go away — best for you
— and like most women she’s sure you will see things her way if she talks long enough.”
“Why, Master al’Vere,” Faile said sweetly, “I for one have always found men to be sensible creatures who only need to be shown the wisest path once to choose it.”
The Mayor favored her with an amused smile. “You will be talking Perrin into going then, I take it? Marin’s right; that is wisest, if he wants to avoid a noose. The only reason to stay is that sometimes a man can’t run. No? Well, no doubt you know best.” He ignored her sour look. “Come along, my boy. Let’s tell Marin the good news. Set your teeth and hold on to your intentions, because she won’t give up trying to shift you.”
In the kitchen, Loial and the Aiel were crosslegged on the floor. There was certainly no chair in the inn big enough for the Ogier. He sat with an arm resting on the kitchen table, tall enough sitting to look Marin al’Vere in the eye. Bran had exaggerated the smallness of the cup in Loial’s hands, though on second glance
Perrin saw it was a whiteglazed soup bowl.
Mistress al’Vere was still doing her best to pretend Aiel and Ogier were normal, bustling about with a tray of bread and cheese and pickles, making sure everyone ate, but her eyes did widen each time they landed on Loial, though he tried to put her at ease with compliments for her baking. His tufted ears twitched nervously whenever she looked at him, and she gave a little jump every time they did, then shook her head, the thick graying braid swaying vigorously. Given a few hours, they might send each other to bed with the shakes.
Loial heaved a deep bass sigh of relief at the sight of Perrin and set his cup — bowl — of tea on the table, but the next instant his broad face sagged sadly. “I am sorry to hear your loss, Perrin. I share your grief. Mistress al’Vere…” His ears twitched wildly even without looking at her, and she gave another start. “…has been telling me you will go, now there’s nothing to keep you here. If you wish it, I will sing to the apple trees before we leave.”
Bran and Marin exchanged startled looks, and the Mayor actually reamed at his ear with a finger.
“Thank you, Loial. I will appreciate that, when there’s time. But I have work to do before I can go.” Mistress al’Vere set the tray on the table with a sharp click and stared at him, but he kept on, laying out his plans, such as they were: Find Tam and Abell, and rescue the people the Whitecloaks held. He did not mention Trollocs, though he had vague plans there, too. Perhaps not so vague. He did not mean to leave while there was a Trolloc or Myrddraal alive in the Two Rivers. He fastened his thumbs behind his belt to keep from caressing his axe. “It won’t be easy,” he finished. “I will appreciate your company, but I will understand if you want to go. This isn’t your fight, and you have seen enough trouble through staying close to Emond’s Field folk. And you won’t write much of
your book here.”
“Here or there, it is the same fight, I think,” Loial replied. “The book can wait.
Perhaps I will have a chapter about you.”
“I said I would come with you,” Gaul put in without being asked. “I did not mean until the journey grew hard. I owe you blood debt.”
Bain and Chiad looked questioningly at Faile, and when she nodded, added their decisions to remain, too.
“Stubborn foolish,” Mistress al’Vere said, “the lot of you. Very likely you will all end up on gallows, if you live that long. You know that, don’t you?” When they only looked at her, she untied her apron and lifted it over her head. “Well, if you are foolish enough to stay, I suppose I had better show you where to hide.”
Her husband looked surprised at her sudden surrender, but he recovered quickly. “I thought perhaps the old sickhouse, Marin. No one ever goes there now, and I think it still has most of its roof.”
What was still called the new sickhouse, where people were taken to be tended if their illness was contagious, had stood east of the village, beyond Master Thane’s
mill, since Perrin was a small boy. The old one, in the Westwood, had been all but destroyed in a fierce windstorm back then. Perrin remembered it as halfcovered by vines and briars, with birds roosting in what was left of the thatch and a badger’s den under the back steps. It would be a good place to hide.
Mistress al’Vere gave Bran a sharp look, as though startled he had thought of it. “That will do, I suppose. For tonight, at least. That is where I will take them.”
“No need for you to do it, Marin. I can lead them easy enough, if Perrin doesn’t remember the way.”
“Sometimes you forget you’re the Mayor, Bran. You attract eyes; people wonder where you’re going and what you are up to. Why don’t you stay here, and if anyone drops by, see they go away thinking everything is just as it should be. There’s mutton stew in the kettle, and lentil soup that just needs heating. Now don’t mention the sickhouse to anyone, Bran. Best if no one even remembers it exists.”
“I am not a fool, Marin,” he said stiffly.
“I know you aren’t, dear.” She patted her husband’s cheek, but her fond look tightened as it shifted from Bran to the rest of them. “You do cause trouble,” she muttered before handing out instructions.
They were to travel in smaller parties so as not to attract attention. She would cross the village by herself and meet them in the woods on the other side. The Aiel assured her they could find the lightningsplit oak she described, and slipped out by the back door. Perrin knew it, a huge tree, a mile beyond the edge of the village, that looked as if it had been cleft down the middle by an axe yet somehow continued to live and even flourish. He was sure he could go straight to the sickhouse itself with no trouble, but Mistress al’Vere insisted everyone meet at the oak.
“You go wandering about by yourself, Perrin, and the Light knows what you might stumble into.” She looked up at Loial — standing now, his shaggy hair brushing the ceiling beams and sighed. “I do wish there was something we could do about your height, Master Loial. I know it is hot, but would you mind wearing your cloak, with the hood up? Even these days most people will soon convince themselves they didn’t see what they saw if it isn’t what they expect, but if they catch a glimpse of your face… Not that you aren’t quite handsome, I’m sure, but you’ll never pass for Two Rivers folk.”
Loial’s smile split his face in two beneath his wide snout of a nose. “The day doesn’t seem too warm for a cloak at all, Mistress al’Vere.”
Fetching a light, knit shawl with blue fringe, she accompanied Perrin, Faile and Loial out to the stableyard to see them off, and for a moment it appeared all their efforts at secrecy were doomed. Cenn Buie, looking made from gnarled old roots, was examining the horses with beady eyes. Especially Loial’s tall horse, as big as one of Bran’s Dhurrans. Cenn scratched his head, staring at the great saddle on the big horse.
Those eyes widened when they caught sight of Loial, and Cenn’s jaw flapped.
“Tr—Tr—Trolloc!” he managed to get out at last.
“Don’t be an old fool, Cenn Buie,” Marin said firmly, stepping off to one side to pull the thatcher’s attention with her. Perrin kept his head down, studying his bow, and did not move. “Would I be standing on my own back doorstep with a Trolloc?” She gave a contemptuous sniff. “Master Loial is an Ogier, as you would know if you weren’t a cantankerous goose who would rather complain than look at what’s under his nose. Passing through, and with no time to be bothered by the likes of you. You be on about your business and leave our guests some peace. You know very well that Corin Ayellin has been after you for months about the poor work you did on her roof.”
Cenn mouthed the word “Ogier,” silent and blinking. For a moment it seemed he might rouse himself in defense of his handiwork, but then his gaze shifted to Perrin and narrowed. “Him! It’s him! They’re after you, you young whelp, rapscallion, running off with Aes Sedai and becoming a Darkfriend. That was when we had Trollocs before. Now you’re back, and so are they. You going to tell me that’s coincidence? What’s wrong with your eyes? You sick? You have some kind of sickness from off you’ve brought back to kill us all, as if Trollocs are not enough? The Children of the Light will settle you. See if they don’t.”
Perrin sensed Faile tensing, and hastily put a hand on her arm when he realized she was drawing a knife. What did she think she was doing? Cenn was an irascible old fool, but that was no reason for knives. She gave an exasperated toss of her head, but at least she left it at that.
“That is enough, Cenn,” Marin said sharply. “You keep this to yourself. Or have you started running to the Whitecloaks with tales, like Hari and his brother Darl? I’ve my suspicions why the Whitecloaks came rummaging through Bran’s books. They took six off with them, and lectured Bran under his own roof about blasphemy. Blasphemy, of all things! Because they didn’t agree with what was in a book. You’re lucky I don’t make you replace those books for him. They burrowed through the whole inn like weasels. Hunting for more blasphemous writings, they said, as if anyone would hide a book. Tumbled all the mattresses from the beds, upset my linen closets. You are lucky I didn’t come haul you back here to put it all to rights again.”
Cenn drew in on himself a little more with each sentence, until he looked to be trying to pull his bony shoulders over his head. “I didn’t tell them anything, Marin,” he protested. “Just because a man mentions — That is, I just happened to say, just in passing —” He shook himself, still avoiding her eye but regaining some of his old manner. “I mean to take this up with the Council, Marin. Him, I mean.” He pointed a gnarled finger at Perrin. “We’re all in danger as long as he’s here. If the Children find out you’re sheltering him, they might blame the rest of us. Upset closets won’t be in it, then.”
“This is Women’s Circle business.” Marin rewrapped her shawl about her shoulders and moved to stand eye to eye with the thatcher. He was a little taller than
she, but her sudden air of grave formality gave her the edge. He spluttered, but she rode right over his attempts to slide a word in. “Circle business, Cenn Buie. If you think it isn’t — if you even dare think of calling me a liar — you go flapping your tongue. You breathe a word of Women’s Circle business to anyone, including the Village Council…”
“The Circle has no right interfering in Council affairs,” he shouted.
“. . . and see if your wife doesn’t have you sleeping in the barn. And eating what your milk cows leave. You think Council takes precedence over Circle? I’ll send Daise Congar over to convince you different, if you need convincing.”
Cenn flinched, as well he might. If Daise Congar was the Wisdom, she would probably force foultasting concoctions down his throat every day for the next year, and Cenn was too scrawny to stop her. Alsbet Luhhan was the only woman in Emond’s Field larger than Daise, and Daise had a mean streak and a temper to go with it. Perrin could not imagine her as Wisdom; Nynaeve would probably have a fit when she found out who had replaced her. Nynaeve had always believed she used sweet reason, herself.
“No need to get nasty, Marin,” Cenn muttered placatingly. “You want me to keep quiet, I’ll keep quiet. But Women’s Circle or no, you’re risking bringing the Children down on all of us.” Marin merely raised her eyebrows, and after a moment he slunk away, grumbling under his breath.
“Well done,” Faile said when Cenn disappeared around the corner of the inn. “I think I need to take lessons from you. I am not half so good at handling Perrin as you are with Master al’Vere and that fellow.” She smiled at Perrin to show she was joking. At least, he hoped that was what it meant.
“You have to know when to rein them short,” the older woman replied absently, “and when there’s nothing to do but give them their head. Letting them have their way when it isn’t important makes it easier to check them when it is.” She was frowning after Cenn, not really paying attention to what she was saying, except maybe when she added, “And some should be tied in the stall and left there.”
Perrin leaped in hastily. Faile certainly did not need any advice of this sort. “Will he hold his tongue do you think, Mistress al’Vere?”
Hesitating, she said, “I believe he will. Cenn was born with a sore tooth that’s only gotten worse as he ages, but he isn’t like Hari Coplin or that lot.” Still, she had hesitated.
“We had best be moving,” he said. No one argued.
The sun was higher than he had expected, past its midday height already, which meant most people were indoors for their dinner. The few still out, mainly boys minding sheep or cows, were busy eating what they had brought with them wrapped up in a cloth, too absorbed in their food and too far from the cart paths to pay much mind to anyone passing. Still, Loial earned some stares despite the deep hood hiding his face. Even on Stepper Perrin came short of the Ogier’s chest on his tall mount. To the people who saw them from a distance they must have looked like an
adult with two children, all on ponies, leading packponies. Certainly not a usual sight, but Perrin hoped that was what they thought they saw. Talk would draw notice. He had to avoid that until he got Mistress Luhhan and the others free. If only Cenn kept his peace. He kept the hood of his own cloak up, too. That might also cause talk, but not as much as if anyone saw his beard and realized he was definitely not a child. At least the day was not particularly warm. It almost felt like spring, not summer, after Tear.
He had no trouble finding the split oak, the two halves leaning apart in a wide fork with the inner surface black and hardened like iron, the ground beneath the thick spreading branches clear. Merely crossing the village was much shorter than going around, so Mistress al’Vere was already waiting, shifting her shawl a trifle impatiently. The Aiel were there, too, squatting on the mulch of old oak leaves and squirrel chewed acorn hulls, Gaul apart from the two women. The Maidens and Gaul watched each other almost as closely as the surrounding woods. Perrin had no doubt they had managed to reach this spot unobserved. He wished he had that ability; he could stalk fairly well in the woods, but the Aiel did not seem to care if it was forest or farmland or city. When they did not want to be seen, they found a way not to be seen.
Mistress al’Vere insisted they go the rest of the way afoot, claiming the way was too overgrown for riding. Perrin did not agree, but he dismounted anyway. No doubt it would not be comfortable leading folk on horseback while on foot. In any case, his head was full of plans. He needed a look at the Whitecloak camp up at Watch Hill before deciding how to rescue Mistress Luhhan and the others. And where were Tam and Abell hiding? Neither Bran nor Mistress al’Vere had said; perhaps they did not know. If Tam and Abell had not brought the prisoners out already, it was not an easy task. He had to do it somehow, though. Then he could turn his attention to Trollocs.
No one from the village had come this way in years, and the path had vanished, yet tall trees kept the undergrowth down to a large extent. The Aiel slipped along silently with everyone else, acceding to Mistress al’Vere’s insistence that they all stay together. Loial murmured approvingly at great oaks or particularly tall fir trees and leatherleaf. Occasionally a mocker or redbreast sang in the trees, and once Perrin smelled a fox watching them pass.
Suddenly he caught man scent that had not been there a moment before, heard a faint rustle. The Aiel tensed, crouching with spears ready. Perrin reached to his quiver.
“Be at ease,” Mistress al’Vere said urgently, motioning for weapons to be lowered. “Please, be at ease.”
Abruptly there were two men standing ahead, one tall and dark and slender to the left, the other short, stocky and graying to the right. Both held bows with arrows nocked, ready to raise and draw, with quivers balancing the swords on their hips. Both wore cloaks that seemed to fade into the surrounding foliage.
“Warders!” Perrin exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell us there are Aes Sedai here, Mistress al’Vere? Master al’Vere never mentioned it either. Why?”
“Because he doesn’t know,” she said hurriedly. “I did not lie when I said this is Women’s Circle business.” She turned her attention to the two Warders, neither of whom had relaxed an inch. “Tomas, Ihvon, you know me. Put those bows down. You know I’d not bring anyone here if they meant harm.”
“An Ogier,” the gray haired man said, “Aiel, a yelloweyed man— the one the Whitecloaks seek, of course — and a fierce young woman with a knife.” Perrin glanced at Faile; she held a blade ready to throw. He agreed with her this time. These might be Warders, but they showed no sign of lowering their bows yet; their faces might as well have been carved from anvils. The Aiel looked ready to begin dancing the spears without waiting to veil themselves. “A strange group, Mistress al’Vere,” the older Warder went on. “We shall see. Ihvon?” The slender man nodded and melted into the undergrowth; Perrin could barely hear the fellow’s going. Warders moved like death itself when they wanted to.
“What do you mean, Women’s Circle business?” he demanded. “I know Whitecloaks would cause trouble if they knew about Aes Sedai, so you wouldn’t want to tell Hari Coplin, but why keep it secret from the Mayor? And us?”
“Because we agreed to,” Mistress al’Vere said irritably. The irritation seemed meant in equal parts for Perrin and the Warder still guarding them — there was no other word for it — with maybe a bit left over for the Aes Sedai. “They were at Watch Hill when the Whitecloaks came. No one there knew who they were except the Circle there, who passed them on to us to hide. From everyone, Perrin. It’s the best way to keep a secret, if only a few know. Light preserve me, I know two women who have stopped sharing their husbands’ beds for fear they might talk in their sleep. We agreed to keep it secret.”
“Why did you decide to change that?” the gray haired Warder asked in a hard voice.
“For what I consider good and sufficient reasons, Tomas.” From the way she shifted her shawl, Perrin suspected she was hoping the Circle— and the Aes Sedai
— thought so, too. Rumor had it the Circle could be even harder on each other than they were on the rest of the village. “Where better to hide you, Perrin, than with Aes Sedai? Surely you aren’t afraid of them, not after leaving here with one. And… You will find out soon enough. You just have to trust me.”
“There are Aes Sedai and Aes Sedai,” Perrin told her. But those he considered the worst, the Red Ajah, did not bond Warders; the Red Ajah did not like men very much at all. This Tomas had dark unwavering eyes. They might rush him, or better simply leave, but the Warder would surely put an arrow through the first one to do something he did not like, and Perrin was ready to bet the man had more shafts handy for easy nocking. The Aiel seemed to agree; they still looked ready to spring in any direction at any moment, but they looked as if they could stand where they were until the sun froze, too. Perrin patted Faile on the shoulder. “It will be all
right,” he said.
“Of course it will,” she replied, smiling. She had put the knife away. “If Mistress al’Vere says it, I trust her.”
Perrin hoped she was right. He did not trust as many people as he once had. Not Aes Sedai. And maybe not even Marin al’Vere. But maybe these Aes Sedai would help him fight Trollocs. He would trust anyone who did that. But how far could he rely on Aes Sedai? They did what they did for their own reasons; the Two Rivers was home, to him, but to them it might be a stone on a stones board. Faile and Marin al’Vere appeared to be trusting, though, and the Aiel waited. For the moment, it seemed he had little choice.
The Shadow Rising
Chapter 31
(Sunburst) Assurances
In a few minutes Ihvon returned. “You can go ahead, Mistress al’Vere” was all he said before he and Tomas both vanished into the brush again without so much as the rustle of a leaf.
“They are very good,” Gaul muttered, still staring around suspiciously.
“A child could hide in this,” Chiad told him, slapping a redberry branch. But she watched the undergrowth as closely as Gaul did.
None of the Aiel appeared eager to go on. Not reluctant, precisely, and certainly not afraid, but definitely not eager. One day Perrin hoped to figure out what it was Aiel did feel toward Aes Sedai. One day. He was not particularly enthusiastic himself, today.
“Let’s go meet these Aes Sedai of yours,” he told Mistress al’Vere gruffly.
The old sickhouse was even more ramshackle than he remembered, a sprawling single story that leaned drunkenly, half the rooms open to the sky, a fortyfoot sourgum tree poking up from one. The forest closed in on every side. A thick net of vines and briars snaked up the walls, covered the remaining thatch with green; he thought they might be all that was holding the building up. The front door was cleared, though. He smelled horses, and a faint aroma of beans and ham, but oddly, no woodsmoke.
Tying their animals to low branches, they followed Mistress al’Vere inside, where vineshrouded windows admitted only a dim light. The front room was large and bare of furnishings, with dirt in the corners and a few cobwebs that had escaped an obviously hasty cleaning. Four blanket rolls were laid out on the floor, with saddles and saddlebags and neatly tied bundles against the wall, and a small kettle on the stone hearth gave off the cooking smells despite the lack of any fire. A smaller kettle seemed to be water for tea, almost at the boil. Two Aes Sedai awaited them. Marin al’Vere curtsied hastily and launched into an anxious cascade of introductions and explanations.
Perrin leaned his chin against his bow. He recognized the Aes Sedai. Verin Mathwin, plump and squarefaced, gray streaking her brown hair despite her smoothcheeked Aes Sedai agelessness, was Brown Ajah, and like all Browns seemingly lost half the time in the search for knowledge, whether old and lost or new. But sometimes her dark eyes belied that vague dreamy expression, as now, looking past Marin at him sharp as tacks. She was one of two Aes Sedai besides Moiraine he was certain knew about Rand, and he suspected she knew more about himself than she let on. Her eyes took on that slight vagueness again as she listened to Marin, but for an instant they had weighed him on scales, factored him into her own plans. He would have to be very careful around her.
The other, a dark, slender woman in a deep green silk riding dress that
contrasted sharply with Verin’s plain brown, inkstained at the cuffs, he had never met, and only seen once. Alanna Mosvani was Green Ajah, if he remembered correctly, a beautiful woman with long black hair and penetrating dark eyes. Those eyes sought him, too, while she listened to Marin. Something Egwene had said came back to him. Some Aes Sedai who shouldn’t know about Rand show too much interest in him. Elaida, for instance, and Alanna Mosvani. I don’t think I trust either of them. Perhaps it would be best to be guided by Egwene until he found out differently.
His ears perked up when Marin said, still apprehensive, “You were asking about him, Verin Sedai. Perrin, I mean. All three boys, but Perrin among them. It seemed the easiest way to keep him from getting himself killed was to bring him to you. There just wasn’t any time to ask first. Do say you under —”
“It is quite all right, Mistress al’Vere,” Verin interrupted in a soothing tone. “You did exactly the correct thing. Perrin is in the right hands, now. Also I will enjoy the chance to learn more about the Aiel, and it is always a pleasure to talk with an Ogier. I will pick your brain, Loial. I have found some fascinating things in Ogier books.”
Loial gave her a pleased smile; anything to do with books seemed to please him.
Gaul, on the other hand, exchanged guarded looks with Bain and Chiad.
“It is all right as long as you do not do it again,” Alanna said firmly. “Unless… You are alone?” she asked Perrin in a voice that required an answer, and right now. “Did the other two return as well?”
“Why are you here?” he demanded right back.
“Perrin!” Mistress al’Vere said sharply. “Mind your manners! You may have picked up some rough ways out in the world, but you can just lose them again now that you are home.”
“Do not trouble yourself,” Verin told her.. “Perrin and I are old friends now. I understand him. ” Her dark eyes glittered at him for a moment.
“We will take care of him.” Alanna’s cool words seemed open to interpretation.
Verin smiled and patted Marin’s shoulder. “You had better go on back to the village. We don’t want anyone wondering why you are walking in the woods.”
Mistress al’Vere nodded. Pausing by Perrin, she put a hand on his arm. “You know you have my sympathy,” she said gently. “Just remember that getting yourself killed won’t help anything.. Do what the Aes Sedai tell you. ” He mumbled something noncommittal, but it seemed to satisfy her.
When Mistress al’Vere had gone, Verin said, “You have our sympathy as well, Perrin. If there was anything we could have done, we would have.”
He did not want to think of his family now. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“Perrin!” Faile managed to copy Mistress al’Vere’s tone almost exactly, but he paid it no mind.
“Why are you here? It seems awfully coincidental. Whitecloaks and Trollocs,
and the two of you just happen to be here at the same time.”
“Not coincidental at all,” Verin replied. “Ah, the tea water is ready.” The water subsided from a boil as she began to bustle about, tossing a handful of leaves into the kettle, directing Faile to find metal cups in one of the bundles against the wall. Alanna, with her arms folded beneath her breasts, never took her eyes off Perrin, their heat conflicting with the coolness of her face. “Year by year,” Verin continued, “we find fewer and fewer girls who can be taught to channel. Sheriam believes we may have spent the last three thousand years culling the ability out of humankind by gentling every man who can channel we find. The proof of it, she says, is how very few men we do find. Why, even a hundred years ago the records say there were two or three a year, and five hundred years —”
Alanna harrumphed. “What else can we do, Verin? Let them go insane? Follow the Whites’ mad plan?”
“I think not,” Verin replied calmly. “Even if we could find women willing to bear children by gentled men, there is no guarantee the children would be able to channel, or would be girls. I did suggest that if they wanted to increase the stock, Aes Sedai should be the ones to have the children; themselves, in fact, since they put it forward in the first place. Alviarin was not amused.”
“She would not be,” Alanna laughed. The sudden flash of delight, breaking her fiery, darkeyed stare, was startling. “I wish I could have seen her face.”
“Her expression was… interesting, ” the Brown sister said musingly. “Calm yourself, Perrin. I will give you the rest of your answer. Tea?”
Trying to wipe the glare from his face, somehow he found himself seated on the floor, his bow beside him and a metal cup full of strong tea in his hand. Everyone sat in a circle in the middle of the room.. Alanna took up the explanation of their presence, perhaps to forestall the other Aes Sedai’s tendency to ramble.
“Here in the Two Rivers, where I suspect no Aes Sedai had visited in a thousand years, Moiraine found two women who could not only be taught to channel, but who had the ability born in them, and heard of another who had died because she could not teach herself.”
“Not to mention three ta’veren, Verin murmured into her tea.
“Do you have any idea,” Alanna went on, “how many towns and villages we usually must visit to find three girls with the ability inborn? The only wonder is that it took us so long to come hunting more. The old blood is very strong here in the Two Rivers. We were only in Watch Hill a week before the Children appeared, and were very careful not to reveal who we were to any but the Women’s Circle there, yet even so we found four girls who can be trained, and one child I think has the ability inborn.”
“It was difficult to be sure,” Verin added. “She is only twelve. None have anywhere near the potential of Egwene or Nynaeve, but the number is still nothing less than remarkable. There might be another two or three just around Watch Hill. We have had no chance to examine girls here, or farther south. Taren Ferry was a
disappointment, I must say. Too much interchange of bloodlines with the outside, I suppose. ”
Perrin had to admit it made sense. But it did not answer all his questions, or settle all his doubts. He shifted, stretching out his leg. The spear wound in his thigh hurt. “I don’t understand why you are hiding here. Whitecloaks arresting innocent people, and here you sit. Trollocs running all over the Two Rivers, apparently, and here you sit.”
Loial muttered under his breath, a muted rumble. Perrin caught “angering Aes Sedai” and “hornet’s nest,” but he continued to hammer at them. “Why aren’t you doing something? You’re Aes Sedai! Burn me, why aren’t you doing something?”
“Perrin!” Faile hissed before turning an apologetic smile to Verin and Alanna. “Please forgive him. Moiraine Sedai spoiled him. She has an easy manner, I suppose, and she let him get away with things. Please don’t be angry with him. He will do better.” She shot him a sharp look, indicating she meant that for his ears as much as theirs, or more. He gave her a piece of his glower. She had no right interfering in this.
“An easy manner?” Verin said, blinking. “Moiraine? I never noticed.”
Alanna waved Faile to silence. “You certainly do not understand,” the Aes Sedai told Perrin in a tight voice. “You do not understand the restrictions under which we labor. The Three Oaths are not merely words. I brought two Warders with me to this place.” The Greens were the only Ajah to bond more than a single Warder apiece; a few, he had heard, even had three or four. “The Children caught Owein crossing an open field. I felt every arrow that struck him until he died. I felt him die. Had I been there, I could have defended him, and myself, with the Power. But I cannot use it for revenge. The Oaths do not permit it. The Children are very nearly as vile as men can be, short of Darkfriends, but they are not Darkfriends, and for that reason they are safe from the Power except in selfdefense. Stretch that as far as we can, it will only stretch so far.”
“As for Trollocs,” Verin added, “we have done for a number of them, and two Myrddraal, but there are limits. Halfmen can sense channeling, after a fashion. If we manage to draw a hundred Trollocs down on ourselves, there is very little we can do except run.”
Perrin scratched at his beard. He should have expected this, should have known. He had seen Moiraine face Trollocs, and he had some idea of what she could do and what not. He realized he had been thinking of how Rand had killed all the Trollocs in the Stone, only Rand was stronger than either of these Aes Sedai, probably stronger than both together. Well, whether they helped him or not, he still meant to finish every Trolloc in the Two Rivers. After he rescued Mat’s family, and the Luhhans. If he thought about it carefully enough, he had to find a way. His thigh ached miserably.
“You are injured.” Setting her cup on the floor, Alanna came across to kneel beside him and take his head in her hands. A tingle ran through him. “Yes. I see.
You did not do this to yourself shaving, it appears. ”
“It was the Trollocs, Aes Sedai,” Bain said. “When we came out of the Ways in the mountains.” Chiad touched her arm, and she stopped.
“I locked the Waygate, ” Loial added quickly. “No one will use it until it is opened from this side. ”
“I thought that must be how they were coming,” Verin murmured, half to herself. “Moiraine did say they were using the Ways. Sooner or later that is going to present us with a real problem. ”
Perrin wondered what she thought that was.
“The Ways,” Alanna said, still holding his head. “Ta’veren! Young heroes!” She made the words sound approving and close to a curse, both together.
“I am not a hero,” he told her stolidly. “The Ways were the fastest way to get here. That’s all.”
The Green sister went on as if he had not spoken. “I will never understand why the Amyrlin Seat let you three go your way. Elaida has been having fits over you three, and she is not the only one, just the most vehement. With the seals weakening and the Last Battle coming, the last thing we need is three ta’veren running about loose. I would have tied a string to each of you, even bonded you. ” He tried to pull back, but she tightened her grip and smiled. “I am not so lost to custom yet as to bond a man against his will. Not quite yet. ” He was not sure how far from it she was; the smile did not reach her eyes. She fingered the halfhealed cut on his cheek. “This has gone too long since it was done. Even Healing will leave a scar now.”
“I don’t need to be pretty,” he muttered — just well enough to do what he had to
— and Faile laughed aloud.
“Who told you that?” Faile said. Surprisingly, she shared a smile with Alanna.
Perrin frowned, wondering if they were making fun of him, but before he could say anything, the Healing hit him, like being turned to ice. All he could do was gasp. The few moments before Alanna released him seemed endless.
When he had his breath again, the Green sister had Bain’s flamehaired head between her hands, Verin was seeing to Gaul, and Chiad was testing her left arm, swinging it back and forth with a satisfied expression.
Faile took Alanna’s place beside Perrin and stroked a finger across his cheek, along the scar beneath his eye. “Beauty mark,” she said, smiling slightly.“A what?”
“Oh, just something Domani women do. It was just an idle comment.”
Despite her smile, or maybe because of it, he scowled suspiciously. She was making fun of him, only he did not understand how, exactly.
Ihvon slipped into the room, whispered in Alanna’s ear, and vanished outside again at her whisper. He hardly made a sound even on the wooden floor. A few moments later the scrape of boots on the steps announced new arrivals.
Perrin sprang to his feet as Tam al’Thor and Abell Cauthon appeared in the doorway, bows in hand, with the rumpled clothes and grayflecked twoday beards of men who had been sleeping rough. They had been hunting; four rabbits hung at
Tam’s belt, three at Abell’s. It was obvious they were expecting the Aes Sedai, and visitors, too, but they stared in amazement at Loial, more than half again as tall as either of them, with his tufted ears and broad snout of a nose. A flicker of recognition crossed Tam’s bluff, lined face at sight of the Aiel.
Tam’s gaze only rested thoughtfully on them for a moment, though, before coming to rest on Perrin with a start almost as big as for Loial. He was a sturdy, deepchested man despite hair that was nearly all gray, the sort it would take an earthquake to knock off his feet and more than that to fluster. “Perrin, lad!” he exclaimed. “Is Rand with you?”
“What about Mat?” Abell added eagerly. He had the look of an older, graying Mat, but with more serious eyes. A man not thickened much by age, with an agile step.
“They are well,” Perrin told them. “In Tear.” He caught Verin’s glance from the corner of his eye; she knew very well what Tear meant for Rand. Alanna hardly seemed to be paying attention at all. “They would have come with me, but we didn’t know how bad things are. ” That was true on both counts, he was sure. “Mat spends his time dicing — and winning — and kissing the girls. Rand… Well, the last I saw of Rand, he was wearing a fancy coat and had a pretty goldenhaired girl on his arm.”
“That sounds like my Mat,” Abell chuckled.
“Maybe it’s as well they didn’t come,” Tam said more slowly, “what with the Trollocs. And the Whitecloaks…. ” He shrugged. “You know the Trollocs returned?” Perrin nodded. “Was that Aes Sedai right? Moiraine. Were they after you three lads, that Winternight? Did you ever find out why?”
The Brown sister gave Perrin a warning look. Alanna appeared absorbed in rummaging through her saddlebags, but he thought she was listening now. Neither was what made him hesitate, though. There was just no way to come out and tell Tam that his son could channel, that Rand was the Dragon Reborn. How could he tell a man something like that? Instead, he said, “You will have to ask Moiraine. Aes Sedai don’t tell you any more than they have to.”
“I have noticed,” Tam said dryly.
Both Aes Sedai were definitely listening, and making no secret of it now. Alanna arched an icy eyebrow at Tam, and Abell shifted his feet as if he thought Tam was pushing his luck, but it would take more than a stare to upset Tam.
“Can we talk outside?” Perrin asked the two men. “I want a breath of air.” He wanted to talk without Aes Sedai eavesdropping and watching, but he could hardly say so.
Tam and Abell were agreeable, and perhaps as eager to escape Verin and Alanna’s scrutiny as he, but first there was the matter of the rabbits, all of which they handed over to Alanna.
“We meant to keep two for ourselves,” Abell said, “but it seems you have more mouths to feed.”
“There is no need for this.” The Green sister sounded as though she had said as much often before.
“We like to pay for what we get ” Tam told her, sounding the same. “The Aes Sedai were kind enough to do a little Healing for us,” he added to Perrin, “and we want to stock up credit in case we need it again.”
Perrin nodded. He could understand not wanting to take a gift from Aes Sedai. “An Aes Sedai’s gift always has a hook in it,” the old saying went. Well, he knew the truth of that. But it did not really matter whether you took the gift or paid for it; Aes Sedai managed to set the hook anyway. Verin was watching him with a tiny smile, as if she knew what he was thinking.
As the three men started out, carrying their bows, Faile rose to follow. Perrin shook his head at her, and amazingly she sat back down. He wondered if she was ill.
After pausing so Tam and Abell could admire Stepper and Swallow, they strolled off a way under the trees. The sun slanted westward, lengthening shadows. The older men made a few jokes about his beard, but they never mentioned his eyes. Strangely, the omission did not bother him. He had more important worries than whether somebody thought his eyes peculiar.
Responding to Abell’s query as to whether “that thing” was any good for straining soup, he rubbed his beard and said mildly, “Faile likes it.”
“Ohho,” Tam chuckled. “That’s the girl, is it? A spirited look to her, lad. She’ll have you lying awake nights trying to tell up from down.”
“Only one way to handle that sort,” Abell said, nodding. “Let her think she’s running things. That way, when it’s important, and you say different, by the time she gets over the shock of it, you’ll have matters arranged as you want, and it will be too late for her to badger you about changing it.”
That seemed to Perrin a great deal like what Mistress al’Vere had told Faile about handling men. He wondered if Abell and Marin had ever compared notes. Not likely. Perhaps it was worth trying with Faile. Only, she seemed to have her own way in any case.
He glanced over his shoulder. The sickhouse was almost hidden by the trees. They had to be safe from the Aes Sedai’s ears. He listened carefully, drew a deep breath. A woodpecker drummed somewhere in the distance. There were squirrels in the leafy branches overhead, and a fox had passed this way not long ago with its kill, a rabbit. Aside from the three of them, there was no man scent, nothing to indicate a hidden Warder listening. Perhaps he was being too cautious, but good reasons or no, he could not get past the coincidence of both Aes Sedai being women he had met before, one a woman Egwene did not trust, the other a woman he was not sure he trusted.
“Do you stay here?” he asked. “With Verin and Alanna?”
“Hardly,” Abell replied. “How could a man sleep with Aes Sedai under the same roof? What there is of it.”
“We thought this would be a good place to hide,” Tam said, “but they were here before us. I think those Warders might have killed both of us if Marin and some others of the Women’s Circle hadn’t been here then, too.”
Abell grimaced. “I think it was the Aes Sedai finding out who we were that stopped it. Who our sons were, I mean. They show too much interest in you boys to suit me.” He hesitated, fingering his bow. “That Alanna let slip that you’re ta’veren. All three of you. I’ve heard Aes Sedai can’t lie.”
“I haven’t seen any signs of it in me,” Perrin said wryly. “Or Mat.”
Tam glanced at him when he did not mention Rand — he was going to have to learn to lie better, trying to keep his own secrets and everybody else’s, too — but what the older man said was, “Maybe you just don’t know what to look for. How is it you come to be traveling with an Ogier and three Aiel?”
“The last peddler I saw said there were Aiel this side of the Spine of the World,” Abell put in, “but I didn’t believe him. Said he’d heard there were Aiel in Murandy, of all places, or maybe Altara. He wasn’t too certain of exactly where, but a long way from the Waste.”
“None of that has anything to do with ta’veren,” Perrin said. “Loial is a friend, and he came to help me. Gaul is a friend, too, I suppose. Bain and Chiad came with Faile, not me. It’s all sort of complicated, but it just happened. Nothing to do with ta’veren.”
“Well, whatever the reason,”’ Abell said, “the Aes Sedai are interested in you lads. Tam and I traveled all the way to Tar Valon last year, to the White Tower, trying to find out where you were. We could hardly unearth one to admit she knew your names, but it was plain they were hiding something. The Keeper of the Chronicles had us on a boat heading downriver, our pockets stuffed with gold and our heads full of vague assurances, almost before we could make our bows. I don’t like the idea the Tower may be using Mat some way.”
Perrin wished he could tell Mat’s father nothing like that was going on, but he was not sure he was up to that big a lie with a straight face. Moiraine was not watching Mat because she liked his grin; Mat was tangled as deeply with the Tower as he himself, maybe deeper. The three of them were all tied tight, and the Tower held the strings.
A silence descended on them, until at last Tam said quietly, “Lad, about your family. I’ve sad news.”
“I know,” Perrin said quickly, and the hush fell again, with each staring at his own boots. Quiet was what was needed. A few moments to pull back from painful emotions and the embarrassment of having them plain on your face.
Wings fluttered, and Perrin looked up to see a large raven alighting in an oak fifty paces away, beady black eyes sharp on the three men. His hand darted for his quiver, but even as he drew fletchings to cheek, two arrows knocked, the raven from its perch. Tam and Abell were already nocking anew, eyes scanning the trees and sky for more of the black birds. There was nothing.
Tam’s shot had taken the raven in the head, which was no surprise and no accident. Perrin had not lied when he told Faile these two men were better than he with the bow. No one in the Two Rivers could match Tam’s shooting.
“Filthy things,” Abell muttered, putting a foot on the bird to pull his arrow free. Cleaning the arrow point in the dirt, he returned it to his quiver. “They’re everywhere nowadays.”
“The Aes Sedai told us about them,” Tam said, “spying for the Fades, and we spread the word. The Women’s Circle did, too. Nobody paid much mind until they started attacking sheep, though, pecking out eyes, killing some. The clip will be bad enough this year without that. Not that it matters much, I suppose. Between Whitecloaks and Trollocs, I doubt we’ll see any merchants after our wool this year.” “Some fool has gone crazy over it,” Abell added. “Maybe more than one. We’ve found all sorts of dead animals. Rabbits, deer, foxes, even a bear. Killed and left to rot. Most not even skinned. It’s a man, or men, not Trollocs; I found boot prints. A
big man, but too small for a Trolloc. A shame and a waste.”
Slayer. Slayer here, and not just in the wolf dream. Slayer and Trollocs. The man in the dream had seemed familiar. Perrin scuffed dirt and leaves over the dead raven with his boot. There would be plenty of time for Trollocs later. A lifetime, if need be. “I promised Mat I’d look after Bode and Eldrin, Master Cauthon. How hard will it he to get them, and the others, free?”
“Hard,” Abell sighed, his face sagging. Suddenly he looked his age and more. “Powerful hard. I got close enough to see Natti after they took her, walking outside the tent where they’re holding everybody. I could see her with a couple of hundred Whitecloaks between us. I got a little careless, and one of them put an arrow through me. If Tam hadn’t hauled me back here to the Aes Sedai…”
“It’s a goodsized camp,” Tam said, “right under Watch Hill. Seven or eight hundred men. Patrols, day and night, with the heaviest concentration from Watch Hill down to Emond’s Field. If they spread out more, it would make things easier for us, but except for a hundred men or so at Taren Ferry, they’ve just about given the rest of the Two Rivers over to the Trollocs. It’s bad down around Deven Ride, I hear. Another farm burned almost every night. The same between Watch Hill and the River Taren. Bringing Natti and the others out will be hard, and after, we’ll have to hope the Aes Sedai will let them stay here. That pair aren’t too pleased at anyone knowing where they are.”
“Surely someone will hide them,” Perrin protested. “You can’t tell me everyone’s turned their backs on you. They don’t really believe you’re Darkfriends?” Even as he said it, he was remembering Cenn Buie.
“No, not that,” Tam said, “except for a few fools. Plenty of folk will give us a meal, or a night in the barn, sometimes even a bed, but you have to understand they’re uneasy about helping people the Whitecloaks are chasing. It’s nothing to blame them for. Things are stone hard, and most men are trying to look after their own families the best they can, Asking someone to take in Natti and the girls, Haral
and Alsbet… Well, it might be asking too much.”
“I thought better of Two Rivers folk than that,” Perrin muttered.
Abell managed a weak smile. “Most people feel caught between two millstones, Perrin. They’re just hoping they aren’t ground to flour between Whitecloaks and Trollocs.”
“They should stop hoping and do something.” For a moment Perrin felt abashed. He had not been living here; he had no idea what it was like. But he was still right. As long as the people hid behind the Children of the Light, they would have to put up with whatever the Children wanted to do, whether taking books or arresting women and girls. “Tomorrow I’ll take a look at this Whitecloak camp. There has to be some way to free them. And once they are, we can turn our attention to Trollocs. A Warder once told me Trollocs call the Aiel Waste ‘the Dying Ground.’ I mean to make them give that name to the Two Rivers.”
“Perrin,” Tam began, then stopped, looking troubled.
Perrin knew his eyes caught the light, there in the shadows under the oak. His face felt carved from rock.
Tam sighed. “First we’ll see about Natti and the others. Then we can decide what to do about the Trollocs. ”
“Don’t let it eat you inside, boy,” Abell said softly. “Hate can grow till it burns everything else out of you.”
“Nothing is eating me,” Perrin told them in a level voice. “I just mean to do what needs doing.” He ran a thumb along the edge of his axe. What needed doing.
Dain Bornhald held himself straight in his saddle as the hundred he had taken on patrol approached Watch Hill. Fewer than a hundred, now. Eleven saddles had cloakwrapped bodies tied across them, and twentythree more men nursed wounds. The Trollocs had laid a neat ambush; it might have succeeded against soldiers less well trained, less tough than the Children. What troubled him was that this was his third patrol to be attacked in force. Not a chance encounter, not happening on Trollocs killing and burning, but meeting a planned attack. And only patrols he led personally. The Trollocs tried to avoid the others. The fact presented worrisome questions, and the answers he came up with gave no
solutions.
The sun was dropping. A few lights already appeared in the village that covered the hill from top to bottom with thatched roofs. The only tile roof stood at the crest, on the White Boar, the inn. Another evening he might have gone up there for a cup of wine, despite the nervous silence that closed in at the sight of a white cloak with a golden sunburst. He seldom drank, but he sometimes enjoyed being around people outside the Children; after a time they would forget his presence to some extent, and begin to laugh and talk among themselves again. On another evening. Tonight he wanted to be alone to think.
There was activity among the hundred or so colorful wagons gathered less than half a mile from the foot of the hill, men and women in even brighter hues than
their wagons, examining horses and harness, loading things that had been lying about the camp for weeks. It seemed the Traveling People meant to live up to their name, probably at first light.
“Farran! ” The thickbodied hundredman heeled his horse closer, and Bornhald nodded toward the Tuatha’an caravan. “Inform the Seeker that if he wishes to move his people, they will move south. ” His maps said there was no crossing of the Taren except at Taren Ferry, but he had begun learning how old they were as soon as he crossed the river. No one was leaving the Two Rivers to perhaps seal his command into a trap as long as he could stop it. “And Farran? There is no need to use boots or fists, yes? Words will suffice. This Raen has ears.”
“By your command, Lord Bornhald.” The hundredman sounded only a little disappointed. Touching gauntleted fist to heart, he wheeled away toward the Tuatha’an encampment. He would not like it, but he would obey. Despise the Traveling People as he might, he was a good soldier.
The sight of his own camp brought a moment of pride to Bornhald, the long neat rows of wedgeroofed white tents, the picket lines for the horses precisely arrayed. Even here in this Lightforsaken comer of the world, the Children maintained themselves, never allowing discipline to slack. It was Lightforsaken. The Trollocs proved that. If they burned farms, it only meant some folk here were pure. Some. The rest bowed, and said “Yes, my Lord,” “as you wish, my Lord,” and stubbornly went their own way as soon as his back was turned. Besides which, they were hiding an Aes Sedai. The second day south of the Taren they had killed a Warder; the man’s colorshifting cloak had been sufficient proof. Bornhald hated Aes Sedai, meddling with the One Power as if Breaking the World once was not enough. They would do it again if they were not stopped. His momentary good mood faded like spring snow.
His eye sought out the tent where the prisoners were kept, except for a brief exercise period each day, one at a time. None would try running when it meant leaving the others behind. Not that running would get them more that a dozen paces
— a guard stood at either end of the tent, and a dozen paces in any direction took in another twenty Children — but he wanted as little trouble as possible. Trouble sparked trouble. If rough treatment was needed with the prisoners, it might raise resentment in the village to a point where something had to be done about it. Byar was a fool. He — and others, Farran especially — wanted to put the prisoners to the question. Bornhald was not a Questioner, and he did not like to use their methods. Nor did he mean to let Farran anywhere near those girls, even if they were Darkfriends, as Ordeith claimed.
Darkfriends or no Darkfriends, he realized more and more that all he really wanted was one Darkfriend. More than the Trollocs, more than Aes Sedai, he wanted Perrin Aybara. He could hardly credit Byar’s tale’s of the man running with wolves, but Byar was clear enough that Aybara had led Bornhald’s father into a Darkfriend trap, led Geofram Bornhald to his death on Toman Head at the hands of
the Seanchan Darkfriends and their Aes Sedai allies. Perhaps, if neither of the Luhhans talked soon, he might let Byar have his way with the blacksmith. Either the man would crack, or his wife would, watching. One of them would give him the means to find Perrin Aybara.
When he dismounted in front of his tent, Byar was there to meet him, stiff and gaunt as a scarecrow. Bornhald glanced distastefully toward a much smaller collection of tents apart from the rest. The wind was from that direction, and he could smell the other camp. They did not keep their picket lines clean, or themselves. “Ordeith is back, it seems, yes?”
“Yes, my Lord Bornhald. ” Byar stopped, and Bornhald looked at him questioningly. “They report a skirmish with Trollocs to the south. Two dead. Six wounded, they claim.
“And who are the dead?” Bornhald asked quietly.
“Child Joelin and Child Gomanes, my Lord Bornhald.” Byar’s hollowcheeked expression never changed.
Bornhald drew off his steelbacked gauntlets slowly. The two he had sent off to accompany Ordeith, to see what he did on his forays south. Carefully, he did not raise his voice. “My compliments to Master Ordeith, Byar, and — No! No compliments. Tell him, in these words, that I will have his scrawny bones before me now. Tell him, Byar, and bring him if you must arrest him and those filthy wretches who disgrace the Children. Go.”
Bornhald held his anger until he was inside his tent, flap lowered, then swept maps and writing case from his camp table with a snarl., Ordeith must think him an imbecile. Twice he had sent men with the fellow, and twice they had been the only deaths in “a skirmish with Trollocs” that left no wounded to show among the rest. Always to the south. The man was obsessed with Emond’s Field. Well, he himself might have had his camp there, if not for… No point to it now. He had the Luhhans here. They would give him Perrin Aybara, one way or another. Watch Hill was a much better site if he had to move to Taren Ferry quickly. Military considerations before personal.
For the thousandth time he wondered why the Lord Captain Commander had sent him here. The people seemed no different from those he had seen a hundred other places. Except that only the Taren Ferry folk showed any enthusiasm for rooting out their own Darkfriends. The rest stared with a sullen stubbornness when the Dragon’s Fang was scrawled on a door. A village always knew who its own undesirables were; they were always ready to cleanse themselves, with a little encouragement, and any Darkfriends were certain to be swept up with the others the people wanted gone. But not here. The black scrawl of a sharp fang on a door might as well be new whitewash for all of its real effect. And the Trollocs. Had Pedron Niall known the Trollocs would come when he wrote those orders? How could he have? But if not, why had he sent enough of the Children to put down a small rebellion? And why under the Light had the Lord Captain Commander burdened
him with a murderous madman?
The tent flap swept aside, and Ordeith swaggered in. His fine gray coat was embroidered with silver, but stained heavily. His scrawny neck was dirty, too, jutting out of his collar and giving him the look of a turtle. “A good evening to you, my Lord Bornhald. A gracious good evening, and splendid.” The Lugard accent was heavy today.
“What happened to Child Joelin and Child Gomanes, Ordeith?”
“Such a terrible thing, my Lord. When we came on the Trollocs, Child Gomanes bravely —” Bornhald struck him across the face with his gauntlets. Staggering, the bony man put a hand to his split lip, examined the red on his fingers. The smile on his face no longer mocked. It looked viperish. “Are you forgetting who signed my commission now, lordling? Pedron Niall will be hanging you with your mother’s guts if I say a word, after he has the both of you skinned alive.”
“That is if you are alive to speak this word, yes?”
Ordeith snarled, crouching like some wild thing, spittle bubbling. Slowly he shook himself, slowly straightened. “We must work together.” The Lugarder accent was gone, replaced by a grander, more commanding tone. Bornhald preferred the taunting Lugarder voice to the slightly oily, barely veiled contempt in this one. “The Shadow lies all around us here. Not simply Trollocs and Myrddraal. They are the least of it. Three were spawned here, Darkfriends meant to shake the world, their breeding guided by the Dark One for a thousand years or more. Rand al’Thor. Mat Cauthon. Perrin Aybara. You know their names. In this place, forces are loosed that will harrow the world. Creatures of the Shadow walk the night, tainting men’s hearts, corrupting men’s dreams. Scourge this land.
Scourge it, and they will come. Rand al’Thor. Mat Cauthon. Perrin Aybara.” He almost caressed the last name.
Bornhald drew ragged breath. He was not sure how Ordeith had discovered what he wanted here; one day the man had simply revealed his knowledge. “I covered over what you did at the Aybara farm —”
“Scourge them.” There was a hint of madness in that grand voice, and sweat on Ordeith’s brow. “Flay them, and the three will come.”
Bornhald raised his voice. “Covered it over because I had to.” There had been no choice. If the truth came out, he would have more than sullen stares to contend with. The last thing he needed was open rebellion on top of Trollocs. “But I will not condone the murder of Children. Do you hear me? What is it you do that you need to hide from the Children?”
“Do you doubt the Shadow will do whatever is needed to stop me?” “What?”
“Do you doubt it?” Ordeith leaned forward intently. “You saw the Gray Men.” Bornhald hesitated. Fifty of the Children around him, in the middle of Watch
Hill, and no one had noticed the pair with their daggers. He had looked right at them and not seen. Until Ordeith killed the pair. The scrawny little fellow had
gained considerable standing with the men for that. Later Bornhald had buried the daggers deep. Those blades had looked to be steel, but a touch seared like molten metal. The first earth thrown on them in the pit had hissed and steamed. “You believe they were after you?”
“Oh, yes, my Lord Bornhald. After me. Whatever it takes to stop me. The Shadow itself wants to stop me.”
“That still says nothing of murdered —”
“I must do what I do in secret.” It was a whisper, almost a hiss. “The Shadow can enter men’s minds to find me out, enter men’s thoughts and dreams. Would you like to die in a dream? It can happen.”
“You are… mad.”
“Give me a free hand, and I will give you Perrin Aybara. That is what Pedron Niall’s orders require. A free hand for me, and I will place Perrin Aybara in yours.”
Bornhald was silent for a long time. “I do not want to look at you,” he said finally. “Get out.”
When Ordeith was gone, Bornhald shivered. What was the Lord Captain Commander up to with this man? But if it put Aybara in his grasp… Tossing his gauntlets down, he began digging through his belongings. Somewhere he had a flask of brandy.
The man who called himself Ordeith, even sometimes thought of himself as Ordeith, slunk through the tents of the Children of the Light, watching the whitecloaked men with a wary eye. Useful tools, ignorant tools, but not to be trusted. Especially not Bornhald; that one might have to be disposed of, if he became too troublesome. Byar would be much more easily handled. But not yet. There were other matters more important. Some of the soldiers nodded respectfully as he passed. He showed them his teeth in what they took for a friendly smile. Tools, and fools.
His eyes skittered hungrily across the tent holding the prisoners. They could wait. For a while yet. A little while longer. They were only tidbits anyway. Bait. He should have restrained himself at the Aybara farm, but Con Aybara had laughed in his face, and Joslyn had called him a filthyminded little fool for naming her son Darkfriend. Well, they had learned, screaming, burning. In spite of himself he giggled under his breath. Tidbits.
He could feel one of those he hated out there somewhere, south, toward Emond’s Field. Which one? It did not matter. Rand al’Thor was the only really important one. He would have known if it was al’Thor. Rumor had not drawn him yet, but it would. Ordeith shivered with desire. It had to be so. More tales must be gotten past Bornhald’s guards at Taren Ferry, more reports of the scouring of the Two Rivers, to drift to Rand al’Thor’s ears and sear his brain. First al’Thor, then the Tower, for what they had taken from him. He would have all that was his by right.
Everything had been ticking along like a fine clock, even with Bornhald impeding, until this new one appeared with his Gray Men. Ordeith scrubbed bony
fingers through greasy hair. Why could not his dreams at least be his own? He was a puppet no longer, danced about by Myrddraal and Forsaken, by the Dark One himself. He pulled the strings now. They could not stop him, could not kill him.
“Nothing can kill me,” he muttered, scowling. “Not me. I have survived since the Trolloc Wars.” Well, a part of him had. He laughed shrilly, hearing madness in the cackle; knowing it, not caring.
A young Whitecloak officer frowned at him. This time there was nothing of a smile in Ordeith’s bared teeth, and the fuzzycheeked lad recoiled. Ordeith hurried on in a slinking shuffle.
Flies buzzed about his own tents, and sullen, suspicious eyes flinched away from his. The white cloaks were soiled here. But the swords were sharp, and obedience instant and unquestioning. Bornhald thought these men were still his. Pedron Niall believed it, too, believed Ordeith his tame creature. Fools.
Twitching aside his tent flap, Ordeith went in to examine his prisoner, stretched out between two pegs thick enough to hold a wagon team. Good steel chain quivered as he checked it, but he had calculated how much was needed, then doubled it. As well he had. One loop less, and those stout steel links would have broken.
With a sigh, he seated himself on the edge of his bed. The lamps were already lit, more than a dozen, leaving no shadow anywhere. The tent was as bright inside as noonday. “Have you thought over my proposal? Accept, and you walk free. Refuse… I know how to hurt your sort. I can make you scream through endless dying. Forever dying, forever screaming.”
The chains hummed at a jerk; the stakes driven deep into the ground creaked. “Very well.” The Myrddraal’s voice was dried snakeskin crumbling. “I accept. Release me.”
Ordeith smiled. It thought him a fool. It would learn. They all would. “First, the matter of… shall we say, agreements and accord?” As he talked, the Myrddraal began to sweat.
The Shadow Rising
Chapter 32
(Dragon’s Fang)
Questions to Be Asked
“We should leave for Watch Hill soon,” Verin announced the next morning, with sunrise just pearling the sky outside, “so don’t dawdle.” Perrin looked up from his cold porridge to meet a steady gaze; the Aes Sedai expected no arguments. After a moment, she added thoughtfully, “Do not think this means I will aid you in any foolishness. You are a tricksome young man. Try none of it with me.”
Tam and Abell paused with spoons halfway to their mouths, exchanging surprised looks; clearly they had gone their own way and the Aes Sedai theirs before this. After a moment they resumed eating, although with pensive frowns. They left any objections unvoiced. Tomas, his Warder’s cloak already packed away in his saddlebags, gave them — and Perrin — a hardfaced stare anyway, as if he anticipated arguments and meant to stamp them out. Warders did whatever was necessary for an Aes Sedai to do what she wanted.
She intended to meddle, of course — Aes Sedai always did — but having her where he could see her was surely better than leaving her behind his back. Avoiding Aes Sedai entanglements completely was all but impossible when they meant to dabble their fingers in; the only course was to try to use them while they used you, to watch and hope you could jump clear if they decided to stuff you headfirst, like a ferret, down a rabbithole. Sometimes the rabbithole turned out to her a badger’s sett, which was hard on the ferret.
“You would be welcome, too,” he told Alanna, but she gave him a frosty stare that stopped him in his tracks. She had disdained the porridge, and stood at one of the vineshrouded windows, peering through the leafy screen.
He could not say whether she was pleased with his plans for a scout. Reading her seemed near to impossible. Aes Sedai were supposed to be cool serenity itself, and she was that, but Alanna tossed off flashes of fiery temper or unpredictable humor when least expected, like heat lightning, crackling then gone. Sometimes she looked at him so that if she had not been Aes Sedai he would have thought she was admiring him. Other times he might as well have been some complicated mechanism she meant to disassemble in order to puzzle out bow it worked. Even Verin had the better of that; most of the time she was just plain unreadable. Unnerving, on occasion, but at least he did not have to wonder if she was going to know how to fit his pieces back together.
He wished he could make Faile stay there — that was not the same as leaving her behind, just keeping her safe from Whitecloaks — but she had that stubborn set to her jaw and a dangerous light in her tilted eyes. “I look forward to seeing some of your country. My father raises sheep. ” Her tone was definite; she was not going to stay unless he tied her up.
For a moment he came close to considering it. But the danger from Whitecloaks
should not be that great; he only intended to look, today. “I thought he was a merchant,” he said.
“He raises sheep, too.” Spots of crimson bloomed in her cheeks: maybe her father was a poor man and not a merchant at all. He did not know why she would pretend, but if that was what she wanted, he would not try to stop her. Embarrassed or not, however, she looked no less stubborn.
He remembered Master Cauthon’s method. “I don’t know how much you’ll see. Some farms may be shearing, I suppose. Probably no different from what your father does. I’ll be glad of your company in any case.” The startlement on her face when she realized he was not going to argue was almost worth the worry of her coming along. Maybe Abell had something.
Loial was another matter altogether.
“But I want to go,” the Ogier protested when told he could not. “I want to help, Perrin.”
“You will stand out, Master Loial,” Abell said, and Tam added, “We need to avoid attracting any more attention than we must.” Loial’s ears drooped dejectedly.
Perrin drew him aside, as far from the others as the room would allow. Loial’s shaggy hair brushed the roof beams until Perrin motioned him to lean down. Perrin smiled, just jollying him along. He hoped everyone else believed that.
“I want you to keep an eye on Alanna,” he said in a near whisper. Loial gave a start, and he caught the Ogier’s sleeve, still smiling like a fool. “Grin, Loial. We are not talking about anything important, right?” The Ogier managed an uncertain smile. It would have to do. Aes Sedai do what they do for their own reasons, Loial.“ And that might be what you least expected, or not at all what you believed it was. ” Who knows what she might take into her head? I’ve had surprises enough since coming home, and I don’t want one of hers added to it. I don’t expect you to stop her, only notice anything out of the ordinary.
“Thank you for that,” Loial muttered wryly, ears jerking. “Do you not think it best to just let Aes Sedai do what they want?” That was easy for him to say; Aes Sedai could not channel inside an Ogier stedding. Perrin just looked at him, and after a moment, the Ogier sighed. “I suppose not. Oh, very well. I can never say being around you is not… interesting.” Straightening, he rubbed a thick finger under his nose and told the others, “I suppose I would draw eyes at that. Well, it will give me a chance to work on my notes. I have done nothing on my book in days.”
Verin and Alanna shared an unreadable look, then turned twin unblinking gazes on Perrin. There was simply no telling what either thought.
The pack animals had to be left behind, of course. Packhorses would surely occasion comment, speaking of long travel; no one in the Two Rivers traveled very far from home in the best of times. Alanna wore a slight, satisfied smile while watching them saddle their mounts, no doubt believing the animals and wicker hampers tied him to the old sickhouse, to her and Verin. She was in for a surprise, if it came to that. He had lived out of a saddlebag often enough since leaving home.
For that matter, he had lived out of his belt pouch and coat pockets.
He straightened from tightening Stepper’s saddle girth and gave a start. Verin was watching him with a knowing expression, not vague at all, as if she knew what he was thinking and was amused. It was bad enough when Faile did that sort of thing; from an Aes Sedai, it was a hundred times worse. The hammer lashed with his blanket roll and saddlebags seemed to puzzle her, though. He was glad there was something she did not seem to understand. On the other hand, he could have done without her being so intrigued. What could be fascinating to an Aes Sedai about a hammer?
With only the riding animals to prepare, it took no time at all to be ready to go. Verin had a nondescript brown gelding, as plain to the untrained eye as her garb, but its deep chest and strong rump suggested as much endurance as her Warder’s ferociouseyed gray, tall and sleek. Stepper snorted at the other stallion until Perrin patted the dun’s neck. The gray was more disciplined — and just as ready to fight, if Tomas let it. The Warder controlled his animal with his knees as much as his reins, the two seeming almost one.
Master Cauthon watched Tomas’s horse with interest — wartrained mounts were not much seen in these pails — but Verin’s earned an approving nod at first glance. He was as good a judge of horseflesh as there was in the Two Rivers. No doubt he had chosen his and Master al’Thor’s roughcoated animals, not so tall as the other horses, but sturdy, with gaits that spoke of good speed and staying power.
The three Aiel glided ahead as the party started north, with long strides that carried them out of sight quickly in the woods, earlymorning shadows sharp and long in the brightness of sunrise. Now and then a flash of grayandbrown was visible through the trees, probably on purpose, to let the others know they were there. Tam and Abell took the lead, bows across the tall pommels of their saddles, with Perrin and Faile behind, and Verin and Tomas bringing up the rear.
Perrin could have done without Verin’s eyes on his back. He could feel them between his shoulder blades. He wondered if she knew about the, wolves. Not a comfortable thought. Brown sisters supposedly knew things the other Ajahs did not, obscure things, old knowledge. Perhaps she knew how he could avoid losing himself, what was human in him, to the wolves. Short of finding Elyas Machera again, she might be his best chance. All he had to do was trust her. Whatever she knew she would likely use, certainly to help the White Tower, probably to help Rand. The only trouble was that helping Rand might not bring what he wanted now. Everything would have been so much simpler without any Aes Sedai.
Mostly they rode in silence except for the sounds of the forest, squirrels and woodpeckers and occasional birdsong. At one point Faile glanced back. “She will not harm you,” she said, her soft tone clashing with the fierce light in her dark eyes. Perrin blinked. She meant to protect him. Against Aes Sedai. He was never going to understand her, or know what to expect next. She was about as confusing
as the Aes Sedai sometimes.
They broke out of the Westwood perhaps four or five miles north of Emond’s Field with the sun standing its own height above the trees to the east. Scattered copses, mainly leatherleaf and pine and oak, lay between them and the nearest hedged fields of barley and oats, tabac and tall grass for hay. Strangely there was no one in sight, no smoke rising from the farmhouse chimneys beyond the fields. Perrin knew the people who lived there, the al’Loras in two of the big houses, the Barsteres in the others. Hardworking folk. If there had been anyone in those houses, they would have been at their labors long since. Gaul waved from the edge of a thicket, then vanished into the trees.
Perrin heeled Stepper up beside Tam and Abell. “Shouldn’t we stay under cover as long as we can? Six people on horses won’t go unnoticed.” They kept their mounts at a steady walk.
“Not many to notice us, lad,” Master al’Thor replied, “as long as we stay away from the North Road. Most farms have been abandoned, close by to the woods. Anyway, nobody travels alone these days, not far from their own doorstep. Ten people together wouldn’t be noticed twice nowadays, though mostly folk travel by wagon, if at all.”
“It’ll take us most of daylight to reach Watch Hill as it is,” Master Cauthon said, “without trying to cover the distance through the woods. Would be a little faster along the road, but more chance of meeting Whitecloaks, too. More chance somebody might turn us in for the rewards.”
Tam nodded. “But we have friends up this way, too. We figure to stop at Jac al’Seen’s farm about midday to breathe the horses and stretch our legs. We will make it to Watch Hill while there’s still light enough to see.”
“There will be enough light,” Perrin said absently; there was always light enough for him. He twisted in his saddle to peer back at the farmhouses. Abandoned, but not burned, not ransacked that he could make out. Curtains hung at the windows still. Unbroken windows. Trollocs liked smashing things, and empty houses were an invitation. Weeds stood tall among the barley and oats, but the fields had not been trampled. “Have Trollocs attacked Emond’s Field itself?”
“No, they have not, ” Master Cauthon said in a thankful tone. “They’d have no easy time if they did, mind. People learned to keep a sharp eye out Winternight before last. There’s a bow beside every door, and spears and the like. Besides, the Whitecloaks patrol down to Emond’s Field every few days. Much as I hate to admit it, they do keep the Trollocs back.”
Perrin shook his head. “Do you have any idea how many Trollocs there are?” “One’s too many,” Abell grunted.
“Maybe two hundred,” Tam said. “Maybe more. Probably more.” Master Cauthon looked surprised. “Think on it, Abell. I don’t know how many the Whitecloaks have killed, but the Warders claim they and the Aes Sedai have finished off nearly fifty, and two Fades. It hasn’t lessened the number of burnings we hear about. I think it has to be more, but you figure it out for yourself. ” The
other man nodded unhappily.
“Then why haven’t they attacked Emond’s Field?” Perrin asked. “If two or three hundred came in the night, they could likely burn the whole village and be gone before the Whitecloaks up at Watch Hill even heard about it. Still easier for them to hit Deven Ride. You said the Whitecloaks don’t go down that far.”
“Luck,” Abell muttered, but he sounded troubled. “That’s what it is. We’ve been lucky. What else could it be? What are you getting at, boy?”
“What he’s getting at,” Faile said, closing up beside them, “is that there must be a reason.” Swallow was enough taller than the Two Rivers horses to let her look Tam and Abell in the eye, and she made it a firm look. “I have seen the aftermath of Trolloc raids in Saldaea. They despoil what they do not bum, kill or carry off people and farm animals, whoever and whatever is not protected. Entire villages have disappeared in bad years. They seek wherever is weakest, wherever they can kill the most. My father —” She bit it off, drew a deep breath, and went on. “Perrin has seen what you should have.” She flashed him a proud smile. “If the Trollocs have not attacked your villages, they have a reason.”
“I have thought of that,” Tam said quietly, “but I can’t think why. Until we know, luck is as good an answer as any.”
“Perhaps,” Verin said, joining them, “it is a lure.” Tomas still hung back a little, dark eyes searching the country they rode through as relentlessly as any Aiel’s. The Warder was watching the sky, too; there was always the chance of a raven. Barely pausing, Verin’s gaze brushed across Perrin to the two older men. “News of continued trouble, news of Trollocs, will draw eyes to the Two Rivers. Andor will surely send soldiers, and perhaps other lands as well, for Trollocs this far south. That is if the Children are allowing any news out, of course. I surmise Queen Morgase’s Guards would be little happier to find so many Whitecloaks than they would to find Trollocs.”
“War,” Abell muttered. “What we have is bad enough, but you are talking war.” “It might be so,” Verin said complacently. “It might be.” Frowning in a
preoccupied manner, she dug a steelnibbed pen and a small clothbound book from her pouch, and opened a little leather case at her belt that held an ink bottle and sandshaker. Wiping the pen absentmindedly on her sleeve, she began jotting in the book despite the awkwardness of writing while riding. She seemed completely oblivious of any unease she might have caused. Perhaps she really was.
Master Cauthon kept murmuring “War,” wonderingly, under his breath, and Faile put a comforting hand on Perrin’s arm, her eyes sad.
Master al’Thor only grunted; he had been in a war, so Perrin had heard, though not where or how, exactly. Just somewhere outside the Two Rivers, where he had gone as a young man, returning years later with a wife and a child, Rand. Few Two Rivers folk ever left. Perrin doubted if any of them really knew what a war was, except by what they heard from peddlers, or merchants and their guards and wagon drivers. He knew, though. He had seen war, on Toman Head. Abell was right. What
they had was bad enough, but it did not come near war.
He held his peace. Maybe Verin was right. And maybe she just wanted to stop them speculating. If Trollocs harrying the Two Rivers were bait for a trap, it had to be a trap for Rand, and the Aes Sedai had to know it. That was one of the problems with Aes Sedai; they could hand you “if’s and ”might”s until you were sure they had told you flat out what they had only suggested. Well, if the Trollocs — or whoever sent them, rather; one of the Forsaken, maybe? — thought to trap, Rand, they would have to settle for Perrin instead — a simple blacksmith instead of the Dragon Reborn — and he did not mean to walk into any traps.
They rode on silently through the morning. In this region farms were scattered, with sometimes a mile or more between. Every last one lay abandoned, fields choked with weeds, barn doors swinging in any errant breeze. Only one had been burned, and of that nothing stood except the chimneys, sootblack fingers rising from ashes. The people who had died there — Ayellins, cousins of those who lived in Emond’s Field — had been buried near the pear trees beyond the house. Those few who had been found. Abell had to be pressed to talk about it, and Tam would not. They seemed to think it would upset him. He knew what Trollocs ate. Anything that was meat. He stroked his axe absently until Faile took his hand. For some reason she was the one who seemed disturbed. He had thought she knew more of Trollocs than that.
The Aiel managed to stay out of sight even between copses, except when they wanted to be seen. When Tam began angling eastward, Gaul and the two Maidens shifted with them.
As Master Cauthon had predicted, the al’Seen farm came in sight with the sun still shy of its full height. There was not another farm in view, though a few widely separated gray plumes of chimney smoke rose both north and east. Why were they hanging on, isolated like this? If Trollocs came, their only hope was Whitecloaks chancing to be near at the same time.
While the rambling farmhouse was still small in the distance, Tam reined in and waved the Aiel to join them, suggesting they find a place to wait until the rest of them left the farm. “They won’t talk about Abell or me,” he said, “but you three will set tongues wagging with the best will in the world.”
That was putting it mildly, with their odd clothes and their spears, and two of them women. A rabbit apiece dangled beside their quivers, though Perrin could not see how they had found time to hunt while keeping ahead of the horses. They seemed less tired than the horses, for that matter.
“Well enough,” Gaul said. “I will find a place to eat my own meal, and watch for your going.” He turned and loped away immediately. Bain and Chiad exchanged glances. After a moment Chiad shrugged, and they followed.
“Aren’t they together?” Mat’s father asked, scratching his head.
“It is a long story,” Perrin said. It was better than telling him Chiad and Gaul might decide to kill each other over a feud. He hoped the water oath held. He had to
remember to ask Gaul what a water oath was.
The al’Seen farm was just about as big as farms went in the Two Rivers, with three tall barns and five tabac curing sheds. The stonewalled cote, full of blackfaced sheep, spread as wide as some pastures, and railfenced yards kept whitespotted milk cows separate from black beef cattle. Pigs grunted contentedly in their wallow, chickens wandered everywhere, and there were white geese on a goodsized pond.
The first odd thing Perrin noticed was the boys on the thatched roofs of the house and barns, eight or nine of them, with bows and quivers. They shouted down as soon as they saw the riders, and women hustled children inside before shading their eyes to see who was coming. Men gathered in the farmyard, some with bows, others with pitchforks and bushhooks held like weapons. Too many people. Far too many, even for a farm as big as this. He looked a question at Master al’Thor.
“Jac took in his cousin Wit’s people,” Tam explained, “because Wit’s farm was too close to the Westwood. And Flann Lewin’s people after their farm was attacked. Whitecloaks drove the Trollocs off before more than his barns were burned, but Flann decided it was time to go. Jac is a good man.”
As they rode into the farmyard, and Tam and Abell were recognized, men and women crowded around with smiles and a babble of welcome while they dismounted. Seeing that, children burst out of the house, followed by the women who had been minding them and others, fresh from the kitchen, wiping hands on aprons. Every generation was represented, from whitehaired Astelle al’Seen, bentbacked but using her stick to thump people out of her way more than to walk with, down to a swaddled infant in the arms of a more than stout young woman with a bright smile.
Perrin looked past the stout, smiling woman; then his head whipped back. When he had left the Two Rivers, Laila Dearn had been a slim girl who could dance any three boys into the ground. Only the smile and the eyes were the same. He shivered. There had been a time when he had dreamed of marrying Laila, and she had returned the feeling somewhat. The truth was, she had held on to it longer than he had. Luckily, she was too entranced with her baby and the even wider fellow by her side to pay much attention to him. Perrin recognized the man with her, too. Natley Lewin. So Laila was a Lewin now. Odd. Nat never could dance. Thanking the Light for his escape, Perrin looked around for Faile.
He found her idly flipping Swallow’s reins while the mare nuzzled her shoulder. She was too busy smiling admiringly at Wil al’Seen, a cousin from Deven Ride way, to notice her horse, though, and Wil was smiling back. A goodlooking boy, Wil. Well, he was a year older than Perrin, but too goodlooking not to appear boyish. When Wil came down to Emond’s Field for dances, the girls all used to stare at him and sigh. Just the way Faile was now. True, she was not sighing, but her smile was decidedly approving.
Perrin went over and put an arm around her, resting his other hand on his axe. “How are you, Wil?” he asked, smiling for all he was worth. No point in letting
Faile think he was jealous. Not that he was.
“Fine, Perrin.” Wil’s eyes slid away from his and bounced off the axe, a sickly expression oozing over his face. “Just fine. ” Avoiding looking at Faile again, he hurried off to join the crowd around Verin.
Faile looked up at Perrin, pursing her lips, then took his beard with one hand and gently shook his head. “Perrin, Perrin, Perrin,” she murmured softly.
He was not sure what she meant, but he thought it wiser not to ask. She looked as if she did not know herself whether she was angry or— could it possibly be amused? Best not to make her decide.
Wil was not the only one to look askance at his eyes, of course. It seemed that everyone, young or old, male or female, gave a start the first time they met his gaze. Old Mistress al’Seen poked him with her stick, and her dark old eyes widened in surprise when he grunted. Maybe she thought he was not real. Nobody said anything, though.
Soon enough the horses had been led off to one of the barns — Tomas took his gray himself; the animal did not appear to want anyone else to touch the reins — and everybody except the boys on the rooftops had crowded into the house, just about filling it. Adults lined the front room two deep, Lewins and al’Seens interspersed in no particular order or rank, children in their mothers’ arms or relegated to peering through the legs of grownups packing the doorways to peer in.
Strong tea and highbacked, rushbottomed chairs were provided for the newcomers, though Verin and Faile got embroidered cushions. There was considerable excitement over Verin, and Tomas, and Faile. Murmurs filled the room like a gabble of geese, and everyone stared at those three as though they wore crowns, or might do tricks any moment. Strangers were always a curiosity in the Two Rivers. Tomas’s sword drew especial comment, in near whispers that Perrin heard easily. Swords were not common here, or had not been before the Whitecloaks came. Some thought Tomas was a Whitecloak, others a lord. One boy little more than waisthigh mentioned Warders before his elders laughed him down.
As soon as the guests were settled, Jac al’Seen planted himself in front of the wide stone fireplace, a stocky, square shouldered man with less hair than Master al’Vere, and that just as gray. A clock ticked on the mantel behind his head between two large silver goblets, evidence of his success as a farmer. The babble quieted when he raised a hand, though his cousin Wit, a near twin except for no hair at all, and Flann Lewin, a gnarled, grayheaded beanpole, both shushed their own folk anyway.
“Mistress Mathwin, Lady Faile,” Jac said, bowing awkwardly to each, “You are welcome here, for as long as you wish. I have to caution you, though. You know the trouble we have in the countryside. Best for you if you go straightway to Emond’s Field, or Watch Hill, and stay there. They are too big to be troubled. I would advise you to leave the Two Rivers altogether, but I understand the Children of the Light aren’t letting anyone cross the Taren. I don’t know why, but there it is.
“But there are so many fine stories in the country,” Verin said, blinking mildly. “I would miss them all if I remained in a village.” Without lying once, she managed to give the impression that she had come to the Two Rivers in search of old stories, the same as Moiraine had done, what seemed so long ago. Her Great Serpent ring lay in her belt pouch, though Perrin doubted that any of these people would know what it meant.
Elisa al’Seen smoothed her white apron and smiled gravely at Verin. Though her hair had less gray than her husband’s, she looked older than Verin, her lined face motherly. Very likely she thought she was. “It is an honor to have a real scholar under our roof, yet Jac is right,” she said firmly. “You truly are welcome to stay here, but when you leave, you must go immediately to a village. Traveling about isn’t safe. The same goes for you, my Lady,” she added to Faile. “Trollocs are not something two women should face with only a handful of men for protection.”
“I will think on it,” Faile said calmly. I thank you for your consideration.“ She sipped her tea, as unconcerned as Verin, who had begun writing in her small book again, only looking up to smile at Elisa and murmur, ”There are so many stories in the countryside. ” Faile accepted a butter cookie from a young al’Seen girl, who curtsied and blushed furiously, all the while staring at Faile in wideeyed admiration. Perrin grinned to himself. In her green riding silks, they all took Faile for nobly born, and he had to admit she carried it off beautifully. When she wanted to. The girl might not have been so admiring had she seen her in one of her tempers, when
her tongue could flay the hide off a wagon driver.
Mistress al’Seen turned to her husband, shaking her head; Faile and Verin were not going to be convinced. Jac looked at Tomas. “Can you convince them?”
I go where she tells me,” Tomas replied. Sitting there with a teacup in his hand, the Warder still seemed on the point of drawing his sword.
Master al’Seen sighed and shifted his attention. “Perrin, most of us have met you one time or another, down to Emond’s Field, We know you, after a fashion. At least, we knew you before you ran off last year. We’ve heard some troubling things, but I suppose Tam and Abell wouldn’t be with you if they were true.”
Flann’s wife, Adine, a plump woman with a selfcontented eye, sniffed sharply. “I’ve heard some things about Tam and Abell, too. And about their boys, running off with Aes Sedai. With Aes Sedai! A dozen of them! You all remember how Emond’s Field was burned to the ground. The Light knows what they could have got up to. I heard tell they kidnapped the al’Vere girl.” Flann shook his head resignedly and gave Jac an apologetic look.
“If you believe that,” Wit said wryly, “you’ll believe anything. I talked to Marin al’Vere two weeks ago, and she said her girl went off on her own hook. And there was only one Aes Sedai.”
“What are you suggesting, Adine?” Elisa al’Seen put her fists on her hips. “Come out with it.” There was more than a hint of “I dare you” in her voice.
“I didn’t say I believed it,” Adine protested stoutly, “just that I heard it. There
are questions to be asked. The Children didn’t latch on to those three by pulling names out of a cap.”
“If you listen for a change,” Elisa said firmly, “you might hear an answer or two.” Adine set herself to rearranging her skirts, but though she muttered to herself, she held her tongue otherwise.
“Does anyone else have anything to say?” Jac asked with barely concealed impatience. When no one spoke, he went on. “Perrin, no one here believes you a Darkfriend, any more than we believe Tam or Abell is.” He shot Adine a hard look, and Flann put a hand on his wife’s shoulder; she kept silent, but her lips writhed with what she did not say. Jac muttered to himself before continuing. “Even so, Perrin, I think we have a right to hear why the Whitecloaks are saying what they are. They accuse you and Mat Cauthon and Rand al’Thor of being Darkfriends. Why?”
Faile opened her mouth angrily, but Perrin waved her to silence. Her obedience surprised him so, he stared at her a moment before speaking. Maybe she was ill. “Whitecloaks don’t need much, Master al’Seen. If you don’t bow and scrape and walk wide of them, you must be a Darkfriend. If you don’t say what they want, think what they want, you must be a Darkfriend. I don’t know why they think Rand and Mat are.” That was the simple truth. If the Whitecloaks knew Rand was the Dragon Reborn, that would be enough for them, but there was no way they could know. Mat confused him entirely. It had to be Fain’s work. “Myself, I killed some of them.” For a wonder, the gasps that rounded the room did not make him cringe inside, and neither did the thought of what he had done. “They killed a friend of mine and would have killed me. I didn’t see my way clear to let them. That’s the short of it.”
“I can see where you wouldn’t,” Jac said slowly. Even with Trollocs about, Two Rivers people were not used to killing. Some years ago a woman had murdered her husband because she wanted another man to marry her; that was the last time anybody had died of violence in the Two Rivers that Perrin knew. Until the Trollocs.
“The Children of the Light,” Verin said, “are very good at one thing. Making people who have been neighbors all their lives suspicious of each other.” All the farm folk looked at her, some nodding after a moment.
“They have a man with them, I hear,” Perrin said. “Padan Fain. The peddler.” “I’ve heard,” Jac said. “I hear he calls himself by some other name nowadays. ”
Perrin nodded. “Ordeith. But Fain or Ordeith, he is a Darkfriend. He admitted as much, admitted to bringing the Trollocs on Winternight last year. And he rides with the Whitecloaks. ”
“That’s very easy for you to claim,” Adine Lewin said sharply. “You can name anybody Darkfriend.”
“So who do you believe?” Tomas said. “Those who came a few weeks ago, arrested people you know, and burned their farms? Or a young man who grew up
right here?”
“I am no Darkfriend, Master al’Seen,” Perrin said, “but if you want me to go, I will.”
“No,” Elisa said quickly, shooting her husband a meaningful glance. And Adine a freezing one that made her swallow what she had been about to say. “No. You are welcome to stay here as long as you like.” Jac hesitated, then nodded agreement. She came over and looked down at Perrin, resting her hands on his shoulders. “You have our sympathy,” she said softly. “Your father was a good man. Your mother was my friend, and a fine woman. I know she’d want you stay with us, Perrin. The Children seldom come this way, and if they do, the boys on the roof will give us plenty of warning to get you into the attic. You will be safe here.”
She meant it. She actually meant it. And when Perrin looked at Master al’Seen, he nodded again. “Thank you, ” Perrin said, his throat tight. “But I have… things to do. Things I have to take care of.”
She sighed, patting him gently. “Of course. Just you be sure those things don’t get you… hurt. Well, at least I can send you off with a full belly.”
There were not enough tables in the house to seat everyone for the midday meal, so bowls of lamb stew were handed out with chunks of crusty bread and admonitions not to drip, and everyone ate where they sat or stood. Before they were done eating, a lanky boy with his wrists sticking out of his sleeves and a bow taller than he was came bounding in. Perrin thought he was Win Lewin, but he could not be sure; boys grew fast at that age. “It’s Lord Luc,” the skinny boy exclaimed excitedly. “Lord Luc is coming.”
The Shadow Rising
Chapter 33
(Serpent and Wheel)
A New Weave in the Pattern
The lord himself followed almost on the boy’s heels, a tall, broadshouldered man in his middle years, with a hard, angular face and dark reddish hair whitewinged at the temples. There was an arrogant cast to his dark blue eyes, and he certainly looked every inch a nobleman, in a finely cut green coat discreetly embroidered in golden scrolls down the sleeves and gauntlets worked in threadofgold. Goldwork wrapped his sword scabbard, as well, and banded the tops of his polished boots. Somehow he made the simple act of striding in through the doorway grand. Perrin despised him on sight.
All the al’Seens and Lewins rushed in a mass to greet the lord, men, women and children crowding around him with smiles and bows and curtsies, babbling all over one another about the honor of his presence, the great honor of a visit from a Hunter for the Horn. They seemed most excited about that. A lord under the same roof might be exciting, but one of those sworn to search for the legendary Horn of Valere
— that was the stuff of stories. Perrin did not think he had ever seen Two Rivers folk fawn over anybody, but these came close.
This Lord Luc took it as clearly no more than his due, perhaps less. And tiresome to put up with, at that. The farm folk did not seem to see, or maybe they just did not recognize that slightly weary expression, the slightly condescending smile. Maybe they simply thought that was how lords behaved. True enough, a good many did, but it irked Perrin to watch these people — his people — put up with it.
As the hubbub began to diminish, Jac and Elisa presented their other guests — all but Tam and Abell, who had already met him — to Lord Luc of Chiendelna, saying that he was advising them in ways to defend themselves against the Trollocs, that he encouraged them to stand up to the Whitecloaks, stand up for themselves. Approving murmurs of agreement came from the rest of the room. If the Two Rivers had been choosing a king, Lord Luc would have had the al’Seens and Lewins behind him entire. He knew it, too. His apparent bored complacency did not last long, though.
At his first glimpse of Verin’s smoothcheeked face, Luc stiffened slightly, eyes flickering to her hands so quickly many would not have noticed. He very nearly dropped his embroidered gloves. Plump and plainly dressed, she might have been another farm wife, but clearly he knew an Aes Sedai’s ageless face, when he saw one. He was not particularly happy to see one here. The comer of his left eye twitched as he listened to Mistress al’Seen name “Mistress Mathwin” “a scholar from outside”.
Verin smiled at him as if halfasleep. “A pleasure,” she murmured. “House Chiendelna. Where is that? It has a Borderland sound.”
“Nothing so grand,” Luc replied quickly, giving her a wary, fractional bow. “Murandy, actually. A minor house, but old. ” He seemed uneasy about taking his eyes from her for the rest of the introductions.
Tomas he barely glanced at. He had to know him for “Mistress Mathwin’s” Warder, yet dismissed him out of hand as clearly as if he had shouted it. That was purely strange. However good Luc was with that sword, no one was good enough to dismiss a Warder. Arrogance. The fellow had enough for ten men. He proved it with Faile so far as Perrin was concerned.
The smile Luc offered her was certainly more than selfassured; it was also familiar and decidedly warm. In fact, it was too admiring and too warm by half. He took her hand in both of his to bow over, and peered into her eyes as if trying to see through the back of her head. For an instant Perrin thought she was about to look over at him, but instead she returned the lord’s stare with a redcheeked pretense to coolness and a slight bow of her head.
“I, too, am a Hunter for the Horn, my Lord,” she said, sounding a touch breathless. “Do you think to find it here?”
Luc blinked and released her hand. “Perhaps, my Lady. Who can say where the Horn might be?” Faile looked a little surprised — maybe disappointed — at his sudden loss of interest.
Perrin kept his expression neutral. If she wanted to smile at Wil al’Seen and blush at fool lords, she could. She could make an idiot of herself any way she wanted, gawking at every man who came along. So Luc wanted to know where the Horn of Valere was? It was hidden away in the White Tower, that was where. He was tempted to tell the man, just to make him grind his teeth in frustration.
If Luc had been surprised to find out who his other fellows in the al’Seen house were, his reaction to Perrin was peculiar to say the least. He gave a start at the sight of Perrin’s face; shock flashed in his eyes. It was all gone in a moment, masked behind lordly haughtiness, except for a wild fluttering at the corner of one eye. The trouble was, it made no sense. It was not his yellow eyes that took Luc aback; he was sure of that. More as if the fellow knew him, somehow, and was surprised to see him here, but he had never met this Luc before in his life. More than that, he would have bet that Luc was afraid of him. No sense at all.
“Lord Luc is the one who suggested the boys go up on the rooftops,” Jac said. “No Trolloc will get close without those lads giving warning.”
“How much warning?” Perrin said dryly. This was an example of the great Lord Luc’s advice? “Trollocs see like cat’s in the dark. They’ll be on top of you, kicking in the doors, before your boys raise a shout.”
“We do what we can,” Flann barked. “Stop trying to frighten us. There are children listening. Lord Luc at least offers helpful suggestions. He was at my place the day before the Trollocs came, seeing I had everybody placed properly. Blood and ashes! If not for him, the Trollocs would have killed us all.”
Luc did not seem to hear the praise offered him. He was watching Perrin
cautiously while fussing with his gauntlets, tucking them behind the golden wolf’shead buckle of his sword belt. Faile was watching him, too, with a slight frown. He ignored her.
“I thought it was Whitecloaks saved you, Master Lewin. I thought a Whitecloak patrol arrived in the nick of time and drove the Trollocs off.”
“Well, they did.” Flann scrubbed a hand through his gray hair. “But Lord Luc… If the Whitecloaks hadn’t come we could have… At least he doesn’t try to frighten us.” he muttered.
“So he doesn’t frighten you,” Perrin said. “Trollocs frighten me. And the Whitecloaks keep the Trollocs back for you. When they can.”
“You want to credit the Whitecloaks?” Luc fixed Perrin with a cold stare, as if pouncing on a weakness. “Who do you think is responsible for the Dragon’s Fang scribbled on people’s doors? Oh, their hands never hold charcoal, but they are behind it. They stalk into these good people’s homes, asking questions and demanding answers as if it were their own roof overhead. I say these people are their own masters, not dogs for the Whitecloaks to call to heel. Let them patrol the country side — well and good — but meet them at the door and tell them whose land they are on. That is what I say. If you want to be a Whitecloak dog, be so, but do not begrudge these good people their freedom.”
Perrin met Luc’s eyes stare for stare. “I hold no affection for Whitecloaks. They want to hang me, or hadn’t you heard?”
The tall lord blinked as though he had not, or maybe had forgotten in his eagerness to spring. “Exactly what is it you do propose, then?”
Perrin turned his back on the man and went to stand in front of the fireplace. He did not mean to argue with Luc. Let everyone listen. They were certainly all looking at him. He would say what he thought and be done with it. “You have to depend on the Whitecloaks, have to hope they’ll keep the Trollocs down, hope they’ll come in time if the Trollocs attack. Why? Because every man tries to hang on to his farm, if he can, or to stay as close to it as possible if he can’t. You’re in a hundred little clusters, like grapes ripe for picking. As long as you are, as long as you have to pray the Whitecloaks can keep the Trollocs from stomping you into wine, you’ve no choice but to let them ask any questions they want, demand any answers they want. You have to stand by and watch innocent people hauled off. Or does anyone here think Haral and Alsbet Luhhan are Darkfriends? Natti Cauthon? Bodewhin and Eldrin?” Abell’s stare around the room dared anyone to hint at a yes, but there was no need. Even Adine Lewin’s attention was on Perrin. Luc frowned at him between studying the reactions of the people crowding the room.
“I know they shouldn’t have arrested Natti and Alsbet and all,” Wit said, “but that’s over.” He rubbed a hand across his bald head, and gave Abell a troubled look. “Except for getting them to let everybody go, I mean. They haven’t arrested anyone since, that I’ve heard. ”
“You think that means it’s done?” Perrin said. “Do you really think they’ll be
satisfied with the Cauthons and the Luhhans? With two farms burned? Which of you will be next? Maybe because you said the wrong thing, or just to make an example. It could be Whitecloaks putting a torch to this house instead of Trollocs. Or maybe it’ll be the Dragon’s Fang scrawled on your door some night. There are always folk who believe that kind of thing.” A number of eyes darted to Adine, who shifted her feet and hunched her shoulders. “Even if all it means is having to tug your forelock to every Whitecloak who comes along, do you want to live that way? Your children? You’re at the mercy of the Trollocs, the mercy of the Whitecloaks, and the mercy of anybody with a grudge. As long as one has a hold on you, all three do. You’re hiding in the cellar, hoping one rabid dog will protect you from another, hoping the rats don’t sneak out in the dark and bite you.”
Jac exchanged worried looks with Flann and Wit, with the other men in the room, then. said slowly, “If you think we’re doing wrong, what is it you suggest?”
Perrin was not expecting the question — he had been sure they would get angry
— but he went right on telling them what he thought. “Gather your people. Gather your sheep and your cows, your chickens, everything. Gather them up and take them where they might be safe. Go to Emond’s Field. Or Watch Hill, since it’s closer, thought that will put you right under the Whitecloaks’ eyes. As long as it’s twenty people here and fifty there, you are game for Trolloc taking. If there are hundreds of you together, you have a chance, and one that doesn’t depend on bowing your necks for the Whitecloaks.” That brought the explosion he expected.
“Abandon my farm completely!” Flann shouted right on top of Wit’s “You’re mad!” Words poured out on top of one another, from them, and from brothers and cousins.
“Go off to Emond’s Field? I’m too far away to do more than check the fields every day right now!”
“The weeds will take everything!”
“I don’t know how I’m going to harvest as it is!” “. . . if the rains come… !”
“. . . trying to rebuild… !”
“. . . tabac will rot… !”
“. . . have to leave the clip. . .!”
Perrin’s fist smacking the lintel of the fireplace cut them short. “I haven’t seen a field trampled or fired, or a house or barn burned, unless there were people there. It’s people the Trollocs come for. And if they burn it anyway? A new crop can be planted. Stone and mortar and wood can be rebuilt. Can you rebuild that?” He pointed at Laila’s baby, and she clutched the child to her breast, glaring at him as though he had threatened the babe himself. The looks she gave her husband and Flann were frightened, though. An uneasy murmur rose.
“Leave,” Jac muttered, shaking his head. “I don’t know, Perrin.”
“It is your choice, Master al’Seen. The land will still be here when you come back. Trollocs can’t carry that off. Think whether the same can be said for your
family.”
The murmur grew to a buzz. A number of women were confronting their husbands, mostly those with a child or two in tow. None of the men seemed to be arguing.
“An interesting plan,” Luc said, studying Perrin. From his face there was no telling whether he approved of it. “I shall watch to see how it turns out. And now, Master al’Seen, I must be on my way. I only stopped to see how you were doing.” Jac and Elisa saw him to the door, but the others were too busy with their own discussions to pay much attention. Luc left tightmouthed. Perrin had the feeling his departures were usually as grand as his arrivals.
Jac came straight from the door to Perrin. “It’s a bold plan you have. I will admit I’m not keen on abandoning my farm, but you talk sense. I don’t know what the Children will make of it, though. They seem a suspicious lot, to me. They might think we’re all plotting something against them if we gather together.”
“Let them think it,” Perrin said. “A village full of people can take Luc’s advice and tell them to be about their business elsewhere. Or do you think it’s better to stay vulnerable just to hold the Whitecloaks’ goodwill, such as it is?”
“No. No, I see your point. You’ve convinced me. And everybody else, too, it seems.”
It did appear to be true. The murmur of discussion was dying down, but only because everyone looked to be in agreement. Even Adine, who was marshaling her daughters with loud orders for packing immediately. She actually gave Perrin a grudgingly approving nod.
“When do you mean to go?” Perrin asked Jac.
“As soon as I can get everybody ready. We can make Jon Gaelin’s place on the North Road before sunset. I’ll tell Jon what you say, and everybody down to Emond’s Field. Better there than Watch Hill. If we mean to be out from under the Whitecloaks’ thumb as well as the Trollocs’, best not to sit under their noses. ” Jac scratched his narrow fringe of hair with one finger. “Perrin, I don’t think the Children would actually hurt Natti Cauthon and the girls, or the Luhhans, but it worries me. If they do think we’re plotting, who’s to say?”
“I mean to get them free as soon as I can, Master al’Seen. And anybody else the Whitecloaks arrest, for that matter.”
“A bold plan,” Jac repeated. “Well, I had better get people moving if I’m going to have us to Jon’s by sundown. Go with the Light, Perrin.”
“A very bold plan,” Verin said, coming up as Master al’Seen hurried off calling orders for wagons to be hauled out and people to pack what they could carry. She studied Perrin interestedly, head tilted to one side, but no less so than Faile, at her side. Faile looked as though she had never seen him before.
“I don’t know why everybody keeps calling it that,” he said. “A plan, I mean. That Luc was talking nonsense. Defying Whitecloaks in the door. Boys on the roof to watch for Trollocs. A couple of open gates to disaster. All I did was point it out.
They should have been doing this from the start. That man. ” He stopped himself
from saying Luc irritated him. Not with Faile there. She might misunderstand.
“Of course,” Verin said smoothly. “I have not had the opportunity to see it work before this. Or perhaps I have and did not know it.”
“What are you talking about? See what work?”
“Perrin, when we arrived these people were ready to hold on here at all costs. You gave them good sense and strong emotion, but do you think the same from me would have shifted them, or from Tam, or Abell? Of any of us, you should know how stubborn Two Rivers people can be. You have altered the course events would have followed in the Two Rivers without you. With a few words spoken in… irritation? Ta’veren truly do pull other people’s lives into their own pattern. Fascinating. I do hope I have an opportunity to observe Rand again.”
“Whatever it is,” Perrin muttered, “it’s to the good. The more people together in one place, the safer.”
“Of course. Rand does have the sword, I take it?”
He frowned, but there was no reason not to tell her. She knew about Rand, and she knew what Tear had to mean. “He does.”
“Watch yourself with Alanna, Perrin.”
“What?” The Aes Sedai’s quick changes of topic were beginning to confuse him. Especially when she started telling him to do what he had already thought of, and thought to keep secret from her. “Why?”
Verin’s face did not change, but her dark eyes were suddenly bird bright and sharp. “There are many designs in the White Tower. Not all are malignant, by far,
but sometimes it is difficult to say until it is too late. And even the most benevolent often allow for a few threads snapped in the weaving, a few reeds broken and discarded in making a basket. A ta’veren would make a useful reed in any number of possible plans.” Just as suddenly she was looking a little confused by the bustle around her, more at home in a book or her own thoughts than in the real world. “Oh, my. Master al’Seen is not wasting any time, is he? I’ll just see if he can spare someone to fetch our horses.”
Faile shivered as the Brown sister moved away. “Sometimes Aes Sedai make me uneasy,” she murmured.
“Uneasy?” Perrin said. “Most of the time they scare me half to death.”
She laughed softly and began playing with a button on his coat, peering at it intently. “Perrin, I… have been a fool.”
“What do you mean?” She glanced up at him — she was about to twist the button right off — and he hastily added, “You are one of the least foolish people I know.” He clamped his teeth shut before he could add “most of the time,” and was glad he had when she smiled.
“That is very nice of you to say, but I was.” She patted the coat button and began adjusting his coat — which it did not need — and smoothing his lapels — which they did not need. “You were so silly,” she said,. speaking too fast, “just
because that young man looked at me — really, he is much too boyish; not at all like you — that I thought I would make you jealous — just a little — by pretending
— just pretending — to be attracted to Lord Luc. I should not have done it. Will you forgive me?”
He tried to sort through the jumbled words. It was good she thought Wil was boyish — if he tried to grow a beard it would probably be straggly — but she had not mentioned the way she returned Wil’s look. And if she had been pretending to be attracted to Luc, why had she blushed that way? “Of course I forgive you,” he said. A dangerous light appeared in her eyes. “I mean, there’s nothing to forgive.” If anything, the light sparkled hotter. What did she want him to say? “Will you forgive me? When I was trying to chase you away, I said things I shouldn’t have. Will you forgive me that?”
“You said some things that need forgiving?” she said sweetly, and he knew he was in trouble. “I cannot think what, but I will take it into consideration.”
Into consideration? She sounded very much the noblewoman there; maybe her father worked for some lord, so she could study the way ladies talked. He had no idea what she meant. Whenever he found out would be too soon, he was certain.
It was a relief to climb back into Stepper’s saddle amid the confusion of wagon teams being hitched and people arguing over what they could or could not take and children chasing down chickens and geese and tying their feet for loading. Boys were already driving the cattle eastward, and others herding the sheep out of the cote.
Faile made no reference to what had been said inside. Indeed, she smiled at him, and compared the keeping of sheep here to in Saldaea, and when one of the girls brought her a bunch of small red flowers, heartsblush, she tried to thread some of them into his beard, laughing at his efforts to stop her. In short, she had him jumping out of his skin. He needed another talk with Master Cauthon.
“Go with the Light,” Master al’Seen told him again just as they were ready to ride out, “and look after the boys.”
Four of the young men had decided to go with them, on roughcoated horses not nearly as good as those Tam and Abell rode. Perrin was not sure why he was the one who was supposed to look after them. They were all older than he, if not by much. Wil al’Seen was one, with his cousin Ban, one of Jac’s sons, who had gotten all the nose in that family, and a pair of the Lewins, Tell and Dannil, who looked so much like Flann that they could have been his sons instead of his nephews. Perrin had tried to talk them out of it, especially when they all made it plain that they wanted to help rescue the Cauthons and the Luhhans from the Whitecloaks. They seemed to think it was a matter of riding into the Children’s camp and demanding everybody’s return. Casting down our defiance, Tell called it, which nearly made Perrin’s hair stand on end. Too many gleeman’s tales. Too much listening to fools like Luc. He suspected that Wil had another reason, though he tried to pretend Faile did not exist, but the others were bad enough.
No one else made any objections. Tam and Abell only seemed concerned that they all knew how to use the bows they carried and could stay on a horse, and Verin merely observed, making notes in her little book. Tomas looked amused, and Faile busied herself plaiting a crown from the heartsblush, which turned out to be for Perrin. Sighing, he draped the flowers across the pommel of his saddle. “I will take care of them the best I can, Master al’Seen,” he promised.
A mile from the al’Seen farm, he thought he might lose one or two right there, when Gaul and Bain and Chiad suddenly appeared out of a thicket, loping to join them. Lose them to Aiel spears. Wil and his friends took one look at the Aiel and hastily began nocking arrows; without breaking stride the Aiel had spears ready to cast and their faces veiled. It took some minutes to straighten out. Gaul and the two Maidens seemed to think it a huge joke when they understood, laughing uproariously, and that unsettled the Lewins and al’Seens as much as finding out that the three were Aiel, and two of them women. Wil essayed a smile at Bain and Chiad, and they exchanged looks and brief nods. Perrin did not know what was going on there, but he decided to let it alone unless Wil looked to get his throat cut. Time enough to stop it if one of the Aiel women actually took her knife out. Might teach Wil a thing or two about smiling.
He intended that they should push on to Watch Hill as quickly as they could, but a mile or so north of the al’Seen place he saw one of the farms that produced those scattered plumes of chimney smoke. Tam was keeping them far enough away that the people around the farmhouse were only shapes. Except to Perrin’s eyes; he could see children in the yard. And Jac al’Seen was the nearest neighbor. Had been, until today. He hesitated, then reined Stepper toward the farm. Not that it was likely to do any good, but he had to try.“What are you doing?” Tam asked, frowning.
“Giving them the same advice I gave Master al’Seen. It won’t take a minute.”
Tam nodded, and the others turned with him. Verin was studying Perrin thoughtfully. The Aiel peeled away short of the farm to wait to the north, Gaul running a little apart from the Maidens.
Perrin did not know the Torfinns nor they him, yet to his surprise, once the excitement of strangers was past, the staring at Tomas and Verin and Faile, they listened and began hitching horses to two wagons and a pair of highwheeled carts before he and the others rode on.
Three more times he stopped when their route took them near to farmhouses, once at a cluster of five close together. It was always the same. The people protested they could not just leave their farms, but each time he left behind a bustle of packing and a gathering of farm animals.
Something else happened, too. He could not stop Wil and his cousin, or the Lewins, from talking with the young men on the farms. Their party grew by thirteen, Torfinns and al’Dais, Ahans and Marwins, armed with bows and riding an illmatched assortment of ponies and plow horses, all eager to rescue the prisoners from the Whitecloaks.
It was not as smooth as that, of course. Wil and the others from the al’Seen farm thought it unfair that he warned the newcomers about the Aiel, spoiling the fun they hoped to have seeing them jump. They jumped more than enough to suit Perrin, and the way they peered at every bush, much less every stand of trees, made it clear that they thought there must be more Aiel about no matter what he said. At first Wil tried lording it over the Torfinns and the rest on the grounds that he had been the first to join Perrin — one of the first, at least, he admitted when Ban and the Lewins glared at him — while they were latecomers.
Perrin put an end to it by dividing them into two groups of about the same size and putting Darmil and Ban each in charge of one, though there was some grumbling over that, too, in the beginning. The al’Dais thought the leaders should be chosen according to age — Bili al’Dai being the eldest by a year — while others put forward Hu Marwin as the best tracker, and Jairn Tortinn as the best shot, while Kenley Ahan had been to Watch Hill often before the Whitecloaks came and would know his way around the village. They all seemed to think it a lark. Tell’s phrase about casting defiance was repeated more than once.
Finally Perrin rounded on them in cold anger, forcing everyone to halt in the grass between two copses. “This is not a game, and it isn’t a Bel Tine dance. You do what you’re told, or else go back home. I don’t know what use you are anyway, and I’ve no intention of getting killed because you think you know what you are doing. Now line up and shut up. You sound like the Women’s Circle meeting in a wardrobe.”
They did it, stringing themselves out in two columns behind Ban and Darmil. Wil and Bili wore disgruntled frowns, but they held whatever objections they had. Faile gave Perrin an approving nod, and so did Tomas. Verin watched it all with a smooth, unreadable face, no doubt thinking she was seeing a ta’veren at work. Perrin saw no need to tell her he had just tried to think of what a Shienaran he knew, a soldier named Uno, would have said, though no doubt Uno would have put it in harsher words.
Farms began to appear more frequently as they approached Watch Hill, coming in clumps closer together until they ran on continuously the way they did near Emond’s Field, a patchwork of hedged or stonewalled fields separated by narrow lanes, footways and wagon paths. Even with their pauses at the four farms, there was still some daylight left, still men working their crops, and boys driving sheep and cattle in from pasture for the night. No one would be leaving their animals out these days.
Tam suggested Perrin cease warning people, and he reluctantly agreed. They would all head for Watch Hill here, alerting the Whitecloaks. Twentyodd people riding together by the back ways attracted enough eyes, though most people appeared too busy to do more than glance. It would have to be done sooner or later, though, and the sooner the better. So long as people remained in the countryside, needing Whitecloak protection, then the Whitecloaks had a foothold in the Two
Rivers they might not want to give up.
Perrin kept a sharp eye out for any sign of Whitecloak patrols, but except for one dust cloud over toward the North Road, heading south, he saw none. After a time Tam suggested they dismount and lead their horses. Afoot there was less chance of being, spotted, and the hedges and even the low stone walls shielded them a little.
Tam and Abell knew a thicket that gave a good view of the Whitecloak camp, a tangle of oak and sourgum and leatherleaf that covered three or four hides little more than a mile south and west of Watch Hill over an open stretch of ground. They entered from the south, hurrying. Perrin hoped no one had seen them go in, no one to wonder why they did not come out and comment on it.
“Stay here,” he told Wil and the other young men while they were tying their horses to branches. “Keep your bows handy, and be ready to run if you hear a shout. But don’t move unless you hear me shout. And if anybody makes any noise, I’ll pound his head like an anvil. We’re here to look, not pull the Whitecloaks down on us by tramping around like blind bulls.” Fingering their bows nervously, they nodded. Perhaps it was beginning to dawn on them just what they were doing. The Children of the Light might not take kindly to finding Two Rivers folk riding about in an armed bunch.
“Were you ever a soldier?” Faile asked quizzically in a low voice. “Some of my father’s… guards talk that way.”
“I’m a blacksmith.” Perrin laughed. “I’ve just heard soldiers talk. It seems to work, though.” Even Wil and Bili were peering about uneasily and hardly daring to move.
Creeping from tree to tree, he and Faile followed Tam and Abell to where the Aiel were already crouching near the thicket’s north edge. Verin was there, too, and Tomas, of course. The brush made a thin screen of leaves, enough to hide them but no hindrance to observation.
The Whitecloak encampment stretched out at the foot of Watch Hill like a village itself. Hundreds of men, some armored, moved among long, straight rows of white tents, with lines of horses, five deep, staked out to east and west. Animals being unsaddled and curried indicated patrols finishing their day, while a double column of maybe a hundred mounted men, pristine and precise, trailed off toward the Waterwood at a brisk walk, lances all at the same angle. At intervals around the encampment whitecloaked guards marched up and down, lances shouldered like spears, burnished helmets flashing in the sinking sun.
A rumble came to Perrin’s ears. Well to the west twenty horsemen appeared, galloping from the direction of Emond’s Field, hurrying toward the tents. From the direction he and the others had come. A few minutes slower, and they would have been seen for sure. A horn sounded, and men began moving to the cook fires.
Off to one side lay a much smaller camp, its tents set haphazardly. Some sagged against their guy ropes. Whoever stayed there, most were gone now. Only a few
horses flicking their tails against flies along a short picket rope indicated that anyone was there at all. Not Whitecloaks. The Children of the Light were too rigidly tidy for that camp.
Between the thicket and the two sets of tents was an expanse of grass and wildflowers. Very likely the local farmers used to use it for pasture. Not now, however, It was fairly flat ground. Whitecloaks galloping like that patrol could cover it in a minute.
Abell directed Perrin’s attention to the large camp. “You see that tent near the middle, with a. man standing watch at either end? Can you make it out?” Perrin nodded. The low sun was slanting sharp shadows eastward, but he could see well enough. “That’s where Natti and the girls are. And the Luhhans. I’ve seen them come out and go in. One at a time, and always with a guard, even to the latrines.”
“We have tried to sneak in at night three times,” Tam said, “but they keep a tight watch over the perimeter of the camp. We barely got away the last time.”
It would be like trying to stick your hand into an anthill without being stung. Perrin sat down at the base of a tall leatherleaf with his bow across his knees. “I want to think on this awhile. Master al’Thor, will you settle Wil and that lot down? See none of them takes it into his head to run for home. Like as not they’d ride straight for the North Road, not thinking, and we’d have half a hundred of those Whitecloaks over here to investigate. If any of them thought to bring food, you could see they get something to eat. If we have to run, we may spend the rest of the night in the saddle.”
Abruptly he realized he was giving orders, but when he tried to apologize, Tam grinned and said, “Perrin, you took charge back at Jac’s place. This isn’t the first time I’ve followed a younger man who could see what had to be done.”
“You are doing good, Perrin,” Abell said before the two older men slipped back into the trees.
Perplexed, Perrin scratched his heard. He had taken charge? Now that he thought of it, neither Tam nor Abell had really made a decision since leaving the al’Seen farm, only offered suggestions and left it to him. Neither had called him “lad” since then, either.
“Interesting,” Verin said. She had her small book out. He wished he could have a chance to read what she had written.
“You going to caution me about being foolish again?” he said.
Instead of answering, she said in a meditative voice, “It will be even more interesting to see what you do next., I cannot say you are shifting the world on its foundations, as Rand al’Thor is, but the Two Rivers is surely moving. I wonder if you have a clue as to where you are moving it.”
“I mean to free the Luhhans and the Cauthons,” he told her angrily. “That’s all!” Except for the Trollocs. He let his head drop back against the bole of the leatherleaf and closed his eyes. “All I’m doing is what I have to do. The Two Rivers will stay right where it always has.”
“Of course,” Verin said.
He heard her moving away, her and Tomas, slipper and boots alike soft on ground strewn with last year’s leaves. He opened his eyes. Faile was staring after the pair, and not best pleased.
“She will not leave you alone,” she muttered. The plaited crown of heartsblush he had left on his saddle dangled from her hand.
“Aes Sedai never do,” he told her.
She turned on him with a challenging look. “I suppose you mean to try bringing them out tonight?”
It had to be done now. Because he had been passing his warning about, and folks knew who had told them. Maybe the Whitecloaks would not hurt their prisoners. Maybe. He trusted Whitecloak mercy as far as he could throw a horse. He glanced at Gaul, who nodded.
“Tam al’Thor and Abell Cauthon move well for wetlanders, but these Whitecloaks are too stiff to see everything that moves in the dark, I think. I think they expect their enemies to come in numbers, and where they can be seen.”
Chiad turned amused gray eyes on the Aielman. “Do you mean to move like wind then, Stone Dog? It will be diverting to see a Stone Dog try to move lightly. When my spearsister and I have rescued the prisoners, perhaps we will go back for you, if you are too old to find your own way.” Bain touched her arm, and she looked at the flamehaired woman in surprise. After a moment, she flushed slightly under her tan. Both women shifted their eyes to Faile, who was still watching Perrin, her head up and her arms crossed now.
He took a long breath. If he told her he did not want her to come, Bain and Chiad almost certainly would not, either. They were still making a point of being with her, not him. Maybe Faile was, too. Perhaps he and Gaul could do it alone, but he could not see how to make her stay if she did not want to. Faile being Faile, she would just as likely sneak after them. “You will stay close to me,” he said firmly. “I want to rescue prisoners, not leave another behind.”
Laughing, she dropped down beside him, snuggling her shoulder under his arm. “Staying close to you sounds a fine idea.” She flipped the crown of red flowers onto his head, and Bain chuckled.
He rolled his eyes up; he could just see the edge of the thing hanging over his forehead. He must look a fool. He left it there, though.
The sun slid down as slowly as a bead in honey. Abell brought some bread and cheese — over half those wouldbe heroes had not brought anything to eat after all
— and they ate and waited. Night came, lit by a moon already high but obscured by scurrying clouds. Perrin waited. Lights vanished in the Whitecloak camp, and in Watch Hill, too, leaving a sprinkling of glowing windows across the otherwise dark mound, and he gathered Tam and Faile and the Aiel around him. Everyone’s face was clear, to him. Verin stood close enough to listen. Abell and Tomas were with the other Two Rivers folk, keeping them quiet.
He felt a little odd giving instructions, so kept them simple. Tam was to have everyone ready to ride the moment Perrin returned with the prisoners. The Whitecloaks would be after them as soon as they discovered what was up, so a place to hide was needed. Tam knew one, an empty farmhouse in the edge of the Westwood.
“Try not to kill anybody, if you can manage it,” Perrin cautioned the Aiel. “The Whitecloaks will be hot enough at losing their prisoners. They’ll set the sun afire if they lose men, too.” Gaul and the Maidens nodded as if they looked forward to it. Strange people. They vanished into the night.
“Have a care,” Verin told him softly as he slung his bow across his back.
Ta’veren does not mean immortal.” “Tomas might be a help, you know.”
“Do you think one more would make a difference?” she said musingly. “Besides, I have other uses for him.”
Shaking his head, he moved out from the thicket, going to elbows and knees, almost flat to the ground, as soon as he was beyond the brush. Faile imitated him at his side. The grass and wildflowers stood high enough to screen them. He was glad she could not see his face. He was desperately afraid. Not for himself, but if anything happened to her…
Like two more shifting moonshadows they crawled across the open ground, stopping at Perrin’s signal about ten paces from where guards paced up and down, cloaks gleaming in the moonlight, a little way out from the first row of tents. Two came facetoface almost in front of them, stomping to a halt.
“All is well with the night,” one announced. “The Light illumine us, and protect us from the Shadow.”
“All is well with the night,” the other replied. “The Light illumine us, and protect us from the Shadow.
Turning on their heels, they marched away, looking neither left nor right.
Perrin let each take a dozen paces, then touched Faile’s shoulder and rose, barely letting himself breathe. He could hardly hear her breathing, either. Almost tiptoeing, they hurried in among the tents, dropping low again as soon as they were past the first. Men snored inside, or muttered in their sleep. Except for that, the camp was silent. The tramp of the guards’ boots was plainly audible. The smell of doused cook fires hung in the air, the scents of canvas and horses and men.
Silently he motioned for Faile to follow him. Tent ropes made snares for unwary feet in the darkness. They were clear to him, though, and he wove a path through for them.
He had the location of the prisoners’ tent marked in his head, and he started toward it cautiously. Near the center of the camp. A long way there, and a long way back.
The crunch of boots on the ground and a grunt from Faile spun him around just in time to be knocked down by the rush of a big shape in a white cloak, a man as
thick as Master Luhhan himself. Iron fingers dug into his throat as the two of them rolled. Perrin seized the man’s chin with one hand, forcing his head back, trying to push him off. Prying at the grip on his throat, he pounded at the fellow’s ribs with his fist, producing grunts and no other effect he could tell. Blood roared in his ears; his vision narrowed, black creeping in from the sides. He fumbled for his axe, but his fingers felt numb.
Suddenly the man jerked and, collapsed atop him. Perrin pushed the limp form off himself and drew in deep lungfuls of sweet night air.
Faile tossed aside a chunk of firewood and rubbed the side of her head. “He did not think I was worth worrying about, beyond knocking down,” she whispered.
“A fool,” Perrin whispered back. “But a strong one.” He was going to have the feel of those fingers at his neck for days. “Are you all right?”
“Of course. I am not a porcelain figurine.” He supposed she was not, at that.
Hastily dragging the unconscious man up against the side of a tent where he hoped no one would find him soon, he stripped off the fellow’s white cloak and bound his hands and feet with spare bowstrings. A kerchief found in the fellow’s pocket served for a gag. Not very clean, but that was his own fault. Lifting his bow over his head, Perrin settled the cloak around his shoulders. If anyone else saw them, maybe they would mistake him for one of their own. The cloak had a golden knot of rank beneath the flaring sunburst. An officer. Even better.
He walked between the tents openly now, and quickly. Hidden or not, that fellow could be found any moment and the alarm raised. Faile scudded along beside him like his shadow, scanning the camp for signs of life as alertly as he did. Shifting moonshadows obscured the spaces between the tents even for his eyes.
Approaching the prison tent, he slowed, so as not to excite the guards; a whitecloaked man stood at this end, and the gleaming lance point of another rose above the tent’s peaked roof.
Suddenly that lance point vanished. There was no sound. It simply fell..
A heartbeat later, two patches of darkness abruptly became veiled Aiel, neither tall enough for Gaul. Before the guard could move, one of them leaped into the air, kicking him in the face. He staggered to his knees, and the other Maiden spun, adding her own kick. The guard dropped bonelessly. Crouching, the Maidens looked around, spears ready, to see if they had roused anyone.
At the sight of Perrin in a white cloak, they nearly went for him, until they saw Faile. One shook her head and whispered to the other, who appeared to laugh silently.
Perrin told himself he should not feel disgruntled, but first Faile saved him from being strangled, and now she saved him from a spear through his liver. For somebody who was supposedly leading a rescue, he was making a fine showing so far.
Tossing the tent flap aside, he put his head into the interior, which was even
darker than outside. Master Luhhan lay asleep across the tent’s entrance, with the women huddled together toward the back. Perrin put a hand over Haral Luhhan’s mouth and, when his eyes popped open, laid a finger across his own lips. “Wake the others,” Perrin said in a low voice. “Quietly. We are taking you out of here.” Recognition dawned in Master Luhhan’s eyes, and he nodded.
Backing out of the tent, Perrin stripped the cloak from the downed guard. The man was still breathing — hoarsely, and bubbling through a thoroughly broken nose
— but being manhandled did not wake him. They had to hurry now. Gaul was there, with the cloak from the other guard. The three Aiel watched the other tents cautiously. Faile practically danced with impatience.
When Master Luhhan brought his wife and the other women out, all of them peering about nervously in the moonlight, Perrin hurriedly put one of the cloaks around the blacksmith. It was a poor fit — Haral Luhhan seemed to be made from tree trunks — but it had to do. The other went around Alsbet Luhhan. She was not so large as her husband, but still as big as most men. Her round face looked surprised at first, but then she nodded; pulling the fallen guard’s conical helmet from his head, she stuck it on her own, squashing it down atop her thick braid. The two guards they bound and gagged with strips of blanket and laid inside the tent.
Sneaking out again the way they had come in was impossible; Perrin had known that from the start. Even if Master and Mistress Luhhan could have moved quietly enough — which he doubted — Bode and Eldrin were clinging to each other in shocked disbelief at rescue. Only their mother’s soft murmurs kept them from breaking into relieved tears already. He had planned for it. Horses were needed, both for a quick burst of speed away from the camp and to carry everyone afterward. There were horses at the picket lines.
The Aiel ghosting ahead, he followed behind with Faile and the Cauthons behind, Haral and Alsbet bringing up the rear. To a casual glance, at least, they looked to be like three Whitecloaks escorting four women.
The picketed horses were guarded, but only on the side away from the tents. After all, why guard them from the men who rode them? It certainly made Perrin’s job easier. They simply walked up to the line of horses nearest the tents, each secured by a simple rope hackamore, and untied one apiece, except for the Aiel. The hardest part was getting Mistress Luhhan up barebacked; it took Perrin and Master Luhhan both, and she kept trying to push her skirts down to cover her knees. Natti and her girls scrambled up easily, and Faile, of course. The guards supposedly watching the horses continued their measured rounds, calling to each other about all being well with the night.
“When I give the word,” Perrin began, and someone in the camp shouted, then again, more loudly; a horn sounded, and shouting men poured out of the tents. Whether they had found the prisoners gone, or the unconscious man who had attacked him, it made no difference. “Follow me!” Perrin cried, digging his heels into the dark gelding he had chosen. “Ride!”
It was a madcap rush, but he tried to keep an eye on everyone. Master Luhhan was almost as bad a rider as his wife, the pair of them bouncing around, nearly falling as their horses ran. Either Bode or Eldrin was screaming at the top of her lungs, from excitement or terror. Luckily the guards were not expecting trouble from inside the camp. One whitecloaked man peering into the darkness turned just in time to throw himself out of the way of the charging horses with a cry almost as shrill as the Cauthon girl’s. More horns bayed behind them, and shouts with the definite sound of orders hammered the night, well before they reached the cover of the thicket. Not that it was much cover now.
Tam had everyone mounted, as Perrin had asked. Or ordered. He swung straight from the gelding to Stepper. Verin and Tomas were the only ones not all but jumping up and down in their saddles; their horses were the only ones not dancing with their riders’ nervousness. Abell was trying to hug his wife and daughters all three at the same time, all of them laughing and crying. Master Luhhan was trying to shake every hand he could reach. Everybody except the Aiel, Verin and her Warder seemed to be offering everybody else congratulations, as though it were all done.
“Why, Perrin, it is you!” Mistress Luhhan exclaimed. Her round, face looked peculiar under the helmet, sitting askew because of her braid. “What is that thing on your face, young man? I am more than grateful to you, but I will not have you at my table looking like a —”
“No time for that,” he told her, ignoring the shock on her face. She was not a woman people cut off, but the Whitecloak horns were sounding something besides an alarm now, a short repetitive cry, sharp and insistent. An order of some kind. “Tam, Abell, take Master Luhhan and the women to that hiding place you know. Gaul, you go with them. And Faile.” That would add Bain and Chiad. “And Hu and Haim.” That should be enough to be safe. “Move quietly. Quiet is better than speed, for a little while anyway. But go now.”
Those he named wound off westward with no argument, though Mistress Luhhan, holding her horse’s mane with both hands, gave him a very level look. It was the lack of argument from Faile that stunned him, enough that it took him a moment to realize he had called Master al’Thor and Master Cauthon by their first names.
Verin and Tomas had stayed behind, and he eyed her sharply. “Any chance of a little help from you?”’
“Not the way you mean, perhaps,” she replied calmly, as though the Whitecloak camp were not in turmoil just a mile off. “My reasons are no different today than yesterday. But I think it might rain in… oh… half an hour. Maybe less. Quite a downpour, I expect.”
Half an hour. Perrin grunted and turned to the remaining Two Rivers lads. Practically quivering with the desire to run, they held their bows in whiteknuckled grips. He hoped they had all remembered to bring spare bowstrings, at least, since it
was going to rain. “We,” he told them, “are going to draw the Whitecloaks off so Mistress Cauthon and Mistress Luhhan and the rest can get away safely. We’ll take them south along the North Road until we can lose them in the rain. If anyone wants out, he had best ride now. ” A few hands shifted on their reins, but they all sat their saddles looking at him. “All right, then. Shout like you’ve gone mad so they’ll hear us. Shout until we reach the road.”
Bellowing, he wheeled Stepper and galloped for the road. At first he was not really certain they would follow, but their wild howls drowned his roar and the thunder of their hooves. If the Whitecloaks did not hear that, they were deaf.
Not all of them stopped shouting when they reached the hardpacked dirt of the North Road and swung south at a dead run through the night. Some laughed and whooped. Perrin shrugged out of the white cloak and let it fall. The horns sounded again, a little fainter now.
“Perrin,” Wil called, leaning forward on the neck of his horse, “what do we do now? What do we do next?”
“We hunt Trollocs! ” Perrin shouted over his shoulder. From the way the laughter redoubled, he did not think they believed him. But he could feel Verin’s eyes drilling into his back. She knew. Thunder in the night sky echoed the horses’ hooves.
The Shadow Rising
Chapter 34
(Dragon)
He Who Comes With the Dawn
The dawn shadows shortened and paled as Rand and Mat jogged across the barren, stilldark valley floor, leaving fogshrouded Rhuidean behind. The dry air hinted at heat to come, but the slight breeze actually felt cool to Rand, with no coat. That would not last; full blistering daylight would be on them soon enough; They hurried as best they could in the hope of beating it, but he did not think they would. Their best was not very fast.
Mat trotted in a pained shamble; a dark smear fanned across half his face, and his coat hung open, revealing his unlaced shirt stuck to his chest by more drying blood. Sometimes he gingerly touched the thick weal around his throat, nearly black now, growling under his breath, and he stumbled often, catching himself with the odd, blackhafted spear and clutching at his head. He did not complain, though, which was a bad sign. Mat was a great complainer at small discomforts; if he was silent now, it meant he was in real pain.
The old, halfhealed wound in Rand’s side felt as though something were boring into it, and the gashes on his face and head burned, yet lumbering along, halfhunched over his aching side, he hardly thought of his own hurts. He was all too conscious of the sun rising behind him and the Aiel waiting on the bare mountainside ahead. There was water and shade up there, and help for Mat. The rising sun behind, and the Aiel ahead. Dawn and the Aiel.
He Who Comes With the Dawn. That Aes Sedai he had seen, or dreamed he had seen, before Rhuidean — she had spoken as if she had the Foretelling. He will bind you together. He will take you back, and destroy you. Words delivered like prophecy. Destroy them. Prophecy said he would Break the World again. The idea horrified him. Perhaps he could escape that part, at least, but war, death and destruction already welled up in his footsteps. Tear was the first place in what seemed a very long time where he had not left chaos behind, men dying and villages burning.
He found himself wishing he could climb on Jeade’en and run as fast as the stallion could carry him. It was not the first time. But I can’t run, he thought. I have it to do because there isn’t anybody else who can. I do it, or the Dark One wins. A hard bargain, but the only one there was. But why would I destroy the Aiel? How?
That last thought chilled him. It was too much like accepting that he would, that he should. He did not want to harm the Aiel. “Light,” he said harshly, “I don’t want to destroy anybody.” His mouth felt lined with dust again.
Mat glanced at him silently. A wary look. I am not mad yet, Rand thought grimly.
Upslope the Aiel were stirring in the three camps. The cold fact was, he needed them. That was why he had begun to contemplate this, back when he first
discovered that the Dragon Reborn and He Who Comes With the Dawn might well be one and the same. He needed people he could trust, people who followed from something besides fear of him, or greed for power. People who did not mean to use him for their own ends. He had done what was required, and now he would use them. Because he had to. He was not mad yet — he did not think he was — but many would think so before he was done.
Full, glaring sunlight overtook them before they began to scramble up Chaendaer, heat like a club. Rand climbed the uneven slope as fast as he could manage, with its dips and rises and rough outcrops; his throat had forgotten its last drink, and the sun dried his shirt as fast as sweat could moisten it. Mat needed no urging, either. There was water up there. Bair stood in front of the Wise One’s low tents, a waterbag in her hands, glistening with condensation. Licking cracked lips, Rand was sure he could see the glisten.
“Where is he? What have you done to him?”
The roar stopped Rand in his tracks. The flamehaired man, Couladin, stood atop a thick thumb of granite jutting out from the mountain. Others of the Shaido clan clustered around its base, all looking at Rand and Mat. Some were veiled.
“Who are you talking about?” Rand called back. His voice croaked with thirst.
Couladin’s eyes bulged in outrage. “Muradin, wetlander! He entered two days before you, yet you come out first. He could not fail where you survive! You must have murdered him!”
Rand thought he heard a shout from the Wise One’s tents, but before he could even blink, Couladin uncoiled like a snake, casting a spear straight at him. Two more streaked behind it from the Aiel at the base of the granite thumb.
Instinctively Rand snatched for saidin and the flamecarved sword. The blade whirled in his hands — Whirlwind on the Mountain; aptly named — slicing a pair of spear shafts in two. Mat’s spinning black spear just barely knocked the third aside.
“Proof!” Couladin howled. “They entered Rhuidean armed! It is forbidden! Look at the blood on them! They have murdered Muradin! ” Even as he spoke he hurled another spear, and this time it was one of a dozen.
Rand flung himself aside, just conscious of Mat leaping the other way, yet even before they hit the ground the spears came together where Rand had been standing, bouncing off each other. Rolling to his feet, he found the spears all stuck into the stony ground. In a perfect circle surrounding the spot he had jumped from. For a moment even Couladin seemed stunned to stillness.
“Stop!” Bair shouted, running down into the motionless instant. Her long bulky skirt impeded her no more than her age; she bounded down the slope like a girl for all her. white hair, and a girl in a fury at that. “The peace of Rhuidean, Couladin!” Her thin voice was an iron rod. “Twice you have tried to break it now. Once more, and you are outlawed! My word on it! You, and anyone else who lifts a hand!” She skidded to a halt in front of Rand, facing the Shaido with the water bag raised as if
she meant to bludgeon them with it. “’Let who doubts me, raise a weapon! That one will be deprived of shade according to the Agreement of Rhuidean, denied hold or stand or tent. His own sept will hunt him as a wild beast.”
Some of the Shaido hastily unveiled their faces — some of them— but Couladin was not dissuaded. “They are armed, Bair! They went armed to Rhuidean! That is —!”
“Silence!” Bair shook a fist at him. “You dare speak of weapons? You who would break the Peace of Rhuidean, and kill with your face bare to the world? They took no weapon with them; I attest to it. ” Deliberately she turned her back, but the gaze she swept across Rand and Mat was hardly softer than what she had given Couladin. She grimaced at Mat’s strange swordbladed spear, muttering, “Did you find that in Rhuidean, boy?”
“I was given it, old woman,” Mat growled back hoarsely. “I paid for it, and I mean to keep it.”
She sniffed. “You both look as if you had rolled in knifegrass. What —? No, you can tell me later.” Eyeing Rand’s Powerwrought sword, she shivered. “Rid yourself of that. And show them the signs before that fool Couladin tries to whip them up again. With this temper on him, he would take his whole clan into outlawry without blinking. Quickly!”
For a moment he gaped at her. Signs? Then he remembered what Rhuarc had shown him once, the mark of a man who had survived Rhuidean. Letting the sword vanish, he unlaced his left shirt cuff and pushed the sleeve back to his elbow.
Around his forearm wound a shape like that on the Dragon banner, a sinuous goldenmaned form scaled in scarlet and gold. He expected it, of course, but it was still a shock. The thing looked like a part of his skin, as though that nonexistent creature itself had settled into him. His arm felt no different, yet the scales sparkled in the sunlight like polished metal; it seemed if he touched that golden mane atop his wrist, he would surely feel each hair.
He thrust his arm into the air as soon as it was bare, high so Couladin and his people could see. Mutters rose among the Shaido, and Couladin snarled wordlessly. The numbers around the granite outcrop were swelling as more Shaido came running from their tents. Rhuarc stood with Heirn and his Jindo a little upslope; they watched the Shaido warily, and Rand with an air of expectation his uplifted arm did not lessen. Lan stood halfway between the two groups, hands resting on his sword hilt, face a thunderhead.
Just as Rand began to realize the Aiel wanted something more, Egwene and the other three Wise Women reached him, scrambling down the mountain. The Aiel women looked out of countenance at having to hurry and every bit as angry as Bair had been. Amys directed her glares at Couladin, while sunhaired Melaine stared blazingly at Rand. Seana just seemed ready to chew rocks. Egwene, with a scarf wrapped around her hair and spreadover her shoulders, stared at Mat and him half in consternation and half as though she had expected never to see them again.
“Fool man,” Bair muttered. “All of the signs.” Tossing the waterbag to Mat, she seized Rand’s right arm and stripped back his sleeve, exposing a mirror twin of the creature on his left forearm. Her breath caught, then came out in a long sigh. She seemed balanced on a razor edge between relief and apprehension. There was no mistaking it; she had hoped for the second marking, yet it made her afraid. Amys and the other two Wise Women echoed her sign almost exactly. It was odd to see Aiel fearful.
Rand almost laughed. Not that he was amused. “Twice and twice shall he be marked.” That was what the Prophecies of the Dragon said. A heron branded into each palm, and now these. One of the peculiar creatures — Dragons, the Prophecy called them — was supposed to be “for remembrance lost.” Rhuidean had certainly supplied that, the lost history of the Aiel’s origins. And the other was for “the price he must pay.” How soon must I pay it? he wondered. And how many have to pay with me? Others always had to, even when he tried to pay alone.
Apprehensive or not, Bair did not pause before shoving that arm above his head, too, and proclaiming loudly, “Behold what has never been seen before. A Car’a’carn has been chosen, a chief of chiefs. Born of a Maiden, he has come with the dawn from Rhuidean, according to prophecy, to unite the Aiel! The fulfillment of prophecy has begun!”
The reactions of the other Aiel were nothing like what Rand envisioned. Couladin stared down at him, even more hatefully than before if that was possible, then leaped from the outcrop and stalked up the slope to vanish into the Shaido tents. The Shaido themselves began to disperse, glancing at Rand with unreadable faces before drifting back to their tents. Heirn and the warriors of the Jindo sept, hardly hesitating, did the same. In moments only Rhuarc remained, his eyes troubled. Lan went over to the clan chief; from his face, the Warder would just as soon not have seen Rand at all. Rand was not sure what he had expected, but surely something other than this.
“Burn me!” Mat muttered. He seemed to realize for the first time that he had the waterbag in his hands. Jerking the plug free, he held the hide bag high, letting nearly as much splash over his face as into his mouth. When he finally lowered it, he looked at the markings on Rand’s arms again and shook his head, repeating, “Burn me!” as he pushed the sloshing bag at him.
Rand stared at the Aiel in consternation, but he was more than glad to drink.
The first gulps hurt his throat, it was so dry.
“What happened to you?” Egwene demanded. “Did Muradin attack you?” “It is forbidden to speak of what occurs in Rhuidean,” Bair said sharply.
“Not Muradin,” Rand said. “Where’s Moiraine? I expected her to be the first to meet us.” He rubbed his face; black flakes of dried blood came off on his hand. “For once, I won’t care if she asks before she Heals me.”
“Me either,” Mat said hoarsely. He swayed, holding himself up with his spear, and pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead. “My brain is spinning.”
Egwene grimaced. “She is still in Rhuidean, I suppose. But if you have finally come out, maybe she will, as well. She left right after you. And Aviendha. You’ve all been gone so long. ”
“Moiraine went to Rhuidean?” Rand said incredulously. “And Aviendha? Why did —” Abruptly he registered what else she had said. “What do you mean, ‘so long’?”
“This is the seventh day,” she said. “The seventh day since you all went down into the valley.”
The waterbag fell from his hands. Seana snatched it up again before more than a little of its contents, so precious in the Waste, could trickle away down the stony slope. Rand barely noticed. Seven days. Anything could have happened in seven days. They could be catching up to me, figuring out what I’m planning. I have to move. Fast. I have to keep ahead of them. I haven’t come this far to fail.
They were all staring at him, even Rhuarc and Mat, concern writ large on their faces. And caution. No wonder in that. Who could say what he might do, or how sane he still was? Only Lan did not change his stony scowl.
“I told you that was Aviendha, Rand. Bare as she was born. ” Mat’s voice had a painful rasp to it, and his legs looked none too steady.
“How long before Moiraine comes back?” Rand asked. If she had gone in at the same time, she should return soon.
“If she has not returned by the tenth day,” Bair replied, “she will not. No one has ever returned after ten days.”
Another three days, maybe. Three more days when he had already lost seven. Let them come, now. I will not fail! He barely kept a snarl from his face. “You can channel. One of you can, anyway. I saw how you flung Couladin about. Will you Heal Mat?”
Amys and Melaine exchanged looks he could only call rueful.
“Our paths have gone other ways,” Amys said regretfully. “There are Wise Ones who could do what you ask, after a fashion, but we are not among them.”
“What do you mean?” he snapped angrily. “You can channel like Aes Sedai. Why can’t you Heal like them? You did not want him to go to Rhuidean in the first place. Do you think you can let him die from it?”
“I’ll survive,” Mat said, but his eyes were tight with suffering.
Egwene put a hand on Rand’s arm. “Not all Aes Sedai can Heal very well,” she said in a soothing voice. “The best Healers are all Yellow Ajah. Sheriam, the Mistress of Novices, cannot Heal anything much more serious than a bruise or a small cut. No two women can have exactly the same Talents or skills.
Her tone irritated him. He was not some pettish child to be smoothed down. He frowned at the Wise Ones. Could not or would not, Mat and he would have to wait for Moiraine. If she had not been killed by that bubble of evil, by those dust creatures. It must have dissipated by now; there had been an end to the one in Tear. They wouldn’t have stopped her. She could channel her way through them. She
knows what she’s doing; she doesn’t have to figure it out an inch at a time the way I do. But then why was she not back? Why had she gone in the first place, and why had he not seen her? Foolish question. A hundred people could have been in Rhuidean without being seen. Too many questions, and no answers until she did return, he suspected. If then.
“There are herbs and ointments,” Seana said. “Come out of the sun, and we will tend your injuries.”
“Out of the sun,” Rand muttered. “Yes.” He was being boorish but he did not care. Why had Moiraine gone into Rhuidean? He did not trust her to stop pushing him in the direction she thought best, and the Dark One take his opinions. If she was in there, could she have affected what he saw? Changed it some way? If she even suspected what he planned…
He started toward the Jindo tents — Couladin’s people were not likely to offer him a resting place — but Amys turned him toward the flat farther up where the Wise Ones’ tents stood. “They might not be comfortable with you among them just, yet,” she said, Rhuarc, failing in beside her, nodded agreement.
Melaine glanced at Lan. “This is no business of yours, Aan’allein. You and Rhuarc take Matrim and —”
“No,” Rand broke in. “I want them with me.” Partly it was because he wanted answers from the clan chief, and partly it was sheer stubbornness. These Wise Ones were all set to guide him around on a leash, just like Moiraine. He was not about to put up with it. They looked at one another, then nodded as if acceding to a request. If they thought he would be a good boy because they gave him a sweet, they were mistaken. “I’d have thought you would be with Moiraine,” he said to Lan, ignoring the Wise Ones and their nods.
A flash of embarrassment crossed the Warder’s face. “The Wise Ones managed to hide her going until nearly sunset,” he said stiffly. “Then they… convinced me following would serve no purpose. They said even if I did, I could not find her until she was already on her way out, and she would not need me, then. I am no longer certain I should have listened.”“Listened!” Melaine snorted. Her gold and ivory bracelets clattered as she adjusted her shawl irritably. “Trust a man to make himself sound reasonable. You would almost certainly have died, and very likely killed her, too. ”
“Melaine and I had to hold him down half the night before he would listen,” Amys said. Her small smile was a touch amused, a touch wry.
Lan’s face might as well have been carved from thunderclouds. Small wonder, if the Wise Ones had used the Power on him. What was Moiraine doing in there?
“Rhuarc,” Rand said, “how am I supposed to unite the Aiel? They don’t even want to look at me.” He raised his bare forearms for a moment; the Dragons’ scales glittered in the harsh sunlight. “These say I’m He Who Comes With the Dawn, but everybody practically melted away as soon as I showed the things.”
“It is one thing to know prophecy will be fulfilled, eventually,” the clan chief
said slowly, “another to see that fulfillment begun before your eyes. It is said you will make the clans one people again, as long ago, but we have fought one another almost as long as we have fought the rest of the world. And there is more, for some of us.”
He will bind you together, and destroy you. Rhuarc must have heard that, too. And the other clan chiefs, and the Wise Ones, if they also had entered that forest of shining glass columns. If Moiraine had not arranged a special vision for him. “Does everyone see the same things inside those columns, Rhuarc?”
“No!” Melaine snapped, eyes like green steel. “Be silent, or send Aan’allein and Matrim away. You must go, too, Egwene.”
“It is not permitted,” Amys said in a just slightly softer voice, “to speak of what occurs within Rhuidean except with those who have been there.” A fraction softer, maybe. “Even then, few speak of it, and seldom.”
“I mean to change what is permitted and what isn’t,” Rand told them levelly. “Become used to it.” He caught Egwene muttering about him needing his ears boxed, and grinned at her. “Egwene can stay, too, since she asked so nicely.” She stuck her tongue out at him, then blushed when she realized what she had done.
“Change,” Rhuarc said. “You know he brings change, Amys. It is wondering what change, and how, that makes us like children alone in the dark. Since it must be, let it begin now. No two clan chiefs I have spoken with have seen through the exactly same eyes, Rand, or exactly the same things, until the sharing of water, and the meeting where the Agreement of Rhuidean was made. Whether it is the same for Wise Ones, I do not know, but I suspect it is. I think it is a matter of bloodlines. I believe I saw through the eyes of my ancestors, and you yours.”
Amys and the other Wise Ones glowered in grimly sullen silence. Mat and Egwene wore equally confused stares. Lan alone seemed not to be listening at all; his eyes looked inward, no doubt in worry over Moiraine.
Rand felt a little strange himself. Seeing through his ancestors’ eyes. He had known for some time that Tam al’Thor was not his real father, that he had been found as a newborn on the slopes of Dragonmount after the last major battle of the Aiel War. A newborn with his dead mother, a Maiden of the Spear. He had claimed Aiel blood in demanding admittance to Rhuidean, but the fact of it was just now being driven home. His ancestors. Aiel.
“Then you saw Rhuidean just begun building, too,” he said. “And the two Aes Sedai. You… heard what the one of them said.” He will destroy you.
“I heard.” Rhuarc looked resigned, like a man who had learned his leg had to be cut off. “I know.”
Rand changed the subject. “What was ‘the sharing of water’?”
The clan chief’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You did not recognize it? But then, I do not see why you should; you have not grown up with the histories. According the oldest stories, from the day the Breaking of the World began until the day we first entered the Threefold Land, only one people did not attack us. One people
allowed us water freely when it was needed. It took us long to discover who they were. That is done with, now. The pledge of peace was destroyed; the treekillers spat in our faces.”
“Cairhien,” Rand said. “You’re talking about Cairhien, and Avendoraldera, and Laman cutting down the Tree. ”
“Laman is dead for his punishment,” Rhuarc, said in a flat voice. “The oathbreakers are done with.” He looked at Rand sideways. “Some, such as Couladin, take it for proof we can trust no one who is not Aiel. That is a part of why he hates you. A part of it. He will take your face and blood for lies. Or claim he does.”
Rand shook his head. Moiraine sometimes talked of the complexity of Age Lace, the Pattern of an Age, woven by the Wheel of Time from the thread of human lives. If the ancestors of the Cairhienin had not allowed the Aiel to have water three thousand years ago, then Cairhien would never have been given the right to use the Silk Path across the Waste, with a cutting from Avendesora for a pledge. No pledge, and King Laman would have had no Tree to cut down; there would have been no Aiel War; and he could not have been born on the side of Dragonmount to be carried off and raised in the Two Rivers. How many more points like that had there been, where a single decision one way or another affected the weave of the Pattern for thousands of years? A thousand times a thousand tiny branching points, a thousand times that many, all twitching the Pattern into a different design. He himself was a walking branching point, and maybe Mat and Perrin, too. What they did or did not do would send ripples ahead through the years, through the Ages.
He looked at Mat, hobbling up the slope with the aid of his spear, head down and eyes squinted in pain. The Creator could not have been thinking, to set the future on the shoulders of three farmboys. I can’t drop it. I have to carry the load, whatever the cost.
At the Wise Ones’ low, wallless tents, the women ducked inside with murmurs about water and shade. They all but pulled Mat with them; as evidence of how his head and throat hurt, he not only obeyed, he did so silently.
Rand started to follow, but Lan laid a hand on his shoulder. “Did you see her in there?” the Warder asked.
“No, Lan. I’m sorry; I did not. She’ll come out safe if anyone can.”
Lan grunted and took his hand away. “Watch out for Couladin, Rand. I have seen his kind before. Ambition burns in his belly. He would sacrifice the world to achieve it.”
“Aan’allein speaks the truth,” Rhuarc said. “The Dragons on your arms will not matter if you are dead before the clan chiefs learn of them. I will make sure some of Heirn’s Jindo are always near you until we reach Cold Rocks. Even then, Couladin will probably try to make trouble, and the Shaido, at least, will follow him. Perhaps others, too. The Prophecy of Rhuidean said you would be raised by those not of the blood, yet Couladin may not be the only one to see only a wetlander. ”
“I will try to watch my back,” Rand said dryly. In the stories, when somebody fulfilled a prophecy, everyone cried “Behold!” or some such, and that was that except for dealing with the villains. Real life did not seem to work that way.
When they entered the tent, Mat was already seated on a goldtasseled red cushion with his coat and shirt off. A woman in a cowled white robe had finished washing the blood from his face and was just beginning on his chest. Amys gripped a stone mortar between her knees, blending some ointment with a pestle, while Bair and Seana had their heads together over herbs brewing in a pot of hot water.
Melaine grimaced at Lan and Rhuarc then fixed Rand with cool green eyes. “Strip to the waist,” she said curtly. “The cuts on your head do not seem too bad, but let me see what has you hunched over.” She struck a small brass gong, and another whiterobed woman ducked in at the back of the tent, a steaming silver basin in her hands and cloths over her arm.
Rand took a seat on a cushion, making himself sit up straight. “That’s nothing to worry yourself about,” he assured her. The second woman in white knelt gracefully by his side and, resisting his efforts to take the damp cloth she wrung out in the basin, began gently washing his face. He wondered who she was. She looked Aiel, but she certainly did not act it. Her gray eyes held a determined meekness.
“It is an old injury,” Egwene told the sunhaired Wise One. “Moiraine has never been able to Heal it properly.” The look she gave Rand said common courtesy should have made him tell as much. From the glances that passed among the Wise Ones, though, he thought she had said more than enough already. A wound Aes Sedai could not Heal; that was a puzzle to them. Moiraine seemed to know more about him than he knew about himself, and he had a hard time dealing with her. Maybe it would go easier with the Wise Ones if they had to guess about him.
Mat winced as Amys began rubbing her ointment into the slashes on his chest. If it felt anything like it smelled, Rand thought he had cause to wince. Bair shoved a silver cup at Mat. “Drink, young man. Timsin root and silverleaf will help your headaches if anything can.”
He did not hesitate before gulping it down; a shudder and a twisted face followed. “Tastes like the inside of my boots.” But he gave her a seated bow, formal enough for a Tairen except for his being shirtless, and only spoiled a bit by his sudden grin. “I thank you, Wise One. And I won’t ask if you added anything just to give it that… memorable… taste.” Bair and Seana’s soft laughter might have come because they had or because they had not, but it seemed that as usual Mat had found a way to get on the good of side of the women. Even Melaine gave him a brief smile.
“Rhuarc,” Rand said, “if Couladin thinks to make difficulties, I need to jump ahead of him. How do I go about telling the other clan chiefs? About me. About these.” He shifted his Dragontwined arms. The whiterobed woman at his side, cleaning the long gash in his hair now, deliberately avoided looking at them.
“There is no set formality,” Rhuarc said. “How could there be, for a thing that
will happen only once? When there must be a meeting between clan chiefs, there are places where something like the Peace of Rhuidean holds. The closest to Cold Rocks, the closest to Rhuidean, is Alcair Dal. You could show proofs to the clan and sept chiefs there.”
“Al’cair Dal?” Mat said, giving it a subtly different sound. “The Golden Bowl?” Rhuarc nodded. “A round canyon, though there is nothing golden about it.
There is a ledge at one end, and a man who stands there can be heard by anyone in the canyon without raising his voice.”
Rand frowned at the Dragons on his forearms. He was not the only one to have been marked in some way in Rhuidean. Mat no longer spoke a few words of the Old Tongue now and then without knowing what he was saying. He understood, since Rhuidean, though he did not appear to realize it. Egwene was watching Mat. Thoughtfully. She had spent too much time with Aes Sedai.
“Rhuarc, can you send messengers out to the clan chiefs?” he said. “How long will it take to ask them all to Alcair Dal? What will it take to make sure they come?”
“Messengers will take weeks, and more weeks for everyone to gather.” Rhuarc’s gesture took in all four Wise Ones. “They can speak to every clan chief in his dreams in one night, to every sept chief. And every Wise One, to make sure no man takes it for just a dream. ”
“I appreciate your confidence that we can move mountains, shade of my heart,” Amys said wryly, settling herself beside Rand with her ointment, “but that does not make it so. It would take several nights to do what you suggest, with little rest in them.”
Rand caught her hand as she started to rub the sharpsmelling mixture on his cheek. “Will you do it?”
“Are you so eager to destroy us?” she demanded, then bit her lip vexedly as the whitecowled woman on Rand’s other side started.
Melaine clapped her hands twice. “Leave us,” she said sharply, and the women in white bowed their way out with their basins and cloths.
“You goad me like a needleburr next to the skin,” Amys told Rand bitterly. “Whatever they are told, those women will talk now of what they should not know.” She pulled her hand free, began rubbing in the ointment with perhaps more energy than was necessary. It stung worse than it smelled.
“I do not mean to goad you,” Rand said, “but there is no time. The Forsaken are loose, Amys, and if they find out where I am, or what I plan… ” The Aiel women did not seem surprised. Had they known already? “Nine still live. Too many, and those that don’t want to kill me think they can use me. I have no time. If I knew a way to bring all the clan chiefs here now, and make them accept me, I’d use it.”
“What is it you plan?” Amys voice was as stony as her face. “Will you ask — tell — the chiefs to come to Alcair Dal?”
For a long moment she met his stare. When she finally nodded, it was grudging.
Begrudged or not, some of the tension went out of him. There was no way to win back seven lost days, but perhaps he could avoid losing more. Moiraine, still in Rhuidean with Aviendha, held him here yet, though. He could not simply abandon her.
“You knew my mother,” he said. Egwene leaned forward, as intent as he, and Mat shook his head.
Amys’s hand paused on his face. “I knew her.” “Tell me about her. Please.”
She shifted her attention to the slash above his ear; if a frown could have Healed, he would not have needed her ointment. Finally she said, “Shaiel’s story, as I know it, begins when I was still Far Dareis Mai, more than a year before I gave up the spear. A number of us had ranged almost to the Dragonwall together. One day we saw a woman, a goldenhaired young wetlander, in silks, with packhorses and a fine mare to ride. A man we would have killed, of course, but she had no weapon beyond a simple knife at her belt. Some wanted to run her back to the Dragonwall naked… ” Egwene blinked; she seemed continually surprised at how hard the Aiel were. Amys continued without pause. “. . . she seemed to be searching determinedly for something. Curious, we followed, day by day, without letting her see. Her horses died, her food ran out, her water, but she did not turn back. She stumbled on afoot, until finally she fell and could not rise. We decided to give her water, and ask her story. She was near death, and it was a full day before she could speak.”
“Her name was Shaiel?” Rand said when she hesitated. “Where was she from?
Why did she come here?”
“Shaiel,” Bair said, “was the name she took for herself. She never gave another in the time I knew her. In the Old Tongue it would mean the Woman Who Is Dedicated.” Mat nodded agreement, not seeming to realize what he had done; Lan eyed him thoughtfully over a silver cup of water. “There was a bitterness in Shaiel, in the beginning,” she finished.
Sitting back on her heels beside Rand, Amys nodded. “She spoke of a child abandoned, a son she loved. A husband she did not love. Where, she would not say. I do not think she ever forgave herself for leaving the child. She would tell little beyond what she had to. It was for us she had been searching, for Maidens of the Spear. An Aes Sedai called Gitara Moroso, who had the Foretelling, had told her that disaster would befall her land and her people, perhaps the world, unless she went to dwell among the Maidens of the Spear, telling no one of her going. She must become a Maiden, and she could not return to her own land until the Maidens had gone to Tar Valon.”
She shook her head wonderingly. “You must understand how it sounded, then. The Maidens go to Tar Valon? No Aiel had crossed the Dragonwall since the day we first reached the Threefold Land. It would be another four years before Laman’s crime brought us into the wetlands. And certainly no one not Aiel had ever become a Maiden of the Spear. Some of us thought her mad from the sun. But she had a
stubborn will, and somehow we found ourselves agreeing to let her try.”
Gitara Moroso. An Aes Sedai with the Foretelling. Somewhere he had heard that name, but where? And he had a brother. A halfbrother. Growing up, he had wondered what it would be like to have a brother or a sister. Who, and where? But Amys was going on.
“Almost every girl dreams of becoming a Maiden, and learns at least the rudiments of bow and spear, of fighting with hands and feet. Even so, those who take the final step and wed the spear discover they know nothing. It was harder for Shaiel. The bow she knew well, but she had never run as far as a mile, or lived on what she could find. A tenyearold girl could beat her, and she did not even know what plants indicate water. Yet she persevered. In a year she had spoken her vows to the spear, become a Maiden, adopted into the Chumai sept of the Taardad.”
And eventually she had gone to Tar Valon with the Maidens, to die on the slopes of Dragonmount. Half an answer, and leaving new questions. If he could only have seen her face.
“You have something of her in your features,” Seana said as though reading his thoughts. She had settled herself crosslegged with a small silver cup of wine. “Less of Janduin.”
“Janduin? My father?”
“Yes,” Seana said. “He was clan chief of the Taardad, then, the youngest in memory. Yet he had a way to him, a power. People listened to him, and would follow him, even those not of his clan. He ended the blood feud between Taardad and Nakai after two hundred years, and made alliance not only with the Nakai, but the Reyn, and the Reyn were not far short of blood feud. He very nearly ended the feud between Shaarad and Goshien, as well, and might have had Laman not cut down the Tree. Young as he was, it was he who led the Taardad and Nakai, the Reyn and Shaarad, to seek Laman’s bloodprice.”
Was. So he was dead now, too. Egwene wore sympathy on her face. Rand ignored it; he did not want sympathy. How could he feel loss, for people he had never known? Yet he did. “How did Janduin die?”
The Wise Ones exchanged hesitant glances. At last Amys said, “It was the beginning of the third year of the search for Laman when Shaiel found herself with child. By the laws, she should have returned to the Threefold Land. A Maiden is forbidden to carry the spear while she carries a child. But Janduin could forbid her nothing; had she asked the moon on a necklace, he would have tried to give it to her. So she stayed, and in the last fight, before Tar Valon, she was lost, and the child was lost. Janduin could not forgive himself for not making her obey the law.”
“He gave up his place as clan chief,” Bair said. “No one had ever done that before. He was told it could not be done, but he simply walked away. He went north with the young men, to hunt Trollocs and Myrddraal in the Blight. It is a thing wild young men do, and Maidens with less sense than goats. Those who returned said he was killed by a man, though. They said Janduin claimed this man looked like
Shaiel, and he would not raise his spear when the man ran him through.”
Dead, then. Both dead. He would never lose his love for Tam, never stop thinking of him as father, but he wished he could have seen Janduin and Shaiel, just once.
Egwene tried to comfort him, of course, the way women did. There was no use trying to make her understand that what he had lost was something he had never had. For memories of parents he had Tam al’Thor’s quiet laugh, and dimmer remembrance of Kari al’Thor’s gentle hands. That was as much as any man could want or need. She seemed disappointed, even a little upset with him, and the Wise Ones appeared to share the feeling to one degree or another, from Bair’s openly disapproving frown to Melaine’s sniff and ostentatious shifting of her shawl. Women never understood. Rhuarc and Lan and Mat did; they left him alone, as he wanted.
For some reason he did not feel like eating when Melaine had food brought, so he went to lie at the edge of the tent, with one of the cushions under his elbow, where he could watch the slope, and the fogshrouded city. The sun blasted the valley and the surrounding mountains, burning the shadows. The air that eddied into the tent seemed to come from an open oven.
After a time Mat came over, wearing a clean shirt. He sat beside Rand without speaking, peering into the valley below, the strange spear propped on his knee. Now and again he felt at the cursive script carved into the black haft.
“How is your head?” Rand asked, and Mat jumped.
“It… doesn’t hurt anymore. ” He jerked his fingers away from the carving, folded his hands deliberately in his lap. “Not as much, anyway. Whatever that was they mixed up, it did the trick.”
He fell silent again, and Rand let him. He did not want to talk, either. He could almost feel time passing, grains of sand in an hourglass dropping one by one, ever so slowly. But everything seemed to tremble, too, the sands ready to explode in a torrent. Foolish. He was just being affected by the shimmering heat haze rising from the mountain’s bare rock. The clan chiefs could not reach Alcair Dal one day sooner if Moiraine appeared before him that instant. They were only a part anyway, and maybe the least important part. A little while later he noticed Lan squatting easily atop the same granite outcrop Couladin had used, paying no mind to the sun. The Warder was watching the valley, too. Another man who did not want to talk.
Rand refused a midday meal, too, though Egwene and the Wise Ones took turns trying to make him eat. They seemed to take his refusal calmly enough, but when he suggested returning to Rhuidean to look for Moiraine — and Aviendha, for that matter — Melaine exploded.
“You fool man! No man can go twice to Rhuidean. Even you would not come back alive! Oh, starve if you want to!” She threw half a round loaf of bread at his head. Mat caught it out of the air and calmly began eating.
“Why do you want me to live?” Rand asked her. “You know what that Aes
Sedai said in front of Rhuidean. I will destroy you. Why aren’t you plotting with Couladin to kill me?” Mat choked, and Egwene planted her fists on her hips, ready to lecture, but Rand kept his attention on Melaine. Instead of answering, she glared at him and left the tent.
It was Bair who spoke. “Everyone thinks they know the Prophecy of Rhuidean, but what they know is what Wise Ones and clan chiefs have told them for generations. Not lies, but not the whole truth. The truth might break the strongest man.”
“What is the whole truth?” Rand insisted.
She glanced at Mat, then said, “In this case, the whole truth, the truth known only to Wise Ones and clan chiefs before this, is that you are our doom. Our doom, and our salvation. Without you, no one of our people will live beyond the Last Battle. Perhaps not even until the Last Battle. That is prophecy, and truth. With you… ‘He shall spill out the blood of those who call themselves Aiel as water on sand, and he shall break them as dried twigs, yet the remnant of a remnant shall he save, and they shall live.’ A hard prophecy, but this has never been a gentle land.” She met his gaze without flinching. A hard land, and a hard woman.
He rolled back over and returned to watching the valley. The others left, except for Mat.
In the midafternoon he finally spotted a figure climbing the mountain, scrambling up wearily. Aviendha. Mat had been right; she was bare as she was born. And showing some effects of the sun, too, Aiel or not; it was only her hands and face that were sundarkened, and the rest of her looked decidedly red. He was glad to see her. She disliked him, but only because she thought he had mistreated Elayne. The simplest of motives. Not for prophecy or doom, not for the Dragons on his arms or because he was the Dragon Reborn. For a simple human reason. He almost looked forward to those cool, challenging stares.
When she saw him, she froze, and there was nothing cool in her bluegreen eyes.
Her gaze made the sun seem cold; he should have been burned to ash on the spot. “Uh… Rand?” Mat said quietly. “I don’t think I would turn my back on her if I
were you.”
A tired sigh escaped him. Of course. If she had been into those glass columns, she knew. Bair, Melaine, the others they had all had years to grow used to it. For Aviendha, it was a fresh wound with no scab. No wonder she hates me now.
The Wise Ones scurried out to meet Aviendha, hurrying her away into another tent. The next time Rand saw her she wore a bulky brown skirt and loose white blouse, with a shawl looped around her arms. She did not look very happy about the clothes. She saw him watching, and the fury on her face — the sheer animal rage — was enough to make him turn away.
Shadows were beginning to stretch to the far mountains by the time Moiraine appeared, falling and staggering back to her feet as she climbed, as sunburned as Aviendha. He was startled to see she had no clothes on either. Women were crazy,
that was all.
Lan leaped from the stone outcrop and ran down to her. Scooping her into his arms, he ran back upslope, perhaps faster than he had descended, cursing and shouting for the Wise Ones by turns. Moiraine’s head lolled on his shoulder. The Wise Ones came out to take her, Melaine physically barring his way when he tried to follow them into the tent. Lan was left stalking up and down outside, pounding a fist into his hand.
Rand rolled onto his back and stared up at the low tent roof. Three days saved. He should have felt glad Moiraine and Aviendha were back and safe, but his relief was all for days saved. Time was everything. He had to be able to choose his own ground. Maybe he still could.
“What are you going to do now?” Mat asked.
“Something you should like. I am going to break the rules.”
“I meant are you going to get something to eat? Me, I’m hungry.”
In spite of himself, Rand laughed. Something to eat? He did not care if he ever ate again. Mat stared at him as if he were crazy, and that only made him laugh harder. Not crazy. For the first time somebody was going to learn what it meant that he was the Dragon Reborn. He was going to break the rules in a way no one expected.
The Shadow Rising
Chapter 35
(Spears and Shield) Sharp Lessons
The Heart of the Stone in Tel’aran’rhiod was as Egwene remembered it in the real world, huge polished redstone columns rising to a distant ceiling, and, beneath the great central dome, Callandor driven into the pale floorstones. Only people were missing. The golden lamps were not lit, yet there was a sort of light, somehow dim and sharp at the same time, that seemed to come from everywhere at once, or nowhere. It was often like that, indoors in Tel’aran’rhiod.
What she did not expect was the woman standing beyond the glittering crystal sword and peering off into the pallid shadows among the columns. The way she was dressed startled Egwene. Bare feet, and wide trousers of brocaded yellow silk. Above a darker yellow sash, she was quite bare except for golden chains hanging around her neck. Tiny gold rings decorated her ears in sparkling rows, and most startling of all, another pierced her nose, with a thin, medallionlined chain running from nose ring to one of the rings in her left ear.
“Elayne?” Egwene gasped, gathering her shawl around her as though she were the one with no blouse. She had garbed herself as a Wise One, this time, for no particular reason.
The DaughterHeir leaped, and when she came down facing Egwene she was wearing a demure gown of pale green with a high, embroidered neck and long sleeves that dangled points over her hands. No earrings. No nose ring. “It is how the Sea Folk women dress at sea,” she said hurriedly, with a furious blush. “I wanted to see how it felt, and this seemed the best place. I couldn’t do it on the ship, after all.”
“How does it feel?” Egwene asked curiously.
“Cold, actually.” Elayne looked around at the surrounding columns. “And it makes you feel people are staring at you, even when there’s no one there.” Abruptly she laughed. “Poor Thom and Juilin. They do not know where to look most of the time. Half the crew are women.”
Studying the columns herself, Egwene shrugged uncomfortably. It did feel as if they were being watched. No doubt it was just because they were the only people in the Stone. No one who had access to Tel’aran’rhiod could expect to find anyone to watch, here. “Thom? Thom Merrilin? And Juilin Sandar? Are they with you?”
“Oh, Egwene, Rand sent them. Rand and Lan. Well, Moiraine sent Thom, actually, but Rand sent Master Sandar. To help us. Nynaeve is quite set up about it, about Lan, though of course she won’t let on.”
Egwene smothered a small smile. Nynaeve was set up? Elayne’s face was beaming, and her dress had changed again, to a much lower neckline, apparently without her realizing it. The ter’angreal, the twisted stone ring, helped the Daughter Heir reach the World of Dreams as easily as Egwene did, but it did not confer control. That had to be learned. Stray thoughts — such as how she might like to
look for Rand — could still alter things for Elayne.
“How is he?” Elayne’s voice was a strange blend of forced casualness and apprehension.
“Well,” Egwene said. “I think he is.” She made it a full report. The Portal Stones, and Rhuidean — as much as she knew from what she had heard; what she had managed to infer from talk of seeing through ancestors’ eyes — the strange creature from the Dragon banner marked on Rand’s forearms, Bair’s revelation that he was the Aiel’s doom, the summons of the clan chiefs to Alcair Dal. Amys and the other Wise Ones should be doing that even now; she fervently hoped they were. She even told the strange story of Rand’s true parents, in a shorter form. “I don’t know, though. He has been acting stranger than ever, since, and Mat hardly less. I don’t mean that he’s mad, but… He is as hard as Rhuarc or Lan, in some ways at least; maybe harder. He’s planning something, I think — something he doesn’t mean anybody to know — and he is in a rush to get to it. It is worrying. Sometimes I have the feeling he doesn’t see people anymore, only pieces on a stones board.”
Elayne did not look worried, or not about that, at any rate. “He is what he is, Egwene. A king, or a general, cannot always afford to see people. When a ruler has to do what is right for a nation, there are times when some will be hurt by what is best for the whole. Rand is a king, Egwene, even if without a nation unless you count Tear, and if he won’t do anything that will hurt anyone, he will end by hurting everyone.”
Egwene sniffed. It might make sense, but she did not have to like it. People were people, and they had to be seen as people. “There is more. Some of the Wise Ones can channel. I don’t know how many, but I suspect more than a few, to some degree. From what Amys tells me, they find every last woman who has the spark born in her.” No Aiel women died trying to teach themselves to channel while not even knowing what they were trying to do; there was no such thing as a wilder among the Aiel. Men who learned they could channel faced a grimmer fate; they went north, to the Great Blight and maybe beyond, to the Blasted Lands and Shayol Ghul. “Going to kill the Dark One,” they called it. None survived long enough to face madness. “Aviendha is one with the spark, it turns out. She’ll be very strong, I think. Amys thinks so, too.”
“Aviendha,” Elayne said wonderingly. “Of course. I should have known. I felt the same kinship for Jorin on first sight that I did for her. And for you, for that matter.”
“Jorin?”
Elayne grimaced. “I promised I would keep her secret, and the first chance I get, I let my tongue run wild. Well, I don’t suppose you will harm her or her sisters. Jorin is Windfinder on Wavedancer, Egwene. She can channel, and so can some of the other Windfinders.” She glanced at the columns around them, and her neckline was suddenly back up under her chin. She adjusted a dark lace shawl that had not been there a moment before, covering her hair and shadowing her face. “Egwene,
you mustn’t tell anyone. Jorin is afraid the Tower will try to force them to become Aes Sedai, or try to control them in some fashion. I promised I would do what I can not to let that happen.”
“I won’t tell,” Egwene said slowly. Wise Ones and Windfinders. Women able to channel among both, and none who had taken the Three Oaths, bound by the Oath Rod. The Oaths were supposed to make people trust Aes Sedai, or at least not fear their power, but Aes Sedai still had to move in secret as often as not. Wise Ones — and Windfinders, she was willing to wager — had honored places in their societies. Without being bound to supposedly make them safe. It was something to think on.
“Nynaeve and I are ahead of schedule, too, Egwene. Jorin has been teaching me to work the weather — you would not believe the size of the flows of Air she can weave! — and between us, we’ve had Wavedancer moving as fast as he ever has, and that is fast. We should be in Tanchico in another three days, maybe two, according to Coine. She’s the Sailmistress, the captain. Ten days from Tear to Tanchico, perhaps. That is with stopping to talk with every Atha’an Miere ship we see. Egwene, the Sea Folk think Rand is their Coramoor.”
“They do?”
“Coine has some of what happened in Tear wrong — she assumes the Aes Sedai serve Rand now, for one thing; Nynaeve and I thought it best not to put her straight about that — but as soon as she tells another Sailmistress, they’re all ready to spread the word and serve Rand. I believe they will do anything he asks of them.”
“I wish the Aiel were so accepting,” Egwene sighed. “Rhuarc thinks some of them might refuse to acknowledge him, Rhuidean Dragons or no. One fellow, a man called Couladin, I’m sure would kill him in a minute given half a chance.”
Elayne took a step forward. “You will see that doesn’t happen.” It was not a question or a request. There was a sharp light in her blue eyes, and a bared dagger in her hand.
“I will do the best I can. Rhuarc is giving him bodyguards.”
Elayne seemed to see the dagger for the first time, and gave a start. The blade vanished. “You must teach me whatever Amys is teaching you, Egwene. It is disconcerting to have things appear and disappear, or suddenly realize I’m wearing different clothes. It just happens.”
“I will. When I have time.” She had been in Tel’aran’rhiod too long already. “Elayne, if I am not here when we are supposed to meet next, don’t worry. I will try, but I may not be able to come. Be sure to tell Nynaeve. If I do not come, check every night thereafter. I won’t be more than one or two late, I’m sure.”
“If you say so,” Elayne said doubtfully. “It will surely take weeks to find out if Liandrin and the others are in Tanchico or not. Thom seems to think the city will be very confused.” Her eyes went to Callandor, driven half its length into the floor. “Why did he do that, do you think?”
“He said it will hold the Tairens to him. As long as they know it’s there, they have to know he is coming back. Maybe he knows what he is talking about. I hope
so.”
“Oh. I thought… perhaps he… was angry about… something.”
Egwene frowned at her. This sudden diffidence was not like Elayne at all. “Angry about what?”
“Oh, nothing. It was just a thought. Egwene, I gave him two letters before leaving Tear. Do you know how he took them?”
“No, I don’t. Did you say something you think might have angered him?”
“Of course not.” Elayne laughed gaily; it sounded forced. Her dress was suddenly dark wool, stout enough for a hard winter. “I would have to be a fool to write things to make him angry.” Her hair sprang up in all directions, like a crazed crown. She was not aware of it. “I am trying to make him love me, after all. Just trying to make him love me. Oh, why can’t men be simple? Why do they have to cause such difficulties? At least he’s away from Berelain.” The wool became silk again, cut even lower than before; her hair made shimmers on her shoulders to shame the gown’s sheen. She hesitated, nibbling her lower lip. “Egwene? If you find the chance, would you tell him I meant what I said in — Egwene? Egwene!”
Something snatched Egwene. The Heart of the Stone dwindled into blackness as if she were being hauled away by the scruff of her neck.
With a gasp, Egwene started awake, heart pounding, staring up the low roof of the nightdarkened tent over her head. Only a little moonlight crept in at the open sides. She lay under her blankets — the Waste was as cold at night as it was hot during the day, and the brazier that exuded the sweetish smell of dried dung burning gave little warmth — beneath her blankets right where she had lain down to sleep. But — what had pulled her back?
Abruptly she became aware of Amys, sitting crosslegged beside her, cloaked in shadows. The Wise One’s murkshrouded face seemed as dark and foreboding as the night.
“Did you do that, Amys?” she said angrily. “You have no right to just haul me about. I am Aes Sedai of the Green Ajah… ” The lie came easily to her lips now “. .
. and you have no right —”
Amys cut her off With a grim voice. “Beyond the Dragonwall, in the White Tower, you are Aes Sedai. Here, you are an ignorant pupil, a fool child crawling through a den of vipers.”
“I know I said I would not go to Tel’aran’rhiod without you,” Egwene said, trying to sound reasonable, “but —”
Something seized her ankles, hauled her feet into the air; blankets tumbled away, her shift dropped to bunch in her armpits. Upside down, she hung with her face level with that of Amys. Furious, she opened herself to saidar — and found herself blocked.
“You wanted to go off alone,” Amys hissed softly. “You were warned, but you had to go.” Her eyes seemed to glow in the dark, brighter and brighter. “Never a care for what might be waiting. There are things in dreams to shatter the bravest
heart.” Around eyes like blue coals, her face melted, stretched. Scales sprouted where skin had been; her jaws thrust out, lined with sharp teeth. “Things to eat the bravest heart,” she growled.
Screaming, Egwene battered vainly at the shield holding her from the True Source. She tried to beat at that horrible face, at the thing that could not be Amys, but something gripped her wrists, stretched her taut and quivering in midair. All she could do was shriek as those jaws closed around her face.
Screaming, Egwene sat up, clutching at her blankets. With an effort she managed to snap her mouth shut, but she could do nothing about the shudders that racked her. She was in the tent — or was she? There was Amys, crosslegged in the shadows, glowing with saidar — or was it she? Desperately, she opened herself to the Source, and nearly howled when she found the barrier again. Tossing the blankets aside, she scrambled across the layered rugs on bands and knees, scattered her neatly folded clothes with both hands. She had a belt knife. Where was it? Where? There!
“Sit down,” Amys said acerbically, “before I dose you for vapors and fidgets.
You will not like the taste.”
Egwene twisted around on her knees, the short knife held in both hands; they would have trembled if not clutched together around the hilt. “Is it really you this time?”
“I am myself, now and also then. Sharp lessons are the best lessons. Do you mean to stab me?”
Hesitating, Egwene sheathed the knife. “You have no right to —”
“I have every right! You gave me your word. I did not know Aes Sedai could lie. If I am to teach you, I must know you will do as I say. I will not watch a pupil of mine cut her own throat!” Amys sighed; the glow around her vanished, and so did the barrier between Egwene and saidar. “I cannot shield you any longer. You are far stronger than I. In the One Power, you are. You very nearly battered down my shield. But if you cannot keep your word, I do not know that I want to instruct you.” “I will keep my word, Amys. I promise I will. But I have to meet with my friends, in Tel’aran’rhiod. I promised them, too. Amys, they might need my help, my advice.” Amys’s face was not easy to make out in the darkness, but Egwene did not see any softening. “Please, Amys. You’ve taught me so much already. I think I could find them wherever they are, now. Please, don’t stop when there is so much yet for
me to learn. Whatever you want me to do, I will.” “Braid your hair,” Amys said in a flat tone.
“My hair?” Egwene said uncertainly. It would certainly be no inconvenience, but why? She wore it loose now, falling below her shoulders, yet it was not that long ago that she had almost burst with pride on the day the Women’s Circle back home had said she was old enough to put her hair in a braid like the one Nynaeve still wore. In the Two Rivers, a braid said you were old enough to be considered a woman.
“One over each ear.” Amys’s voice was still like a flat rock. “If you have no ribbon to twine in the braids, I will give you some. That is how little girls wear their hair among us. Girls too young to be held to their word. When you prove to me that you can keep yours, you can stop wearing it so. But if you lie to me again, I will make you cut your skirts off short, like little girls’ dresses, and find you a doll to carry. When you decide to behave as a woman, you will be treated as a woman. Agree to it, or I will teach you no more.”
“I will agree if you will accompany me when I must meet —”
“Agree, Aes Sedai! I do not bargain with children, or those who cannot keep their word. You will do as I say, accept what I choose to give, and no more. Or else go off and get yourself killed on your own. I — will — not — aid it!”
Egwene was glad of the dark; it hid her scowl. She had given her word, but this was all so unfair. No one was trying to hedge Rand around with silly rules. Well, perhaps he was different. She was not sure she wanted to trade Amys’s edicts for Couladin’s desiring to put a spear through her, in any, case. Mat would certainly not put up with other people’s rules. Yet ta’veren or not, Mat had nothing to learn; all he had to do was be. Very likely he would refuse to learn anything given the chance, unless it had to do with gambling or raising food. She wanted to learn. Sometimes it seemed an unending thirst; however much she absorbed, she could not quench it. That still did not make it fair. Only the way things are, she thought ruefully.
“I agree,” she said. “I will do as you say, accept what you give, and no more.” “Good.” After a long pause, as if waiting to see whether Egwene wanted to say
more — she wisely held her tongue — Amys added, “I mean to be hard on you, Egwene, but not without purpose. That you think I have taught you much already only shows how little you knew to begin. You have a strong talent for the dream; very likely you will outstrip any of us by far, one day. But if you do not learn what I can teach you — what we four can all teach you — you will never develop that talent fully. It is most likely you will not live long enough to do so.”
“I will try, Amys.” She thought she managed a good approximation of meekness. Why did the woman not say what she wanted to hear? If Egwene could not go to Tel’aran’rhiod alone, then Amys had to come, too, when she next met Elayne. Or it might be Nynaeve, next time.
“Good. Do you have anything else to say?” “No, Amys.”
The pause was longer this time; Egwene waited as patiently as she could, hands folded on her knees.
“So you can hold your demands inside when you wish,” Amys said at last, “even if it does make you twitch like a goat with the itch. Do I mistake the cause? I can give you an ointment. No? Very well. I will accompany you when you must meet your friends.”
“Thank you,” Egwene said primly. A goat with an itch indeed!
“In case you did not listen when I first told you, learning will be neither easy
nor short. You think you have worked these last days. Prepare to give real time and effort now.”
“Amys, I will learn as much as you can teach me, and I will work as hard as you want, but between Rand and the Darkfriends… Time to learn may turn out to be a luxury, and my purse empty.”
“I know,” Amys said wearily. “He troubles us already. Come. You have wasted enough time with your childishness. There is women’s business to be discussed. Come. The others are waiting.”
For the first time Egwene realized Moiraine’s blankets were empty. She reached for her dress, but Amys said, “That will not be needed. We only go a short way. Throw a blanket around your shoulders and come. I have done a great deal of work for Rand al’Thor already, and I must do more when we are finished.”
Shrugging a blanket around her doubtfully, Egwene followed the older woman into the night. It was cold. Skin turning to tight goose bumps, she hopped from bare foot to bare foot over stony ground that seemed little short of ice. After the heat of day, the night seemed as frigid as the heart of a Two Rivers winter. Her breath turned to thin mist in front of her mouth, absorbed immediately by the air. Cold or not, the air was still dry.
At the rear of the Wise Ones’ camp stood a small tent she had not seen before, low like the others, but staked tightly down all around. To her surprise, Amys began, stripping off her clothes, and motioned her to do the same. Clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering, she followed Amys’s example slowly. When the Aiel woman had shed down to her skin, she stood there just as if the night were not freezing, taking deep breaths and flailing herself with her arms before finally ducking inside. Egwene darted after her with alacrity.
Damp heat hit her like a stick between the eyes. Sweat popped out of every pore.
Moiraine was already there, and the other Wise Ones, and Aviendha, all bareskinned and sweating, sitting around a large iron kettle full to the brim with sooty stones. Kettle and stones alike radiated heat. The Aes, Sedai looked mostly recovered from her ordeal, though there was a tightness around her eyes that had not been there before.
As Egwene was gingerly finding a place to sit — no layered rugs here; only rocky ground — Aviendha scooped a handful of water from a smaller kettle at her side and tossed it into the larger one. The water hissed to steam, leaving not even a damp spot on the stones. Aviendha had a sour look on her face. Egwene knew how she felt. Novices in the Tower were also given chores; she was not sure if she had hated scrubbing floors more than pots or the other way around. This task did not look nearly so onerous.
“We must discuss what to do about Rand al’Thor,” Bair said when Amys was seated, too.
“Do about him?” Egwene said, alarmed. “He has the signs. He is the one you
have been looking for.”
“He is the one,” Melaine said grimly, brushing long strands of redgold hair from her damp face, “We must try to see that as many of our people as possible survive his coming.”
“Just as importantly,” Seana said, “we must assure that he survives to fulfill the rest of the prophecy.” Melaine glared at her, and Seana added in a patient tone, “Else none of us will survive.”
“Rhuarc said he would set some of the Jindo for bodyguards,” Egwene said slowly. “Has he changed his mind?”
Amys shook her head. “He has not. Rand al’Thor sleeps in the Jindo tents, with a hundred men awake to see he wakes as well. But men often see things differently than we. Rhuarc will follow him, perhaps oppose him in decisions he thinks are wrong, but he will not try to guide him.”
“Do you think he needs guiding?” Moiraine arched an eyebrow at that, but Egwene ignored it. “He has done what he had to without guidance so far.”
“Rand al’Thor does not know our ways,” Amys replied. “There are a hundred mistakes he could make to turn a chief or clan against him, to make them see a wetlander instead of He Who Comes With the Dawn. My husband is a good man and a fine chief, but he is no peacetalker, trained to guide angry men to ground their spears. We must have someone close to Rand al’Thor who can whisper in his ear when he seems ready to step wrongly.” She motioned Aviendha to throw more water on the hot rocks; the younger woman complied with a sullen grace.
“And we must watch him,” Melaine put in sharply. “We must have some idea of what he means to do before he does it. The fulfillment of the Prophecy of Rhuidean has begun — it cannot be halted short of its end, one way or another — but I mean to see that as many of our people survive as is possible. How that can be managed depends on what Rand al’Thor intends.”
Bair leaned toward Egwene. She seemed to be all bone and sinew. “You have known him from childhood. Will he confide in you?”
“I doubt it,” Egwene told her. “He does not trust as he used to.” She avoided looking at Moiraine.
“Would she tell us if he did confide?” Melaine demanded. “I raise no anger here, but Egwene and Moiraine are Aes Sedai. What they seek may not be what we seek.”
“We served Aes Sedai once,” Bair said simply. “We failed them then. Perhaps we are meant to serve again.” Melaine flushed with obvious embarrassment.
Moiraine gave no sign that she saw, or that she had heard the woman’s earlier words, for that matter. Except for that tightness around her eyes she looked as calm as ice. “I will help as I can,” she said coolly, “but I have little influence with Rand. For the present, he weaves the Pattern to his own design.”
“Then we must watch him closely and hope.” Bair sighed. “Aviendha, you will meet Rand al’Thor when he wakes each day and do not leave him until he goes to
his blankets at night. You will stay as close to him as the hair on his head. Your training must come as we can manage, I fear; it will be a burden on you, doing both things, but it cannot be avoided. If you talk to him — and especially listen — you should have no trouble remaining near him. Few men will send away a pretty young woman who listens to them. Perhaps he will let something slip.”
Aviendha grew stiffer by the word. When Bair finished, she spat, “I will not!” Dead silence fell, and every eye swung to her, but she stared back defiantly.
“Will not?” Bair said softly. “Will not.” She seemed to be tasting words strange in her mouth.
“Aviendha,” Egwene said gently, “no one is asking you to betray Elayne, only to talk to him.” If anything, the former Maiden of the Spear looked even more eager to find herself a weapon.
“Is this the discipline Maidens learn now?” Amys said sharply. “If it is, you will find we teach a harder. If there is some reason you cannot stay near to Rand al’Thor, speak it.” Aviendha’s defiance wilted a trifle, and she mumbled inaudibly. Amys’s voice took on a knife edge. “I said, speak it!”
“I do not like him!” Aviendha burst out. “I hate him! Hate him!” Had Egwene not known better, she would have thought her close to tears. The words shocked her, though; surely Aviendha could not mean it.
“We are not asking you to love him, or take him to your bed,” Seana said acidly. “We are telling you to listen to the man, and you will obey!”
“Childishness!” Amys snorted. “What kind of young women is the world producing now? Do none of you grow up?”
Bair and Melaine were even sharper, with the older woman threatening to tie Aviendha on Rand’s horse in place of his saddle — she sounded as if she meant it precisely — and Melaine suggesting that instead of sleep Aviendha should perhaps spend the night digging holes and filling them in to clear her head. The threats were not intended to coerce her, Egwene realized; these women expected and intended to be obeyed. Any useless labor Aviendha earned herself would be for being stubborn. That stubbornness seemed to be shrinking, with four sets of Wise Ones’ eyes boring at her — she settled into more of a defensive crouch, on her knees — but she was holding on.
Egwene leaned over to put a hand on Aviendha’s shoulder. “You’ve told me we are nearsisters, and I think we are. Will you do it for me? Think of it as looking after him for Elayne. You like her, too, I know. You can tell him she says she meant what she said in her letters. He will like hearing that.”
Aviendha’s face spasmed. “I will do it,” she said, slumping. “I will watch him for Elayne. For Elayne.”
Amys shook herself. “Foolishness. You will watch him because we told you to, girt. If you think you have another reason, you will find you are painfully mistaken. More water. The steam is fading.”
Aviendha hurled another handful onto the rocks as though hurling a spear.
Egwene was glad to see her spirit returning, but she thought she would caution her when they were alone. Spirit was all very well, but there were some women — these four Wise Ones, for example, and Siuan Sanche — with whom it was common sense to keep a check on your spirit. You could shout at the Women’s Circle all day, and you still ended up doing what they wanted anyway, wishing you had kept your mouth shut.
“Now that that is settled,” Bair said, “let us enjoy the steam in silence while we can. There is much for some of us yet to do tonight, and for nights to come, if we are to bring a gathering to Alcair Dal for Rand al’Thor.”
“Men always find ways to make work for women,” Amys said. “Why should Rand al’Thor be different?”
Quiet settled over the tent except for the hiss when Aviendha tossed more water on the hot rocks. The Wise Ones sat with hands on knees, breathing deeply. It was really quite pleasant, even relaxing, the damp heat, the slick, cleansing feel of sweat on the skin. Egwene thought it was worth missing a little sleep.
Moiraine did not look relaxed, though. She stared at the steaming kettle as if seeing something else, far off.
“Was it bad?” Egwene said softly so as not to disturb the Wise Ones. “Rhuidean, I mean?” Aviendha looked up quickly, but said nothing.
“The memories fade,” Moiraine said, just as quietly. She did not look away from her distant vision, and her voice was almost chill enough to take away the heat in the air. “Most are already gone. Some, I knew already. Others… The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, and we are only the thread of the Pattern. I have given my life to finding the Dragon Reborn, finding Rand, and seeing him ready to face the Last Battle. I will see that done, whatever it requires. Nothing and no one can be more important than that.”
Shivering despite her sweat, Egwene closed her eyes. The Aes Sedai did not want comforting. She was a lump of ice, not a woman. Egwene settled herself to trying to recapture that pleasant feeling. She suspected such would be few and far between in the days to come.
The Shadow Rising
Chapter 36
(Crescent Moon and Stars) Misdirections
The Aiel broke camp early and were away from Rhuidean while the notyetrisen sun still sharply silhouetted the far mountains. In three parties they wound around Chaendaer, down onto rough flats broken by hills and tall stone spires and flattopped buttes, gray and brown and every hue between, some streaked with long swirls in shades of red and ocher. Occasionally a great natural arch loomed as they moved north and west, or strange, huge slabs of rock balanced improbably, forever on the brink of falling. Every way Rand looked, jagged mountains reared in the distance. All the wreckage of the Breaking of the World seemed gathered here in the place called the Aiel Waste. Where the hard ground was not cracked clay, yellow or brown or something between, it was stony and stark, and everywhere split by dry gulleys and hollows. The scattered vegetation was sparse and low, thorny bushes and leafless things with spines; the few blossoms, white or red or, yellow, were startling in their isolation. Occasionally stretches of tough grass covered the ground, and rarely, there was a stunted tree also likely to have thorns or spines. Compared to Chaendaer and the valley of Rhuidean, it almost looked lush. The air was so clear, the land so barren, it seemed Rand could see for miles and miles.
That air was no less dry, though, the heat no less relentless, with the sun a lump of molten gold high in a cloudless sky. Rand had wrapped a shoufa around his head in an effort to keep the sun off, and drank from the waterbag on Jeade’en’s saddle frequently. Oddly, wearing his coat seemed to help; he did not sweat any less, but his shirt stayed damp beneath the red wool, cooling him somewhat. Mat used a strip of cloth to tie a large white kerchief atop his head, like some odd cap that hung down the back of his neck, and he kept shading his eyes against the glare. He carried the ravenmarked swordspear like a lance, the butt tucked into his stirrup.
Four hundred or so Jindo comprised their party; Rand and Mat rode at the front alongside Rhuarc and Heirn. The Aiel walked, of course, their tents and some of the booty from Tear on pack mules and horses. A number of the Jindo Maidens fanned ahead as scouts, and Stone Dogs trailed behind as a rear guard, with the main column hedged by watchful eyes, ready spears, and bows with arrows nocked. Supposedly the Peace of Rhuidean extended until those who had gone to Chaendaer returned to their own holds, but as Rhuarc explained to Rand, mistakes had been known to happen, and apologies and bloodprice did not bring the dead out of their graves. Rhuarc seemed to think a mistake especially likely this time, certainly in part because of the Shaido party.
The lands of the Shaido clan lay beyond those of the Jindo’s Taardad, in the same direction from Chaendaer, and they paralleled the Jindo some quarter of a mile distant. According to Rhuarc, Couladin should have waited another day for his brother to return. That Rand had seen Muradin after he had plucked out his own
eyes made no difference; ten days was the time allotted. To leave sooner was to abandon whoever had entered Rhuidean. Yet Couladin had set the Shaido to folding their tents as soon as he saw the Jindo pack animals being loaded. The Shaido moved along now with their own scouts and rear guard, seemingly ignoring the Jindo, but the space between never widened much beyond three hundred paces. It was usual to have witnesses from perhaps half a dozen of the larger septs when a man sought the marking of a clan chief. Couladin’s people outnumbered the Jindo by at least two to one. Rand suspected that the third party, halfway between Shaido and Taardad, was the reason the interval did not narrow suddenly and violently.
The Wise Ones walked just like all the other Aiel, including those strange, whiterobed men and women Rhuarc called gai’shain, who led their packhorses. Not servants, exactly, but Rand was unsure he really understood Rhuarc’s explanation about honor and obligation and captives; Heirn had been even more confusing, as though making an effort to explain why water was wet. Moiraine, Egwene and Lan rode with the Wise Ones, or at least the two women did. The Warder had his warhorse a little off on the side of the Shaido, watching them as closely as he did the rugged landscape. Sometimes Moiraine or Egwene or both got down to walk awhile, talking with the Wise Ones. Rand would have given his last penny to hear what they said. They looked in his direction often, quick glances that he was doubtless not supposed to notice. For some reason, Egwene was wearing her hair in two braids, plaited with lengths of red ribbon, like a bride’s. He did not know why. He had commented on them before leaving Chaendaer — just mentioned them — and she nearly took his head off.
“Elayne is the woman for you.”
He looked down at Aviendha in confusion. The challenging look was back in her bluegreen eyes, but still layered atop stark dislike. She had been waiting outside the tent when he awoke that morning, and had not strayed more than three paces from him since. Clearly the Wise Ones had set her to spy, and clearly he was not supposed to realize it. She was pretty, and he was assumed to be fool enough not to see beyond that. No doubt that was the real reason she wore skirts now, and carried no weapon beyond a small beltknife. Women seemed to think men were simpleminded. Come to think of it, none of the other Aiel had commented at her change of clothing, but even Rhuarc avoided looking at her for too long. Probably they knew why she was there, or had some inkling of the Wise Ones’ plan, and did not want to speak of it.
Rhuidean. He still did not know why she had gone; Rhuarc muttered about “women’s business,” plainly reluctant to discuss it around her. Considering the way she clung to Rand’s side, that meant not discussing it at all. The clan chief was certainly listening now, and Heirn, and every Jindo in earshot. It was hard to tell with Aiel, sometimes, but he thought they looked amused. Mat was whistling softly, ostentatiously looking at anything but the two of them. Even so, this was the first time all day she had spoken to him.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Her bulky skirts did not hinder her, walking along beside Jeade’en. No, not walking. Stalking. If she were a cat, she would be lashing her tail. “Elayne is a wetlander, your own kind.” She tossed her head arrogantly. The short tail that Aiel warriors wore at the nape of the neck was missing. The folded scarf around her temples nearly enveloped her hair. “Exactly the woman for you. Is she not beautiful? Her back is straight, her limbs supple and strong, her lips like plump loveapples. Her hair is spun gold, her eyes blue sapphires. Her skin is smoother than the finest silk, her bosom fine and wellrounded. Her hips are —”
He cut her off frantically, his cheeks heating. “I know she’s pretty. What are you doing?”
“I am describing her.” Aviendha frowned up him. “Have you seen her in her bath? There is no need for me to describe her if you have seen —”
“I have not seen!” He wished he did not sound strangled. Rhuarc and the others were listening, faces too blank for anything but amusement. Mat rolled his eyes with an open, roguish grin.
The woman only shrugged and rearranged her shawl. “She should have arranged it. But I have seen her, and I will act as her near sister.” The emphasis seemed to say his “near sister” might have done the same; Aiel customs were strange, but this was mad! “Her hips —”
“Stop that!”
She gave him a sideways glare. “She is the woman for you. Elayne has laid her heart at your feet for a bridal wreath. Do you think there was anyone in the Stone of Tear who does not know?”
“I do not want to talk about Elayne,” he told her firmly. Certainly not if she meant to go on as she had begun. The thought made his face go hot again. The woman did not seem to care what she said, or who heard!
“You do well to blush, putting her aside when she has bared her heart to you.” Aviendha’s voice was hard and contemptuous. “Two letters she wrote, baring all as if she had stripped herself beneath your mother’s roof, You entice her into corners for kisses, then reject her. She meant every word of those letters, Rand al’Thor! Egwene told me so. She meant every word. What do you mean toward her, wetlander?”
Rand scrubbed a hand through his hair, and had to rearrange his shoufa. Elayne meant every word? In both letters? That was flat impossible. One contradicted the other nearly point for point! Suddenly he gave a start. Egwene had told her? About Elayne’s letters? Did women discuss these things among themselves? Did they plan out between them how best to confuse a man?
He found himself missing Min. Min had never made him look a fool. Well, not more than once or twice. And she had never insulted him. Well, she had called him “sheepherder” a few times. But he felt comfortable around her, warm, in a strange way. She never made him feel a complete idiot, like Elayne, and Aviendha.
His silence seemed to irritate the Aiel woman more, if such was possible. Muttering to herself, striding along as though she wanted to trample something, she adjusted and readjusted her shawl half a dozen times. Finally her grumbling faded away. Instead, she began staring at him. Like a vulture. He could not see how she did not trip and fall on her face.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he demanded.
“I am listening, Rand al’Thor, since you wish me to be silent.” She smiled around gritted teeth. “Do you not enjoy having me listen to you?”
He glanced beyond her at Mat, who shook his head. There was just no understanding women. Rand tried to set himself to considering what lay ahead, but it was difficult with the woman’s eyes on him. Pretty eyes, if they had not been full of spite, but he did wish she would look at something else.
Shading his eyes against the sun’s glare, Mat did his best to avoid looking at Rand and the Aiel woman striding along between their horses. He could not understand why Rand put up with her. Aviendha was pretty enough, to be sure — more than just pretty, especially now she wore a semblance of proper clothes — but with a viper for a tongue and a temper to make Nynaeve look meek. He was just glad Rand was stuck with her and not him.
He pulled the kerchief from his head and wiped the sweat off of his face, then tied it back. The heat and the eternal sun in his eyes were beginning to get to him. Was there no such thing as shade in this whole land? Sweat stung his wounds. He had refused Healing the night before, when Moiraine wakened him after he had finally gotten to sleep. A few cuts were a small price to avoid having the Power used on you, and the Wise Ones’ filthytasting tea had settled his headache. Well, after a fashion, anyway. What else ailed him, he did not think Moiraine could do anything about, and he had no intention of telling her until he understood it himself. If then. He didn’t even want to think of it.
Moiraine and the Wise Ones were watching him. Watching Rand, actually, he supposed, but it felt the same. Surprisingly, the sunhaired one, Melaine, had climbed up on Aldieb behind the Aes Sedai, riding awkwardly and holding Moiraine around the waist as they talked. He had not known Aiel would ride at all. A very pretty woman, Melaine, with those fiery green eyes. Except, of course, that she could channel. A man would have to be an utter fool to tangle himself with one of those. Shifting in Pips’s saddle, he reminded himself that it did not matter to him what Aiel did.
I’ve been to Rhuidean. I’ve done what those snake folk said I had to. And what did he have to show for it? This bloody spear, a silver medallion, and… I could go now. If I have any sense, I will.
He could go. Try to find his own way out of the Waste before he died of thirst or sunstroke. He could if Rand was not still pulling at him, holding him. The easiest manner of finding out was just to try leaving. Looking at the bleak landscape, he grimaced. A wind picked up — it felt as if it blew across an overheated cookstove
— and small whirlwinds spun funnels of yellow dust across the cracked ground. Heathaze made the distant mountains shimmer. Maybe it was best to stay around a while longer.
One of the Maidens who had been scouting ahead came trotting back and fell in beside Rhuarc, speaking for his ear alone. She flashed Mat a grin when she was done, and he busied himself picking a sharp burr out of Pips’s mane. He remembered her all too well, a redhaired woman named Dorindha, about Egwene’s age. Dorindha was one of those who had talked him into trying Maidens’ Kiss. She had collected the first forfeit. It was not that he did not want to meet her eyes, certainly not that he could not; keeping your horse free of burrs and the like was important.
“Peddlers,” Rhuarc announced when Dorindha sprinted off the way she had come. “Peddlers’ wagons, heading in this direction.” He did not sound pleased.
Mat brightened considerably, though. A peddler might be just the thing. If the fellow knew the way in, he knew the way out. He wondered if Rand suspected what he was thinking; the man had gone as blank faced as any of the Aiel.
The Aiel picked up their pace a little — Couladin’s people imitated the Jindo and the Wise Ones’ party with hardly a hesitation; their own scouts had probably brought word, too — a quick enough step that the horses had to maintain a brisk walk. The sun did not bother the Aiel at all, not even the gai’shain in their white robes. They flowed over the broken ground.
Less than two miles brought the wagons in sight, a dozen and a half of them, strung out in a line. All showed the wear of hard travel, with spare wheels lashed everywhere. Despite a coat of yellow dust, the first two looked like whitepainted boxes on wheels, or little houses, complete with wooden steps at the back and a metal stovechimney sticking through the roof. The last three, drawn by twentymule hitches, appeared no more than huge barrels, also white, doubtless full of water. Those in between could have done for peddlers’ wagons in the Two Rivers, with high stoutspoked wheels and clanking clusters of pots and things in big net bags tied all along the tall round canvas covers.
The wagondrivers drew rein as soon as they spotted the Aiel, waiting for the columns to come to them. A heavy man in a pale gray coat and dark, widebrimmed hat climbed down from the back of the lead wagon and stood watching, now and then taking off his flatcrowned hat to wipe his forehead with a large white handkerchief. If he was nervous, looking at maybe fifteen hundred Aiel sweeping toward him, Mat could not blame him. The strange thing was the expressions on the Aiel nearest Mat. Rhuarc, trotting ahead of Rand’s horse, looked grim, and Heirn wore a face that could break rocks.
“I don’t understand,” Mat said. “You look like you’re going to kill somebody.” That would certainly put paid to his hopes. “I thought there were three kinds of people you Aiel let come out here in the Waste; peddlers, gleemen, and the Traveling People.”
“Peddlers and gleemen are welcome,” Heirn replied curtly. If this was a welcome, Mat did not want to see Aiel being unwelcoming.
“What about the Traveling People?” he asked curiously. When Heirn kept silent, he added, “Tinkers? The Tuatha’an?” The sept chief’s face grew even harder before he turned his eyes back to the wagons. Aviendha shot Mat a look as if he were a fool.
Rand drew Jeade’en close to Pips. “I’d not mention Tinkers to the Aiel if I were you,” he said in a low voice. “They are a touchy subject.”
“If you say so.” Why would Tinkers be a touchy subject? “Looks to me like they’re being touchy enough about this peddler. Peddler! I can remember merchants who came to Emond’s Field with fewer wagons.”
“He came into the Waste,” Rand chuckled. Jeade’en tossed his head and danced a few steps. “I wonder if he will leave it again?” Rand’s twisted grin did not reach his eyes. Sometimes Mat almost wished Rand would decide whether he was mad or not and get, it over with. Almost.
Three hundred paces short of the wagons, Rhuarc signaled a halt, and he and Heirn went on alone. At least, that seemed to have been his intention, but Rand heeled his dapple stallion after them, and the inevitable bodyguard of a hundred Jindo followed. And Aviendha, of course, keeping close as though tied to Rand’s horse. Mat rode right with them. If Rhuarc sent this fellow packing, he did not mean to miss his chance to go along.
Couladin came trotting out from the Shaido. Alone. Perhaps he meant to do as Rhuarc and Heirn had intended, but Mat suspected the man was pointing out that he went alone where Rand needed a hundred guards. At first it seemed Moiraine was coming, too, but words passed between the Wise Ones and her, and they all stayed where they were. Watching, though. The Aes Sedai dismounted, playing with something small that sparkled, and Egwene and the Wise Ones clustered around her. Despite his face mopping, the big, graycoated fellow did not appear uneasy up close, although he jumped when Maidens suddenly rose out of the ground, encircling his wagons. The wagon drivers, hardfaced men with more than enough scars and broken noses to go around, looked ready to crawl under their seats; they were tough alley dogs compared to Aiel wolves. The peddler recovered right away. He was not fat for all his size; that heaviness was muscle. Rand and Mat on their horses earned his curious glances, but he singled out Rhuarc at once. His hooked beak of a nose and dark, tilted eyes gave his square swarthy face a predatory look not lessened when he put on a wide smile and swept his broadbrimmed hat off in a bow. “I am Hadnan Kadere,” he said, “peddler. I seek Cold Rocks Hold, good sirs,
but I will trade with one and all. I have many fine—”
Rhuarc cut him off like an icy knife. “You head well away from Cold Rocks, or any hold. How is it you have come this far from the Dragonwall without acquiring a guide?”
“I do not really know, good sir.” Kadere did not lose his smile, but the corners
of his mouth tightened a trifle. “I have traveled openly. This is my first visit to the Threefold Land so far south. I thought perhaps here there are no guides.”
Couladin snorted loudly, twirled one of his spears lazily. Kadere hunched his shoulders as if he felt steel sliding into his thick body already.
“There are always guides,” Rhuarc said coldly. “You have luck to have come so far without one. Luck that you are not dead, or walking back to the Dragonwall in your skin.” Kadere flashed an uneasy, toothy smile, and the clan Chief went on. “Luck to meet us. Had you continued this way another day or two, you would have reached Rhuidean.”
The peddler’s face went gray. “I have heard. . .” He stopped to swallow. “I did not know, good sirs. You must believe, I would not do such a thing deliberately. Nor by accident,” he added hastily. “The Light illumine my words for truth, good sirs, I would not!”
“That is well,” Rhuarc told him. “The penalties are severe. You may travel with me to Cold Rocks. It would not do for you to become lost again. The Threefold Land can be a dangerous place for those who do not know it.”
Couladin’s head came up defiantly. “Why not with me?” he said in a sharp voice. “The Shaido are the more numerous here, Rhuarc. By custom, he travels with me.”
“Have you become a clan chief when I did not see?” The firehaired Shaido flushed, but Rhuarc showed no hint of satisfaction, only went on in that level voice. “The peddler seeks Cold Rocks. He will journey with me. The Shaido with you may trade with him as we travel. The Taardad are not so starved for peddlers that we try to keep them to ourselves.”
Couladin’s face went even darker, yet he moderated his tone, even if it did creak with the effort. “I will camp near Cold Rocks, Rhuarc. He Who Comes With the Dawn concerns all Aiel, not only the Taardad. The Shaido will have their proper place. The Shaido, too, will follow He Who Comes With the Dawn.” He had not, Mat realized, acknowledged that that was Rand. Peering at the wagons, Rand did not seem to be listening.
Rhuarc was silent a moment. “The Shaido will be welcome guests in the lands of the Taardad, if they come to follow He Who Comes With the Dawn.” And that could be taken two ways, as well.
Kadere had been mopping his face all this time, likely seeing himself in the middle of a battle between Aiel. He punctuated Rhuarc’s invitation with a heavy sigh of relief. “Thank you, good sirs. Thank you.” Probably for not killing him. “Perhaps you would care to see what my wagons have to offer? Some special thing you might like?”
“Later,” Rhuarc said. “We will stop at Imre Stand for the night, and you may show your wares then.” Couladin was already striding away, having heard the name of Imre Stand, whatever that was. Kadere started to put his hat back on.“A hat,” Mat said, reining Pips closer to the peddler. If he had to remain in the Waste a bit
longer, at least he could keep that bloody sun out of his eyes. “I’ll give a gold mark for a hat like that.”
“Done!” called a woman’s huskily melodious voice.
Mat looked around, and gave a start. The only woman in sight beside Aviendha and the Maidens was walking up from the second wagon, but she certainly did not match that voice, one of the loveliest he had ever heard. Rand frowned at her and shook his head, and he had cause. A foot shorter than Kadere, she must have weighed as much or more. Rolls of fat nearly hid her dark eyes, disguising whether they were tilted or not, but her nose was a hatchet that dwarfed the peddler’s. In a dress of palecream silk stretched tight around her bulk, with a white lace shawl held above her bead on elaborate ivory combs thrust into long, coarse black hair, she moved with incongruous lightness, almost like one of the Maidens.
“A good offer,” she said in those musical tones. “I am Keille Shaogi, peddler.” She snatched the hat away from Kadere and thrust it up at Mat. “Stout, good sir, and nearly new. You will need its like to survive the Threefold Land. Here, a man can die… ” Fat fingers made a whipcrack. “. . . like so.” Her sudden laugh had the same throaty, caressing quality as her voice. “Or a woman. A gold mark, you said.” When he hesitated, her halfburied eyes glittered raven black. “I seldom offer any man a bargain twice.”
A peculiar woman to say the least. Kadere made no protest beyond the slightest grimace. If Keille was his partner, there was no doubt who was the senior. And if the hat kept Mat’s head from broiling, it really was worth the price so far as he was concerned. She bit the Tairen mark he handed her before releasing the hat. For a wonder, it fit. And if it was no cooler under that wide brim, at least it was blessedly shady. The kerchief went into his coat pocket.
“Anything for the rest of you?” The stout woman ran her eye over the Aiel, murmuring, “What a pretty child” to Aviendha with a baring of teeth that might have been a smile. To Rand, she said sweetly, “And you, good sir?” That voice coming out of that face was truly jarring, especially when it took on this honeyed tone. “Something to shelter you from this desperate land?” Turning Jeade’en so he could peer at the wagon drivers, Rand only shook his head. With that shoufa around his face, be really did look like an Aiel.
“Tonight, Keille,” Kadere said. “We open trade tonight, at a place called Imre Stand.”
“Do we, now.” For a long moment she peered at the Shaido column, and at the Wise Ones’ party for a longer. Abruptly she turned for her own wagon, saying over her shoulder to the other peddler, “Then why are you keeping these good sirs standing here? Move, Kadere. Move.”
Rand stared after her, shaking his head again.
There was a gleeman back by her wagon. Mat blinked, thinking the heat had gotten to him, but the fellow did not vanish, a darkhaired man in his middle years wearing a patchcovered cloak. He watched the gathering apprehensively until
Keille shoved him up the wagon’s step ahead of her. Kadere looked at her white wagon with less expression than one of the Aiel before stalking off to his own. Truly an odd lot.
“Did you see the gleeman?” Mat asked Rand, who nodded vaguely, eyeing the line of wagons as if he had never seen a wagon before. Rhuarc and Heirn were already on their way back to the rest of the Jindo. The hundred surrounding Rand waited patiently, dividing their gaze between him and anything that might hide even a mouse. The drivers began gathering their reins, but Rand did not move. “Strange people these peddlers, wouldn’t you say, Rand? But I suppose you have to be strange to come to the Waste. Look at us.” That brought a grimace from Aviendha, but Rand seemed not to have heard. Mat wanted him to say something. Anything. This silence was unnerving. “Would you have thought escorting a peddler would be such an honor Rhuarc and Couladin would argue over it? Do you understand any of this ji’e’toh?”
“You are a fool,” Aviendha muttered. “’It had nothing to do with ji’e’toh. Couladin tries to behave as a clan chief. Rhuarc cannot allow that until — unless — he has gone to Rhuidean. The Shaido would steal bones from a dog — they would steal the bones and the dog — yet even they deserve a true chief. And because of Rand al’Thor we must allow a thousand of them to pitch their tents in our lands.”
“His eyes,” Rand said without looking away from the wagons. “A dangerous man.”
Mat frowned at him. “Whose eyes? Couladin’s?”
“Kadere’s eyes. All that sweating, going white in the face. Yet his eyes never changed. You always have to watch the eyes. Not what he seems.”
“Sure, Rand.” Mat shifted in his saddle, half lifted his reins as if to ride on.
Maybe silence had not been so bad. “You have to watch the eyes.”
Rand changed his study to the tops of the nearest spires and buttes, twisting his head this way and that. “Time is the risk,” he murmured. “Time sets snares. I have to avoid theirs while setting mine.”
There was nothing up there that Mat could make out beyond an occasional scattering of brush and now and then a stunted tree. Aviendha frowned at the heights, then at Rand, adjusting her shawl. “Snares?” Mat said. Light, let him give me an answer that isn’t crazy. “Who’s setting snares?”
For a moment Rand looked at him as if he did not understand the question. The peddlers’ wagons were starting off with an escort of Maidens loping alongside, turning to follow the Jindo as they trotted past, mirrored by the Shaido. More Maidens sped ahead to scout. Only the Aiel around Rand stood still, though the Wise Ones’ party dawdled and watched, and from Egwene’s gestures, Mat thought she wanted to come check on them.
“You can’t see it, or feel it,” Rand said finally. Leaning a little toward Mat, he whispered loudly, as though pretending. “We ride with evil now, Mat. Watch yourself.” He wore that twisted grin again, as he watched the wagons lumber by.
“You think this Kadere is evil?”
“A dangerous man, Mat — the eyes always give it away — yet who can say? But what cause have I to worry, with Moiraine and the Wise Ones watching out for me? And we mustn’t forget Lanfear. Has any man ever been under so many watchful eyes?”
Abruptly Rand straightened in his saddle. “It has begun,” be said quietly. “Wish that I have your luck, Mat. It has begun, and there is no turning back, now, however the blade falls.” Nodding to himself, he started his dapple after Rhuarc, Aviendha trotting alongside, the hundred Jindo following.
Mat was glad enough to follow too. Better than being left there, certainly. The sun burned high in a stark blue sky. There was a lot of traveling yet to be done before sunset. It had begun? What did he mean, it had begun? It had begun in Rhuidean; or better, in Emond’s Field on Winternight a year gone. “Riding with evil” and “no turning back”? And Lanfear? Rand was walking the razor’s edge, now. No doubt about it. There had to be a way out of the Waste before it was too late. From time to time Mat studied the peddlers’ wagons. Before it was too late. If it was not already.
The Shadow Rising
Chapter 37
(Horned Skull) Imre Stand
The sun still stood more than its own height above the jagged western horizon when Rhuarc said that Imre Stand, where he intended to stay for the night, lay only a mile or so ahead.
“Why are we stopping already?” Rand asked. “There are hours more daylight left.”
It was Aviendha, walking along on the other side of Jeade’en from the clan chief, who answered, in the scornful tone he had come to expect. “There is water at Imre Stand. It is best to camp near water when the chance presents itself.”
“And the peddlers’ wagons cannot go much farther,” Rhuarc added. “When the shadows lengthen, they must stop or begin breaking wheels and mules’ legs. I do not want to leave them behind. I cannot spare anyone to watch over them, and Couladin can.” Rand twisted in his saddle. Flanked now by Jindo Duadhe Mahdi’in, Water Seekers, the wagons were making heavy going a few hundred paces off to the side, lurching along, raising a tall plume of yellow dust. Most gullies were too deep or too steepwalled, forcing the drivers to go around, so the train twisted like a drunken snake. Loud curses floated from the wavering line, most blaming the mules for it all. Kadere and Keille were still inside their whitepainted wagons.
“No,” Rand said, “you don’t want to do that.” He laughed softly in spite of himself.
Mat was looking at him oddly from under the broad brim of his new hat. He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way, but Mat’s expression did not change. He’s going to have to take care of himself, Rand thought. Too much is riding on this.
Speaking of taking care, he became aware of Aviendha studying him, her shawl wrapped around her head much like a shoufa. He straightened himself again. Moiraine might have told her off to nurse him, but he had the impression the woman was waiting to see him fall. Doubtless she would find that funny, Aiel humor being what it was. He would have liked to think she simply resented being stuffed into a dress and set to watch him, but the glitter in her eyes seemed too personal for that.
For once Moiraine and the Wise Ones were not watching him. Halfway between the Jindo and the Shaido, Moiraine and Egwene were walking with Amys and the others, all six women looking at something in the Aes Sedai’s hands. It caught the light of the falling sun, sparkling like a gem; they certainly seemed as intent as any girl on a pretty. Lan rode back among the gai’shain and packhorses, as though they had sent him away.
The scene made Rand uneasy. He was used to being the center of attention for that lot. What had they found more interesting? Surely nothing he could be happy
about, not with Moiraine, likely not with Amys or the others. They all had their plans for him. Egwene was the only one of them he really trusted. Light, I hope I can still trust her. The only one he could really trust was himself. When the boar breaks cover, there’s only you and your spear. His laugh was a touch bitter this time. “You find the Threefold Land amusing, Rand al’Thor?” Aviendha’s smile was
the merest flash of white teeth. “Laugh while you can, wetlander. When this land begins to break you, it will be a fitting punishment for your treatment of Elayne.”
Why would the woman an not let up? “You didn’t show any respect for the Dragon Reborn,” he snapped, “but you could try finding a little for the Car’a’carn.”
Rhuarc chuckled. “A clan chief is not a wetlander king Rand, nor is the Car’a’carn. There is respect — though women generally show as little as they can get away with — but anyone can speak to a chief.” Even so, he sent a frown in the direction of the woman on the other side of Rand’s horse. “Some do push the bounds of honor.”
Aviendha must have known that last was meant for her ears; her face went stony. But she strode along without saying another word, fists clenched at her sides.
A pair of the scouting Maidens appeared, coming back at a dead run. They were plainly not together; one headed straight for the Shaido, the other for the Jindo. Rand recognized her, a yellowhaired woman named Adelin, handsome but hardfaced, with a scar making a fine white line across her sundark cheek. She was one of those who had been in the Stone, though older than most of the Maidens there, perhaps ten years more than he. The quick look she gave Aviendha before falling in beside Rhuarc, an equal blend of curiosity and sympathy, made Rand bristle. If Aviendha had agreed to do the Wise Ones’ spying, she certainly did not deserve sympathy. His company was not so onerous as that. Him, Adelin ignored altogether.
“There is trouble at Imre Stand,” she told Rhuarc, her speech quick and clipped. “There is no one to be seen. We have kept hidden and not gone close.”
“Good,” Rhuarc replied. “Inform the Wise Ones.” Unconsciously hefting his spears, he dropped back to the main body of Jindo. Aviendha muttered to herself, plucking at her skirts, obviously wanting to join him.
“I think they already know,” Mat said as Adelin sped toward the Wise Ones’ party.
From the agitation among the women around Moiraine, Rand thought he was right. They all appeared to be talking at once. Egwene was shading her eyes, staring at either Adelin or him, her other hand to her mouth. How they knew had to be a question for later.
“What kind of trouble might it be?” he asked Aviendha. Still muttering to herself, she did not answer. “Aviendha? What kind of trouble?” Nothing. “Burn you, woman, you can answer a simple question! What kind of trouble?”
She flushed, but her reply came in a level tone. “It is most likely to be a raid, for goats or sheep; either could be herded at Imre for pasture, but most likely goats,
because of the water. Probably it was the Chareen, the White Mountain sept or the Jarra. They are closest. Or it might be a sept from the Goshien. The Tomanelle are too far, I think.”
“Will there be fighting?” He reached out for saidin; the sweet rush of the Power flooded him. The rancid taint oozed through him, and fresh sweat burst from every pore. “Aviendha?”
“No. Adelin would have said if the raiders were still there. The herd and the gai’shain are miles gone by now. We cannot recover the herd because we must accompany you. ”
He wondered why she did not mention recovering the captives, the gai’shain, but he did not wonder long. The effort of staying upright while holding on to saidin, of not folding up and being swept away, left little room for thought.
Rhuarc and the Jindo swept ahead at a run, already veiling their faces, and Rand followed more slowly. Aviendha shot him impatient frowns, but he kept Jeade’en to a brisk walk. He would not go galloping into someone else’s trap. At least Mat was in no hurry; he hesitated, looking at the peddlers’ wagons, before cantering Pips up. Rand never glanced at the wagons.
The Shaido fell behind, slowing until the Wise Ones began to move again. Of course. This was Taardad land. Couladin would not care if someone raided here. Rand hoped the clan chiefs could be gathered at Alcair Dal quickly. How could he unite a people who seemed to fight each other all the time? The least of his worries, now.
When Imre Stand finally came in sight, it was something of a surprise. A few widely scattered clumps of longhaired white goats browsed on patches of tough grass and even the leaves of thorny bushes. At first he did not see the crude stone building set against the base of a tall butte; the rough stonework blended in perfectly, and several thornbushes had taken root on the dirt covered roof. Not very big, it had arrowslits for windows and only one door that he could see. After a moment he spotted another building, no larger, tucked onto a ledge some twenty paces higher. A deep crevice ran up to the ledge and beyond from behind the stone house at the base; there was no other evident way to reach the ledge.
Rhuarc, standing openly four hundred or so paces from the butte with his veil lowered, was the only Jindo in sight. That did not mean the others were not there, of course. Rand reined in beside him and dismounted. The clan chief continued to study the stone buildings.
“The goats,” Aviendha said, sounding troubled. “Raiders would not have left any goats behind. Most are gone, but it almost looks as if the herd has just been allowed to wander.”
“For days,” Rhuarc agreed, not taking his eyes from the buildings, “or more would remain. Why does no one come out? They should be able to see my face, and know me.” He started forward, and made no objection when Rand joined him leading Jeade’en. Aviendha had one hand on her belt knife, and Mat, riding behind,
carried that blackhafted spear as if he expected to need it.
The door was rough wood, pieced together from short, narrow planks. Some of the stout bracing was broken, hacked by axes. Rhuarc hesitated a moment before pushing it open. He hardly glanced inside before turning to run his eyes over the surrounding country.
Rand put his head in. There was no one there. The interior, light streaming in bars through the arrowslits, was all one room and plainly not a dwelling, just a place for herdsmen to shelter, and defend themselves if attacked. There were no furnishings, no tables or chairs. A raised open hearth stood beneath a sooty smoke hole in the roof. The wide crevice at the back had steps chiseled into the gray rock. The place had been ransacked. Bedding, blankets, pots, all lay scattered across the stone floor amid slashed cushions and pillows. Some liquid had been splashed over everything, the walls, even the ceiling, and had dried black.
When he realized what it was, he jerked back, the Powerwrought sword coming into his hands before he even thought. Blood. So much blood. There had been slaughter done here, as savage as anything he could imagine. Nothing moved out there except the goats.
Aviendha backed out as fast as she went in. “Who?” she demanded incredulously, her large bluegreen eyes filled with outrage. “Who would do this? Where are the dead?”
“Trollocs,” Mat muttered. “It looks like Trolloc work to me.”
She snorted contemptuously. “Trollocs do not come into the Threefold Land, wetlander. No more than a few miles below the Blight, at least, and then seldom. I have heard they call the Threefold Land the Dying Ground. We hunt Trollocs, wetlander; they do not hunt us.”
Nothing moved. Rand let the sword go, pushed saidin away. It was hard. The sweetness of the Power was nearly enough to overcome the feel of filth from the taint, the sheer exhilaration almost enough to make him not care. Mat was right whatever Aviendha said, but this was old, the Trollocs gone. Trollocs in the Waste, at a place he had come to. He was not fool enough to think it coincidence. But if they think I am, maybe they’ll grow careless.
Rhuarc signaled the Jindo to come in — they seemed to rise out of the ground
— and some time later the others appeared, the Shaido and the peddlers’ wagons and the Wise Ones’ party. Word spread quickly of what had been found, and among the Aiel, tension became palpable. They moved as if they expected momentary attack, perhaps from each other. Scouts fanned out in every direction. Unharnessing their mules, the wagon drivers looked around jerkily, and seemed ready to dive under their wagons at the first shout.
For a time all was a stirred hive of ants. Rhuarc made sure the peddlers lined their wagons up on the edge of the Jindo camp. Couladin glowered, since it meant any Shaido who wanted to trade had to go to the Jindo, but he did not argue. Perhaps even he could see that might lead to dancing the spears, now. The Shaido
tents went up a scant quartermile away, with the Wise Ones, as usual, in between. The Wise Ones examined the inside of the building, and Moiraine and Lan did, as well, but if they reached any conclusions, they told no one.
The water at Imre Stand turned out to be a tiny spring at the back of the crevice, feeding a deep, roughly round pool — what Rhuarc called a tank — less than two paces across. Enough for herdsmen, enough for the Jindo to fill some of their waterskins. No Shaido went near; in Taardad land, the Jindo had first claim on water. It seemed the goats got their moisture purely from the thick leaves of the thorny bushes. Rhuarc assured Rand there would be much more water at the next night’s stop.
Kadere produced a surprise while the wagon drivers were unhitching their teams and fetching buckets from the waterwagons. When he came out of his wagon, a darkhaired young woman accompanied him, in a red silk gown and red velvet slippers more suited to a palace than to the Waste. A filmy red scarf wound almost like shoufa and veil provided no protection from the sun, and certainly did nothing to hide a palely beautiful heartshaped face. Clinging to the peddler’s thick arm, she swayed enticingly as he took her to see the bloodsplashed room; Moiraine and the others had gone off to where the gai’shain were erecting the Wise Ones’ camp. When the pair came back out, the young woman shuddered delicately. Rand was sure it was pretense, just as he was sure she had asked to view that butcher’s workroom. Her show of revulsion lasted all of two seconds, and then she was peering about interestedly at the Aiel.
It appeared that Rand himself was one of the sights she wanted to see. Kadere seemed ready to take her back to the wagon, but she guided him to Rand instead, the alluring smile on her full lips plain behind her diaphanous veil. “Hadnan has been telling me of you,” she said in a smoky voice. She might have been hanging on the peddler, but her dark eyes traced Rand boldly. “You are the one the Aiel talk of. He Who Comes With the Dawn.” Keille and the gleeman came out of the second wagon and stood together at a distance, watching.
“It seems I am,” he said.
“Strange.” Her smile became wickedly mischievous. “I thought you would be handsomer.” Patting Kadere on the cheek, she sighed. “This dreadful heat is so wearing. Do not be too long.”
Kadere did not speak until she had climbed the steps back inside. His hat had been replaced by a long white scarf tied atop his head, the ends handing down his neck. “You must forgive Isendre, good sir. She is… too forward, sometimes.” His voice was mollifying, but his eyes belonged on a bird of prey. He hesitated, then went on. “I have heard other things. I have heard that you took Callandor out of the Heart of the Stone.”
The man’s eyed never changed. If he knew about Callandor, he knew Rand was the Dragon Reborn, knew he could wield the One Power. And his eyes never changed. A dangerous man. “I have heard it said,” Rand told him, “that you should
believe nothing you hear, and only half of what you see.”
“A wise rule,” Kadere said after a moment. “Yet to achieve greatly, a man must believe something. Belief and knowledge pave the road to greatness. Knowledge is perhaps the most valuable of all. We all seek the coin of knowledge. Your pardon, good sir. Isendre is not a patient woman. Perhaps we will have another opportunity to talk.”
Before the man had taken three steps, Aviendha said in a low, hard voice, “You belong to Elayne, Rand al’Thor. Do you stare so at every woman who comes in front of your eyes, or only those who go halfnaked? If I strip off my clothes, will you stare so at me? You belong to Elayne!”
He had forgotten she was there. “I don’t belong to anyone, Aviendha. Elayne?
She cannot seem to make up her mind what she thinks.”
“Elayne laid her heart bare to you, Rand al’Thor. If she did not show you in the Stone of Tear, did her two letters not tell you what she feels? You are hers, and no other’s.”
Rand threw up his hands and stalked away from her. At least, he tried. She followed on his heels, a disapproving shadow in the sun’s glare.
Swords. The Aiel might have forgotten why they did not carry swords, but they had kept the contempt for them. Swords might make her leave him alone. Seeking out Lan in the Wise Ones’ camp, he asked the Warder to watch him work the forms. Bair was the only one of the four in view, and a scowl surely deepened the creases on her face. Egwene was not to be seen either. Moiraine wore calm like a mask, dark eyes cool; he could not say whether she approved.
He was not out to offend the Aiel, so he set up with Lan between the Wise Ones’ tents and the Jindo’s. He used one of the practice swords Lan carried in his baggage, a bundle of loosely tied lathes in place of a blade. The weight and balance were right, though, and he could forget himself in the dancelike flow from form to form, the practice sword alive in his hands, a part of him. Usually it was that way. Today the sun was a furnace in the sky baking out moisture and strength. Aviendha squatted off to one side, hugging her knees to her chest and staring at him.
Finally, panting, he let his arms drop.
“You lost concentration,” Lan told him. “You must hold on to that even when your muscles turn to water. Lose it, and that is the day you die. And it will probably be a farmboy who has his hands on a sword for the first time who does it.” His smile was sudden, odd on that stony face.
“Yes. Well, I’m not a farmboy any longer, am I?” They had gained an audience, if at a distance. Aiel lined the edge of both the Shaido and Jindo camps. Keille’s creamwrapped bulk stood out among the Jindo, the gleeman beside her in his cloak of colored patches. Which one did he choose? He did not want them to see him watching them. “How do Aiel fight, Lan?”
“Hard,” the Warder said dryly. “They never lose concentration. Look here.” With his sword he drew on the hard, cracked clay, a circle and arrows. “Aiel change
tactics according to circumstances, but here is one they favor. They move in a column, divided into quarters. When they meet an enemy, the first quarter rushes in to pin them. The second and third sweep wide to either side, hitting the flanks and rear. The last quarter waits in reserve, often not even watching the battle, except for their leader. When a weakness opens — a hole, anything — the reserve strikes there. Finish!” His sword stabbed into a circle already pierced with arrows.
“How do you beat that?” Rand asked.
“With difficulty. When you make first contact — you’ll not spot Aiel before they strike unless you are lucky — immediately send out horsemen to break up, or at least delay, their flanking attacks. If you keep most of your strength back and defeat the holding attack, then you can wheel on the others in turn and defeat them, too.”
“Why do you want to learn how to fight Aiel?” Aviendha burst out. “Are you not He Who Comes With the Dawn, meant to bind us together and return us all to old glories? Besides, if you want to know how to fight Aiel, ask Aiel, not a wetlander. His way will not work.”
“It has worked well enough with Bordermen from time to time.” Rhuarc’s soft boots made very little sound on the hard ground. He had a waterskin under his arm. “Allowances are always made when someone suffers a disappointment, Aviendha, but there is a limit to sulking. You gave up the spear for your obligation to the people and the blood One day no doubt you will be making a clan chief do what you want instead of what he wants, but if instead you are Wise One to the smallest hold of the smallest sept of the Taardad, the obligation remains, and it cannot be met by tantrums.”
A Wise One. Rand felt a fool. Of course that was why she had gone to Rhuidean. But he would never have thought Aviendha would choose to give up the spear. It certainly explained why she had been chosen to spy on him, though. Suddenly he found himself wondering if she could channel. It seemed Min had been the only woman in his life since that Winternight who could not.
Rhuarc tossed him the sloshing waterskin. The lukewarm water slid down his throat like chilled wine. He tried not to splash any over his face, not to waste it, but it was hard.
“I thought you might like to learn the spear,” Rhuarc said when Rand finally lowered the halfempty skin. For the first time Rand realized the clan chief was carrying only two spears, and a pair of bucklers. Not practice spears if there were any such, a foot of sharp steel tipped each.
Steel or wood, his muscles cried out for rest. His legs wanted him to sit down, and his head wanted to lie down. Keille and the gleeman were gone, but Aiel were still watching from both camps. They had seen him practicing with a despised sword, if a wooden one. They were his people. He did not know them, but they were his, in more senses than one. Aviendha was still watching him, too, glowering as though blaming him for Rhuarc having set her down. Not that she had anything to do with his decision, of course. The Jindo and Shaido were watching; that was it.
“That mountain can grow awfully heavy sometimes,” he sighed, taking a spear and buckler from Rhuarc. “When do you find a chance to put it down awhile?”
“When you die,” Lan said simply.
Forcing his legs to move — and trying to ignore Aviendha — Rand squared off with Rhuarc. He did not mean to die just yet. No, not for a long time yet.
Leaning against a tall wheel in the shade of one of the peddlers’ wagons, Mat glanced at the line of Jindo watching Rand. All he could see now was their backs. The man was a pure fool, leaping about in this heat. Any sensible man would find a bit of protection from the sun, something to drink. Shifting his seat in the shade, he peered into the mug of ale he had bought from one of the drivers and grimaced. Ale just did not taste right when it was as warm as soup. At least it was wet. The only other thing he had bought, aside from the hat, was a shortstemmed pipe with a silverworked bowl, snuggled now in his coat pocket with his tabac pouch. Trading was not on his mind. Unless it was for passage out of the Waste, a commodity the peddlers’ wagons did not seem to be offering at the moment.
They were doing a steady business, if not for ale. The Aiel did not mind the temperature, but they seemed to think it too weak. Most were Jindo, but there was a steady stream of Shaido from the other camp. Couladin and Kadere had their heads together for a long time, though they came to no agreement, since Couladin left emptyhanded. Kadere must not have liked losing the trade; he stared after Couladin with those hawk’s eyes, and a Jindo who wanted his attention had to speak three times before he was heard.
The Aiel did not show much in the way of coin, but the peddlers and their people were quick to accept silver bowls or gold figurines or fine wall hangings looted from Tear, and Aiel pouches produced raw nuggets of gold and silver that made Mat sit up. But an Aiel who lost at dice might well reach for his spears. He wondered where the mines were. Where one man could find gold, another could. It was probably a lot of work, though, mining gold. Taking a long drink of warm ale, he settled back against the wagon wheel.
What sold and what did not, and at what price, was interesting. The Aiel were no simple fools to hand over a gold saltcellar, say, for a bolt of cloth. They knew the value of things and bargained hard, though they had their own wants. Books went immediately; not everyone wanted them, but those who did took every last one the wagons held. Laces and velvets vanished as soon as they were brought out, for astonishing quantities of silver and gold, and ribbons for not much less, but the finest silks just lay there. Silk was cheaper in trade to the east, he overheard a Shaido tell Kadere. A heavyset, brokennosed driver tried to talk a Jindo Maiden into a carved ivory bracelet. She pulled one wider, thicker and more ornate from her pouch and offered to wrestle him for the pair. He hesitated before refusing, which showed Mat he was even dumber than he looked. Needles and pins were snapped up, but the pots, and most of the knives, earned sneers; Aiel smiths did better work. Everything changed hands, from vials of perfumes and bath salts to kegs of brandy.
Wine and brandy fetched good prices. He was startled to hear Heirn ask for Two Rivers tabac. The peddlers had none.
One driver kept trying to interest the Aiel in a heavy, goldworked crossbow with no success. The crossbow caught Mat’s eye, all those inlaid gold lions with what seemed to be rubies for eyes. Small, but still rubies. Of course, a good Two Rivers longbow could shoot six arrows while a crossbowman was still cranking back the bowstring for his second shot. A longer range for a crossbow that size, though, by a hundred paces. With two men doing nothing but keeping a crossbow with bolt in place in the hands of each crossbowman, and stout pikemen to hold the cavalry off…
Wincing, Mat let his head fall back against the spokes. It had happened again. He had to get out of the Waste, away from Moiraine, away from any Aes Sedai. Maybe back home for a while. Maybe he could get there in time to help with this Whitecloak trouble. Small chance of that, unless I use the bloody Ways, or another bloody Portal Stone. That would not solve his problems anyway. For one thing, there were no answers in Emond’s Field to what those snaky folk had meant about marrying the Daughter of the Nine Moons, or dying and living again. Or Rhuidean.
Through his coat he rubbed the silver foxhead medallion, hung around his neck again. The pupil of the fox’s eye was a tiny circle split by a sinuous line, one side polished bright, the other shaded in some way. The ancient symbol of Aes Sedai, before the Breaking. The blackhafted spear, swordblade point marked with two ravens, he took from where it was leaning beside him and laid it across his knees. More Aes Sedai work. Rhuidean had provided no answers, only more questions, and…
Before Rhuidean his memory had been full of holes. Casting back in his mind then, he would be able to remember walking up to a door in the morning and leaving in the evening, but nothing between. Now there was something in between, filling all those holes. Waking dreams, or something very like. It was as if he could remember dances and battles and streets and cities, none of which he had ever really seen, none of which he was sure had ever existed, like a hundred pieces of memory from a hundred different men. Better to think of them as dreams, maybe — a little better — yet he was as sure in them as in any of his own remembrances. Battles numbered the most, and sometimes they crept up on him in a way, as with the crossbow. He would find himself looking at a piece of ground and planning how to set an ambush there, or defend against one, or how to set an army for battle. It was madness.
Without looking, he traced the flowing script carved into the black spear shaft. He could read it as easily as any book now, though it had taken him the whole trip back to Chaendaer to realize it. Rand had not said anything, but he suspected he had given himself away, there in Rhuidean. He knew the Old Tongue now, sifted whole out of those dreams. Light, what did they do to me?
“Sa souvraya niende misain ye,” he said aloud. “I am lost in my own mind.”
“A scholar, for this day and Age.”
Mat looked up to find the gleeman looking at him with dark, deepset eyes. The fellow was taller than most, somewhere in his middle years and likely attractive to women, but with an oddly apprehensive way of holding his head cocked as if trying to look at you sideways.
“Just something I heard once,” Mat said. He had to be more careful. If Moiraine decided to pack him off to the White Tower for study, they would never let him out of there again. “You hear scraps of things and remember them. I know a few phrases.” That should cover any slips he was stupid enough to make.
“I am Jasin Natael. A gleeman,” Natael did not flourish his cloak the way Thom would; he could have been saying he was a carpenter or a wheelwright. “Do you mind if I join you?” Mat nodded to the ground next to him, and the gleeman folded his legs, tucking his cloak under to sit on. He seemed fascinated by the Jindo and Shaido milling around the wagons, most still carrying their spears and bucklers. “Aiel,” he murmured. “Not what I would have expected. I can still hardly credit it.”
“I’ve been with them for weeks now,” Mat said, “and I don’t know that I believe them myself. Odd people. If any of the Maidens ask you to play Maidens’ Kiss, my advice is to refuse. Politely.”
Natael frowned at him questioningly. “You lead an intriguing life, it seems.” “What do you mean?” Mat asked cautiously.
“Surely you do not think it is a secret? Not many men travel in company with… an Aes Sedai. The woman Moiraine Damodred. And then there is Rand al’Thor. The Dragon Reborn. He Who Comes With the Dawn. Who can say how many prophecies he is supposed to fulfill? An unusual traveling companion, certainly.”
The Aiel had talked, of course. Anyone would. Still, it was a little unsettling to have a stranger calmly talk about Rand this way. “He suits well enough for now. If he interests you, talk to him. Myself, I’d just as soon not be reminded.”
“Perhaps I will. Later, perhaps. Let us talk of you. I understand you went into Rhuidean, where none save Aiel have gone in three thousand years. You got that there?” He reached for the spear on Mat’s knees, but let his hand fall when Mat drew it away slightly. “Very well. Tell me what you saw.”
“Why?”
“I am a gleeman, Matrim.” Natael had his head cocked to one side in that uneasy manner, but his voice held irritation at having to explain. He lifted a corner of his cloak with its colorful patches as though for proof. “You have seen what none have, save a handful of Aiel. What stories can I make with the sights your eyes have seen? I will even make you the hero, if you wish.”
Mat snorted. “I don’t want to be any bloody hero.”
Yet there was no reason to keep silent. Amys and that lot could chatter about not speaking of Rhuidean, but he was no Aiel. Besides, it might pay to have somebody with the peddlers who had a little goodwill toward him, somebody who could put in a word when it was needed.
He told the story from reaching the wall of fog to coming out, leaving out selected bits. He had no intention of telling anyone else about that twisteddoorway ter’angreal, and he would rather forget the dust gathering into creatures that tried to kill him. That strange city of huge palaces was surely enough, and Avendesora.
The Tree of Life Natael passed over quickly, but he took Mat through the rest again and again, asking more and more detail, from exactly what it felt like walking through that fog and how long it took to the color of the shadowless light inside, to descriptions of every last thing Mat could remember seeing in the great square in the heart of the city. Those Mat gave reluctantly; a slip, and he would find himself talking about ter’angreal, and who knew where that might lead? Even so he drained the last of the warm ale, and still talked until his throat was dry. It sounded rather dull the way he told it, as though he had just walked in and waited while Rand went off, then walked out again, but Natael seemed intent on digging out every last scrap. He did remind Mat of Thom then; sometimes Thom concentrated on you as though he meant to wring you dry.
“Is this what you are meant to be doing?”
Mat jumped in spite of himself at the sound of Keille’s voice, hard under its mellifluous tones. The woman put him on edge, and now she looked ready to rip his heart out, and the gleeman’s as well.
Natael scrambled to his feet. “This young man has just been telling me the most fascinating things about Rhuidean. You will not believe it.”
“We are not here for Rhuidean.” The words came out as sharp as her hatchet of a nose. At least she was only glaring at Natael now.
“I tell you —”
“You tell me nothing.” “Do not try to silence me!”
Ignoring Mat, they moved off down the wagons, arguing in low voices, gesticulating fiercely. Keille seemed to have been browbeaten into a grim silence by the time they disappeared into her wagon.
Mat shivered. He could not imagine sharing living quarters with that woman. It would be like sharing with a bear with a sore tooth. Isendre, now… That face, those lips, that swaying walk. If he could get her away from Kadere, maybe she would find a young hero — the dust creatures could be ten feet tall, for her; he would give her every detail he could remember or invent — a handsome young hero more to her liking than a stuffy old peddler. It was worth thinking about.
The sun slid below the horizon, and small fires of thorny branches made pools of yellow light among the tents. The smells of cooking filled the camp; goat, roasting with dried peppers. Cold filled the camp, too, the cold of night in the Waste. It was as if the sun had taken all the heat with it. Mat had never expected he would wish for a stout cloak when he packed to leave the Stone. Maybe the peddlers had one. Maybe Natael would dice for his.
He ate at Rhuarc’s fire with Heirn and Rand. And Aviendha, of course. The
peddlers were there, and Natael close by Keille, and Isendre all but wrapped around Kadere. It might be harder separating Isendre from the hooknosed man than he had hoped — or easier. Twined around the fellow or not, she had smoky eyes for Rand and no one else. You would have thought she already had his ears clipped, a sheep marked for its owner’s flock. Neither Rand nor Kadere seemed to notice; the peddler hardly took his eyes off Rand. Aviendha noticed, and glared at Rand. At least the fire gave off some warmth.
When the roast goat was finished — and some sort of flecked yellow mush that was spicier than it looked — Rhuarc and Heirn filled shortstemmed pipes, and the clan chief asked Natael for a song.
The gleeman blinked. “Why, of course. Of course. Let me bring a harp.” His cloak billowed on the dry, cold breeze as he vanished toward Keille’s wagon.
The fellow certainly was different from Thom Merrilin. Thom hardly got out of bed without flute or harp or both. Mat thumbed his silverworked pipe full of tabac, and was puffing contentedly by the time Natael returned and struck a pose suitable for a king. That was like Thom. With a strummed cord, the gleeman began.
“Soft, the winds, like springtime’s fingers. Soft, the rains, like heaven’s tears.
Soft, the years roll by in gladness, never hinting storms to come, never hinting whirlwinds’ ravage, rain of steel and battle thunder, war to tear the heart asunder.”
It was “Midean’s Ford.” An old song; of Manetheren, oddly enough, and war before the Trolloc Wars. Natael did a fair job of it; nothing like Thom’s sonorous recitals, of course, but the rolling words drew a crowd of Aiel thick around the edge of the fire’s light. Villainous Aedomon led the Saferi down on unsuspecting Manetheren, pillaging and burning, driving all before them until King Buiryn gathered Manetheren’s strength, and the men of Manetheren met the Saferi at Midean’s Ford, holding, though heavily outnumbered, through three days of unrelenting battle, while the river ran red and vultures blacked the sky. On the third day, numbers dwindling, hope fading, Buiryn and his men fought their way across the ford in a desperate sortie, driving deep into Aedomon’s horde, seeking to turn the enemy back by killing Aedomon himself. But forces too great to overpower swept in around them, trapping them, driving them ever in on themselves. Surrounding their king and the Red Eagle banner, they fought on, refusing surrender even when their doom became clear.
Natael sang how their courage touched even Aedomon’s heart, and how at last he allowed the remnant to go free, turning his army back to Safer in honor of them.
“Back across the bloodred water, marching back with heads held high. No surrender, arm or sword,
no surrender, heart or soul. Honor be theirs, ever after, honor all the Age shall know.”
He plucked the final chord, and the Aiel whistled their approval, drumming spears on their hide bucklers, some raising ululating cries.
It had not been that way, of course. Mat could remember — Light, I don’t want to! But it came anyway — he remembered counseling Buiryn not to accept the offer, being told in return that the smallest chance was better than none. Aedomon, glossy black beard hanging below the steel mesh that veiled his face, drew his spearmen back, waited until they were strung out and nearly to the ford before the hidden archers rose and the cavalry charged in. As for turning back to Safer Mat
did not think so. His last memory at the ford was trying to keep his feet, waistdeep in the river with three arrows in him, but there was something later, a fragment. Seeing Aedomon, graybearded now, go down in a sharp fight in a forest, toppling from his rearing horse, the spear in his back put there by an unarmored, beardless boy. This was worse than the holes had been.
“You did not like the song?” Natael said.
It took Mat a moment to realize the man was speaking to Rand, not him. Rand rubbed his hands together, peering into the small fire, before answering. “I’m not certain how wise it is, depending on an enemy’s generosity. What do you think, Kadere?”
The peddler hesitated, glancing at the woman clinging to his arm. “I do not think of such things,” he said at last. “I think of profits, not battles.” Keille laughed coarsely. At least, until she saw Isendre’s smile, condescending to a woman who could make three of her; then her dark eyes glittered dangerously behind those rolls of fat.
Suddenly warning cries rose in the dark beyond the tents. Aiel snatched veils across their faces, and a moment later Trollocs poured in out of the night, snouted faces and horned heads, towering over the humans, howling and swinging scythecurved swords, stabbing with hooked spears and barbed tridents, hacking with spiked axes. Myrddraal flowed with them, like deadly eyeless snakes. A heartbeat it took, but the Aiel fought as if they had had an hour’s warning, meeting the charge with their own flickering spears.
Mat was vaguely aware of Rand with that fiery sword suddenly in hand, but then he was sucked into the maelstrom himself, wielding his spear as spear and quarterstaff both, slash and thrust, haft whirling. For once he was glad of those dream memories; the way of this weapon seemed familiar, and he needed every scrap of skill he could find. It was all chaotic madness.
Trollocs rose up in front of him and went down to his spear, or an Aiel spear, or spun away into the confusion of shouts and howls and clanging steel. Myrddraal faced him, black blades meeting his ravenmarked steel with flashes of blue light like sheet lightning, faced him and were gone in the tumult. Twice a short spear
streaking by his head took Trollocs about to run him through the back. He thrust the shortsword blade into a Myrddraal’s chest and knew he was going to die when it did not fall, but grinned with those bloodless lips, eyeless stare shivering fear into his bones, and drew back its black sword. An instant later the Halfman jerked as Aiel arrows pincushioned it, jerked for the moment Mat needed to leap back from the thing as it fell still trying to stab at him, stab at anything.
A dozen times the spear’s ironhard black haft barely deflected a Trolloc thrust. It was Aes Sedai work, and he was glad of it. The silver foxhead on his chest seemed to pulse with cold as if to remind him that it, too, bore the mark of Aes Sedai. Right then, he did not care; if it took Aes Sedai work to keep him alive, he was ready to follow Moiraine like a puppy.
He could not have said if it went on for minutes or hours, but suddenly there was not a Myrddraal or Trolloc still standing in sight, though cries and howls from the darkness spoke of pursuit. Dead and dying littered the ground, Aiel and Shadowspawn, the Halfmen still thrashing. Groans filled the air with pain. Suddenly he realized his muscles felt like water, and his lungs were afire. Panting, he slid down to his knees, leaning on his spear. Flames made bonfires of three of the peddlers’ canvastopped wagons, one with a driver pinned to the side by a Trolloc spear, and some of the tents were burning. Shouts from the direction of the Shaido camp, and glows too large for campfires, said they had been attacked, too.
Fiery sword still in hand, Rand came to where Mat knelt. “Are you all right?” Aviendha shadowed him. Somewhere she had found a spear and buckler, had tucked up a corner of her shawl to veil her face. Even in skirts she looked deadly.
“Oh, I am fine,” Mat muttered, struggling to his feet. “Nothing like a little dance with Trollocs to ready you for sleep. Right, Aviendha?” Uncovering her face, she gave him a tight smile. The woman had probably enjoyed it. He was sweat all over; he thought it might freeze on him.
Moiraine and Egwene had appeared with two of the Wise Ones, Amys and Bair, circulating among the wounded. The convulsion of Healing followed the Aes Sedai, though sometimes she merely shook her head and moved on.
Rhuarc strode up with a grim face. “Bad news?” Rand said quietly.
The clan chief grunted. “Aside from Trollocs here where they should not be, not by two hundred leagues or more? Perhaps. Some fifty Trollocs attacked the Wise Ones’ camp. Enough to overwhelm it, had it not been for Moiraine Sedai and luck. However, it seems the Shaido were hit by fewer than struck us, though since they are the larger camp the reverse should have been true. I might almost think they were attacked only to keep them from coming to our aid. Not that that would be certain, with Shaido, but Trollocs and Nightrunners might not know that.”
“And if they knew an Aes Sedai was with the Wise Ones,” Rand said, “that attack could have been meant to keep her away, too. I bring enemies with me, Rhuarc. Remember that. Wherever I am, my enemies are never far.”
Isendre poked her head out of the lead wagon. A moment later Kadere climbed down past her, and she ducked back inside, shutting the whitepainted door behind him. He stood looking around at the carnage, the light of his burning wagons painting rippling shadows across his face. The group around Mat held his attention most. The wagons seemed to interest him not at all. Natael got down from Keille’s wagon, too, speaking up the stairs to her still inside, his eyes on Mat and the others.
“Fools,” Mat muttered, half to himself. “Hiding inside the wagons, as if that would make any difference to a Trolloc. They could all have roasted alive, easy as not.”
“They are still alive,” Rand said, and Mat realized he had seen them, too. “That is always important, Mat, who stays alive. It’s like dice. You can’t win if you can’t play, and you can’t play if you are dead. Who can say what game the peddlers play?” He laughed quietly, and the fiery sword vanished from his hands.
“I am going to get some sleep,” Mat said, already turning away. “Wake me if the Trollocs show up again. Or better, let them kill me in my blankets. I am too tired to wake up again.” Rand was definitely going over the edge. Maybe tonight would convince Keille and Kadere to turn back. If they did, he intended to be with them.
Rand let Moiraine look at him, muttering to herself, though he had taken no wound. With so many who had, she could not spare the strength to wash away his fatigue with the One Power.
“This was aimed at you,” she told him, surrounded by the moans of the injured. The Trollocs were being dragged away into the night, by packhorses and the peddlers’ mules. The Aiel apparently intended to leave the Myrddraal where they lay until they stopped moving, to make sure they were really dead. The wind gusted up, like ice with no moisture in it.
“Was it?” he said. Her eyes glittered in the firelight before she turned back to the wounded.
Egwene came to him, too, but only to say in a low, fierce whisper, “Whatever you are doing to upset her, stop it!” The glance she shot past him at Aviendha left no doubt who she meant, and she went off to help Bair and Amys before he could say he had done nothing. She looked ridiculous with those two braids twined with ribbons. The Aiel seemed to think so, too; some of them grinned at her back.
Stumbling, shivering, he sought his tent. He had never been this tired before. The sword had almost not come. He hoped that was the tiredness. Sometimes there was nothing there when he reached for the Source, and sometimes the Power would not do what he wanted, but almost from the first the sword had come practically without thought. Now of all times… It had to be the tiredness.
Aviendha insisted on following him as far as the tent, and when he woke the next morning she was sitting outside crosslegged, though without the spear and buckler. Spy or not, he was glad to see her. At least he knew who and what she was, and what she felt for him.
The Shadow Rising
Chapter 38
(Female Silhouettes) Hidden Faces
The Garden of Silver Breezes was not a garden at all but a huge wineshop, much too large to be called a shop really, atop a hill centered on the Calpene, the westernmost of Tanchico’s three peninsulas below the Great Circle. A part of the name, at least, came from the breezes that wafted in where polished greenstreaked marble columns and balustrades replaced one wall except on the topmost floor. Golden oiledsilk curtains could be lowered in case of rain. The hill fell away sharply on that side, and the tables along the balustrades gave a clear view, across white domes and spires, of the great harbor, crowded with more ships than ever. Tanchico needed everything, desperately, and there was gold to be made — until the gold and time ran out.
With its gilded lamps and ceilings inlaid with brass fretwork polished to a golden gleam, its serving women and men chosen for grace and beauty and discretion, the Garden of the Silver Breezes had been the most expensive wineshop in the city even before the troubles. Now it was outrageous. But those who dealt in huge sums still came, those who dealt in power and influence, or thought they did. In some ways there was less to deal in than before; in others, more.
Low walls surrounded each table making islands dotted across the green and golden floor tiles. Each wall, pierced with lacy carving so no eavesdropper could listen unseen, stood just high enough to hide who met whom from the casual glances of passersby. Even so, patrons usually went masked, especially of late, and some had a bodyguard beside their table, also masked to avoid recognition if the patron was prudent. And tongueless, rumor said, for the most prudent. No guard was visibly armed; the proprietress of the Garden of Silver Breezes, a sleek woman of indeterminate age named Selindrin, allowed no weapons past the street now. Her rule was not broken, at least openly.
From her usual table against the balustrade, Egeanin watched the ships in the harbor, especially those under sail. They made her want to be back on a deck giving orders. She had never expected duty to bring her to this.
Unconsciously she adjusted the velvet mask that hid the upper half of her face; she felt ridiculous wearing the thing, but it was necessary to blend in to some extent. The mask — blue to match her highnecked silk gown — the gown itself, and her dark hair, grown down to her shoulders now, were as far as she could make herself go. Passing for a Taraboner was unnecessary — Tanchico bulged with refugees, a good many of them foreigners swept up in the troubles — and it was beyond her in any case. These people were animals; they had no discipline, no order.
Regretfully, she turned from the harbor to her table companion, a narrowfaced fellow with a weasel’s greedy smile. Floran Gelb’s frayed collar did not belong in
the Garden of Silver Breezes, and he continually wiped his hands on his coat. She always met them here, the greasy little men she was forced to deal with. It was a reward for them, and a means of keeping them off balance.
“What do you have for me, Master Gelb?”
Wiping his hands again, he lifted a coarse jute bag onto the table and watched her anxiously. She held the bag down beside her before opening it. A silvery metal a’dam lay inside, a collar and bracelet connected by a leash cunningly worked and joined. She closed the bag and set it on the floor. This made three that Gelb had recovered, more than anyone else.
“Very good, Master Gelb.” A small purse went across the table the other way; Gelb made it disappear under his coat as if it held the Empress’s crown instead of a handful of silver. “And do you have anything else?”
“Those women. The ones you want me to look for?” She had grown used to the quick speech of these people, but she wished he would not lick his lips that way. It did not make him any harder to understand, but it was unsightly.
She very nearly told him she was not interested anymore. But this was a part of why she was in Tanchico, after all; maybe the whole reason, now. “What of them?” That she could even think of shirking her duty made her speak more harshly than she had intended, and Gelb flinched.
“I… I think I’ve found another one.”
“You are sure? There have been… mistakes.”
Mistakes was a gentle way to put it. Near a dozen women who came only vaguely near the descriptions had been nuisances she could ignore once she had seen them. But that noblewoman, a refugee from estates burned out by the war. Gelb had kidnapped the woman off the street, thinking to earn more for delivering her than for telling where she was. In his defense, the Lady Leilwin closely matched one of the women Egeanin sought, but she had told him they would not speak with any accent he recognized, certainly not a Taraboner accent. Egeanin had not wanted to kill the woman, yet even in Tanchico someone might have listened to her story. Leilwin had gone bound and gagged onto one of the courier boats in the dead of night; she was young and pretty, and someone would find a better use for her than slitting her throat. But Egeanin was not in Tanchico to find serving girls for the Blood.
“No mistakes, Mistress Elidar,” he said hastily, flashing that smile full of teeth. “Not this time. But. . . I need a little gold. To be sure. To get close enough. Four or five crowns?”
“I pay for results,” Egeanin told him firmly. “After your… mistakes, you are lucky that I pay you at all.”
Gelb licked his lips nervously. “You said… Back in the beginning, you said you’d have a few coins for those as could do special sorts of work.” A muscle in his cheek twitched; his eyes darted as if someone might be listening at the lacecarved wall around three sides of the table, and his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.
“Stirring up trouble, as it were? I heard a rumor — from a fellow who’s bodyservant to Lord Brys — about the Assembly, and choosing the new Panarch. I think maybe it’s true. The man was drunk, and when he realized what he had said, he nearly fouled himself. Even if it isn’t, it would still rip Tanchico wide open.”
“Do you really believe there is any need to buy trouble in this city?” Tanchico was a rotting bellfruit ready to fall in the first wind. The whole of this wretched land was. For a moment she was tempted to buy his “rumor.” She was supposed to be a trader in whatever goods or information came along, and she had even sold some. But dealing with Gelb sickened her. And her own doubts frightened her. “That will be all, Master Gelb. You know how to make contact with me if you find another of these.” She touched the roughwoven sack.
Instead of rising, he sat staring, trying to see through her mask. “Where are you from, Mistress Elidar? The way you talk, all slurred out and softlike — begging your pardon; no offense meant — I can’t place you.”
“That will be all, Gelb.” Maybe it was the quarterdeck voice, or maybe the mask failed to hide her cold stare, but Gelb bounced to his feet, ducking bows and stammering apologies while he fumbled open the door in the lacework wall.
She sat there after he was gone, giving him time to leave the Garden of Silver Breezes. Someone would follow him outside, to make certain he did not wait to shadow her. All this skulking and hiding disgusted her; she almost wished something would destroy her disguise and give her an honest facetoface fight.
A new ship was sweeping into the harbor below, a Sea Folk raker with its towering masts and clouds of sail. She had examined a captured raker, but she would have given almost anything to take one out, though she expected a Sea Folk crew would be necessary to wring the most from the vessel. The Atha’an Miere were stubborn about taking the oaths; it would not be as good if she had to buy a crew. Buy an entire crew! The amount of gold that came in by the courier boats for her to fling about was going to her head.
Taking up the jute bag, she started to rise, then sat back down hurriedly at the sight of a wide, thickshouldered man leaving another table. Dark hair, long to his shoulders, and a beard that left his upper lip bare framed Bayle Domon’s round face. He was not masked, of course; he ran a dozen coasting vessels in and out of Tanchico and apparently did not care who knew his whereabouts. Masked. She was not thinking straight. He would not recognize her in a mask. Still, she waited until he was gone before leaving her table. The man might have to be dealt with yet, if he became a danger.
Selindrin took the gold she proffered with a sleek smile and murmured wishes for Egeanin’s continued patronage. Dark hair in dozens of narrow braids, the proprietress of the Garden of Silver Breezes wore clinging white silk, nearly thin enough for a serving girl, and one of those transparent veils that always made Egeanin want to ask Taraboners what dances they could perform. Shea dancers wore almost identical veils and little more. Still, Egeanin thought as she started
toward the street, the woman had a sharp mind, else she could not maneuver through the shoals of Tanchico, catering to every faction while earning the enmity of none.
A reminder of that was the tall, whitecloaked man, gray at the temples but hardfaced and hardeyed, who passed Egeanin and was greeted by Selindrin. Jaichim Carridin’s cloak bore a golden sunburst on the breast, with four golden knots below and a crimson shepherd’s crook behind. An Inquisitor of the Hand of the Light, a high officer in the Children of the Light. The very concept of the Children outraged Egeanin, a military body answerable only to itself. But Carridin and his few hundred soldiers had power of a sort in Tanchico, where any kind of authority seemed to be lacking most of the time. The Civil Watch no longer patrolled the streets, and the army — as much as was still loyal to the King — was too busy holding the fortresses around the city. Egeanin noted that Selindrin did not even glance at the sword on Carridin’s hip. He definitely had power.
As soon as she stepped into the street her bearers came running with her chair from the cluster waiting for their patrons, and her bodyguards closed in around her with their spears. They were a mismatched lot, some in steel caps, three wearing leather shirts sewn with steel scales; roughfaced men, possibly deserters from the army, but aware that continued full bellies and silver to spend depended on her continued safety. Even the bearers carried stout knives, and cudgels stuck out of their sashes. No one who looked as though they had money dared appear outofdoors unguarded. In any case, had she cared to risk it, it would only draw attention to her.
The guards forced a way through the crowds with no trouble. The throngs eddied and swirled in the narrow streets that wound through the city’s hills, creating clear pockets around sedan chairs surrounded by bodyguards. There were very few carriages to be seen. Horses were becoming an extravagance.
Worn was the only fit description for the milling masses, worn and frenzied. Worn faces, worn clothes, and toobright, frenzied eyes, desperate, hoping when they knew there was no hope. Many had surrendered, crouching against walls, huddled in doorways, clutching wives, husbands, children, not simply worn but ragged and blankfaced. Sometimes they roused enough to cry out to some passerby for a coin, a crust, anything.
Egeanin kept her eyes straight ahead, of necessity trusting the bodyguards to detect any danger. Meeting a beggar’s eyes meant twenty of them jamming themselves hopefully around her chair. Tossing a coin meant a hundred crowding in, clamoring and weeping. She was already using part of the money the courier boats brought to support a soup kitchen, just as if she were one of the Blood. She shuddered to think what discovery of that overstepping of her place would mean. As well put on a brocaded robe and shave her head.
All of this could be put aright once Tanchico fell, with everyone fed, everyone put in their proper place. And she could abandon dresses and things she had no experience or taste for, return to her ship. Tarabon, at least, and perhaps Arad
Doman as well, were ready to crumble at a touch, like charred silk. Why was the High Lady Suroth holding back? Why?
Jaichim Carridin lounged in his chair, cloak spread over the carved arms, studying the Taraboner noblemen who occupied the private room’s other chairs. They sat stiffly in their goldembroidered coats, mouths tight below masks fancifully worked to resemble hawks’ faces, and lions’ and leopards’. He had more to worry him than they, but he managed a calm demeanor. It was two months since he had received word of a cousin found skinned alive in his own bedchamber, three since his youngest sister, Dealda, being carried off from her bridal feast by a Myrddraal. The family steward wrote disbelievingly, frantic with all the tragedy befalling House Carridin. Two months. He hoped Dealda had died quickly. It was said women did not cling to sanity long in Myrddraal hands. Two whole months. Anyone else but Jaichim Carridin would have been sweating blood.
Each man held a golden goblet of wine, but there were no servants present. Selindrin had served them before removing herself with an assurance that they would not be disturbed. There was, in fact, no one else on this, the highest floor of the Garden of Silver Breezes. Two men who had come with the nobles — members of the King’s Life Guard, unless Carridin missed his guess — stood at the foot of the stairs to guarantee continued privacy.
Carridin sipped his wine. None of the Taraboners had touched theirs. “So,” he said lightly, “King Andric wishes the Children of the Light to aid in restoring order in the city. We do not often let ourselves become involved in the internal affairs of nations.” Not openly. “Certainly I cannot remember such a request. I do not know what the Lord Captain Commander will say.” Pedron Niall would say to do what was needed and make sure the Taraboners knew that they owed a debt to the Children, make sure they paid it in full.
“There is no time for you to request instructions from Amador,” a man in a blackspotted leopard mask said urgently. None had offered names, but Carridin did not need them.
“What we ask is necessary,” another snapped, his thick mustache below a hawk mask giving him the look of a peculiar owl. “You must understand that we would not make this request unless it were necessary in the extreme. We must have unity, not more division, yes? There are many divisive elements, even within Tanchico. They must be suppressed if there is to be even the hope of imposing peace on the countryside.”
“The death of the Panarch has made matters most difficult,” the first fellow added.
Carridin raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Have you discovered yet who killed her?”
His own supposition was that Andric himself had had the deed done, in the belief that the Panarch favored one of the rebel claimants to the throne. The King may have been right, but he had discovered after calling what he could of the
Assembly of Lords — a good many were with one or another of the rebel groups out in the country — that they were remarkably stubborn about ratifying his choice. Even had the Lady Amathera not been currently sharing Andric’s bed, election of King and Panarch was the only real power the Assembly had, and they did not seem to want to give it up. The difficulties over the Lady Amathera were not supposed to be known. Even the Assembly realized that that news might set off riots.
“One of the Dragonsworn madmen assuredly,” the owllooking man said, giving his mustache a fierce tug. “No true Taraboner would harm the Panarch, yes?” He almost sounded as if he believed it.
“Of course,” Carridin said smoothly. He took another sip of wine. “If I am to secure the Panarch’s Palace for the ascension of the Lady Amathera, I must hear from the King himself. Otherwise, it might appear the Children of the Light were reaching for power in Tarabon, when all we seek is, as you say, an end to division, and peace under the Light.”
An older, squarejawed leopard, white streaking his dark yellow hair, spoke up in cold tones. “I have heard that Pedron Niall seeks unity against the Dragonsworn. Unity under himself, is it not?”
“The Lord Captain Commander seeks no dominion,” Carridin replied just as icily. “The Children serve the Light, as do all men of good will.”
“There can be no question,” the first leopard put in, “of Tarabon being subject in any way to Amador. No question!” Angry agreement rumbled from nearly every chair.
“Of course not,” Carridin said as though the thought had never crossed his mind. “If you wish my aid, I will give it — under the conditions I have stated. If you do not, there is always work for the Children. Service to the Light never ends, for the Shadow waits everywhere.”
“You will have sureties signed and sealed by the King,” a graying, lionmasked man said, the first words he had spoken. He was, of course, Andric himself, though Carridin was not supposed to know. The King could not meet with an Inquisitor of the Hand of the Light without causing talk any more than he could visit a wineshop, even the Garden of Silver Breezes.
Carridin nodded. “When they are in my hand, I will secure the Panarch’s Palace, and the Children will suppress any… divisive elements… who attempt to interfere with the investiture. Under the Light, I swear it.” Tension drained out of the Taraboners visibly; they upended their goblets as if trying to replace it with wine, even Andric.
So far as the people of Tarabon were concerned, the Children would have the blame for the inevitable killings, not the King, or the army of Tarabon. Once Amathera was invested with the Crown and Staff of the Tree, a few more of the Assembly might well join the rebels, but if the rest admitted they had not elected her the news would set Tanchico afire. As for any tales that came from those who fled — why, rebels would spread any sort of treasonous lie. And the King and
Panarch of Tarabon would both dangle on strings Carridin could hand to Pedron Niall to do with as he pleased.
Not such a grand prize as it would have been when the King of Tarabon controlled more than a few hundred square miles around Tanchico, yet it might be grand again. With the aid of the Children — a legion or two would be needed at least; not just the five hundred men Carridin had — the Dragonsworn might yet be crushed, the various rebels defeated, even the war with Arad Doman successfully prosecuted. If either country still realized it was fighting the other. Arad Doman was in worse condition than Tarabon, so Carridin heard.
In truth, he hardly cared if Tarabon fell under the Children’s sway, or Tanchico, or any of it. There were motions to go through, things to do that he had always done, but it was difficult to think of anything except when his own throat would be cut. Perhaps he would long to have his throat cut. Two whole months since the last report.
He did not stay to drink with the Taraboners, but made his goodbyes, as shortly as he could. If they took offense, they needed him too much to show it. Selindrin saw him come down, and a stableboy was trotting his horse up to the front door when he reached the street. Tossing the boy a copper, he spurred the black gelding to a quick canter. The ragged folk in the twisty streets got out of his way, which was to the good; he was not sure he would notice if he trampled one of them. Not that it would be any loss. The city was full of beggars; he could hardly breathe without the stench of old, sour sweat and dirt. Tamrin ought to sweep them up and sweep them out; let the rebels in the country contend with them.
It was the country that held his mind, but not the rebels. They could be dealt with easily enough, after word began to spread that this one or that was a Darkfriend. And once he managed to turn a few of them over to the Hand of the Light, they would stand up before everyone and confess to worshipping the Dark One, eating children, anything and everything they were told. The rebels could not last long after that; the pretenders still in the field would wake to find themselves alone. But the Dragonsworn, the men and women who had actually declared for the Dragon Reborn, would not fall away for a charge of being Darkfriends. Most people already considered them so, swearing to follow a man who could channel.
It was the man they had sworn to follow who was the problem, the man whose name they did not even know. Rand al’Thor. Where was he? A hundred bands of Dragonsworn out there, at least two large enough to be called armies, fighting the King’s army — such of it as still held allegiance to Andric — fighting the rebels — who were busy fighting each other as often as Andric or the Dragonsworn — yet Carridin had no clue to which band sheltered Rand al’Thor. He could be on Almoth Plain or in Arad Doman, where the situation was the same. If he was, Jaichim Carridin was a dead man in all likelihood.
At the palace on the Verana he had commandeered for the Children’s headquarters, he tossed his reins to one of the whitecloaked guards and stalked
inside without returning their salutes. The owner of this ornate mass of pale domes and lacy spires and shaded gardens had put forward a claim to the Throne of the Light, and no one complained at the occupation. Least of all the owner; what was left of his head still adorned a spike above the Traitors’ Steps, on the Maseta.
For once Carridin barely glanced at fine Tarabon carpets, or furnishings worked with gold and ivory, or fountained courts where splashing water made a cool sound. Broad hallways with golden lamps and high ceilings covered in delicate goldwork scrolls interested him not at all. This palace could match the finest in Amadicia, if not the largest, yet foremost in his mind right then was the strong brandy in the room he had taken for a study.
He was halfway across a priceless carpet, all patterned blue and scarlet and gold, eyes fixed on the carved cabinet that held a silver flask of doubledistilled brandy, when suddenly he realized he was not alone. A woman in a clinging, palered gown stood near the tall, narrow windows overlooking one of the treeshaded gardens, her honeycolored hair in braids that brushed her shoulders. A misty scrap of veil did nothing to hide her face. Young and pretty, with a rosebud mouth and large brown eyes, she was no servant, not dressed like that.
“Who are you?” he demanded irritably. “How did you get in here? Leave at once, or I’ll have you tossed into the street.”
“Threats, Bors? You should be more welcoming to a guest, yes?”
That name jolted him to his heels. Before he thought, he had his sword out, lunging for her throat.
Something seized him — the air turned to crawling jelly — something forced him to his knees, encased him from the neck down. It tightened around his wrist until bones grated; his hand popped open, and his sword fell. The Power. She was using the One Power on him. A Tar Valon witch. And if she knew that name…
“Do you remember,” she said, coming closer, “a meeting where Ba’alzamon himself appeared, and showed us the faces of Matrim Cauthon, and Perrin Aybara, and Rand al’Thor?” She practically spat the names, especially the last; her eyes could have drilled holes in steel. “You see? I know who you are, yes? You pledged your soul to the Great Lord of the Dark, Bors.” Her sudden laugh was a tinkling of bells.
Sweat popped out on his face. Not just a despised Tar Valon witch. Black Ajah. She was Black Ajah. He had thought it would be a Myrddraal that came for him. He had thought there was time yet. More time. Not yet. “I have tried to kill him,” he babbled. “Rand al’Thor. I have tried! But I cannot find him. I cannot! I was told my family would be killed if I failed, one by one. I was promised I would be last! I have cousins, yet. Nephews. Nieces. I have another sister! You must give me more time!”
She stood there, watching him with those sharp brown eyes, smiling with that plump little mouth, listening to him spew out where Vanora could be found, where her bedchamber lay, how she liked to ride alone in the forest beyond Carmera.
Perhaps if he shouted some of the guards would come. Perhaps they could kill her. He opened his mouth wider — and that thick invisible jelly oozed in, forcing his jaws apart until they creaked in his ears. Nostrils flaring, he sucked air in frantically. He could still breathe, but he could not scream. All that came out were muffled groans, like a woman wailing behind walls. He wanted to scream.
“You are very amusing,” the honeyhaired woman said finally. “Jaichim. That is a good name for a dog, I think. Would you like to be my dog, Jaichim? If you are a very good dog, I may allow you to watch Rand al’Thor die one day, yes?”
It took a moment for what she was saying to sink in. If he was to see Rand al’Thor die, she was not… She was not going to kill him, skin him alive, do the things his mind had conjured that would make flaying a release. Tears rolled down his face. Sobs of relief shook him, as much as he could shake, trapped as he was. That trap abruptly vanished, and he collapsed on hands and knees, still weeping. He could not stop.
The woman knelt beside him and tangled a hand in his hair, pulled his head up. “Now you will listen to me, yes? The death of Rand al’Thor is for the future, and you will see it only if you are a good dog. You are going to move your Whitecloaks to the Panarch’s Palace.”
“Hhow do yyou know that?”
She shook his head from side to side, not gently. “A good dog does not question his mistress. I throw the stick; you fetch the stick. I say kill; you kill. Yes? Yes.” Her smile was just a flash of teeth. “There will be difficulty in taking the Palace? The Panarch’s Legion is there, a thousand men, sleeping in the hallways, the exhibition rooms, the courtyards. You do not have so many of your Whitecloaks.”
“They….” He had to stop and swallow. “They will make no trouble. They will believe Amathera has been chosen by the Assembly. It is the Assembly that —”
“Do not bore me, Jaichim. I do not care if you kill the entire Assembly so long as you hold the Panarch’s Palace. When will you move?”
“It… it will take three or four days for Andric to deliver sureties.”
“Three or four days,” she murmured half to herself. “Very well. A little longer delay should cause no harm.” He was wondering what delay she meant when she cut away the little ground remaining under his feet. “You will keep control of the Palace, and you will send the Panarch’s fine soldiers away.”
“That is impossible,” he gasped, and she jerked his head back so hard he did not know if his neck would break or his scalp tear loose first. He did not dare resist. A thousand invisible needles pricked him, on his face, his chest, his back, arms, legs, everywhere. Invisible, but he was sure no less real for that.
“Impossible, Jaichim?” she said softly. “Impossible is a word I do not like to hear.”
The needles twisted deeper; he groaned, but he had to explain. What she wanted was impossible. He panted with haste. “Once Amathera is invested as Panarch, she will control the Legion. If I try to hold the Palace, she will turn them on me, and
Andric will help her. There is no way I can hold against the Panarch’s Legion, and against whatever Andric can strip from the Ring forts.”
She studied him so long he began to sweat. He did not dare to flinch, hardly even to blink; those thousand biting little stabs did not allow it.
“The Panarch will be dealt with,” she said finally. The needles vanished, and she stood.
Carridin stood, too, trying to steady himself. Perhaps some bargain could be reached; the woman seemed willing to listen to reason now. His legs quivered with shock, but he made his voice as firm as he could. “Even if you can influence Amathera —”
She cut him off. “I told you not to question, Jaichim. A good dog obeys his mistress, yes? I promise you, if you do not you will beg me to find a Myrddraal to play with you. Do you understand me?”
“I understand,” he said leadenly. She continued to stare, and after a moment he did understand. “I will do as you say… mistress.” Her brief, approving smile made him flush. She moved toward the door, turning her back on him as if he really were a dog, and a toothless one. “What… ? What is your name?”
Her smile was sweet this time, and mocking. “Yes. A dog should know his mistress’s name. I am called Liandrin. But that name must never touch a dog’s lips. Should it, I will be most displeased with you.”
When the door closed behind her, he staggered to a highbacked chair inlaid with ivory and fell into it. The brandy he left where it was; the way his stomach was twisting, it would make him vomit. What interest could she possibly have in the Panarch’s Palace? A dangerous line of questioning, perhaps, but even if they served the same master he could not feel anything but revulsion for a Tar Valon witch.
She did not know as much as she thought. With the King’s sureties in hand, he could keep Tamrin and the army away from his throat with the threat of revelation, and Amathera, too. They could still rouse the mob, though. And the Lord Captain Commander might be more than disapproving of the entire affair, might believe he was reaching for personal power. Carridin dropped his head in his hands, envisioning Niall signing his death warrant. His own men would arrest him; and hang him. If he could arrange the death of the witch… But she had promised to protect him from the Myrddraal. He wanted to weep again. She was not even here, yet she had him trapped as tightly as ever, steel jaws clamped on both legs and a noose snug around his neck.
There had to be a way out, but every way he looked there was only another trap. Liandrin ghosted through the halls, easily avoiding servants and Whitecloaks. When she stepped out of a small back door into a narrow alley behind the palace, the tall young guard there stared at her with a blend of relief and unease. Her little trick of opening someone to her suggestions — just a whipcrack trickle of the Power — had not been needed with Carridin, but it had easily convinced this fool that she should be allowed in. Smiling, she motioned him to bend closer. The lanky
lout grinned as if expecting a kiss, a grin that froze as her narrow blade went through his eye.
She leaped nimbly back as he fell, a boneless sack of flesh. He would not speak of her even by accident now. Not so much as a spot of blood stained her hand. She wished she had Chesmal’s skill at killing with the Power, or even Rianna’s lesser talent. Strange that the ability to kill with the Power, to stop a heart or boil blood in the veins, should be so closely linked to Healing. She herself could not Heal much more than scrapes or bruises; not that she had any interest in it.
Her sedan chair, redlacquered and inlaid with ivory and gold, was waiting at the end of the alley, and with it her bodyguards, a dozen big men with faces like starving wolves. Once in the streets, they cleared a path through the crowds with ease, spears clubbing any not quick enough to move aside. They were all dedicated to the Great Lord of the Dark, of course, and if they did not know exactly who she was, they knew that other men had disappeared, men who failed to serve properly.
The house she and the others had taken, two sprawling stories of flatroofed stone and white plaster on a hillside at the base of the Verana, Tanchico’s easternmost peninsula, belonged to a merchant who had also sworn his oaths to the Great Lord. Liandrin would have preferred a palace — one day perhaps she would have the King’s Palace on the Maseta; she had grown up staring enviously at the Lords’ palaces, but why should she settle for one of them? — yet despite her preferences, it made sense to stay hidden awhile yet. There was no way the fools in Tar Valon could suspect they were in Tarabon, but the Tower was surely still hunting them, and Siuan Sanche’s pets could be sniffing anywhere.
Gates gave onto a small courtyard, windowless except on the upper floor. Leaving the guards and bearers there, she hurried inside. The merchant had furnished a few servants; all sworn to the Great Lord, he assured them, but barely enough to provide for eleven women who rarely stirred outside. One, a sturdily handsome, darkbraided woman called Gyldin, was sweeping the entry hall’s red and white tiles when Liandrin entered.
“Where are the others?” she demanded.
“In the front withdrawing room.” Gyldin gestured to the doublearched doors to the right as though Liandrin might not know where that was.
Liandrin’s mouth tightened. The woman did not curtsy; she used no titles of respect. True, she did not know who Liandrin really was, but Gyldin certainly knew she was high enough to give orders and be obeyed, to send that fat merchant bowing and scraping and bundling his family off to some hovel. “You are supposed to be cleaning, yes? Not standing about? Well, clean! There is dust everywhere. If I find a speck of the dust this evening, you cow you, I will have you beaten!” She clamped her teeth shut. She had copied the manner in which nobles and the wealthy spoke for so long that sometimes she forgot her father had sold fruit from a barrow, yet in one moment of anger the speech of a commoner rolled off her tongue. Too much stress. Too much waiting. With a last, snapped, “Work!” she pushed into the
withdrawing room and slammed the door behind her.
The others were not all there, which irritated her even more, but enough. Roundfaced Eldrith Jhondar, seated at a lapisinlaid table beneath a hanging on one whiteplastered wall, was making careful notes from a tattered manuscript; sometimes she absently cleaned the nib of her pen on the sleeve of her dark wool dress. Marillin Gemalphin sat beside one of the narrow windows, blue eyes dreamily staring out at the tiny fountain tinkling in a little courtyard, idly scratching the ears of a scrawny yellow cat and apparently unaware of the hairs it shed all over er green silk dress. She and Eldrith were both Browns, but if Marillin ever found out that Eldrith was the reason the stray cats she brought in continually disappeared, there would be trouble.
They had been Browns. Sometimes it was difficult to remember they no longer were, or that she herself was no longer a Red. So much of what had marked them clearly as members of their old Ajahs remained even now that they were openly pledged to the Black. Take the two former Greens. Copperyskinned, swannecked Jeaine Caide wore the thinnest, most clinging silk dresses she could find — white, today — and laughed that the gowns would have to do, since there was nothing available in Tarabon to catch a man’s eye. Jeaine was from Arad Doman; Domani women were infamous for their scandalous clothes. Asne Zeramene, with her dark, tilted eyes and bold nose, looked almost demure in pale gray, plainly cut and highnecked, but Liandrin had heard her regret leaving her Warders behind more than once. And as for Rianna Andomeran… Black hair with a stark white streak above her left ear framed a face with the cold, arrogant certainty only a White could assume.
“It is done,” Liandrin announced. “Jaichim Carridin will move his Whitecloaks to the Panarch’s Palace and hold it for us. He does not yet know we will have guests… of course.” There were a few grimaces; changing Ajahs had certainly not altered anyone’s feelings toward men who hated women who could channel. “There is an interesting thing. He believed I was there to kill him. For failing to kill Rand al’Thor.”
“That makes no sense,” Asne said, frowning. “We are to bind him, control him, not kill him.” She laughed suddenly, soft and low, and leaned back in her chair. “If there is a way to control him, I would not mind binding him to me. He is a goodlooking young man, from the little I saw.” Liandrin sniffed; she had no liking for men at all.
Rianna shook her head worriedly. “It makes troubling sense. Our orders from the Tower were clear, yet it is also clear that Carridin has others. I can only postulate dissension among the Forsaken.”
“The Forsaken,” Jeaine muttered, folding her arms tightly; thin white silk molded her breasts even more revealingly. “What good are promises that we will rule the world when the Great Lord returns if we are crushed between warring Forsaken first? Does anyone believe we could stand against any of them?”
“Balefire.” Asne looked around, dark tilted eyes challenging. “Balefire will destroy even one of the Forsaken. And we have the means to produce it.” One of the ter’angreal they had removed from the Tower, a fluted black rod a pace long, had that use. None of them knew why they had been ordered to take it, not even Liandrin herself. Too many of the ter’angreal were like that, taken because they had been told to, with no reasons given, but some orders had to be obeyed. Liandrin wished they had been able to secure even one angreal.
Jeaine gave a sharp sniff. “If any of us could control it. Or have you forgotten that the one test we dared nearly killed me? And burned a hole through both sides of the ship before I could stop it? Fine good it would have done us to drown before reaching Tanchico.”
“What need have we of balefire?” Liandrin said. “If we can control the Dragon Reborn, let the Forsaken think how they will deal with us.” Suddenly she became aware of another presence in the room. The woman Gyldin, wiping down a carved, lowbacked chair in one corner. “What are you doing here, woman?”
“Cleaning.” The darkbraided woman straightened unconcernedly. “You told me to clean.”
Liandrin almost struck out with the Power. Almost. But Gyldin certainly did not know they were Aes Sedai. How much had the woman heard? Nothing of importance. “You will go to the cook,” she said in a cold fury, “and tell him he is to strap you. Very hard! And you are to have nothing to eat until the dust it is all gone.” Again. The woman had made her speak like a commoner again.
Marillin stood, nuzzling the yellow cat’s nose with hers, and handed the creature to Gyldin. “See that he gets a dish of cream when the cook is done with you. And some of that nice lamb. Cut it small for him; he doesn’t have many teeth left, poor thing.” Gyldin looked at her, not blinking, and she added, “Is there something you don’t understand?”
“I understand.” Gyldin’s mouth was tight. Perhaps she did finally understand; she was a servant, not their equal.
Liandrin waited a moment after she left, the cat cradled in her arms, then snatched open one of the doors. The, entry hall was empty. Gyldin was not eavesdropping. She did not trust the woman. But then, she could not think of anyone she did trust.
“We must be concerned with what concerns us,” she said tightly, closing the door. “Eldrith, have you found a new clue in those pages? Eldrith?”
The plump woman gave a start, then stared around at them, blinking. It was the first time she had raised her head from the battered yellow manuscript; she seemed surprised to see Liandrin. “What? Clue? Oh. No. It is difficult enough getting into the King’s Library; if I extracted so much as a page, the librarians would know it immediately. But if I disposed of them, I would never find anything. That place is a maze. No, I found this in a bookseller’s near the King’s Palace. It is an interesting treatise on —”
Embracing saidar, Liandrin sent the pages showering across the floor. “Unless they are a treatise on the controlling of Rand al’Thor, let them be burned! What have you learned about what we seek?”
Eldrith blinked at the scattered papers. “Well, it is in the Panarch’s Palace.” “You learned that two days ago,”
“And it must be a ter’angreal. To control someone who can channel must require the Power, and since it is a specialized use that means a ter’angreal. We will find it in the exhibition room, or perhaps among the Panarch’s collection.”
“Something new, Eldrith.” With an effort Liandrin made her voice less shrill. “Have you found anything that is new? Anything?”
The roundfaced woman blinked uncertainly. “Actually No.”
“It does not matter,” Marillin said. “In a few days, once they have invested their precious Panarch, we can begin searching, and if we must inspect every candlestick, we will find it. We are on the brink, Liandrin. We will put Rand al’Thor on a leash and teach him to sit up and roll over.”
“Oh, yes,” Eldrith said, smiling happily. “On a leash.”
Liandrin hoped it was so. She was tired of waiting, tired of hiding. Let the world know her. Let people bend knee as had been promised when she first forswore old oaths for new.
Egeanin knew she was not alone as soon as she stepped into her small house by the kitchen door, but she dropped her mask and the jute bag carelessly on the table and walked over to where a bucket of water stood beside the brick fireplace. As she bent to take the copper ladle, her right hand darted into a low hollow where two bricks had been removed behind the bucket; she spun erect, a small crossbow in her hand. No more than a foot long, it had little power or range, but she always kept it drawn, and the dark stain tipping the sharp steel bolt would kill in a heartbeat.
If the man leaning casually in the corner saw the crossbow, he gave no outward sign. He was palehaired and blueeyed, in his middle years, and goodlooking if too slender for her taste. Clearly he had watched her cross the narrow yard through the irongrilled window beside him. “Do you think that I threaten you?” he said after a moment.
She recognized the familiar accents of home, but she did not lower the crossbow. “Who are you?”
For answer he dipped two fingers carefully into his belt pouch — apparently he could see after all — and brought out something small and flat. She motioned him to lay it on the table and back up again.
Only after he was back in the corner did she move close enough to pick up what he had set there. Never taking her eyes or the crossbow away from him, she lifted it up where she could see. A small ivory plaque bordered in gold, engraved with a raven and a tower. The raven’s eyes were black sapphires. A raven, symbol of the Imperial family; the Tower of Ravens, symbol of Imperial justice.
“Normally this would be enough,” she told him, “but we are far from Seanchan,
in a land where the bizarre is almost commonplace. What other proof can you offer?”
Smiling with silent amusement, he removed his coat, unlaced his shirt and stripped it off. On either shoulder was the tattoo of raven and tower.
Most Seekers for Truth bore the ravens as well as the tower, but not even someone who dared steal a Seeker’s plaque would have himself marked so. To wear the ravens was to be the property of the Imperial family. There was an old story of a fool young lord and lady who had themselves tattooed while drunk, some three hundred years gone. When the then Empress learned of it, she had them brought to the Court of the Nine Moons and set to scrubbing floors. This fellow might be one of their descendants. The mark of the raven was forever.
“My apologies, Seeker,” she said, setting the crossbow down. “Why are you here?” She did not ask a name; any he gave might or might not be his.
He left her holding the plaque while he redressed himself in a leisurely manner. A subtle reminder. She was a captain and he property, but he was also a Seeker, and under the law he could have her put to the question on his own authority. By law he had the right to send her out to buy the rope to bind her while he put her to the question right here, and he would expect her to return with it. Flight from a Seeker was a crime. Refusal to cooperate with a Seeker was a crime. She had never in her life considered any criminal act, no more than she had considered treason against the Crystal Throne. But if he asked the wrong questions, demanded the wrong answers… The crossbow was still close to her hand, and Cantorin was far away. Wild thoughts. Dangerous thoughts.
“I serve the High Lady Suroth and the Corenne, for the Empress,” he said. “I am checking on the progress of the agents the High Lady has placed in these lands.”
Checking? What had to be checked, and by a Seeker? “I have heard nothing of this from the courier boats.” His smile deepened, and she flushed. Of course the crews would not speak of a Seeker. Yet he answered while lacing up his shirt.
“The courier boats are not to be risked with my trips. I have taken passage on the vessels of a local smuggler, a man called Bayle Domon. His craft stop everywhere in Tarabon and Arad Doman and between.”
“I have heard of him,” she said calmly. “All goes well?”
“It does now. I am glad that you, at least, understood your instructions properly. Among the others, only the Seekers did. It is regrettable that there are not more Seekers with the Hailene.” Settling his coat on his shoulders, he plucked the Seeker’s plaque from her hand. “There has been some embarrassment over the return of sul’dam deserters. Such desertions must not become common knowledge. Much better that they simply vanish.”
Only because she had a little time to think was she able to keep her face smooth. Sul’dam had been left behind in the debacle at Falme, she had been told. Possibly some had deserted. Her instruction, delivered by the High Lady Suroth herself, had been to return any who could be found, whether they wanted to return or not, and if
that was not possible, dispose of them. The last had seemed only a final alternative. Until now.
“I regret that these lands do not know kaf,” he said, taking a seat at the table. “Even in Cantorin, only the Blood still have kaf. Or it was so when I left. Perhaps supply ships have arrived from Seanchan since. Tea must do. Fix me tea.”
She very nearly knocked him out of his chair. The man was property. And a Seeker. She brewed tea. And served it to him, standing beside his chair with the pot to keep his cup full. She was surprised he did not ask her to don a veil and dance on the table.
She was permitted to sit at last, after fetching pen and ink and paper, but only to sketch maps of Tanchico and its defenses, to draw every other city and town she knew the least thing about. She listed the various forces in the field, as much as she knew of their strength and loyalties, what she had deduced of their dispositions.
When she was done, he stuffed it all in his pocket, told her to send the contents of the jute sack by the next courier boat, and left with one of those amused smiles, saying he might check on her progress again in a few weeks.
She sat there for a long time after he was gone. Every map she had drawn, every list she had made, duplicated papers sent out by courier boats long since. Having her do it all again while he watched might have been a punishment for forcing him to show his tattoos. Deathwatch Guards flaunted their ravens; Seekers rarely did. It might have been that. At least he had not gone down to the basement before she arrived. Or had he? Had he just been waiting for her to speak?
The stout iron lock hung seemingly undisturbed on the door in the hall just beyond the kitchen, but it was said Seekers knew how to open locks without keys. Taking the key from her belt pouch, she unfastened the lock and went down the narrow steps.
One lamp on a shelf lit the dirtfloored basement. Just four brick walls, cleared of everything that might help an escape. A faint smell of the slop pail hung in the air. On the side opposite the lamp, a woman in a dirty dress sat despondently on a few rough woolen blankets. Her head lifted at the sound of Egeanin’s steps, dark eyes fearful and pleading. She had been the first sul’dam Egeanin had found. The first, the only. Egeanin had all but stopped looking, after she found Bethamin. And Bethamin had been in this basement since, while courier boats came and went.
“Did anyone come down here?” Egeanin said.
“No. I heard footsteps overhead, but… No.” Bethamin stretched out her hands. “Please, Egeanin. This is all a mistake. You have known me for ten years. Take this thing off of me.”
A silver collar encircled her neck, attached by a thick silver leash to a bracelet of the same metal that hung on a peg a few feet above her head. It had been almost an accident, putting it on her, simply a means of securing her for a few moments. And then she had managed to knock Egeanin down, trying a dashing for freedom.
“If you bring it to me, I will,” Egeanin said angrily. She was angry with many
things, not with Bethamin. “Bring the a’dam over here, and I will remove it.”
Bethamin shivered, let her hands fall. “It is a mistake,” she whispered. “A horrible mistake.” But she made no move toward the bracelet. Her first attempted flight had left her writhing on the floor upstairs, wracked by nausea, and had left Egeanin stunned.
Sul’dam controlled damane, women who could channel, by means of a’dam. It was damane who could channel, not sul’dam. But an a’dam could only control a woman who could channel. No other woman, and not a man — young men with that ability were executed, of course — only a woman who could channel. A woman who had that ability and was collared could not move more than a few steps without her bracelet on the wrist of a sul’dam to complete the link.
Egeanin felt very tired climbing the stairs and locking the door again. She wanted some tea herself, but the little the Seeker had left was cold, and she did not feel like brewing more. Instead she sat down and pulled the a’dam out of the jute bag. To her it was only finely jointed silver; she could not use it, and it could not harm her unless somebody hit her with it.
Even linking herself with an a’dam that far, denying its ability to control her, was enough to send a shiver down her spine. Women who could channel were dangerous animals rather than people. It had been they who Broke the World. They must be controlled, or they would turn everyone into their property. That was what she had been taught, what had been taught in Seanchan for a thousand years. Strange that that seemed not to have happened here. No. That was a dangerous, foolish line of thought.
Tucking the a’dam back into the bag, she cleaned the tea things to settle her mind. She liked tidiness, and there was a small satisfaction in making the kitchen so. Before she realized it she was brewing a pot of tea for herself. She did not want to think about Bethamin, and that was dangerously foolish too. Settling herself back at the table, she stirred honey into a cup of tea as black as she could make it. Not kaf, but it would do.
Despite her denials, despite her pleas, Bethamin could channel. Could other sul’dam? Was that why the High Lady Suroth wanted those left behind at Falme killed? It was unthinkable. It was impossible. The yearly testings all across Seanchan found every girl who had the spark of channeling in her: each was struck from the rolls of citizens, struck from family records, taken away to become collared damane. The same testings found the girls who could learn to wear the bracelet of the sul’dam. No woman escaped being tested each year until she was old enough that she would have begun channeling if the spark was there. How could even one girl be taken for sul’dam when she was damane? Yet there Bethamin was in the basement, held by an a’dam as by an anchor.
One thing was certain. The possibilities here were potentially deadly. This involved the Blood, and Seekers. Maybe even the Crystal Throne. Would the High Lady Suroth dare keep knowledge of this sort from the Empress? A mere ship
captain could die screaming for a misplaced frown in that company, or find herself property for a whim. She had to know more if she hoped to avoid the Death of Ten Thousand Tears. To begin with, that meant spreading more money to Gelb and other ferrety skulkers like him, finding more sul’dam and seeing if a’dam held them. Beyond that… Beyond that she was sailing uncharted reefs with no linesman in the bow.
Touching the crossbow, still lying there with its lethal bolt, she realized that something else was certain. She was not going to let the Seekers kill her. Not just to help the High Lady Suroth keep a secret. Perhaps not for any reason. It was a thought shiveringly close to treason, but it would not go away.
The Shadow Rising
Chapter 39
(Harp)
A Cup of Wine
When Elayne came on deck with her things neatly bundled, the setting sun seemed to be just touching the water out beyond the mouth of Tanchico’s harbor, and the final thick hawsers were being tied to snug Wavedancer to a shiplined dock, only one of many along this westernmost peninsula of the city. Some of the crew were furling the last sails. Beyond the long wharves the city rose on hills, shining white, domed and spired, with polished weather vanes glittering. Perhaps a mile north she could make out high, round walls; the Great Circle, if she remembered correctly.
Slinging her bundle on the same shoulder as her leather script, she went to join Nynaeve by the gangplank, with Coine and Jorin. It seemed almost odd to see the sisters fully dressed again, in bright brocaded silk blouses that matched their wide trousers. Earrings and even nose rings she had become used to, and the fine gold chain across each woman’s dark cheek hardly made her wince at all now.
Thom and Juilin stood apart with their own bundles, looking a touch sullen. Nynaeve had been right. They had tried to secondguess, starting when the real purpose of this journey, or some of it, was revealed to them two days ago. Neither seemed to think two young women were competent — competent! — to seek the Black Ajah. A threat by Nynaeve to have them transferred to another Sea Folk ship, headed the other way, had nipped that in the bud. At least it had once Toram and a dozen crewmen gathered ready to shove them into a boat to be rowed across. Elayne gave them a searching look. Sullenness meant rebellion; they were going to have more trouble from these two.
“Where will you go now, Coine?” Nynaeve was asking as Elayne reached them. “To Dantora, and the Aile Jafar,” the Sailmistress replied, “and then on to Cantorin and the Aile Somera, spreading news of the Coramoor, if it pleases the Light. But I must allow Toram to trade here, or he will burst.”
Her husband was down on the docks now, without his strange wireframed lens, barechested and beringed, talking earnestly with men in baggy white trousers and coats embroidered with scrollwork on the shoulders. Each Tanchican wore a dark, cylindrical cap, and a transparent veil across his face. The veils looked ridiculous, especially on the men with thick mustaches.
“The Light send you a safe voyage,” Nynaeve said, shifting her bundles on her back. “If we discover any danger here that might threaten you before you sail, we will send word.” Coine and her sister looked remarkably calm. Knowledge of the Black Ajah hardly fazed them; it was the Coramoor, Rand, who was important.
Jorin kissed her fingertips and pressed them to Elayne’s lips. “The Light willing, we shall meet again.”
“The Light willing,” Elayne responded, duplicating the Windfinder’s gesture. It
still felt odd, but it was an honor, too, used only between close family members or lovers. She was going to miss the Sea Folk woman. She had learned a great deal, and taught a little, as well. Jorin could certainly weave Fire much better now.
When they reached the foot of the gangplank, Nynaeve heaved a sigh of relief. An oily potion Jorin produced had settled her stomach after two days at sea, but all the same she had been tighteyed and tightmouthed until Tanchico came in sight.
The two men bracketed them immediately, without any instructions, Juilin taking the lead with his bundle on his back and his pale, thumbthick staff held in both hands, dark eyes alert. Thom brought up the rear, somehow managing a dangerous look despite his white hair and his limp and his gleeman’s cloak.
Nynaeve pursed her lips for a moment but said nothing, which Elayne thought wise. Before they had gone fifty paces down the long stone dock she had seen as many slittyeyed, hungryfaced men studying them, and Tanchicans and others shifting crates and bales and sacks on the dock. She suspected any of them would have been willing to cut her throat in the hope that a silk dress meant money in her purse. They did not frighten her; she could handle any two or three of them, she was sure. But she and Nynaeve had their Great Serpent rings in their pouches, and it would be useless to pretend no connection with the White Tower if she channeled in front of a hundred men. Best if Juilin and Thom looked as fierce as they could. She would not have minded having ten more just like them.
Suddenly there was a roar from the deck of one of the smaller ships. “You! It do be you!” A wide, roundfaced man in a green silk coat leaped onto the dock, ignoring Juilin’s raised staff to stare at her and Nynaeve. A beard with no mustache marked him as an Illianer, and so did his accent. He seemed vaguely familiar.
“Master Domon?” Nynaeve said after a moment, giving her braid a sharp tug. “Bayle Domon?”
He nodded. “Aye. I did never think to see you again. I… did wait as long as I could in Falme, but the time did come when I must sail or watch my ship burn.”
Elayne knew him now. He had agreed to carry them out of Falme, but chaos had seized that city before they could reach his vessel. That coat said he had done well since.
“A pleasure to see you again,” Nynaeve said coolly, “but if you will excuse us, we must find rooms in the city.”
“That will be hard. Tanchico do burst its caulking. I do know a place where my word may bring something, though. I could no remain longer in Falme, but I do feel I owe you some debt.” Domon paused, frowning with sudden unease. “Your being here. Will the same happen here as in Falme, then?”
“No, Master Domon,” Elayne said when Nynaeve hesitated. “Of course not.
And we will be glad to accept your help.”
She halfexpected some protest out of Nynaeve, yet the older woman only nodded thoughtfully and made introductions among the men. Thom’s cloak made Domon’s eyebrows rise — for an instant she almost thought it looked as though he
recognized the gleeman — but Juilin’s Tairen garb brought a frown that was returned in kind. Neither man said anything, though; perhaps they could keep the animosity between Tear and Illian out of Tanchico. If they could not, she would have to speak firmly with them.
Domon talked of what had happened with him since Falme as he accompanied them down the dock, and he had indeed done well. “A dozen good coasting ships the Panarch’s taxmen do know about,” he laughed, “and four deepwater they do no.”
He could hardly have acquired so many honestly in so short a time. It shocked her to hear him speak so openly on a dock full of men.
“Aye, I do smuggle, and make such profits as I did never believe. A tenth the amount of the excise in the customs men’s pockets do turn their eyes and seal their mouths.”
Two Tanchicans in those veils and round hats strolled past, hands clasped behind their backs. Each wore a heavy brass key dangling from a thick chain about his neck; it had the look of a mark of office. They nodded to Domon in a familiar way. Thom looked amused, but Juilin glared at Domon and the two Tanchicans equally. As a thiefcatcher he had a proper dislike of those who flouted the law.
“I do no believe it will last much longer though,” Domon said when the Tanchicans had passed. “Things do be even worse in Arad Doman than here, and it do be bad enough here. Perhaps the Lord Dragon does no Break the World yet, but he did break Arad Doman and Tarabon.”
Elayne wanted to say something sharp to him, but they had reached the foot of the dock, and she watched in silence while he hired sedan chairs and bearers, and a dozen men with stout staves and hard faces. Guards with swords and spears stood at the end of the dock, with the look of hired men, not soldiers. From across the wide street along the row of docks, hundreds of defeated, sunken faces stared at the guards. Sometimes eyes flickered toward the ships, but mainly they fixed on the men holding them back from those ships. Remembering what Coine had said about people here mobbing her vessel, desperate to buy passage anywhere away from Tanchico, Elayne shivered. When these hungry eyes looked at the ships, need burned in them. Elayne sat rigidly in her chair as it jounced through the crowds behind prodding staves, and tried not to look at anything. She did not want to see those faces. Where was their king? Why was he not taking care of them?
A sign above the gate of the whiteplastered inn Domon took them to, below the Great Circle, proclaimed the Three Plum Court. The only court Elayne saw was the highwalled courtyard paved with flagstones in front of the inn, which was three square stories with no windows near the ground and the upper windows grilled with fanciful ironwork. Inside, men and women crowded the common room, most in Tanchican clothes, and the buzz of voices nearly drowned out the tune of a hammered dulcimer.
Nynaeve gasped at her first sight of the innkeeper, a pretty woman not much
older than herself with brown eyes and pale honey braids, her veil not hiding a plump rosebud of a mouth. Elayne gave a start, too, but it was not Liandrin. The woman — her name was Rendra — obviously knew Domon well. With welcoming smiles for Elayne and Nynaeve, and making much over Thom being a gleeman, she gave them her last two rooms at what Elayne suspected might be less than the going rate.
Elayne made sure she and Nynaeve got the one with the larger bed; she had shared a bed with Nynaeve before, and the woman was free with her elbows.
Rendra also provided supper in a private room, laid out by two veiled young serving men. Elayne found herself staring at a plate of a roast lamb with spiced apple jelly and some sort of long yellowish beans prepared with pinenuts. She could not touch it. All those hungry faces. Domon ate readily enough, him and his smuggling and his gold. Thom and Juilin showed no reticence either.
“Rendra,” Nynaeve said quietly, “does anyone here help the poor? I can lay my hands on a good bit of gold if it would help.”
“You could donate to Bayle’s kitchen,” the innkeeper replied, giving Domon a smile. “The man avoids all of the taxes, yet he taxes himself. For each crown he gives as the bribe, he gives two for the soup and the bread for the poor. He has even talked me into giving, and I pay my taxes.”
“It do be less than the taxes,” Domon muttered, hunching his shoulders defensively. “I do make a very healthy profit, Fortune prick me if I do no.”
“It is good that you like to help people, Master Domon,” Nynaeve said when Rendra and the servants had gone. Thom and Juilin both get up to see they really had gone. With a halfbow, Thom let Juilin open the door; the hall outside was empty. Nynaeve went right on. “We may need your help, too.”
The Illianer’s knife and fork paused in cutting a piece of lamb. “How?” he asked suspiciously.
“I do not know exactly, Master Domon. You have ships. You must have men. We may need ears and eyes. Some of the Black Ajah may very well be in Tanchico, and we must find them if they are.” Nynaeve lifted a forkful of beans to her mouth as if she had said nothing out of the ordinary. She seemed to be telling everyone about the Black Ajah of late.
Domon gaped at her, then stared incredulously at Thom and Juilin as they settled back in their chairs. When they nodded, he pushed his plate aside and put his head down on his arms. He very nearly earned himself a thump from Nynaeve, if the way her mouth tightened was any indication, and Elayne would not have blamed her. Why should he need them to confirm her word?
Finally Domon roused himself. “It do be going to happen again. Falme all over. Maybe it do be time for me to pack up and go. If I do take the ships I have back to Illian, I will be a wealthy man there, too.”
“I doubt you’d find Illian congenial,” Nynaeve told him in a firm voice. “I understand that Sammael rules there now, if not openly. You might not enjoy your
wealth under one of the Forsaken.” Domon’s eyes nearly came out of his head, but she went right on. “There are no safe places any longer. You can run like a rabbit, but you cannot hide. Is it not better to do what you can to fight back like a man?”
Nynaeve was being too hard; she always had to bully people. Elayne smiled and leaned over to put a hand on Domon’s arm. “We do not mean to browbeat you, Master Domon, but we truly may need your help. I know you for a brave man, else you would not have waited for us as long as you did at Falme. We will be most grateful.”
“You do this very well,” Domon muttered. “One with an ox driver’s stick, the other with a queen’s honey. Oh, very well. I will help as I can. But I will no promise to remain for another Falme.”
Thom and Juilin set in to question him closely about Tanchico as they ate. At least, Juilin did in a roundabout manner, suggesting questions to Thom about what districts thieves and cutpurses and burglars frequented, what wineshops they used, and who bought their stolen goods. The thiefcatcher maintained that such people often knew more of what was going on in a city than the authorities did. He did not seem to want to talk to the Illianer directly, and Domon snorted every time he answered one of the Tairen’s questions put by Thom. He did not answer until they were put by Thom. Thom’s own questions made no sense, at least not coming from a gleeman. He asked of nobles and factions, of who was allied to whom and who opposed, of who had what stated aims, and what their actions brought about, and whether the results were different from what they supposedly wanted. Not the kind of questions she expected from him at all, even after all their conversations on Wavedancer. He had been willing enough to talk with her — he even seemed to enjoy it — but somehow every time she thought she might dig out something about his past, that was just when he managed to put her back up and send her stalking away. Dornon answered Thom with more alacrity than he did Juilin. In either case, though, he seemed to know Tanchico very well, both its lords and officials and its dark underbelly; as he talked, it often sounded as if there were little difference.
Once the two men had wrung the smuggler dry, Nynaeve summoned Rendra to bring pen and ink and paper, and wrote out a list describing each of the Black sisters. Holding the sheets gingerly in one big hand, Domon frowned at them uneasily, as though they were the women themselves, but he promised to have such of his men as were in port keep their eyes open. When Nynaeve reminded him that they all should take extreme care, he laughed the way he would had she told him not to run himself through with a sword.
Juilin left on Domon’s heels, twirling his pale staff and saying night was the best time to find thieves and people who lived off thieves. Nynaeve announced she was retiring to her room — her room — to lie down awhile. She looked a bit unsteady, and suddenly Elayne realized why. Nynaeve had become used to Wavedancer’s heaving; now she was having trouble with the ground not heaving. The woman’s stomach was not a pleasant traveling companion.
She herself followed Thom down to the common room, where he had promised Rendra he would perform. For a wonder she found a bench at an empty table, and cool looks sufficed to ward off the men who suddenly seemed to want to sit there. Rendra brought her a silver cup of wine, and she sipped as she listened to Thom play his harp, singing love songs like “The First Rose of Summer” and “The Wind That Shakes the Willow,” and funny songs like “Only One Boot” and “The Old Gray Goose.” His listeners were appreciative, slapping the tables for applause. After a while Elayne slapped hers, too. She had not drunk more than half her wine, but a handsome young serving man smiled at her and filled it up. It was all strangely exciting. In her whole life she had not been in an inn’s common room half a dozen times, and never to sip wine and be entertained like one of the common people.
Flourishing his cloak to set the multihued patches fluttering, Thom told stories
—“Mara and the Three Foolish Kings,” and several tales about Anla, the Wise Counselor — and recited a long stretch of The Great Hunt of the Horn, reciting it so that horses seemed to prance and trumpets blare in the common room, and men and women fought and loved and died. On into the night he sang and recited, only pausing now and then to wet his throat with a sip of wine as the patrons eagerly clamored for more. The woman who had been playing the dulcimer sat in a corner with her instrument on her knees and a sour expression on her face. People often tossed coins to Thom — he had enlisted a small boy to gather them up — and it was unlikely they had produced as much for her music.
It all seemed to suit Thom, the harp, and especially the recital. Well, he was a gleeman, but it seemed more than that. Elayne could have sworn she had heard him recite The Great Hunt before, but in High Chant, not Plain. How could that be? He was just a simple old gleeman.
Finally, in the deep hours of the night, Thom bowed with a last sweeping flourish of his cloak and headed for the stairs amid great slapping of tables. Elayne slapped hers as vigorously as anyone.
Rising to follow, she slipped and sat back down hard, frowning at her silver winecup. It was full. Surely she had drunk a little. She felt dizzy for some reason. Yes. That sweet young man with those melting brown eyes had refilled her cup — how many times? Not that it mattered. She never drank more than one cup of wine. Never. It was being off Wavedancer and back on dry land. She was reacting like Nynaeve. That was all.
Getting carefully to her feet — and refusing the sweet young man’s most solicitous offer of help — she managed to climb the stairs despite the way they swayed. Not stopping at the second floor, where her and Nynaeve’s room was, she went up to the third and knocked on Thom’s door. He opened it slowly, peering out suspiciously. He seemed to have a knife in his hand, and then it was gone. Strange. She seized one of his long white mustaches.
“I remember,” she said. Her tongue did not seem to be working properly; the
words sounded… fuzzy. “I was sitting on your knee, and I pulled your mustache…” She gave it a yank to demonstrate, and he winced. “. . . and my mother leaned over your shoulder and laughed at me.”
“I think it best you go to your room,” he said, trying to pry her hand free. “I think you need some sleep.”
She refused to let go. In fact, she seemed to have pushed him back into his room. By his mustache. “My mother sat on your knee, too. I saw it. I remember.”
“Sleep is the thing, Elayne. You will feel better in the morning.” He managed to get her hand loose and tried ushering her to the door, but she slipped around him. The bed had no posts. If she had a bedpost to hold on to, perhaps the room would stop tilting back and forth.
“I want to know why Mother sat on your knee.” He stepped back, and she realized she was reaching for his mustache again. “You’re a gleeman. My mother would not sit on a gleeman’s knee.”
“Go to bed, child.”
“I am not a child!” She stamped her foot angrily, and almost fell. The floor was lower than it looked. “Not a child. You will tell me. Now!”
Thom sighed and shook his head. At last he said stiffly, “I was not always a gleeman. I was a bard, once. A Courtbard. In Caemlyn, as it happens. For Queen Morgase. You were a child. You are just remembering things wrong, that’s all.”
“You were her lover, weren’t you?” The flinch of his eyes was enough. “You were! I always knew about Gareth Bryne. At least, I figured it out. But I always hoped she would marry him. Gareth Bryne, and you, and this Lord Gaebril Mat said she looks calfeyes at now, and… How many more? How many? What makes her any different from Berelain, tripping every man who catches her eye into her bed. She is no different —” Her vision shivered, and her head rang. It took her a moment to realize he had slapped her. Slapped her! She drew herself up, wishing he would not sway. “How dare you? I am DaughterHeir of Andor, and I will not be —”
“You are a little girl with a skinful of wine throwing a temper tantrum,” he snapped. “And if I ever hear you say anything like that about Morgase again, drunk or sober, I’ll put you over my knee however you channel! Morgase is a fine woman, as good as any there is!”
“Is she?” Her voice quavered, and she realized she was crying. “Then why did she —? Why —?” Somehow she had her face buried against his coat, and he was smoothing her hair.
“Because it is lonely being a queen,” he said softly. “Because most men attracted to a queen see power, not a woman. I saw a woman, and she knew it. I suppose Bryne saw the same in her, and this Gaebril, too. You have to understand, child. Everyone wants someone in their life, someone who cares for them, someone they can care for. Even a queen.”
“Why did you go away?” she mumbled into his chest. “You made me laugh. I remember that. You made her laugh, too. And you rode me on your shoulder.”
“A long story.” He sighed painfully. “I will tell you another time. If you ask.
With luck, you’ll forget this by morning. It’s time for you to go to bed, Elayne.”
He guided her to the door, and she took the opportunity to tug at his mustache again. “Like that,” she said with satisfaction. “I used to pull it just like that.”
“Yes, you did. Can you make it downstairs by yourself?”
“Of course I can.” She gave him her haughtiest stare, but he looked readier than ever to follow her into the hall. To prove there was no need, she walked — carefully
— as far as the head of the stairs. He was still frowning at her worriedly from the doorway when she started down.
Luckily she did not stumble until she was out of his sight, but she did walk right by her door and had to come back. Something must have been wrong with that apple jelly; she knew she should not have eaten so much of it. Lini always said . . . She could not remember what it was Lini said, but something about eating too many sweets.
There were two lamps burning in the room, one on the small round table by the bed and the other on the whiteplastered mantel above the brick fireplace. Nynaeve lay stretched out on the bed atop the coverlet, fully dressed. With her elbows stuck out, Elayne noted.
She said the first thing that came into her head. “Rand must think I’m crazy, Thom is a bard, and Berelain isn’t my mother after all.” Nynaeve gave her the oddest look. “I am a little dizzy for some reason. A nice boy with sweet brown eyes offered to help me upstairs.”
“I will wager he did,” Nynaeve said, biting off each word. Rising, she came to put an arm around Elayne’s shoulders. “Come over here a moment. There’s something I think you should see.” It appeared to be a bucket of extra water by the washstand. “Here. We’ll both kneel down so you can look.”
Elayne did, but there was nothing in the bucket but her own reflection in the water, She wondered why she was grinning that way. Then Nynaeve’s hand went to the back of her neck, and her head was in the water.
Flailing her hands, she tried to straighten up, but Nynaeve’s arm was like an iron bar. You were supposed to hold your breath under water. Elayne knew you were. She just could not remember how. All she could do was flail and gurgle and choke.
Nynaeve hauled her up, water streaming down her face, and she filled her lungs. “How dare — you,” she gasped. “I am — the DaughterHeir of —” She managed to get out one wail before her head went back in with a splash. Seizing the bucket with both hands and pushing did no good. Drumming her feet on the floor did no good. She was going to drown. Nynaeve was going to drown her.
After an Age she was back out in the air again. Sodden strands of hair hung all across her face. “I think,” she said in the steadiest voice she could find, “that I am going to sick up.”
Nynaeve got the big whiteglazed basin down from the washstand just in time, and held Elayne’s head while she brought up everything she had ever eaten in her
life. A year later — well, hours anyway; it seemed that long — Nynaeve was washing her face and wiping her mouth, bathing her hands and wrists. There was nothing solicitous in her voice, though.
“How could you do this? Whatever possessed you? I might expect a fool man to drink until he can’t stand, but you! And tonight.”
“I only had one cup,” Elayne muttered. Even with that young man refilling it, she could not have had more than two. Surely not.
“A cup the size of a pitcher.” Nynaeve sniffed, helping her to her feet. Hauling her, really. “Can you stay awake? I am going to look for Egwene, and I still don’t trust myself to get out of Tel’aran’rhiod without someone to wake me.”
Elayne blinked at her. They had looked for Egwene, unsuccessfully, every night since she had disappeared so abruptly out of that meeting in the Heart of the Stone. “Stay awake? Nynaeve, it is my turn to look, and better it’s me. You know you cannot channel unless you are angry, and…” She realized the other woman was surrounded by the glow of saidar. And had been for some time, she thought. Her own head felt stuffed full of wool; thought had to burrow through. She could barely sense the True Source. “Maybe you had better go. I will stay awake.”
Nynaeve frowned at her, but finally nodded. Elayne tried to help undress her, but her fingers did not seem to work very well when it came to those little buttons. Grumping under her breath, Nynaeve managed on her own. In only her shift, she threaded the twisted stone ring onto the leather cord she wore hanging around her neck, alongside a man’s ring, heavy and golden. That was Lan’s ring; Nynaeve always wore it between her breasts.
Elayne pulled a low wooden stool over beside the bed while Nynaeve stretched out again. She did feel rather sleepy, but she would not fall asleep sitting on that. The problem seemed to be not falling on the floor. “I will judge an hour and wake you.”
Nynaeve nodded, then closed her eyes, both hands clutched around the two rings. After a time her breathing deepened.
The Heart of the Stone was quite empty. Peering into the dimness among the great columns, Nynaeve had circled Callandor, sparkling out of the floorstones, completely before she realized she was still in her shift, the leather cord dangling about her neck with the two rings. She frowned, and after a moment she was wearing a Two Rivers dress of good brown wool, and stout shoes. Elayne and Egwene both seemed to find this sort of thing easy, but it was not easy for her. There had been embarrassing moments in earlier visits to Tel’aran’rhiod, mostly after stray thoughts of Lan, but changing her garb deliberately took concentration. Just that — remembering — and her dress was silk, and as transparent as Rendra’s veil. Berelain would have blushed. So did Nynaeve, thinking of Lan seeing her in it. It took an effort to bring the brown wool back.
Worse, her anger had faded — that fool girl; did she not realize what happened when you drank too much wine? Had she never been alone in a common room
before? Well, possibly she had not — and the True Source might as well not exist so far as she was concerned. Perhaps it would not matter. Uneasy, she stared into the forest of huge redstone columns, turning in one spot. What had made Egwene leave here abruptly?
The Stone was silent, with a hollow emptiness. She could hear the blood rushing in her own ears. Yet the skin between her shoulder blades prickled as if someone were watching her.
“Egwene?” Her shout echoed in the silence among the columns. “Egwene?” Nothing.
Rubbing her hands on her skirt, she found she was holding a gnarled stick with a thick knob on the end. A fat lot of good that would do. But she tightened her grip on it. A sword might be more use — for an instant the stick flickered, half a sword
— but she did not know how to use a sword. She laughed to herself ruefully. A cudgel was as good as a sword here; both practically useless. Channeling was the only real defense, that and running. Which left her only one choice at the moment.
She wanted to run now, with that feel of eyes on her, but she would not give up so quickly. Only what was she to do? Egwene was not here. She was somewhere in the Waste. Rhuidean, Elayne said. Wherever that was.
Between one step and the next she was suddenly on a mountainside, with a harsh sun rising over more jagged mountains beyond the valley below, baking the dry air. The Waste. She was in the Waste. For a moment the sun startled her, but the Waste was far enough east for sunrise there to still be night in Tanchico. In Tel’aran’rhiod it made no difference anyway. Sunlight or darkness there seemed to bear no relation to what was in the real world as far as she could determine.
Long, pale shadows still covered almost half the valley, but strangely a mass of fog billowed down there, not seeming to grow less for the sun beating on it. Great towers rose out of the fog, some appearing unfinished. A city. In the Waste?
Squinting, she could make out a person down in the valley, too. A man, though all she could see at this distance was someone who seemed to be wearing breeches and a bright blue coat. Certainly not an Aiel. He was walking along the edge of the fog, every now and again stopping to poke at it. She could not be sure, but she thought his hand stopped short each time. Maybe it was not fog at all.
“You must get away from here,” a woman’s voice said urgently. “If that one sees you, you are dead, or worse.”
Nynaeve jumped, spinning with her club raised, nearly losing her footing on the slope.
The woman standing a little above her wore a short white coat and voluminous, pale yellow trousers gathered above short boots. Her cloak billowed on an arid gust of wind. It was her long golden hair, intricately braided, and the silver bow in her hands that made a name pop incredulously into Nynaeve’s mouth.
“Birgitte?” Birgitte, hero of a hundred tales, and her silver bow with which she never missed. Birgitte, one of the dead heroes the Horn of Valere would call back
from the grave to fight in the Last Battle. “It’s impossible. Who are you?”
“There is no time, woman. You must go before he sees.” In one smooth motion she pulled a silver arrow from the quiver at her waist, nocked it and drew fletching to ear. The silver arrowhead pointed straight at Nynaeve’s heart. “Go!”
Nynaeve fled.
She was not sure how, but she was standing on the Green in Emond’s Field, looking at the Winespring Inn with its chimneys and red tile roof. Thatched roofs surrounded the Green, where the Winespring gushed out of a stone outcrop. The sun stood high here, though the Two Rivers lay far west of the Waste. Yet despite a cloudless sky, a deep shadow lay across the village.
She had only a moment to wonder how they were doing without her. A flicker of movement caught her eye, a flash of silver and a woman, ducking behind the corner of Ailys Candwin’s neat house beyond the Winespring Water. Birgitte.Nynaeve did not hesitate. She ran for one of the footbridges across the narrow rushing stream. Her shoes pounded on the wooden planks. “Come back here,” she shouted. “You come back here and answer me! Who was that? You come back here, or I’ll hero you! I’ll thump you so you think you’ve had an adventure!”
Rounding the corner of Ailys’s house, she really only halfexpected to see Birgitte. What she did not expect at all was a man in a dark coat trotting toward her less than a hundred paces down the hardpacked dirt street. Her breath caught. Lan. No, but he had the same shape to his face, the same eyes. Halting, he raised his bow and shot. At her. Screaming, she threw herself aside trying to claw her way awake.
Elayne jumped to her feet, toppling the stool over backward, as Nynaeve screamed and sat up on the bed, eyes wide.
“What happened, Nynaeve? What happened?”
Nynaeve shuddered. “He looked like Lan. He looked like Lan, and he tried to kill me.” She put a trembling hand to her left arm, where a shallow slash oozed blood a few inches below her shoulder. “If I hadn’t jumped, it would have gone through my heart.”
Seating herself on the edge of the bed, Elayne examined the cut. “It is not bad. I’ll wash and bandage it for you.” She wished she knew how to Heal; trying without knowing might well make it worse. But it really was little more than a long nick. Not to mention that her head still seemed full of jelly. Quivering jelly. “It was not Lan. Calm yourself. Whoever it was, it was not Lan.”
“I know that,” Nynaeve said acidly. She recounted what had happened in much the same angry voice. The man who had shot at her in Emond’s Field, and the man in the Waste; she was not sure they were one and the same. Birgitte herself was incredible enough.
“Are you certain?” Elayne asked. “Birgitte?”
Nynaeve sighed. “The only thing I am certain of is that I did not find Egwene. And that I am not going back there tonight.” She pounded a fist on her thigh. “Where is she? What happened to her? If she met that fellow with the bow… Oh,
Light!”
Elayne had to think a minute; she wanted to sleep so badly, and her thoughts kept shimmering. “She said she might not be there when we are supposed to meet again. Maybe that is why she left so hurriedly. Whyever she can’t… I mean…” It did not seem to make a great deal of sense, but she could not get it out properly.
“I hope so,” Nynaeve said wearily. Looking at Elayne, she added, “We had better get you to bed. You look ready to fall over.”
Elayne was grateful to be helped out of her clothes. She did remember to bandage Nynaeve’s arm, but the bed looked so inviting she could hardly think of anything else. In the morning perhaps the room would have stopped its slow spin around the bed. Sleep came as soon as her head touched the pillow.
In the morning she wished she were dead.
With sunlight barely in the sky, the common room was empty except for Elayne. Head in her hands, she stared at a cup Nynaeve had set on the table before going off to find the innkeeper. Every time she breathed, she could smell it; her nose tried to clench. Her head felt… It was not possible to describe how her head felt. Had someone offered to cut it off, she might have thanked him.“Are you all right?”
She jerked at the sound of Thom’s voice and barely stifled a whimper. “I am quite all right, thank you.” Talking made her head throb. He fiddled with one of his mustaches uncertainly. “Your stories were wonderful last night, Thom. What I remember of them.” Somehow she managed a small, selfdeprecating laugh. “I am afraid I don’t remember very much of anything except sitting there listening. I seem to have eaten some bad apple jelly.” She was not about to admit to drinking all that wine; she still had no idea how much. Or to making a fool of herself in his room. Above all, not that. He seemed to believe her, from the relieved way he took a chair.
Nynaeve appeared, handing her a damp cloth as she sat down. She also pushed the cup with its horrible brew closer. Elayne pressed the cloth to her forehead gratefully.
“Have either of you seen Master Sandar this morning?” the older woman asked. “He did not sleep in our room,” Thom replied. “Which I should be grateful for, considering the size of the bed.”
As though the words had summoned him, Juilin came in through the front door, his face weary and his snugfitting coat rumpled. There was a bruise beneath his left eye, and the short black hair that normally lay flat on his head looked roughcombed with his fingers, but he smiled as he joined them. “The thieves in this city are as numerous as minnows in reeds, and they will talk if you buy a cup of something. I have talked with two men who claim to have seen a woman with a white streak in her hair above the left ear. I think I believe one of them.”
“So they are here,” Elayne said, but Nynaeve shook her head. “Perhaps. More than one woman can have a white streak in her hair.”
“He could not say how old she was,” Juilin said, hiding a yawn behind his hand. “No age at all, he claimed. He joked that maybe she was Aes Sedai.”
“You go too fast,” Nynaeve told him in a tight voice. “You do us no good if you bring them down on us.”
Juilin flushed darkly. “I am careful. I have no wish for Liandrin to put her hands on me again. I do not ask questions; I talk. Sometimes of women I used to know. Two men bit on that white streak, and neither ever knew it was more than a scrap of idle talk over cheap ale. Tonight maybe another will swim into my net, only this time maybe it will be a fragile woman from Cairhien with very big blue eyes.” That would be Temaile Kinderode. “Bit by bit, I will narrow where they have been seen, until I know where they are. I will find them for you.”
“Or I will.” Thom sounded as if he thought that much more likely. “Rather than thieves, would they not be meddling with nobles and politics? Some lord in this city will begin doing what he usually does not, and he will draw me to them.”
The two men eyed one another. In another moment Elayne expected one of them to offer to wrestle. Men. First Juilin and Domon, now Juilin and Thom. Very likely Thom and Domon would get in a fistfight to complete it. Men. That was the only comment she could think of.
“Perhaps Elayne and I will succeed without either of you,” Nynaeve said dryly. “We will begin looking ourselves, today.” Her eyes barely shifted toward Elayne. “At least, I will. Elayne may need a little more rest to recover from… the voyage.”
Setting the cloth down carefully, Elayne used both hands to pick up the cup in front of her. The thick, graygreen liquid tasted worse than it smelled. Shuddering, she made herself keep swallowing. When it hit her stomach, for an instant she felt like a cloak snapping in a high wind. “Two pairs of eyes can see better than one,” she told Nynaeve, setting the empty cup back down with a clink.
“A hundred pairs can see even better,” Juilin said hastily, “and if that Illianer eel truly sends his people out, we will have at least that many, what with the thieves and cutpurses.”
“I — we — will find these women for you if they can be found,” Thom said. “There is no need for you to stir from the inn. This city has a dangerous feel even if Liandrin is not here.”
“Besides which,” Juilin added, “if they are here, they know the two of you.
They know your faces. Much better if you stay here at the inn, out of sight.”
Elayne stared at them in amazement. A moment gone they had been trying to stare each other down, and now they were shoulder to shoulder. Nynaeve had been right about them causing trouble. Well, the DaughterHeir of Andor was not about to hide behind Master Juilin Sandar and Master Thom Merrilin. She opened her mouth to tell them so, but Nynaeve spoke first.
“You are right,” she said calmly. Elayne stared at her incredulously; Thom and Juilin looked surprised, and at the same time disgustingly satisfied. “They do know us,” Nynaeve went on. “I took care of that this morning, I think. Ah, here is Mistress Rendra with our breakfast.”
Thom and Juilin exchanged disconcerted frowns, but they could say nothing
with the innkeeper smiling at them all through her veil.
“About what I asked you?” Nynaeve said to her as the woman placed a bowl of honeyed porridge in front of her.
“Ah, yes. It will be no problem to find the clothes to fit both of you. And the hair — you have such lovely hair; so long — it will be the work of no time to put it up.” She fingered her own deep golden braids.
Thom’s and Juilin’s faces made Elayne smile. They might have been ready for arguments; they had no defense against being ignored. Her head was actually feeling a little better; Nynaeve’s vile mixture seemed to be working. As Nynaeve and Rendra discussed costs and cut and fabric — Rendra wanted to duplicate her clinging dress, pale green today; Nynaeve was opposed, but seemed to be wavering
— Elayne took a spoon of porridge to wash the taste from her mouth. It reminded her that she was hungry.
There was one problem none of them had mentioned yet, one that Thom and Juilin did not know. If the Black Ajah was in Tanchico, then so was whatever it was that endangered Rand. Something able to bind him with his own Power. Finding Liandrin and the others was not enough. They had to find that, too. Suddenly her newfound appetite was completely gone.
The Shadow Rising
Chapter 40