Chapter 25

The Traveling People


Bela walked along placidly under the weak sun as if the three wolves trotting not far off were only
village dogs, but the way she rolled her eyes at them from time to time, showing white all the way
around, indicated she felt nothing of the sort. Egwene, on the mare's back, was just as bad. She
watched the wolves constantly from the corner of her eye, and sometimes she twisted in the saddle to look
around. Perrin was sure she was hunting for the rest of the pack, though she denied it angrily when he suggested
as much, denied being afraid of the wolves that paced them, denied worrying about the rest of the pack or what
it was up to. She denied, and went right on looking, tight-eyed and wetting her lips uneasily.
The rest of the pack was far distant; he could have told her that. What good, even if she believed me?
Especially if she did. He was of no mind to open that basket of snakes until he had to. He did not want to think
about how he knew. The fur-clad man loped ahead of them, sometimes looking almost like a wolf himself, and
he never looked around when Dapple, Hopper, and Wind appeared, but he knew, too.
The Emond's Fielders had wakened at dawn that first morning to find Elyas cooking more rabbit and
watching them over his full beard without much expression. Except for Dapple, Hopper, and Wind, no wolves
were to be seen. In the pale, early daylight, deep shade still lingered under the big oak, and the bare trees
beyond looked like fingers stripped to the bone.
"They're around," Elyas answered when Egwene asked where the rest of the pack had gone. "Close
enough to help, if need be. Far enough off to avoid any human trouble we get into. Sooner or later there's
always trouble when there's two humans together. If we need them, they'll be there."
Something tickled the back of Perrin's mind as he ripped free a bite of roast rabbit. A direction, vaguely
sensed. Of course! That's where they . . . The hot juices in his mouth abruptly lost all taste. He picked at the
tubers Elyas had cooked in the coals-they tasted something like turnips-but his appetite was gone.
When they had started out Egwene insisted that everyone take a turn riding, and Perrin did not even
bother to argue.
"First turn is yours," he told her.
She nodded. "And then you, Elyas."
"My own legs are good enough for me," Elyas said. He looked at Bela, and the mare rolled her eyes as if
he were one of the wolves. "Besides, I don't think she wants me riding her."
"That's nonsense," Egwene replied firmly. "There is no point in being stubborn about it. The sensible
thing is for everybody to ride sometimes. According to you we have a long way still to go."
"I said no, girl."
She took a deep breath, and Perrin was wondering if she would succeed in bullying Elyas the way she
did him, when he realized she was standing there with her mouth open, not saying a word. Elyas was looking at
her, just looking, with those yellow wolf's eyes. Egwene stepped back from the raw-boned man, and licked her
lips, and stepped back again. Before Elyas turned away, she had backed all the way to Bela and scrambled up
onto the mare's back. As the man turned to lead them south, Perrin thought his grin was a good deal like a
wolf's, too.
For three days they traveled in that manner, walking and riding south and east all day, stopping only
when twilight thickened. Elyas seemed to scorn the haste of city men, but he did not believe in wasting time
when there was somewhere to go. The three wolves were seldom seen. Each night they came to the fire for a
time, and sometimes in the day they showed themselves briefly, appearing close at hand when least expected
and vanishing in the same manner. Perrin knew they were out there, though, and where.
He knew when they were scouting the path ahead and when they were watching the backtrail. He knew
when they left the pack's usual hunting grounds, and Dapple sent the pack back to wait for her. Sometimes the
three that remained faded from his mind, but long before they were close enough to see again, he was aware of
them returning. Even when the trees dwindled to wide-scattered groves separated by great swathes of winterdead
grass, they were as ghosts when they did not want to be seen, but he could have pointed a finger straight at
them at any time. He did not know how he knew, and he tried to convince himself that it was just his
imagination playing tricks, but it did no good. Just as Elyas knew, he knew.
He tried not thinking about wolves, but they crept into his thoughts all the same. He had not dreamed
about Ba'alzamon since meeting Elyas and the wolves. His dreams, as much as he remembered of them on
waking, were of everyday things, just as he might have dreamed at home . . . before Baerlon . . . before
Winternight. Normal dreams - with one addition. In every dream he remembered there was a point where he
straightened from Master Luhhan's forge to wipe the sweat from his face, or turned from dancing with the
village girls on the Green, or lifted his head from a book in front of the fireplace, and whether he was outside or
under a roof, there was a wolf close to hand. Always the wolf's back was to him, and always he knew-in the
dreams it seemed the normal course of things, even at Alsbet Luhhan's dinner table-that the wolf's yellow eyes
were watching for what might come, guarding against what might come. Only when he was awake did the
dreams seem strange.
Three days they journeyed, with Dapple, Hopper, and Wind bringing them rabbits and squirrels, and
Elyas pointing out plants, few of which Perrin recognized, as good to eat. Once a rabbit burst out almost from
under Bela's hooves; before Perrin could get a stone in his sling, Elyas skewered it with his long knife at twenty
paces. Another time Elyas brought down a fat pheasant, on the wing, with his bow. They ate far better than they
had when on their own, but Perrin would as soon have gone back on short rations if it had meant different
company. He was not sure how Egwene felt, but he would have been willing to go hungry if he could do it
without the wolves. Three days, into the afternoon.
A stand of trees lay ahead, larger than most they had seen, a good four miles across. The sun sat low in
the western sky, pushing slanted shadows off to their right, and the wind was picking up. Perrin felt the wolves
give over quartering behind them and start forward, not hurrying. They had smelled and seen nothing
dangerous. Egwene was taking her turn on Bela. It was time to start looking for a camp for the night, and the
big copse would serve the purpose well.
As they came close to the trees, three mastiffs burst from cover, broadmuzzled dogs as tall as the wolves
and even heavier, teeth bared in loud, rumbling snarls. They stopped short as soon as they were in the open, but
no more than thirty feet separated them from the three people, and their dark eyes kindled with a killing light.
Bela, already on edge from the wolves, whinnied and almost unseated Egwene, but Perrin had his sling
whirling around his head in an instant. No need to use the axe on dogs; a stone in the ribs would send the worst
dog running.
Elyas waved a hand at him without taking his eyes from the stiff legged dogs. "Hssst! None of that
now!"
Perrin gave him a puzzled frown, but let the sling slow its spin and finally fall to his side. Egwene
managed to get Bela under control; she and the mare both watched the dogs warily.
The mastiffs' hackles stood stiff, and their ears were laid back, and their growls sounded like
earthquakes. Abruptly Elyas raised one finger shoulder high and whistled, a long, shrill whistle that rose higher
and higher and did not end. The growls cut off raggedly. The dogs stepped back, whining and turning their
heads as if they wanted to go but were held. Their eyes remained locked to Elyas's finger.
Slowly Elyas lowered his hand, and the pitch of his whistle lowered with it. The dogs followed, until
they lay flat on the ground, tongues lolling from their mouths. Three tails wagged.
"See," Elyas said, walking to the dogs. "There's no need for weapons." The mastiffs licked his hands,
and he scratched their broad heads and fondled their ears. "They look meaner than they are. They meant to
frighten us off, and they wouldn't have bitten unless we tried to go into the trees. Anyway, there's no worry of
that, now. We can make the next thicket before full dark."
When Perrin looked at Egwene, her mouth was hanging open. He shut his own mouth with a click of
teeth.
Still patting the dogs, Elyas studied the stand of trees. "There'll be Tuatha'an here. The Traveling
People." They stared at him blankly, and he added, "Tinkers."
"Tinkers?" Perrin exclaimed. "I've always wanted to see the Tinkers. They camp across the river from
Taren Ferry sometimes, but they don't come down into the Two Rivers, as far as I know. I don't know why not."
Egwene sniffed. "Probably because the Taren Ferry folk are as great thieves as the Tinkers. They'd no
doubt end up stealing each other blind. Master Elyas, if there really are Tinkers close by, shouldn't we go on?
We don't want Bela stolen, and . . . well, we do not have much else, but everybody knows Tinkers will steal
anything."
"Including infants?" Elyas asked dryly. "Kidnap children, and all that?" He spat, and she blushed. Those
stories about babies were told sometimes, but most often by Cenn Buie or one of the Coplins or Congars. The
other tales, everybody knew. "The Tinkers make me sick sometimes, but they don't steal any more than most
folks. A good bit less than some I know."
"It will be getting dark soon, Elyas," Perrin said. "We have to camp somewhere. Why not with them, if
they'll have us?" Mistress Luhhan had a Tinker-mended pot that she claimed was better than new. Master
Luhhan was not too happy about his wife's praise of the Tinker work, but Perrin wanted to see how it was done.
Yet there was a reluctance about Elyas that he did not understand. "Is there some reason we shouldn't?"
Elyas shook his head, but the reluctance was still there, in the set of his shoulders and the tightness of his
mouth. "May as well. Just don't pay any mind to what they say. Lot of foolishness. Most times the Traveling
People do things any which way, but there's times they set a store by formality, so you do what I do. And keep
your secrets. No need to tell the world everything."
The dogs trailed along beside them, wagging their tails, as Elyas led the way into the trees. Perrin felt
the wolves slow, and knew they would not enter. They were not afraid of the dogs-they were contemptuous of
dogs, who had given up freedom to sleep by a fire-but people they avoided.
Elyas walked surely, as if he knew the way, and near the center of the stand the Tinkers' wagons
appeared, scattered among the oak and ash.
Like everyone else in Emond's Field, Perrin had heard a good deal about the Tinkers even if he had
never seen any, and the camp was just what he expected. Their wagons were small houses on wheels, tall
wooden boxes lacquered and painted in bright colors, reds and blues and yellows and greens and some hues to
which he could not put a name. The Traveling People were going about work that was disappointingly
everyday, cooking, sewing, tending children, mending harness, but their clothes were even more colorful than
the wagons-and seemingly chosen at random; sometimes coat and breeches, or dress and shawl, went together
in a way that hurt his eyes. They looked like butterflies in a field of wildflowers.
Four or five men in different places around the camp played fiddles and flutes, and a few people danced
like rainbow-hued hummingbirds. Children and dogs ran playing among the cookfires. The dogs were mastiffs
just like those that had confronted the travelers, but the children tugged at their ears and tails and climbed on
their backs, and the massive dogs accepted it all placidly. The three with Elyas, tongues hanging out, looked up
at the bearded man as if he were their best friend. Perrin shook his head. They were still big enough to reach a
man's throat while barely getting their front feet off the ground.
Abruptly the music stopped, and he realized all the Tinkers were looking at him and his companions.
Even the children and dogs stood still and watched, warily, as if on the point of flight.
For a moment there was no sound at all, then a wiry man, gray-haired and short, stepped forward and
bowed gravely to Elyas. He wore a highcollared red coat, and baggy, bright green trousers tucked into knee
boots. "You are welcome to our fires. Do you know the song?"
Elyas bowed in the same way, both hands pressed to his chest. "Your welcome warms my spirit, Mahdi,
as your fires warm the flesh, but I do not know the song."
"Then we seek still," the gray-haired man intoned. "As it was, so shall it be, if we but remember, seek,
and find." He swept an arm toward the fires with a smile, and his voice took on a cheerful lightness. "The meal
is almost ready. Join us, please."
As if that had been a signal the music sprang up again, and the children took up their laughter and ran
with the dogs. Everyone in the camp went back to what they had been doing just as though the newcomers were
long accepted friends.
The gray-haired man hesitated, though, and looked at Elyas. "Your . . . other friends? They will stay
away? They frighten the poor dogs so."
"They'll stay away, Raen." Elyas's headshake had a touch of scorn. "You should know that by now."
The gray-haired man spread his hands as if to say nothing was ever certain. As he turned to lead them
into the camp, Egwene dismounted and moved close to Elyas. "You two are friends?" A smiling Tinker
appeared to take Bela; Egwene gave the reins up reluctantly, after a wry snort from Elyas.
"We know each other," the fur-clad man replied curtly.
"His name is Mahdi?" Perrin said.
Elyas growled something under his breath. "His name's Raen. Mahdi's his title. Seeker. He's the leader
of this band. You can call him Seeker if the other sounds odd. He won't mind."
"What was that about a song?" Egwene asked.
"That's why they travel," Elyas said, "or so they say. They're looking for a song. That's what the Mahdi
seeks. They say they lost it during the Breaking of the World, and if they can find it again, the paradise of the
Age of Legends will return." He ran his eye around the camp and snorted. "They don't even know what the song
is; they claim they'll know it when they find it. They don't know how it's supposed to bring paradise, either, but
they've been looking near to three thousand years, ever since the Breaking. I expect they'll be looking until the
Wheel stops turning."
They reached Raen's fire, then, in the middle of the camp. The Seeker's wagon was yellow trimmed in
red, and the spokes of its tall, red-rimmed wheels alternated red and yellow. A plump woman, as gray as Raen
but smooth-cheeked still, came out of the wagon and paused on the steps at its back end, straightening a bluefringed
shawl on her shoulders. Her blouse was yellow and her skirt red, both bright. The combination made
Perrin blink, and Egwene made a strangled sound.
When she saw the people following Raen, the woman came down with a welcoming smile. She was Ila,
Raen's wife, a head taller than her husband, and she soon made Perrin forget about the colors of her clothes. She
had a motherliness that reminded him of Mistress al'Vere and had him feeling welcome from her first smile.
Ila greeted Elyas as an old acquaintance, but with a distance that seemed to pain Raen. Elyas gave her a
dry grin and a nod. Perrin and Egwene introduced themselves, and she clasped their hands in both of hers with
much more warmth than she had shown Elyas, even hugging Egwene.
"Why, you're lovely, child," she said, cupping Egwene's chin and smiling. "And chilled to the bone, too,
I expect. You sit close to the fire, Egwene. All of you sit. Supper is almost ready."
Fallen logs had been pulled around the fire for sitting. Elyas refused even that concession to civilization.
He lounged on the ground, instead. Iron tripods held two small kettles over the flames, and an oven rested in the
edge of the coals. Ila tended them.
As Perrin and the others were taking their places, a slender young man wearing green stripes strolled up
to the fire. He gave Raen a hug and Ila a kiss, and ran a cool eye over Elyas and the Emond's Fielders. He was
about the same age as Perrin, and he moved as if he were about to begin dancing with his next step.
"Well, Aram"- Ila smiled fondly, “you have decided to eat with your old grandparents for a change, have
you?" Her smile slid over to Egwene as she bent to stir a kettle hanging over the cookfire. "I wonder why?"
Aram settled to an easy crouch with his arms crossed on his knees, across the fire from Egwene. "I am
Aram," he told her in a low, confident voice. He no longer seemed aware that anyone was there except her. "I
have waited for the first rose of spring, and now I find it at my grandfather's fire."
Perrin waited for Egwene to snicker, then saw that she was staring back at Aram. He looked at the
young Tinker again. Aram had more than his share of good looks, he admitted. After a minute Perrin knew who
the fellow reminded him of. Wil al'Seen, who had all the girls staring and whispering behind his back whenever
he came up from Deven Ride to
Emond's Field. Wil courted every girl in sight, and managed to convince every one of them that he was
just being polite to all the others.
"Those dogs of yours," Perrin said loudly, and Egwene gave a start, "look as big as bears. I'm surprised
you let the children play with them."
Aram's smile slipped, but when he looked at Perrin it came back again, even more sure than before.
"They will not harm you. They make a show to frighten away danger, and warn us, but they are trained
according to the Way of the Leaf. "
"The Way of the Leaf?" Egwene said. "What is that?"
Aram gestured to the trees, his eyes fastened intently on hers. "The leaf lives its appointed time, and
does not struggle against the wind that carries it away. The leaf does no harm, and finally falls to nourish new
leaves. So it should be with all men. And women." Egwene stared back at him, a faint blush rising in her
cheeks.
"But what does that mean?" Perrin said. Aram gave him an irritated glance, but it was Raen who
answered.
"It means that no man should harm another for any reason whatsoever." The Seeker's eyesflickered to
Elyas. "There is no excuse for violence. None. Not ever."
"What if somebody attacks you?" Perrin insisted. "What if somebody hits you, or tries to rob you, or kill
you?"
Raen sighed, a patient sigh, as if Perrin was just not seeing what was so clear to him. "If a man hit me, I
would ask him why he wanted to do such a thing. If he still wanted to hit me, I would run away, as I would if he
wanted to rob or kill me. Much better that I let him take what he wanted, even my life, than that I should do
violence. And I would hope that he was not harmed too greatly."
"But you said you wouldn't hurt him," Perrin said.
"I would not, but violence harms the one who does it as much as the one who receives it." Perrin looked
doubtful. "You could cut down a tree with your axe," Raen said. "The axe does violence to the tree, and escapes
unharmed. Is that how you see it? Wood is soft compared to steel, but the sharp steel is dulled as it chops, and
the sap of the tree will rust and pit it. The mighty axe does violence to the helpless tree, and is harmed by it. So
it is with men, though the harm is in the spirit."
"But –”
"Enough," Elyas growled, cutting Perrin off. "Raen, it's bad enough you trying to convert village
younglings to that nonsense - it gets you in trouble almost everywhere you go, doesn't it? - but I didn't bring this
lot here for you to work on them. Leave over."
"And leave them to you?" Ila said, grinding herbs between her palms and letting them trickle into one of
the kettles. Her voice was calm, but her hands rubbed the herbs furiously. "Will you teach them your way, to
kill or die? Will you lead them to the fate you seek for yourself, dying alone with only the ravens and your . . .
your friends to squabble over your body?"
"Be at peace, Ila," Raen said gently, as if he had heard this all and more a hundred times. "He has been
welcomed to our fire, my wife."
Ila subsided, but Perrin noticed that she made no apology. Instead she looked at Elyas and shook her
head sadly, then dusted her hands and began taking spoons and pottery bowls from a red chest on the side of the
wagon.
Raen turned back to Elyas. "My old friend, how many times must I tell you that we do not try to convert
anyone. When village people are curious about our ways, we answer their questions. It is most often the young
who ask, true, and sometimes one of them will come with us when we journey on, but it is of their own free
will."
"You try telling that to some farm wife who's just found out her son or daughter has run off with you
Tinkers," Elyas said wryly. "That's why the bigger towns won't even let you camp nearby. Villages put up with
you for your mending things, but the cities don't need it, and they don't like you talking their young folks into
running off."
"I would not know what the cities allow." Raen's patience seemed inexhaustible. He certainly did not
appear to be getting angry at all. "There are always violent men in cities. In any case, I do not think the song
could be found in a city."
"I don't mean to offend you, Seeker," Perrin said slowly, "but . . . Well, I don't look for violence. I don't
think I've even wrestled anybody in years, except for feastday games. But if somebody hit me, I'd hit him back.
If I didn't, I would just be encouraging him to think he could hit me whenever he wanted to. Some people think
they can take advantage of others, and if you don't let them know they can't, they'll just go around bullying
anybody weaker than they are."
"Some people," Aram said with a heavy sadness, "can never overcome their baser instincts." He said it
with a look at Perrin that made it clear he was not talking about the bullies Perrin spoke of.
"I'll bet you get to run away a lot," Perrin said, and the young Tinker's face tightened in a way that had
nothing to do with the Way of the Leaf.
"I think it is interesting," Egwene said, glaring at Perrin, "to meet someone who doesn't believe his
muscles can solve every problem."
Aram's good spirits returned, and he stood, offering her his hands with a smile. "Let me show you our
camp. There is dancing."
"I would like that." She smiled back.
Ila straightened from taking loaves of bread from the small iron oven. "But supper is ready, Aram."
"I'll eat with mother," Aram said over his shoulder as he drew Egwene away from the wagon by her
hand. "We will both eat with mother." He flashed a triumphant smile at Perrin. Egwene was laughing as they
ran.
Perrin got to his feet, then stopped. It was not as if she could come to any harm, not if the camp followed
this Way of the Leaf as Raen said. Looking at Raen and Ila, both staring dejectedly after their grandson, he said,
"I'm sorry. I am a guest, and I shouldn't have-"
"Don't be foolish," Ila said soothingly. "It was his fault, not yours. Sit down and eat."
"Aram is a troubled young man," Raen added sadly. "He is a good boy, but sometimes I think he finds
the Way of the Leaf a hard way. Some do, I fear. Please. My fire is yours. Please?"
Perrin sat back down slowly, still feeling awkward. "What happens to somebody who can't follow the
Way?" he asked. "A Tinker, I mean."
Raen and Ila exchanged a worried look, and Raen said, "They leave us. The Lost go to live in the
villages."
Ila stared in the direction her grandson had gone. "The Lost cannot be happy." She sighed, but her face
was placid again when she handed out the bowls and spoons.
Perrin stared at the ground, wishing he had not asked, and there was no more talk while Ila filled their
bowls with a thick vegetable stew and handed out thick slices of her crusty bread, nor while they ate. The stew
was delicious, and Perrin finished three bowls before he stopped. Elyas, he noted with a grin, emptied four.
After the meal Raen filled his pipe, and Elyas produced his own and stuffed it from Raen's oilskin
pouch. When the lighting and tamping and relighting were done, they settled back in silence. Ila took out a
bundle of knitting. The sun was only a blaze of red above the treetops to the west. The camp had settled in for
the night, but the bustle did not slow, only changed. The musicians who had been playing when they entered the
camp had been replaced by others, and even more people than before danced in the light of the fires, their
shadows leaping against the wagons. Somewhere in the camp a chorus of male voices rose. Perrin slid down in
front of the log and soon felt himself dosing.
After a time Raen said, "Have you visited any of the Tuatha'an, Elyas, since you were with us last
spring?"
Perrin's eyes drifted open and half shut again.
"No," Elyas replied around his pipestem. "I don't like being around too many people at once."
Raen chuckled. "Especially people who live in a way so opposite to your own, eh? No, my old friend,
don't worry. I gave up years ago hoping you would come to the Way. But I have heard a story since last we met,
and if you have not heard it yet, it might interest you. It interests me, and I have heard it again and again, every
time we meet others of the People."
"I'll listen."
"It begins in the spring two years ago, with a band of the People who were crossing the Waste by the
northern route."
Perrin's eyes shot open. "The Waste? The Aiel Waste? They were crossing the Aiel Waste?"
"Some people can enter the Waste without being bothered," Elyas said. "Gleemen. Peddlers, if they're
honest. The Tuatha'an cross the Waste all the time. Merchants from Cairhien used to, before the Tree, and the
Aiel War. "
"The Aielmen avoid us," Raen said sadly, "though many of us have tried to speak with them. They
watch us from a distance, but they will not come near us, nor let us come near them. Sometimes I worry that
they might know the song, though I suppose it isn't likely. Among Aiel, men do not sing, you know. Isn't that
strange? From the time an Aiel boy becomes a man he will not sing anything but battle chants, or their dirge for
the slain. I have heard them singing over their dead, and over those they have killed. That song is one to make
the stones weep." Ila, listening, nodded agreement over her knitting.
Perrin did some quick rethinking. He had thought the Tinkers must be afraid all the time, with all this
talk of running away, but no one who was afraid would even think of crossing the Aiel Waste. From what he
had heard, no one who was sane would try crossing the Waste.
"If this is some story about a song," Elyas began, but Raen shook his head.
"No, my old friend, not a song. I am not sure I know what it is about." He turned his attention to Perrin.
"Young Aiel often travel into the Blight. Some of the young men go alone, thinking for some reason that they
have been called to kill the Dark One. Most go in small groups. To hunt Trollocs." Raen shook his head sadly,
and when he went on his voice was heavy. "Two years ago a band of the People crossing the Waste about a
hundred miles south of the Blight found one of these groups."
"Young women," Ila put in, as sorrowful as her husband. "Little more than girls."
Perrin made a surprised sound, and Elyas grinned at him wryly.
"Aiel girls don't have to tend house and cook if they don't want to, boy. The ones who want to be
warriors, instead, join one of the warrior societies, Far Dareis Mai, the Maidens of the Spear, and fight right
alongside the men."
Perrin shook his head. Elyas chuckled at his expression.
Raen took up the story again, distaste and perplexity mingled in his voice. "The young women were all
dead except one, and she was dying. She crawled to the wagons. It was clear she knew they were Tuatha'an. Her
loathing outweighed her pain, but she had a message so important to her that she must pass it on to someone,
even us, before she died. Men went to see if they could help any of the others-there was a trail of her blood to
follow-but all were dead, and so were three times their number in Trollocs."
Elyas sat up, his pipe almost falling from between his teeth. "A hundred miles into the Waste?
Impossible! Djevik K'Shar, that's what Trollocs call the Waste. The Dying Ground. They wouldn't go a hundred
miles into the Waste if all the Myrddraal in the Blight were driving them."
"You know an awful lot about Trollocs, Elyas," Perrin said.
"Go on with your story," Elyas told Raen gruffly.
"From trophies the Aiel carried, it was obvious they were coming back from the Blight. The Trollocs
had followed, but by the tracks only a few lived to return after killing the Aiel. As for the girl, she would not let
anyone touch her, even to tend her wounds. But she seized the Seeker of that band by his coat, and this is what
she said, word for word. 'Leafblighter means to blind the Eye of the World, Lost One. He means to slay the
Great Serpent. Warn the People, Lost One. Sightburner comes. Tell them to stand ready for He Who Comes
With the Dawn. Tell them. . . .' And then she died. Leafblighter and Sightburner," Raen added to Perrin, "are
Aiel names for the Dark One, but I don't understand another word of it. Yet she thought it important enough to
approach those she obviously despised, to pass it on with her last breath. But to who? We are ourselves, the
People, but I hardly think she meant it for us. The Aiel? They would not let us tell them if we tried." He sighed
heavily. "She called us the Lost. I never knew before how much they loathe us." Ila set her knitting in her lap
and touched his head gently.
"Something they learned in the Blight," Elyas mused. "But none of it makes sense. Slay the Great
Serpent? Kill time itself? And blind the Eye of the World? As well say he's going to starve a rock. Maybe she
was babbling, Raen. Wounded, dying, she could have lost her grip on what was real. Maybe she didn't even
know who those Tuatha'an were."
"She knew what she was saying, and to whom she was saying it. Something more important to her than
her own life, and we cannot even understand it. When I saw you walking into our camp, I thought perhaps we
would find the answer at last, since you were" - Elyas made a quick motion with his hand, and Raen changed
what he had been going to say - "are a friend, and know many strange things."
"Not about this," Elyas said in a tone that put an end to talk. The silence around the campfire was broken
only by the music and laughter drifting from other parts of the night-shrouded camp.
Lying with his shoulders propped on one of the logs around the fire, Perrin tried puzzling out the Aiel
woman's message, but it made no more sense to him than it had to Raen or Elyas. The Eye of the World. That
had been in his dreams, more than once, but he did not want to think about those dreams. Elyas, now. There was
a question there he would like answered. What had Raen been about to say about the bearded man, and why had
Elyas cut him off? He had no luck with that, either. He was trying to imagine what Aiel girls were like-going
into the Blight, where only Warders went that he had ever heard; fighting Trollocs-when he heard Egwene
coming back, singing to herself.
Scrambling to his feet, he went to meet her at the edge of the firelight. She stopped short, looking at him
with her head tilted to one side. In the dark he could not read her expression.
"You've been gone a long time," he said. "Did you have fun?"
"We ate with his mother," she answered. "And then we danced . . . and laughed. It seems like forever
since I danced."
"He reminds me of Wil al'Seen. You always had sense enough not to let Wil put you in his pocket."
"Aram is a gentle boy who is fun to be with," she said in a tight voice. "He makes me laugh."
Perrin sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm glad you had fun dancing."
Abruptly she flung her arms around him, weeping on his shirt. Awkwardly he patted her hair. Rand
would know what to do, he thought. Rand had an easy way with girls. Not like him, who never knew what to do
or say. "I told you I'm sorry, Egwene. I really am glad you had fun dancing. Really. "
"Tell me they're alive," she mumbled into his chest.
"What?"
She pushed back to arm's length, her hands on his arms, and looked up at him in the darkness. "Rand and
Mat. The others. Tell me they are alive. "
He took a deep breath and looked around uncertainly. "They are alive," he said finally.
"Good." She scrubbed at her cheeks with quick fingers. "That is what I wanted to hear. Good night,
Perrin. Sleep well." Standing on tiptoe, she brushed a kiss across his cheek and hurried past him before he could
speak.
He turned to watch her. Ila rose to meet her, and the two women went into the wagon talking quietly.
Rand might understand it, he thought, but I don't.
In the distant night the wolves howled the first thin sliver of the new moon toward the horizon, and he
shivered. Tomorrow would be time enough to worry about the wolves again. He was wrong. They were waiting
to greet him in his dreams.

Chapter 26

Whitebridge


The last unsteady note of what had been barely recognizable as "The Wind That Shakes the Willow"
faded mercifully away, and Mat lowered Thom's gold-and-silver-chased flute. Rand took his hands
from his ears. A sailor coiling a line on the deck nearby heaved a loud sigh of relief. For a moment the
only sounds were the water slapping against the hull, the rhythmic creak of the oars, and now and again the hum
of rigging strummed by the wind. The wind blew dead on to the Spray's bow, and the useless sails were furled.
"I suppose I should thank you," Thom Merrilin muttered finally, "for teaching me how true the old
saying is. Teach him how you will, a pig will never play the flute." The sailor burst out laughing, and Mat raised
the flute as if to throw it at him. Deftly, Thom snagged the instrument from Mat's fist and fitted it into its hard
leather case. "I thought all you shepherds whiled away the time with the flock playing the pipes or the flute.
That will show me to trust what I don't know firsthand."
"Rand's the shepherd," Mat grumbled. "He plays the pipes, not me."
"Yes, well, he does have a little aptitude. Perhaps we had better work on juggling, boy. At least you
show some talent for that."
"Thom," Rand said, "I don't know why you're trying so hard." He glanced at the sailor and lowered his
voice. "After all, we aren't really trying to become gleemen. It's only something to hide behind until we find
Moiraine and the others."
Thom tugged at an end of his mustache and seemed to be studying the smooth, dark brown leather of the
flute case on his knees. "What if you don't find them, boy? There's nothing to say they're even still alive."
"They're alive," Rand said firmly. He turned to Mat for support, but Mat's eyebrows were pinched down
on his nose, and his mouth was a thin line, and his eyes were fixed on the deck. "Well, speak up," Rand told
him. "You can't be that mad over not being able to play the flute. I can't either, not very well. You never wanted
to play the flute before."
Mat looked up, still frowning. "What if they are dead?" he said softly. "We have to accept facts, right?"
At that moment the lookout in the bow sang out, "Whitebridge! Whitebridge ahead!"
For a long minute, unwilling to believe that Mat could say something like that so casually, Rand held his
friend's gaze amid the scramble of sailors preparing to put in. Mat glowered at him with his head pulled down
between his shoulders. There was so much Rand wanted to say, but he could not manage to get it all into words.
They had to believe the others were alive. They had to. Why? nagged a voice in the back of his head. So it will
all turn out like one of Thom's stories? The heroes find the treasure and defeat the villain and live happily ever
after? Some of his stories don't end that way. Sometimes even heroes die. Are you a hero, Rand al'Thor? Are
you a hero, sheepherder?
Abruptly Mat flushed and pulled his eyes away. Freed from his thoughts, Rand jumped up to move
through the hurly-burly to the rail. Mat came after him slowly, not even making an effort to dodge the sailors
who ran across his path.
Men dashed about the boat, bare feet thumping the deck, hauling on ropes, tying off some lines and
untying others. Some brought up big oilskin bags stuffed almost to bursting with wool, while others readied
cables as thick as Rand's wrist. Despite their haste, they moved with the assurance of men who had done it all a
thousand times before, but Captain Domon stumped up and down the deck shouting orders and cursing those
who did not move fast enough to suit him.
Rand's attention was all for what lay ahead, coming plainly into sight as they rounded a slight bend of
the Arinelle. He had heard of it, in song and story and peddlers' tales, but now he would actually see the legend.
The White Bridge arched high over the wide waters, twice as high as the Spray's mast and more, and
from end to end it gleamed milky white in the sunlight, gathering the light until it seemed to glow. Spidery piers
of the same stuff plunged into the strong currents, appearing too frail to support the weight and width of the
bridge. It looked all of one piece, as if it had been carved from a single stone or molded by a giant's hand, broad
and tall, leaping the river with an airy grace that almost made the eye forget its size. All in all it dwarfed the
town that sprawled about its foot on the east bank, though Whitebridge was larger by far than Emond's Field,
with houses of stone and brick as tall as those in Taren Ferry and wooden docks like thin fingers sticking out
into the river. Small boats dotted the Arinelle thickly, fishermen hauling their nets. And over it all the White
Bridge towered and shone.
"It looks like glass," Rand said to no one in particular.
Captain Domon paused behind him and tucked his thumbs behind his broad belt. "Nay, lad. Whatever it
be, it no be glass. Never so hard the rains come, it no be slippery, and the best chisel and the strongest arm no
make a mark on it."
"A remnant from the Age of Legends," Thom said. "I have always thought it must be."
The captain gave a dour grunt. "Mayhap. But still useful despite. Could be someone else built it. Does
no have to be Aes Sedai work, Fortune prick me. It no has to be so old as all that. Put your back into it, you
bloody fool!" He hurried off down the deck.
Rand stared even more wonderingly. From the Age of Legends. Made by Aes Sedai, then. That was why
Captain Domon felt the way he did, for all his talk about the wonder and strangeness of the world. Aes Sedai
work. One thing to hear about it, another to see it, and touch it. You know that, don't you? For an instant it
seemed to Rand that a shadow rippled through the milk-white structure. He pulled his eyes away, to the docks
coming nearer, but the bridge still loomed in the corner of his vision.
"We made it, Thom," he said, then forced a laugh. "And no mutiny."
The gleeman only harrumphed and blew out his mustaches, but two sailors readying a cable nearby gave
Rand a sharp glance, then bent quickly back to their work. He stopped laughing and tried not to look at the two
for the rest of the approach to Whitebridge.
The Spray curved smoothly in beside the first dock, thick timbers sitting on heavy, tarcoated pilings, and
stopped with a backing of oars that swirled the water to froth around the blades. As the oars were drawn in,
sailors tossed cables to men on the dock, who fastened them off with a flourish, while other crewmen slung the
bags of wool over the side to protect the hull from the dock pilings.
Before the boat was even pulled snug against the dock, carriages appeared at the end of the dock, tall
and lacquered shiny black, each one with a name painted on the door in large letters, gold or scarlet. The
carriages' passengers hurried up the gangplank as soon as it dropped in place, smooth-faced men in long velvet
coats and silk-lined cloaks and cloth slippers, each followed by a plainly dressed servant carrying his ironbound
moneybox.
They approached Captain Domon with painted smiles that slipped when he abruptly roared in their
faces. "You!" He thrust a thick finger past them, stopping Floran Gelb in his tracks at the length of the boat. The
bruise on Gelb's forehead from Rand's boot had faded away, but he still fingered the spot from time to time as if
to remind himself. "You've slept on watch for the last time on my vessel! Or on any vessel, if I have my way of
it. Choose your own side - the dock or the river - but off my vessel now!"
Gelb hunched his shoulders, and his eyes glittered hate at Rand and his friends, at Rand especially, a
poisonous glare. The wiry man looked around the deck for support, but there was little hope in that look. One
by one, every man in the crew straightened from what he was doing and stared back coldly. Gelb wilted visibly,
but then his glare returned, twice as strong as it had been. With a muttered curse he darted below to the crew's
quarters. Domon sent two men after him to see he did no mischief and dismissed him with a grunt. When the
captain turned back to them, the merchants took up their smiles and bows as if they had never been interrupted.
At a word from Thom, Mat and Rand began gathering their things together. There was not much aside
from the clothes on their backs, not for any of them. Rand had his blanketroll and saddlebags, and his father's
sword. He held the sword for a minute, and homesickness rolled over him so strongly that his eyes stung. He
wondered if he would ever see Tam again. Or home? Home. Going to upend the rent of your life running,
running and afraid of your own dreams. With a shuddering sigh he slipped the belt around his waist over his
coat.
Gelb came back on deck, followed by his twin shadows. He looked straight ahead, but Rand could still
feel hatred coming off him in waves. Back rigid and face dark, Gelb walked stifflegged down the gangplank and
pushed roughly into the thin crowd on the dock. In a minute he was gone from sight, vanished beyond the
merchants' carriages.
There were not a great many people on the dock, and those were a plainly dressed mix of workmen,
fishermen mending nets, and a few townspeople who had come out to see the first boat of the year to come
downriver from Saldaea. None of the girls was Egwene and no one looked the least bit like Moiraine, or Lan, of
anyone else Rand was hoping to see.
"Maybe they didn't come down to the dock," he said.
"Maybe," Thom replied curtly. He settled his instrument cases on his back with care. "You two keep an
eye out for Gelb. He will make trouble if he can. We want to pass through Whitebridge so softly that nobody
remembers we were here five minutes after we're gone."
Their cloaks flapped in the wind as they walked to the gangplank. Mat carried his bow crossed in front
on his chest. Even after all their days on the boat, it still got a few looks from the crewmen; their bows were
short affairs.
Captain Domon left the merchants to intercept Thom at the gangplank.
"You be leaving me now, gleeman? Can I no talk you into continuing on? I be going all the way down to
Illian, where folk have a proper regard for gleemen. There be no finer place in the world for your art. I'd get you
there in good time for the Feast of Sefan. The competitions, you know. A hundred gold marks for the best
telling of The Great Hunt of the Horn."
"A great prize, Captain," Thom replied with an elaborate bow and a flourish of his cloak that set the
patches to fluttering, "and great competitions, which rightly draw gleemen from the whole world over. But," he
added dryly, "I fear we could not afford the fare at the rates you charge."
"Aye, well, as to that . . ." The captain produced a leather purse from his coat pocket and tossed it to
Thom. It clinked when Thom caught it. "Your fares back, and a bit more besides. The damage was no so bad as
I thought, and you've worked your way and more with your tales and your harp. I could maybe manage as much
again if you stay aboard to the Sea of Storms. And I would set you ashore in Illian. A good gleeman can make
his fortune there, even aside from the competitions."
Thom hesitated, weighing the purse on his palm, but Rand spoke up. "We're meeting friends here,
Captain, and going on to Caemlyn together. We'll have to see Illian another time."
Thom's mouth twisted wryly, then he blew out his long mustaches and tucked the purse into his pocket.
"Perhaps if the people we are to meet are not here, Captain."
"Aye," Domon said sourly. "You think on it. Too bad I can no keep Gelb aboard to take the others'
anger, but I do what I say I will do. I suppose I must ease up now, even if it means taking three times as long to
reach Illian as I should. Well, mayhap those Trollocs were after you three." Rand blinked but kept silent, but
Mat was not so cautious.
"Why do you think they weren't?" he demanded. "They were after the same treasure we were hunting."
"Mayhap," the captain grunted, sounding unconvinced. He combed thick fingers through his beard, then
pointed at the pocket where Thom had put the purse. "Twice that if you come back to keep the men's minds off
how hard I work them. Think on it. I sail with the first light on the morrow." He turned on his heel and strode
back to the merchants, arms spreading wide as he began an apology for keeping them waiting.
Thom still hesitated, but Rand hustled him down the gangplank without giving him a chance to argue,
and the gleeman let himself be herded. A murmur passed through the people on the dock as they saw Thom's
patch-covered cloak, and some called out to discover where he would be performing. So much for not being
noticed, Rand thought, dismayed. By sundown it would be all over Whitebridge that there was a gleeman in
town. He hurried Thom along, though, and Thom, wrapped in sulky silence, did not even try to slow down
enough to preen under the attention.
The carriage drivers looked down at Thom with interest from their high perches, but apparently the
dignity of their positions forbade shouting. With no idea of where to go exactly, Rand turned up the street that
ran along the river and under the bridge.
"We need to find Moiraine and the others," he said. "And fast. We should have thought of changing
Thom's cloak."
Thom suddenly shook himself and stopped dead. "An innkeeper will be able to cell us if they're here, or
if they've passed through. The right innkeeper. Innkeepers have all the news and gossip. If they aren't here . . ."
He looked back and forth from Rand to Mat. "We have to talk, we three." Cloak swirling around his ankles, he
set off into the town, away from the river. Rand and Mat had to step quickly to keep up.
The broad, milk-white arch that gave the town its name dominated Whitebridge as much close up as it
did from afar, but once Rand was in the streets he realized that the town was every bit as big as Baerlon, though
not so crowded with people. A few carts moved in the streets, pulled by horse or ox or donkey or man, but no
carriages. Those most likely all belonged to the merchants and were clustered down at the dock.
Shops of every description lined the streets, and many of the tradesmen worked in front of their
establishments, under the signs swinging in the wind. They passed a man mending pots, and a tailor holding
folds of cloth up to the light for a customer. A shoemaker, sitting in his doorway, tapped his hammer on the heel
of a boot. Hawkers cried their services at sharpening knives and scissors, or tried to interest the passersby in
their skimpy trays of fruit or vegetables, but none was getting much interest. Shops selling food had the same
pitiful displays of produce Rand remembered from Baerlon. Even the fishmongers displayed only small piles of
small fish, for all the boats on the river. Times were not really hard yet, but everyone could see what was
coming if the weather did not change soon, and those faces that were not fixed into worried frowns seemed to
stare at something unseen, something unpleasant.
Where the White Bridge came down in the center of the town was a big square, paved with stones worn
by generations of feet and wagon wheels. Inns surrounded the square, and shops, and tall, red brick houses with
signs out front bearing the same names Rand had seen on the carriages at the dock. It was into one of those inns,
seemingly chosen at random, that Thom ducked. The sign over the door, swinging in the wind, had a striding
man with a bundle on his back on one side and the same man with his head on a pillow on the other, and
proclaimed The Wayfarers' Rest.
The common room stood empty except for the fat innkeeper drawing ale from a barrel and two men in
rough workman's clothes staring glumly into their mugs at a table in the back. Only the innkeeper looked up
when they came in. A shoulder-high wall split the room in two from front to back, with tables and a blazing
fireplace on each side. Rand wondered idly if all innkeepers were fat and losing their hair.
Rubbing his hands together briskly, Thom commented to the innkeeper on the late cold and ordered hot
spiced wine, then added quietly, "Is there somewhere my friends and I could talk without being disturbed?"
The innkeeper nodded to the low wall. "The other side that's as best I've got unless you want to take a
room. For when sailors come up from the river. Seems like half the crews got grudges against the other half. I
won't have my place broke up by fights, so I keep them apart." He had been eyeing Thom's cloak the whole
while, and now he cocked his head to one side, a sly look in his eyes. "You staying? Haven't had a gleeman here
in some time. Folks would pay real good for something as would take their minds off things. I'd even take some
off on your room and meals."
Unnoticed, Rand thought glumly.
"You are too generous," Thom said with a smooth bow. "Perhaps I will take up your offer. But for now,
a little privacy."
"I'll bring your wine. Good money here for a gleeman."
The tables on the far side of the wall were all empty, but Thom chose one right in the middle of the
space. "So no one can listen without us knowing," he explained. "Did you hear that fellow? He'll take some off.
Why, I'd double his custom just by sitting here. Any honest innkeeper gives a gleeman room and board and a
good bit besides."
The bare table was none too clean, and the floor had not been swept in days if not weeks. Rand looked
around and grimaced. Master al'Vere would not have let his inn get that dirty if he had had to climb out of a
sickbed to see to it. "We're only after information. Remember?"
"Why here?" Mat demanded. "We passed other inns that looked cleaner."
"Straight on from the bridge," Thom said, "is the road to Caemlyn. Anyone passing through Whitebridge
comes through this square, unless they're going by river, and we know your friends aren't doing that. If there is
no word of them here, it doesn't exist. Let me do the talking. This has to be done carefully."
Just then the innkeeper appeared, three battered pewter mugs gripped in one fist by the handles. The fat
man flicked at the table with a towel, set the mugs down, and took Thom's money. "If you stay, you won't have
to pay for your drinks. Good wine, here."
Thom's smile touched only his mouth. "I will think on it, innkeeper. What news is there? We have been
away from hearing things."
"Big news, that's what. Big news."
The innkeeper draped the towel over his shoulder and pulled up a chair. He crossed his arms on the
table, took root with a long sigh, saying what a comfort it was to get off his feet. His name was Bartim, and he
went on about his feet in detail, about corns and bunions and how much time he spent standing and what he
soaked them in, until Thom mentioned the news again, and then he shifted over with hardly a pause.
The news was just as big as he said it was. Logain, the false Dragon, had been captured after a big battle
near Lugard while he was trying to move his army from Ghealdan to Tear. The Prophecies, they understood?
Thom nodded, and Bartim went on. The roads in the south were packed with people, the lucky ones with what
they could carry on their backs. Thousands fleeing in all directions.
"None" - Bartim chuckled wryly - "supported Logain, of course. Oh, no, you won't find many to admit
to that, not now. Just refugees trying to find a safe place during the troubles."
Aes Sedai had been involved in taking Logain, of course. Bartim spat on the floor when he said that, and
again when he said they were taking the false Dragon north to Tar Valon. Bartim was a decent man, he said, a
respectable man, and Aes Sedai could all go back to the Blight where they came from and take Tar Valon with
them, as far as he was concerned. He would get no closer to an Aes Sedai than a thousand miles, if he had his
way. Of course, they were stopping at every village and town on the way north to display Logain, so he had
heard. To show people that the false Dragon had been taken and the world was safe again. He would have liked
to see that, even if it did mean getting close to Aes Sedai. He was halfway tempted to go to Caemlyn.
"They'll be taking him there to show to Queen Morgase." The innkeeper touched his forehead
respectfully. "I've never seen the Queen. Man ought to see his own Queen, don't you think?"
Logain could do "things," and the way Bartim's eyes shifted and his tongue darted across his lips made it
clear what he meant. He had seen the last false Dragon, two years ago, when he was paraded through the
countryside, but that was just some fellow who thought he could make himself a king. There had been no need
for Aes Sedai, that time. Soldiers had had him chained up on a wagon. A sullen-looking fellow who moaned in
the middle of the wagonbed, covering his head with his arms whenever people threw stones or poked him with
sticks. There had been a lot of that, and the soldiers had done nothing to stop it, as long as they did not kill the
fellow. Best to let the people see he was nothing special after all. He could not do "things." This Logain would
be something to see, though. Something for Bartim to tell his grandchildren about. If only the inn would let him
get away.
Rand listened with an interest that did not have to be faked. When Padan Fain had brought word to
Emond's Field of a false Dragon, a man actually wielding the Power, it had been the biggest news to come into
the Two Rivers in years. What had happened since had pushed it to the back of his mind, but it was still the sort
of thing people would be talking about for years, and telling their grandchildren about, too. Bartim would
probably tell his that he had seen Logain whether he did or not. Nobody would ever think what happened to
some village folk from the Two Rivers was worth talking about, not unless they were Two Rivers people
themselves.
"That," Thom said, "would be something to make a story of, a story they'd tell for a thousand years. I
wish I had been there." He sounded as if it was the simple truth, and Rand thought it really was. "I might try to
see him anyway. You didn't say what route they were taking. Perhaps there are some other travelers around?
They might have heard the route."
Bartim waved a grubby hand dismissively. "North, that's all anybody knows around here. You want to
see him, go to Caemlyn. That's all I know, and if there's anything to know in Whitebridge, I know it."
"No doubt you do," Thom said smoothly. "I expect a lot of strangers passing through stop here. Your
sign caught my eye from the foot of the White Bridge."
"Not just from the west, I'll have you know. Two days ago there was a fellow in here, an Illianer, with a
proclamation all done up with seals and ribbons. Read it right out there in the square. Said he's taking it all the
way to the Mountains of Mist, maybe even to the Aryth Ocean, if the passes are open. Said they've sent men to
read it in every land in the world." The innkeeper shook his head. "The Mountains of Mist. I hear they're
covered with fog all the year round, and there's things in the fog will strip the flesh off your bones before you
can run." Mat snickered, earning a sharp look from Bartim.
Thom leaned forward intently. "What did the proclamation say?"
"Why, the hunt for the Horn, of course," Bartim exclaimed. "Didn't I say that? The Illianers are calling
on everybody as will swear their lives to the hunt to gather in Illian. Can you imagine that? Swearing your life
to a legend? I suppose they'll find some fools. There's always fools around. This fellow claimed the end of the
world is coming. The last battle with the Dark One." He chuckled, but it had a hollow sound, a man laughing to
convince himself something really was worth laughing at. "Guess they think the Horn of Valere has to be found
before it happens. Now what do you think of that?" He chewed a knuckle pensively for a minute. "Course, I
don't know as I could argue with them after this winter. The winter, and this fellow Logain, and those other two
before, as well. Why all these fellows the last few years claiming to be the Dragon? And the winter. Must mean
something. What do you think?"
Thom did not seem to hear him. In a soft voice the gleeman began to recite to himself.
"In the last, lorn fight
gainst the fall of long night,
the mountains stand guard,
and the dead shall be ward,
for the grave is no bar to my call."
"That's it." Bartim grinned as if he could already see the crowds handing him their money while they
listened to Thom. "That's it. The Great Hunt of the Horn. You tell that one, and they'll be hanging from the
rafters in here. Everybody's heard about the proclamation."
Thom still seemed to be a thousand miles away, so Rand said, "We're looking for some friends who
were coming this way. From the west. Have there been many strangers passing through in the last week or
two?"
"Some," Bartim said slowly. "There's always some, from east and west both." He looked at each of them
in turn, suddenly wary. "What do they look like, these friends of yours?"
Rand opened his mouth, but Thom, abruptly back from wherever he had been, gave him a sharp,
silencing look. With an exasperated sigh the gleeman turned to the innkeeper. "Two men and three women," he
said reluctantly. "They may be together, or maybe not." He gave thumbnail sketches, painting each one in just a
few words, enough for anyone who had seen them to recognize without giving away anything about who they
were.
Bartim rubbed one hand over his head, disarranging his thinning hair, and stood up slowly. "Forget
about performing here, gleeman. In fact, I'd appreciate it if you drank your wine and left. Leave Whitebridge, if
you're smart. "
"Someone else has been asking after them?" Thom took a drink, as if the answer were the least
important thing in the world, and raised an eyebrow at the innkeeper. "Who would that be?"
Bartim scrubbed his hand through his hair again and shifted his feet on the point of walking away, then
nodded to himself. "About a week ago, as near as I can say, a weaselly fellow came over the bridge. Crazy,
everybody thought. Always talking to himself, never stopped moving even when he was standing still. Asked
about the same people . . . some of them. He asked like it was important, then acted like he didn't care what the
answer was. Half the time he was saying as he had to wait here for them, and the other half as he had to go on,
he was in a hurry. One minute he was whining and begging, the next making demands like a king. Near got
himself a thrashing a time or two, crazy or not. The Watch almost took him in custody for his own safety. He
went off toward Caemlyn that same day, talking to himself and crying. Crazy, like I said."
Rand looked at Thom and Mat questioningly, and they both shook their heads. If this weaselly fellow
was looking for them, he was still nobody they recognized.
"Are you sure it was the same people he wanted?" Rand asked.
"Some of them. The fighting man, and the woman in silk. But it wasn't them as he cared about. It was
three country boys." His eyes slid across Rand and Mat and away again so fast that
Rand was not sure if he had really seen the look or imagined it. "He was desperate to find them. But
crazy, like I said."
Rand shivered, and wondered who the crazy man could be, and why he was looking for them. A
Darkfriend? Would Ba'alzamon rue a madman?
"He was crazy, but the other one . . ." Bartim's eyes shifted uneasily, and his tongue ran over his lips as
if he could not find enough spit to moisten them. "Next day . . . next day the other one came for the first time."
He fell silent.
"The other one?" Thom prompted finally.
Bartim looked around, although their side of the divided room was still empty except for them. He even
raised up on his toes and looked over the low wall. When he finally spoke, it was in a whispered rush.
"All in black he is. Keeps the hood of his cloak pulled up so you can't see his face, but you can feel him
looking at you, feel it like an icicle shoved into your spine. He . . . he spoke to me." He flinched and stopped to
chew at his lip before going on. "Sounded like a snake crawling through dead leaves. Fair turned my stomach to
ice. Every time as he comes back, he asks the same questions. Same questions the crazy man asked. Nobody
ever sees him coming-he's just there all of a sudden, day or night, freezing you where you stand. People are
starting to look over their shoulders.
Worst of it is, the gatetenders claim as he's never passed through any of the gates, coming or going."
Rand worked at keeping his face blank; he clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. Mat scowled, and
Thom studied his wine. The word none of them wanted to say hung in the air between them. Myrddraal.
"I think I'd remember if I ever met anyone like that," Thom said after a minute.
Bartim's head bobbed furiously. "Burn me, but you would. Light's truth, you would. He . . . he wants the
same lot as the crazy man, only he says as there's a girl with them. And" – he glanced sideways at Thom – “and
a white-haired gleeman."
Thom's eyebrows shot up in what Rand was sure was unfeigned surprise. "A white-haired gleeman?
Well, I'm hardly the only gleeman in the world with a little age on him. I assure you, I don't know this fellow,
and he can have no reason to be looking for me."
"That's as may be," Bartim said glumly. "He didn't say it in so many words, but I got the impression as
he would be very displeased with anyone as tried to help these people, or tried to hide them from him. Anyway,
I'll tell you what I told him. I haven't seen any of them, nor heard tell of them, and that's the truth. Not any of
them," he finished pointedly. Abruptly he slapped Thom's money down on the table. "Just finish your wine and
go. All right? All right?" And he trundled away as fast as he could, looking over his shoulder.
"A Fade," Mat breathed when the innkeeper was gone. "I should have known they'd be looking for us
here."
"And he'll be back," Thom said, leaning across the table and lowering his voice. "I say we sneak back to
the boat and take Captain Domon up on his offer. The hunt will center on the road to Caemlyn while we're on
our way to Illian, a thousand miles from where the Myrddraal expect us."
"No," Rand said firmly. "We wait for Moiraine and the others in Whitebridge, or we go on to Caemlyn.
One or the other, Thom. That's what we decided."
"That's crazed, boy. Things have changed. You listen to me. No matter what this innkeeper says, when a
Myrddraal stares at him, he'll tell all about us down to what we had to drink and how much dust we had on our
boots." Rand shivered, remembering the Fade's eyeless stare. "As for Caemlyn … You think the Halfmen don't
know you want to get to Tar Valon? It's a good time to be on a boat headed south."
"No, Thom. " Rand had to force the words out, thinking of being a thousand miles from where the Fades
were looking, but he took a deep breath and managed to firm his voice. "No."
"Think, boy. Illian! There isn't a grander city on the face of the earth. And the Great Hunt of the Horn!
There hasn't been a Hunt of the Horn in near four hundred years. A whole new cycle of stories waiting to be
made. Just think. You never dreamed of anything like it. By the time the Myrddraal figure out where you've
gone to, you'll be old and gray and so tired of watching your grandchildren you won't care if they do find you."
Rand's face took on a stubborn set. "How many times do I have to say no? They'll find us wherever we
go. There'd be Fades waiting in Illian, too. And how do we escape the dreams? I want to know what's happening
to me, Thom, and why. I'm going to Tar Valon. With Moiraine if I can; without her if I have to. Alone, if I have
to. I need to know."
"But Illian, boy! And a safe way out, downriver while they're looking for you in another direction.
Blood and ashes, a dream can't hurt you."
Rand kept silent. A dream can't hurt? Do dream thorns draw real blood? He almost wished he had told
Thom about that dream, too. Do you dare tell anybody? Ba'alzamon it in your dreams, but what's between
dreaming and waking, now? Who do you dare to tell that the Dark One is touching you?
Thom seemed to understand. The gleeman's face softened. "Even those dreams, lad. They are still just
dreams, aren't they? For the Light's sake, Mat, talk to him. I know you don't want to go to Tar Valon, at least."
Mat's face reddened, half embarrassment and half anger. He avoided looking at Rand and scowled at
Thom instead. "Why are you going to all this fuss and bother? You want to go back to the boat? Go back to the
boat. We'll take care of ourselves."
The gleeman's thin shoulders shook with silent laughter, but his voice was anger tight. "You think you
know enough about Myrddraal to escape by yourself, do you? You're ready to walk into Tar Valon alone and
hand yourself over to the Amyrlin Seat? Can you even tell one Ajah from another? The Light burn me, boy, if
you think you can even get to Tar Valon alone, you tell me to go."
"Go," Mat growled, sliding a hand under his cloak. Rand realized with a shock that he was gripping the
dagger from Shadar Logoth, maybe even ready to use it.
Raucous laughter broke out on the other side of the low wall dividing the room, and a scornful voice
spoke up loudly.
"Trollocs? Put on a gleeman's cloak, man! You're drunk! Trollocs! Borderland fables!"
The words doused anger like a pot of cold water. Even Mat half turned to the wall, eyes widening.
Rand stood just enough to see over the wall, then ducked back down again with a sinking feeling in his
stomach. Floran Gelb sat on the other side of the wall, at the table in the back with the two men who had been
there when they came in. They were laughing at him, but they were listening. Bartim was wiping a table that
badly needed it, not looking at Gelb and the two men, but he was listening, too, scrubbing one spot over and
over with his towel and leaning toward them until he seemed almost ready to fall over.
"Gelb," Rand whispered as he dropped back into his chair, and the others tensed. Thom swiftly studied
their side of the room.
On the other side of the wall the second man's voice chimed in. "No, no, there used to be Trollocs. But
they killed them all in the Trolloc Wars."
"Borderland fables!" the first man repeated.
"It's true, I tell you," Gelb protested loudly. "I've been in the Borderlands. I've seen Trollocs, and these
were Trollocs as sure as I'm sitting here. Those three claimed the Trollocs were chasing them, but I know better.
That's why I wouldn't stay on the Spray. I've had my suspicions about Bayle Domon for some time, but those
three are Darkfriends for sure. I tell you. . ." Laughter and coarse jokes drowned out the rest of what Gelb had to
say.
How long, Rand wondered, before the innkeeper heard a description of "those three"? If he had not
already. If he did not just leap to the three strangers he had already seen. The only door from their half of the
common room would take them right past Gelb's table.
"Maybe the boat isn't such a bad idea," Mat muttered, but Thom shook his head.
"Not anymore." The gleeman spoke softly and fast. He pulled out the leather purse Captain Domon had
given him and hastily divided the money into three piles. "That story will be all through the town in an hour,
whether anybody believes it or not, and the Halfman could hear any time. Domon isn't sailing until tomorrow
morning. At best he'll have Trollocs chasing him all the way to Illian. Well, he's half expecting it for some
reason, but that won't do us any good. There's nothing for it but to run, and run hard."
Mat quickly stuffed the coins Thom shoved in front of him into his pocket. Rand picked his pile up more
slowly. The coin Moiraine had given him was not among them. Domon had given an equal weight of silver, but
Rand, for some reason he could not fathom, wished he had the Aes Sedai's coin instead. Stuffing the money in
his pocket, he looked a question at the gleeman.
"In case we're separated," Thom explained We probably won't be, but if it does happen . . . well, you two
will make out all right by yourselves. You're good lads. Just keep clear of Aes Sedai, for your lives."
"I thought you were staying with us," Rand said.
"I am, boy. I am. But they're getting close, now, and the Light only knows. Well, no matter. It isn't likely
anything will happen." Thom paused, looking at Mat. "I hope you no longer mind me staying with you," he said
dryly.
Mat shrugged. He eyed each of them, then shrugged again. "I'm just on edge. I can't seem to get rid of it.
Every time we stop for a breath, they're there, hunting us. I feel like somebody's staring at the back of my head
all the time. What are we going to do?"
The laughter erupted on the other side of the wall, broken again by Gelb, trying loudly to convince the
two men that he was telling the truth. How much longer, Rand wondered. Sooner or later Bartim had to put
together Gelb's three and the three of them.
Thom eased his chair and rose, but kept his height crouched. No one looking casally toward the wall
from the other side could see him. He motioned for them to follow, whispering, "Be very quiet."
The windows on either side of the fireplace on their side of the wall looked out into an alleyway. Thom
studied one of the windows carefully before drawing it up just enough for them to squeeze through. It barely
made a sound, nothing that could have been heard three feet away over the laughing argument on the other side
of the low wall.
Once in the alley, Mat started for the street right away, but Thom caught his arm. "Not so fast," the
gleeman told him. "Not till we know what we're doing." Thom lowered the window again as much as he could
from outside, and turned to study the alley.
Rand followed Thom's eyes. Except for half a dozen rain barrels against the inn and the next building, a
tailor shop, the alley was empty, the hardpacked dirt dry and dusty.
"Why are you doing this?" Mat demanded again. "You'd be safer if you left us. Why are you staying
with us?"
Thom stared at him for a long moment. "I had a nephew, Owyn," he said wearily, shrugging out of his
cloak. He made a pile with his blanketroll as he talked, carefully setting his cased instruments on top. "My
brother's only son, my only living kin. He got in trouble with the Aes Sedai, but I was too busy with . . . other
things. I don't know what I could have done, but when I finally tried, it was too late. Owyn died a few years
later. You could say Aes Sedai killed him." He straightened up, not looking at them. His voice was still level,
but Rand glimpsed tears in his eyes as he turned his head away. "If I can keep you two free of Tar Valon, maybe
I can stop thinking about Owyn. Wait here." Still avoiding their eyes, he hurried to the mouth of the alley,
slowing before he reached it. After one quick look around, he strolled casually into the street and out of sight.
Mat half rose to follow, then settled back. "He won't leave these," he said, touching the leather
instrument cases. "You believe that story?"
Rand squatted patiently beside the rain barrels. "What's the matter with you, Mat? You aren't like this. I
haven't heard you laugh in days."
"I don't like being hunted like a rabbit," Mat snapped. He sighed, letting his head fall back against the
brick wall of the inn. Even like that he seemed tense. His eyes shifted warily. "Sorry. It's the running, and all
these strangers, and . . . and just everything. It makes me jumpy. I look at somebody, and I can't help wondering
if he's going to tell the Fades about us, or cheat us, or rob us, or . . . Light, Rand, doesn't it make you nervous?"
Rand laughed, a quick bark in the back of his throat. "I'm too scared to be nervous."
"What do you think the Aes Sedai did to his nephew?"
"I don't know," Rand said uneasily. There was only one kind of trouble that he knew of for a man to get
into with Aes Sedai. "Not like us, I guess. "
"No. Not like us."
For a time they leaned against the wall, not talking. Rand was not sure how long they waited. A few
minutes, probably, but it felt like an hour, waiting for Thom to come back, waiting for Bartim and Gelb to open
the window and denounce them for Darkfriends. Then a man turned in at the mouth of the alley, a tall man with
the hood of his cloak pulled up to hide his face, a cloak black as night against the light of the street. Rand
scrambled to his feet, one hand wrapped around the hilt of Tam's sword so hard that his knuckles hurt. His
mouth went dry, and no amount of swallowing helped. Mat rose to a crouch with one hand under his cloak.
The man came closer, and Rand's throat grew tighter with every step. Abruptly the man stopped and
tossed back his cowl. Rand's knees almost gave way. It was Thom.
"Well, if you don't recognize me" - the gleeman grinned - "I guess it's a good enough disguise for the
gates."
Thom pushed past them and began transferring things from his patchcovered cloak to his new one so
nimbly that Rand could not make out any of them. The new cloak was dark brown, Rand saw now. He drew a
deep, ragged breath; his throat still felt as if it were clutched in a fist. Brown, not black. Mat still had his hand
under his cloak, and he stared at Thom's back as if he were thinking of using the hidden dagger.
Thom glanced up at them, then gave them a sharper look. "This is no time to get skittish." Deftly he
began folding his old cloak into a bundle around his instrument cases, inside out so the patches were hidden.
"We'll walk out of here one at a time, just close enough to keep each other in sight. Shouldn't be remembered
especially, that way. Can't you slouch?" he added to Rand. "That height of yours is as bad as a banner." He
slung the bundle across his back and stood, drawing his hood back up. He looked nothing like a white-haired
gleeman. He was just another traveler, a man too poor to afford a horse, much less a carriage. "Let's go. We've
wasted too much time already."
Rand agreed fervently, but even so he hesitated before stepping out of the alley into the square. None of
the sparse scattering of people gave them a second look-most did not look at them at all-but his shoulders
knotted, waiting for the cry of Darkfriend that could turn ordinary people into a mob bent on murder. He ran his
eyes across the open area, over people moving about on their daily business, and when he brought them back a
Myrddraal was halfway across the square.
Where the Fade had come from, he could not begin to guess, but it strode toward the three of them with
a slow deadliness, a predator with the prey under its gaze. People shied away from the black-cloaked shape,
avoided looking at it. The square began to empty out as people decided they were needed elsewhere.
The black cowl froze Rand where he stood. He tried to summon up the void, but it was like fumbling
after smoke. The Fade's hidden gaze knifed to his bones and turned his marrow to icicles.
"Don't look at its face," Thom muttered. His voice shook and cracked, and it sounded as if he were
forcing the words out. "The Light burn you, don't look at its face!"
Rand tore his eyes away - he almost groaned; it felt like tearing a leech off of his face – but even staring
at the stones of the square he could still see the Myrddraal coming, a cat playing with mice, amused at their
feeble efforts to escape, until finally the jaws snapped shut. The Fade had halved the distance. "Are we just
going to stand here?" he mumbled. "We have to run . . . get away." But he could not make his feet move.
Mat had the ruby-hilted dagger out at last, in a trembling hand. His lips were drawn back from his teeth,
a snarl and a rictus of fear.
"Think. . . ." Thom stopped to swallow, and went on hoarsely. "Think you can outrun it, do you, boy?"
He began to mutter to himself; the only word Rand could make out was "Owyn." Abruptly Thom growled, "I
never should have gotten mixed up with you boys. Should never have." He shrugged the bundled gleeman's
cloak off of his back and thrust it into Rand's arms. "Take care of that. When I say run, you run and don't stop
until you get to Caemlyn. The Queen's Blessing. An inn. Remember that, in case. . . Just remember it."
"I don't understand," Rand said. The Myrddraal was not twenty paces away, now. His feet felt like lead
weights.
"Just remember it!" Thom snarled. "The Queen's Blessing. Now. RUN!"
He gave them a push, one hand on the shoulder of each of them, to get them started, and Rand stumbled
away in a lurching run with Mat at his side.
"RUN!" Thom sprang into motion, too, with a long, wordless roar. Not after them, but toward the
Myrddraal. His hands flourished as if he were performing at his best, and daggers appeared. Rand stopped, but
Mat pulled him along.
The Fade was just as startled. Its leisurely pace faltered in mid-stride. Its hand swept toward the hilt of
the black sword hanging at its waist, but the gleeman's long legs covered the distance quickly. Thom crashed
into the Myrddraal before the black blade was half drawn, and both went down in a thrashing heap. The few
people still in the square fled.
"RUN!" The air in the square flashed an eye-searing blue, and Thom began to scream, but even in the
middle of the scream he managed a word. "RUN!"
Rand obeyed. The gleeman's screams pursued him.
Clutching Thom's bundle to his chest, he ran as hard as he could. Panic spread from the square out
through the town as Rand and Mat fled on the crest of a wave of fear. Shopkeepers abandoned their goods as the
boys passed. Shutters banged down over storefronts, and frightened faces appeared in the windows of houses,
then vanished. People who had not been close enough to see ran through the streets wildly, paying no heed.
They bumped into one another, and those who were knocked down scrambled to their feet or were trampled.
Whitebridge roiled like a kicked anthill.
As he and Mat pounded toward the gates, Rand abruptly remembered what Thom had said about his
height. Without slowing down, he crouched as best he could without looking as if he was crouching. But the
gates themselves, chick wood bound with black iron straps, stood open. The two gatetenders, in steel caps and
mail tunics worn over cheap-looking red coats with white collars, fingered their halberds and stared uneasily
into the town. One of them glanced at Rand and Mat, but they were not the only ones running out of the gates.
A steady stream boiled through, panting men clutching wives, weeping women carrying babes and dragging
crying children, palefaced craftsmen still in their aprons, still heedlessly gripping their tools.
There would be no one who could tell which way they had gone, Rand thought as he ran, dazed. Thom.
Oh, Light save me, Thom.
Mat staggered beside him, caught his balance, and they ran until the last of the fleeing people had fallen
away, ran until the town and the White Bridge were far out of sight behind them.
Finally Rand fell to his knees in the dust, pulling air raggedly into his raw throat with great gulps. The
road behind stretched empty until it was lost to sight among bare trees. Mat plucked at him.
"Come on. Come on." Mat panted the words. Sweat and dust streaked his face, and he looked ready to
collapse. "We have to keep going."
"Thom," Rand said. He tightened his arms around the bundle of Thom's cloak; the instrument cases were
hard lumps inside. "Thom."
"He's dead. You saw. You heard. Light, Rand, he's dead!"
"You think Egwene and Moiraine and the rest are dead, too. If they're dead, why are the Myrddraal still
hunting them? Answer me that?"
Mat dropped to his knees in the dust beside him. "All right. Maybe they are alive. But Thom- You saw!
Blood and ashes, Rand, the same thing can happen to us."
Rand nodded slowly. The road behind them was still empty. He had been halfway expecting-hoping, at
least-to see Thom appear, striding along, blowing out his mustaches to tell them how much trouble they were.
The Queen's Blessing in Caemlyn. He struggled to his feet and slung Thom's bundle on his back alongside his
blanketroll. Mat stared up at him, narrow-eyed and wary.
"Let's go," Rand said, and started down the road toward Caemlyn. He heard Mat muttering, and after a
moment he caught up to Rand.
They trudged along the dusty road, heads down and not talking. The wind spawned dustdevils that
whirled across their path. Sometimes Rand looked back, but the road behind was always empty.

Chapter 27

Shelter From the Storm


Perrin fretted over the days spent with the Tuatha'an, traveling south and east in a leisurely fashion. The
Traveling People saw no need to hurry; they never did. The colorful wagons did not roil out of a
morning until the sun was well above the horizon, and they stopped as early as midafternoon if they
came across a congenial spot. The dogs trotted easily alongside the wagons, and often the children did, too.
They had no difficulty in keeping up. Any suggestion that they might go further, or more quickly, was met with
laughter, or perhaps, "Ah, but would you make the poor horses work so hard?"
He was surprised that Elyas did not share his feelings. Elyas would not ride on the wagons, - he
preferred to walk, sometimes loping along at the head of the column - but he never suggested leaving, or
pressing on ahead.
The strange bearded man in his strange skin clothes was so different from the gentle Tuatha'an that he
stood out wherever he went among the wagons. Even from across the camp there was no mistaking Elyas for
one of the People, and not just because of clothes. Elyas moved with the lazy grace of a wolf, only emphasized
by his skins and his fur hat, radiating danger as naturally as a fire radiated heat, and the contrast with the
Traveling People was sharp. Young and old, the People were joyful on their feet. There was no danger in their
grace, only delight. Their children darted about filled with the pure zest of moving, of course, but among the
Tuatha'an, graybeards and grandmothers, too, still stepped lightly, their walk a stately dance no less exuberant
for its dignity. All the People seemed on the point of dancing, even when standing still, even during the rare
times when there was no music in the camp. Fiddles and flutes, dulcimers and zithers and drums spun harmony
and counterpoint around the wagons at almost any hour, in camp or on the move. Joyous songs, merry songs,
laughing songs, sad songs; if someone was awake in the camp there was usually music.
Elyas met friendly nods and smiles at every wagon he passed, and a cheerful word at any fire where he
paused. This must be the face the People always showed to outsiders-open, smiling faces. But Perrin had
learned that hidden beneath the surface was the wariness of a half-tame deer. Something deep lay behind the
smiles directed at the Emond's Fielders, something that wondered if they were safe, something that faded only
slightly over the days. With Elyas the wariness was strong, like deep summer heat shimmering in the air, and it
did not fade. When he was not looking they watched him openly as if unsure what he was going to do. When he
walked across the camp, feet ready for dancing seemed ready for flight, as well.
Elyas was certainly no more comfortable with their Way of the Leaf than they were with him. His mouth
wore a permanent twist when he was around the Tuatha'an. It was not quite condescension and certainly not
contempt, but looked as though he would rather be elsewhere than where he was, almost anywhere else. Yet
whenever Perrin brought up leaving, Elyas made soothing noises about resting, just for a few days.
"You had hard days before you met me," Elyas said, the third or fourth time he asked, "and you'll have
harder still ahead, with Trollocs and Halfmen after you, and Aes Sedai for friends." He grinned around a
mouthful of Ila's dried-apple pie. Perrin still found his yelloweyed gaze disconcerting, even when he was
smiling. Perhaps even more when he was smiling; smiles seldom touched those hunter's eyes. Elyas lounged
beside Raen's fire, as usual refusing to sit on the logs drawn up for the purpose. "Don't be in such a bloody hurry
to put yourself in Aes Sedai hands."
"What if the Fades find us? What's to keep them from it if we just sit here, waiting? Three wolves can't
hold them off, and the Traveling People won't be any help. They won't even defend themselves. The Trollocs
will butcher them, and it will be our fault. Anyway, we have to leave them sooner or later. It might as well be
sooner."
"Something tells me to wait. Just a few days."
"Something!"
"Relax, lad. Take life as it comes. Run when you have to, fight when you must, rest when you can."
"What are you talking about, something?"
"Have some of this pie. Ila doesn't like me, but she surely feeds me well when I visit. Always good food
in the People's camps."
"What 'something'?" Perrin demanded. "If you know something you aren't telling the rest of us…"
Elyas frowned at the piece of pie in his hand, then set it down and dusted his hands together.
"Something," he said finally, with a shrug of his shoulders as if he did not understand it completely himself.
"Something tells me it's important to wait. A few more days. I don't get feelings like this often, but when I do,
I've learned to trust them. They've saved my life in the past. This time it's different, somehow, but it's important.
That's clear. You want to run on, then run on. Not me."
That was all he would say, no matter how many times Perrin asked. He lay about, talking with Raen,
eating, napping with his hat over his eyes, and refused to discuss leaving. Something told him to wait.
Something told him it was important. He would know when it was time to go. Have some pie, lad. Don't lather
yourself. Try some of this stew. Relax.
Perrin could not make himself relax. At night he wandered among the rainbow wagons worrying, as
much because no one else seemed to see anything to worry about as for any other reason. The Tuatha'an sang
and danced, cooked and ate around their campfires-fruits and nuts, berries and vegetables; they ate no meat-and
went about a myriad domestic chores as if they had not a care in the world. The children ran and played
everywhere, hide-and-seek among the wagons, climbing in the trees around the camp, laughing and rolling on
the ground with the dogs. Not a care in the world, for anyone.
Watching them, he itched to get away. Go, before we bring the hunters down on them. They took us in,
and we repay their kindness by endangering them. At least they have reason to be lighthearted. Nothing is
hunting them. But the rest of us…
It was hard to get a word with Egwene. Either she was talking with Ila, their heads together in a way that
said no men were welcome, or she was dancing with Aram, swinging round and round to the flutes and fiddles
and drums, to tunes the Tuatha'an had gathered from all over the world, or to the sharp, trilling songs of the
Traveling People themselves, sharp whether they were quick or slow. They knew many songs, some he
recognized from home, though often under different names than they were called in the Two Rivers. "Three
Girls in the Meadow," for instance, the Tinkers named "Pretty Maids Dancing," and they said "The Wind From
the North" was called "Hard Rain Falling" in some lands and "Berin's Retreat" in others. When he asked, not
thinking, for "The Tinker Has My Pots," they fell all over themselves laughing. They knew it, but as "Toss the
Feathers. "
He could understand wanting to dance to the People's songs. Back in Emond's Field no one considered
him more than an adequate dancer, but these songs tugged at his feet, and he thought he had never danced so
long, or so hard, or so well in his life. Hypnotic, they made his blood pound in rhythm to the drums.
It was the second evening when for the first time Perrin saw women dance to some of the slow songs.
The fires burned low, and the night hung close around the wagons, and fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the
drums. First one drum, then another, until every drum in the camp kept the same low, insistent beat. There was
silence except for the drums. A girl in a red dress swayed into the light, loosening her shawl. Strings of beads
hung in her hair, and she had kicked off her shoes. A flute began the melody, wailing softly, and the girl danced.
Outstretched arms spread her shawl behind her; her hips undulated as her bare feet shuffled to the beat of the
drums. The girl's dark eyes fastened on Perrin, and her smile was as slow as her dance. She turned in small
circles, smiling over her shoulder at him.
He swallowed hard. The heat in his face was not from the fire. A second girl joined the first, the fringe
on their shawls shaking in time to the drums and the slow rotation of their hips. They smiled at him, and he
cleared his throat hoarsely. He was afraid to look around; his face was as red as a beet, and anyone who was not
watching the dancers was probably laughing at him. He was sure of it.
As casually as he could manage, he slid off the log as if he were just getting comfortable, but he
carefully ended up looking away from the fire, away from the dancers. There was nothing like that in Emond's
Field. Dancing with the girls on the Green on a feastday did not even come close. For once he wished that the
wind would pick up, to cool him off. The girls danced into his field of view again, only now they were three.
One gave him a sly wink. His eyes darted frantically. Light, he thought. What do 1 do now? What would Rand
do? He knows about girls.
The dancing girls laughed softly; beads clicked as they tossed their long hair on their shoulders, and he
thought his face would burn up. Then a slightly older woman joined the girls, to show them how it was done.
With a groan, he gave up altogether and shut his eyes. Even behind his eyelids their laughter taunted and
tickled. Even behind his eyelids he could still see them. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he wished for the
wind.
According to Raen the girls did not dance that dance often, and the women rarely did, and according to
Elyas it was thanks to Perrin's blushes that they did so every night thereafter.
"I have to thank you," Elyas told him, his tone sober and solemn. "It's different with you young fellows,
but at my age it takes more than a fire to warm my bones." Perrin scowled. There was something about Elyas's
back as he walked away that said even if nothing showed, he was laughing inside.
Perrin soon learned better than to look away from the dancing women and girls, though the winks and
smiles still made him wish he could. One would have been all right, maybe - but five or six, with everyone
watching . . . He never did entirely conquer his blushes.
Then Egwene began learning the dance. Two of the girls who had danced that first night taught her,
clapping the rhythm while she repeated the shuffling steps with a borrowed shawl swaying behind her. Perrin
started to say something, then decided it was wiser not to crack his teeth. When the girls added the hip
movements Egwene started laughing, and the three girls fell giggling into one another's arms. But Egwene
persevered, with her eyes glistening and bright spots of color in her cheeks.
Aram watched her dancing with a hot, hungry gaze. The handsome young Tuatha'an had given her a
string of blue beads that she wore all the time. Worried frowns now replaced the smiles Ila had worn when she
first noticed her grandson's interest in Egwene. Perrin resolved to keep a close eye on young Master Aram.
Once he managed to get Egwene alone, beside a wagon painted in green and yellow. "Enjoying yourself,
aren't you?" he said.
"Why shouldn't I?" She fingered the blue beads around her neck, smiling at them. "We don't all have to
work at being miserable, the way you do. Don't we deserve a little chance to enjoy ourselves?"
Aram stood not far off-he never got far from Egwene-with his arms folded across his chest, a little smile
on his face, half smugness and half challenge. Perrin lowered his voice. "I thought you wanted to get to Tar
Valon. You won't learn to be an Aes Sedai here. "
Egwene tossed her head. "And I thought you didn't like me wanting to become an Aes Sedai, " she said,
too sweetly.
"Blood and ashes, do you believe we're safe here? Are these people safe with us here? A Fade could find
us anytime."
Her hand trembled on the beads. She lowered it and took a deep breath. "Whatever is going to happen
will happen whether we leave today or next week. That's what I believe now. Enjoy yourself, Perrin. It might be
the last chance we have."
She brushed his cheek sadly with her fingers. Then Aram held out his hand to her, and she darted to him,
already laughing again. As they ran away to where fiddles sang, Aram flashed a triumphant grin over his
shoulder at Perrin as if to say, she is not yours, but she will be mine.
They were all falling too much under the spell of the People, Perrin thought. Elyas is right. They don't
have to try to convert you to the Way of the Leaf. It seeps into you.
Ila had taken one look at him huddling out of the wind, then produced a thick wool cloak out of her
wagon; a dark green cloak, he was pleased to see, after all the reds and yellows. As he swung it round his
shoulders, thinking what a wonder it was that the cloak was big enough for him, Ila said primly, "It could fit
better." She glanced at the axe at his belt, and when she looked up at him her eyes were sad above her smile. "It
could fit much better. "
All the Tinkers did that. Their smiles never slipped, there was never any hesitation in their invitations to
join them for a drink or to listen to the music, but their eyes always touched the axe, and he could feel what they
thought. A tool of violence. There is never any excuse for violence to another human being. The Way of the
Leaf.
Sometimes he wanted to shout at them. There were Trollocs in the world, and Fades. There were those
who would cut down every leaf. The Dark One was out there, and the Way of the Leaf would burn in
Ba'alzamon's eyes. Stubbornly he continued to wear the axe. He took to keeping his cloak thrown back, even
when it was windy, so the half-moon blade was never hidden. Now and again Elyas looked quizzically at the
weapon hanging heavy at his side and grinned at him, those yellow eyes seeming to read his mind. That almost
made him cover the axe. Almost.
If the Tuatha'an camp was a source of constant irritation, at least his dreams were normal there.
Sometimes he woke up sweating from a dream of Trollocs and Fades storming into the camp, rainbow-colored
wagons turning to bonfires from hurled torches, people falling in pools of blood, men and women and children
who ran and screamed and died but made no effort to defend themselves against slashing scythe-like swords.
Night after night he bolted upright in the dark, panting and reaching for his axe before he realized the wagons
were not in flames, that no bloody-muzzled shapes snarled over torn and twisted bodies littering the ground. But
those were ordinary nightmares, and oddly comforting in their way. If there was ever a place for the Dark One
to be in his dreams, it was in those, but he was not. No Ba'alzamon. Just ordinary nightmares.
He was aware of the wolves, though, when he was awake. They kept their distance from the camps, and
from the caravan on the move, but he always knew where they were. He could feel their contempt for the dogs
guarding the Tuatha'an. Noisy beasts who had forgotten what their jaws were for, had forgotten the taste of
warm blood; they might frighten humans, but they would slink away on their bellies if the pack ever came. Each
day his awareness was sharper, more clear.
Dapple grew more impatient with every sunset. That Elyas wanted to do this thing of taking the humans
south made it worth doing, but if it must be done, then let it be done. Let this slow travel end. Wolves were
meant to roam, and she did not like being away from the pack so long. Impatience burned in Wind, too. Hunting
was worse than poor here, and he despised living on field mice, something for cubs to stalk while learning to
hunt, fit food for the old, no longer able to pull down a deer or hamstring a wild ox. Sometimes Wind thought
that Burn had been right; leave human troubles to humans. But he was wary of such thoughts when Dapple was
around, and even more so around Hopper. Hopper was a scarred and grizzled fighter, impassive with the
knowledge of years, with guile that more than made up for anything of which age might have robbed him. For
humans he cared nothing, but Dapple wished this thing done, and Hopper would wait as she waited and run as
she ran. Wolf or man, bull or bear, whatever challenged Dapple would find Hopper's jaws waiting to send him
to the long sleep. That was the whole of life for Hopper, and that kept Wind cautious, and Dapple seemed to
ignore the thoughts of both.
All of it was clear in Perrin's mind. Fervently he wished for Caemlyn, for Moiraine and Tar Valon. Even
if there were no answers, there could be an end to it. Elyas looked at him, and he was sure the yellow-eyed man
knew. Please, let there be an end.
The dream began more pleasantly than most he had of late. He was at Alsbet Luhhan's kitchen table,
sharpening his axe with a stone. Mistress Luhhan never allowed forge work, or anything that smacked of it, to
be brought into the house. Master Luhhan even had to take her knives outside to sharpen them. But she tended
her cooking and never said a word about the axe. She did not even say anything when a wolf entered from
deeper in the house and curled up between Perrin and the door to the yard. Perrin went on sharpening; it would
be time to use it, soon.
Abruptly the wolf rose, rumbling deep in its throat, the thick ruff of fur on its neck rising. Ba'alzamon
stepped into the kitchen from the yard. Mistress Luhhan went on with her cooking.
Perrin scrambled to his feet, raising the axe, but Ba'alzamon ignored the weapon, concentrating on the
wolf, instead. Flames danced where his eyes should be. "Is this what you have to protect you? Well, I have
faced this before. Many times before."
He crooked a finger, and the wolf howled as fire burst out of its eyes and ears and mouth, out of its skin.
The stench of burning meat and hair filled the kitchen. Alsbet Luhhan lifted the lid on a pot and stirred with a
wooden spoon.
Perrin dropped the axe and jumped forward, trying to beat out the flames with his hands. The wolf
crumpled to black ash between his palms. Staring at the shapeless pile of char on Mistress Luhhan's clean-swept
floor, he backed away. He wished he could wipe the greasy soot from his hands, but the thought of scrubbing it
off on his clothes turned his stomach. He snatched up the axe, gripping the haft until his knuckles cracked.
"Leave me alone!" he shouted. Mistress Luhhan tapped the spoon on the rim of the pot and replaced the
lid, humming to herself.
"You cannot run from me," Ba'alzamon said. "You cannot hide from me. If you are the one, you are
mine." The heat from the fires of his face forced Perrin across the kitchen until his back came up against the
wall. Mistress Luhhan opened the oven to check her bread. "The Eye of the World will consume you,"
Ba'alzamon said. "I mark you mine!" He flung out his clenched hand as if throwing something; when his fingers
opened, a raven streaked at Perrin's face.
Perrin screamed as the black beak pierced his left eye . . . and sat up, clutching his face, surrounded by
the sleeping wagons of the Traveling People. Slowly he lowered his hands. There was no pain, no blood. But he
could remember it, remember the stabbing agony.
He shuddered, and suddenly Elyas was squatting beside him in the predawn, one hand outstretched as if
to shake him awake. Beyond the trees where the wagons lay, the wolves howled, one sharp cry from three
throats. He shared their sensations. Fire. Pain. Fire. Hate. Hate! Kill!
"Yes," Elyas said softly. "It is time. Get up, boy. It's time for us to go."
Perrin scrambled out of his blankets. While he was still bundling his blanketroll, Raen came out of his
wagon, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The Seeker glanced at the sky and froze halfway down the steps, his hands
still raised to his face. Only his eyes moved as he studied the sky intently, though Perrin could not understand
what he was looking at. A few clouds hung in the east, undersides streaked with pink from the sun yet to rise,
but there was nothing else to see. Raen seemed to listen, as well, and smell the air, but there was no sound
except the wind in the trees and no smell but the faint smoky remnant of last night's campfires.
Elyas returned with his own scanty belongings, and Raen came the rest of the way down. "We must
change the direction we travel, my old friend." The Seeker looked uneasily at the sky again. "We go another
way this day. Will you be coming with us?" Elyas shook his head, and Raen nodded as if he had known all
along. "Well, take care, my old friend. There is something about today . . . " He started to look up once more,
but pulled his eyes back down before they rose above the wagon tops. "I think the wagons will go east. Perhaps
all the way to the Spine of the World. Perhaps we'll find a stedding, and stay there awhile."
"Trouble never enters the stedding," Elyas agreed. "But the Ogier are none too open to strangers."
"Everyone is open to the Traveling People," Raen said, and grinned.
"Besides, even Ogier have pots and things to mend. Come, let us have some breakfast, and we'll talk
about it."
"No time," Elyas said. "We move on today, too. As soon as possible. It's a day for moving, it seems."
Raen tried to convince him to at least stay long enough for food, and when Ila appeared from the wagon with
Egwene, she added her arguments, though not as strenuously as her husband. She said all of the right words, but
her politeness was stiff, and it was plain she would be glad to see Elyas's back, if not Egwene's.
Egwene did not notice the regretful, sidelong looks Ila gave her. She asked what was going on, and
Perrin prepared himself for her to say she wanted to stay with the Tuatha'an, but when Elyas explained she only
nodded thoughtfully and hurried back into the wagon to gather her things.
Finally Raen threw up his hands. "All right. I don't know that I have ever let a visitor leave this camp
without a farewell feast, but . . ." Uncertainly, his eyes raised toward the sky again. "Well, we need an early
start ourselves, I think. Perhaps we will eat as we journey. But at least let everyone say goodbye."
Elyas started to protest, but Raen was already hurrying from wagon to wagon, pounding on the doors
where there was no one awake. By the time a Tinker came, leading Bela, the whole camp had turned out in their
finest and brightest, a mass of color that made Raen and Ila's red-and-yellow wagon seem almost plain. The big
dogs strolled through the crowd with their tongues lolling out of their mouths, looking for someone to scratch
their ears, while Perrin and the others endured handshake after handshake and hug after hug. The girls who had
danced every night would not be content with shaking hands, and their hugs made Perrin suddenly wish he was
not leaving after all - until he remembered how many others were watching, and then his face almost matched
the Seeker's wagon.
Aram drew Egwene a little aside. Perrin could not hear what he had to say to her over the noise of
goodbyes, but she kept shaking her head, slowly at first, then more firmly as he began to gesture pleadingly. His
face shifted from pleading to arguing, but she continued to shake her head stubbornly until Ila rescued her with
a few sharp words to her grandson. Scowling, Aram pushed away through the crowd, abandoning the rest of the
farewell. Ila watched him go, hesitating on the point of calling him back. She's relieved, too, Perrin thought.
Relieved he doesn't want to go with us - with Egwene.
When he had shaken every hand in the camp at least once and hugged every girl at least twice, the
crowd moved back, opening a little space around Raen and Ila, and the three visitors.
"You came in peace," Raen intoned, bowing formally, hands on his chest. "Depart now in peace. Always
will our fires welcome you, in peace. The Way of the Leaf is peace."
"Peace be on you always," Elyas replied, "and on all the People." He hesitated, then added, "I will find
the song, or another will find the song, but the song will be sung, this year or in a year to come. As it once was,
so shall it be again, world without end. "
Raen blinked in surprise, and Ila looked completely flabbergasted, but all the other Tuatha'an murmured
in reply, "World without end. World and time without end." Raen and his wife hurriedly said the same after
everyone else.
Then it really was time to go. A few last farewells, a few last admonitions to take care, a few last smiles
and winks, and they were making their way out of the camp. Raen accompanied them as far as the edge of the
trees, a pair of the dogs cavorting by his side.
"Truly, my old friend, you must take great care. This day. . . . There is wickedness loose in the world, I
fear, and whatever you pretend, you are not so wicked that it will not gobble you up."
"Peace be on you," Elyas said.
"And on you," Raen said sadly.
When Raen was gone, Elyas scowled at finding the other two looking at him. "So I don't believe in their
fool song," he growled. "No need to make them feel bad by messing up their ceremony, was there? I told you
they set a store by ceremony sometimes."
"Of course," Egwene said gently. "No need at all." Elyas turned away muttering to himself.
Dapple, Wind, and Hopper came to greet Elyas, not frolicking as the dogs had done, but a dignified
meeting of equals. Perrin caught what passed between them. Fire eyes. Pain. Heartfang. Death. Heartfang.
Perrin knew what they meant. The Dark One. They were telling about his dream. Their dream.
He shivered as the wolves ranged out ahead, scouting the way. It was Egwene's turn to ride Bela, and he
walked beside her. Elyas led, as usual, a steady, ground-eating pace.
Perrin did not want to think about his dream. He had thought that the wolves made them safe Not
complete. Accept. Full heart. Full mind. You still struggle. Only complete when you accept.
He forced the wolves out of his head, and blinked in surprise. He had not known he could do that. He
determined not to let them back in again. Even in dreams? He was not sure if the thought was his or theirs.
Egwene still wore the string of blue beads Aram had given her, and a little sprig of something with tiny,
bright red leaves in her hair, another gift from the young Tuatha'an. That Aram had tried to talk her into staying
with the Traveling People, Perrin was sure. He was glad she had not given in, but he wished she did not finger
the beads so fondly.
Finally he said, "What did you spend so much time talking about with Ila? If you weren't dancing with
that long-legged fellow, you were talking to her like it was some kind of secret."
"Ila was giving me advice on being a woman," Egwene replied absently. He began laughing, and she
gave him a hooded, dangerous look that he failed to see.
"Advice! Nobody tells us how to be men. We just are."
"That," Egwene said, "is probably why you make such a bad job of it." Up ahead, Elyas cackled loudly.

Chapter 28

Footprints in Air


Nynaeve stared in wonder at what lay ahead down the river, the White Bridge gleaming in the sun with
a milky glow. Another legend, she thought, glancing at the Warder and the Aes Sedai, riding just
ahead of her. Another legend, and they don't even seem to notice. She resolved not to stare where they
could see. They'll laugh if they see me gaping like a country bumpkin. The three rode on silently toward the
fabled White Bridge.
Since that morning after Shadar Logoth, when she had found Moiraine and Lan on the bank of the
Arinelle, there had been little in the way of real conversation between her and the Aes Sedai. There had been
talk, of course, but nothing of substance as Nynaeve saw it. Moiraine's attempts to talk her into going to Tar
Valon, for instance. Tar Valon. She would go there, if need be, and take their training, but not for the reasons
the Aes Sedai thought. If Moiraine had brought harm to Egwene and the boys . . .
Sometimes, against her will, Nynaeve had found herself thinking of what a Wisdom could do with the
One Power, of what she could do. Whenever she realized what was in her head, though, a flash of anger burned
it out. The Power was a filthy thing. She would have nothing to do with it. Unless she had to.
The cursed woman only wanted to talk about taking her to Tar Valon for training. Moiraine would not
tell her anything! It was not as if she wanted to know so much.
"How do you mean to find them?" she remembered demanding.
"As I have told you," Moiraine replied without bothering to look back at her, "I will know when I am
close to the two who have lost their coins." It was not the first time Nynaeve had asked, but the Aes Sedai's
voice was like a still pond that refused to ripple no matter how many stones Nynaeve threw; it made the
Wisdom's blood boil every time she was exposed to it. Moiraine went on as if she could not feel Nynaeve's eyes
on her back; Nynaeve knew she must be able to, she was staring so hard. "The longer it takes, the closer I must
come, but I will know. As for the one who still has his token, so long as he has it in his possession I can follow
him across half the world, if need be. "
"And then? What do you plan when you've found them, Aes Sedai?" She did not for a minute believe the
Aes Sedai would be so intent on finding them if she did not have plans.
"Tar Valon, Wisdom."
"Tar Valon, Tar Valon. That's all you ever say, and I am becoming -"
"Part of the training you will receive in Tar Valon, Wisdom, will teach you to control your temper. You
can do nothing with the One Power when emotion rules your mind." Nynaeve opened her mouth, but the Aes
Sedai went right on. "Lan, I must speak with you a moment."
The two put their heads together, and Nynaeve was left with a sullen glower that she hated every time
she realized it was on her face. It came too often as the Aes Sedai deftly turned her questions off onto another
subject, slid easily by her conversational traps, or ignored her shouts until they ended in silence. The scowl
made her feel like a girl who had been caught acting the fool by someone in the Women's Circle. That was a
feeling Nynaeve was not used to, and the calm smile on Moiraine's face only made it worse.
If only there was some way to get rid of the woman. Lan would be better by himself - a Warder should
be able to handle what was needed, she told herself hastily, feeling a sudden flush; no other reason - but one
meant the other.
And yet, Lan made her even more furious than Moiraine. She could not understand how he managed to
get under her skin so easily. He rarely said anything-sometimes not a dozen words in a day-and he never took
part in any of the . . . discussions with Moiraine. He was often apart from the two women, scouting the land, but
even when he was there he kept a little to one side, watching them as if watching a duel. Nynaeve wished he
would stop. If it was a duel, she had not managed to score once, and Moiraine did not even seem to realize she
was in a fight. Nynaeve could have done without his cool blue eyes, without even a silent audience.
That had been the way of their journey, for the most part. Quiet, except when her temper got the best of
her, and sometimes when she shouted the sound of her voice seemed to crash in the silence like breaking glass.
The land itself was quiet, as if the world were pausing to catch its breath. The wind moaned in the trees, but all
else was still. The wind seemed distant, too, even when it was cutting through the cloak on her back.
At first the stillness was restful after everything that had happened. It seemed as if she had not known a
moment of quiet since before Winternight. By the end of the first day alone with the Aes Sedai and the Warder,
though, she was looking over her shoulder and fidgeting in her saddle as if she had an itch in the middle of her
back where she could not reach. The silence seemed like crystal doomed to shatter, and waiting for the first
crack put her teeth on edge.
It weighed on Moiraine and Lan, too, as outwardly unperturbable as they were. She soon realized that,
beneath their calm surfaces, hour by hour they wound tighter and tighter, like clocksprings being forced to the
breaking point. Moiraine seemed to listen to things that were not there, and what she heard put a crease in her
forehead. Lan watched the forest and the river as if the leafless trees and wide, slow water carried the signs of
traps and ambushes waiting ahead.
Part of her was glad that she was not the only one who apprehended that poised-on-the-brink feel to the
world, but if it affected them, it was real, and another part of her wanted nothing so much as for it to be just her
imagination. Something of it tickled the corners of her mind, as when she listened to the wind, but now she
knew that that had to do with the One Power, and she could not bring herself to embrace those ripples at the
edge of thought.
"It is nothing," Lan said quietly when she asked. He did not look at her while he spoke; his eyes never
ceased their scanning. Then, contradicting what he had just said, he added, "You should go back to your Two
Rivers when we reach Whitebridge, and the Caemlyn Road. It's too dangerous here. Nothing will try to stop you
going back, though." It was the longest speech he made all that day.
"She is part of the Pattern, Lan," Moiraine said chidingly. Her gaze was elsewhere, too. "It is the Dark
One, Nynaeve. The storm has left us . . . for a time, at least." She raised one hand as though feeling the air, then
scrubbed it on her dress unconsciously, as if she had touched filth. "He is still watching, however" - she sighed -
“and his gaze is stronger. Not on us, but on the world. How much longer before he is strong enough to . .."
Nynaeve hunched her shoulders; suddenly she could almost feel someone staring at her back. It was one
explanation she would just as soon the Aes Sedai had not given her.
Lan scouted their path down the river, but where before he had chosen the way, now Moiraine did so, as
surely as if she followed some unseen track, footprints in air, the scent of memory. Lan only checked the route
she intended, to see that it was safe. Nynaeve had the feeling that even if he said it was not, Moiraine would
insist on it anyway. And he would go, she was sure. Straight down the river to . . .
With a start, Nynaeve pulled out of her thoughts. They were at the foot of the White Bridge. The pale
arch shone in the sunlight, a milky spiderweb too delicate to stand, sweeping across the Arinelle. The weight of
a man would bring it crashing down, much less that of a horse. Surely it would collapse under its own weight
any minute.
Lan and Moiraine rode unconcernedly ahead, up the gleaming white approach and onto the bridge,
hooves ringing, not like steel on glass, but like steel on steel. The surface of the bridge certainly looked as slick
as glass, wet glass, but it gave the horses a firm, sure footing.
Nynaeve made herself follow, but from the first step she half waited for the entire structure to shatter
under them. If lace were made of glass, she thought, it would look like this.
It was not until they were almost all the way across that she noticed the tarry smell of char thickening
the air. In a moment she saw.
Around the square at the foot of the White Bridge piles of blackened timbers, still leaking smoky
threads, replaced half a dozen buildings. Men in poorly fitting red uniforms and tarnished armor patrolled the
streets, but they marched quickly, as if afraid of finding anything, and they looked over their shoulders as they
went. Townspeople-the few who were out-almost ran, shoulders hunched, as though something were chasing
them.
Lan looked grim, even for him, and people walked wide of the three of them, even the soldiers. The
Warder sniffed the air and grimaced, growling under his breath. It was no wonder to Nynaeve, with the stink of
burn so strong.
"The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills," Moiraine mumbled. "No eye can see the Pattern until it is
woven."
In the next moment she was down off Aldieb and speaking to townsfolk. She did not ask questions; she
gave sympathy, and to Nynaeve's surprise it appeared genuine. People who shied away from Lan, ready to hurry
from any stranger, stopped to speak with Moiraine. They appeared startled themselves at what they were doing,
but they opened up, after a fashion, under Moiraine's clear gaze and soothing voice. The Aes Sedai's eyes
seemed to share the people's hurt, to empathize with their confusion, and tongues loosened.
They still lied, though. Most of them. Some denied there had been any trouble at all. Nothing at all.
Moiraine mentioned the burned buildings all around the square. Everything was fine, they insisted, staring past
what they did not want to see.
One fat fellow spoke with a hollow heartiness, but his cheek twitched at every noise behind him. With a
grin that kept slipping, he claimed an overturned lamp had started a fire that spread with the wind before
anything could be done. One glance showed Nynaeve that no burned structure stood alongside another.
There were almost as many different stories as there were people. Several women lowered their voices
conspiratorially. The truth of the matter was there was a man somewhere in the town meddling with the One
Power. It was time to have the Aes Sedai in; past time, was the way they saw it, no matter what the men said
about Tar Valon. Let the Red Ajah settle matters.
One man claimed it had been an attack by bandits, and another said a riot by Darkfriends. "Those ones
going to see the false Dragon, you know," he confided darkly. "They're all over the place. Darkfriends, every
one."
Still others spoke of some kind of trouble-they were vague about exactly what kind-that had come
downriver on a boat.
"We showed them," a narrow-faced man muttered, scrubbing his hand together nervously. "Let them
keep that kind of thing in the Borderlands, where it belongs. We went down to the docks and -" He cut off so
abruptly his teeth clicked. Without another word he scurried off, peering back over his shoulder at them as if he
thought they might chase him down.
The boat had gotten away - that much was clear, eventually, from others - cutting its moorings and
fleeing downriver only the day before while a mob poured onto the docks. Nynaeve wondered if Egwene and
the boys had been on board. One woman said that a gleeman had been on the boat. If that had been Thom
Merrilin . . .
She tried her opinion on Moiraine, that some of the Emond's Fielders might have fled on the boat. The
Aes Sedai listened patiently, nodding, until she was done.
"Perhaps," Moiraine said then, but she sounded doubtful.
An inn still stood in the square, the common room divided in two by a shoulder-high wall. Moiraine
paused as she stepped into the inn, feeling the air with her hand. She smiled at whatever it was she felt, but she
would say nothing of it, then.
Their meal was consumed in silence, silence not only at their table, but throughout the common room.
The handful of people eating there concentrated on their own plates and their own thoughts. The innkeeper,
dusting tables with a corner of his apron, muttered to himself continually, but always too low to be heard.
Nynaeve thought it would not be pleasant sleeping there; even the air was heavy with fear.
About the time they pushed their plates away, wiped clean with the last scraps of bread, one of the reduniformed
soldiers appeared in the doorway. He seemed resplendent to Nynaeve, in his peaked helmet and
burnished breastplate, until he took a pose just inside the door, with a hand resting on the hilt of his sword and a
stern look on his face, and used a finger to ease his too-tight collar. It made her think of Cenn Buie trying to act
the way a Village Councilor should.
Lan spared him one glance and snorted. "Militia. Useless."
The soldier looked over the room, letting his eyes come to rest on them. He hesitated, then took a deep
breath before stomping over to demand, all in a rush, who they were, what their business was in Whitebridge,
and how long they intended to stay.
"We are leaving as soon as I finish my ale," Lan said. He took another slow swallow before looking up
at the solider. "The Light illumine good Queen Morgase. "
The red-uniformed man opened his mouth, then took a good look at Lan's eyes and stepped back. He
caught himself immediately, with a glance at Moiraine and her. She thought for a moment that he was going to
do something foolish to keep from looking the coward in front of two women. In her experience, men were
often idiots that way. But too much had happened in Whitebridge; too much uncertainty had escaped from the
cellars of men's minds. The militiaman looked back at Lan and reconsidered once more. The Warder's hardplaned
face was expressionless, but there were those cold blue eyes. So cold.
The militiaman settled on a brisk nod. "See that you do. Too many strangers around these days for the
good of the Queen's peace." Turning on his heel he stomped out again, practicing his stern look on the way.
None of the locals in the inn seemed to notice. "Where are we going?" Nynaeve demanded of the Warder. The
mood in the room was such that she kept her voice low, but she made sure it was firm, too. "After the boat?"
Lan looked at Moiraine, who shook her head slightly and said, "First I must find the one I can be sure of
finding, and at present he is somewhere to the north of us. I do not think the other two went with the boat in any
case." A small, satisfied smile touched her lips. "They were in this room, perhaps a day ago, no more than two.
Afraid, but they left alive. The trace would not have lasted without that strong emotion."
"Which two?" Nynaeve leaned over the table intently. "Do you know?" The Aes Sedai shook her head,
the slightest of motions, and Nynaeve settled back. "If they're only a day or two ahead, why don't we go after
them first?"
"I know they were here," Moiraine said in that insufferably calm voice, "but beyond that I cannot say if
they went east or north or south. I trust they are smart enough to have gone east, toward Caemlyn, but I do not
know, and lacking their tokens, I will not know where they are until I am perhaps within half a mile. In two
days they could have gone twenty miles, or forty, in any direction, if fear urged them, and they were certainly
afraid when they left here."
"But -"
"Wisdom, however fearful they were, in whatever direction they ran, eventually they will remember
Caemlyn, and it is there I will find them. But I will help the one I can find now, first."
Nynaeve opened her mouth again, but Lan cut her off in a soft voice. "They had reason to be afraid." He
looked around, then lowered his voice. "There was a Halfman here." He grimaced, the way he had in the square.
"I can still smell him everywhere."
Moiraine sighed. "I will keep hope until I know it is gone. I refuse to believe the Dark One can win so
easily. I will find all three of them alive and well. I must believe it."
"I want to find the boys, too," Nynaeve said, "but what about Egwene? You never even mention her, and
you ignore me when I ask. I thought you were going to take her off to” - she glanced at the other tables, and
lowered her voice - "to Tar Valon."
The Aes Sedai studied the tabletop for a moment before raising her eyes to Nynaeve's, and when she
did, Nynaeve started back from a flash of anger that almost seemed to make Moiraine's eyes glow. Then her
back stiffened, her own anger rising, but before she could say a word, the Aes Sedai spoke coldly.
"I hope to find Egwene alive and well, too. I do not easily give up young women with that much ability
once I have found them. But it will be as the Wheel weaves."
Nynaeve felt a cold ball in the pit of her stomach. Am I one of those young women you won't give up?
We'll see about that, Aes Sedai. The Light burn you, we'll see about that!
The meal was finished in silence, and it was a silent three who rode through the gates and down the
Caemlyn Road. Moiraine's eyes searched the horizon to the northeast. Behind them, the smoke-stained town of
Whitebridge cowered.

Chapter 29

Eyes Without Pity


Blyas pushed for speed across the brown grass flatland as if trying to make up for the time spent with the
Traveling People, setting a pace southward that had even Bela grateful to stop when twilight deepened.
Despite his desire for haste, though, he took precautions he had not taken before. At night they had a
fire only if there was dead wood already on the ground. He would not let them break so much as a twig off of a
standing tree. The fires he made were small, and always hidden in a pit carefully dug where he had cut away a
plug of sod. As soon as their meal was prepared, he buried the coals and replaced the plug. Before they set out
again in the gray false dawn, he went over the campsite inch by inch to make sure there was no sign that anyone
had ever been there. He even righted overturned rocks and straightened bent-down weeds. He did it quickly,
never taking more than a few minutes, but they did not leave until he was satisfied.
Perrin did not think the precautions were much good against dreams, but when he began to think of what
they might be good against, he wished it were only the dreams. The first time, Egwene asked anxiously if the
Trollocs were back, but Elyas only shook his head and urged them on. Perrin said nothing. He knew there were
no Trollocs close; the wolves scented only grass and trees and small animals. It was not fear of Trollocs that
drove Elyas, but that something else of which even Elyas was not sure. The wolves knew nothing of what it
was, but they sensed Elyas's urgent wariness, and they began to scout as if danger ran at their heels or waited in
ambush over the next rise.
The land became long, rolling crests, too low to be called hills, rising across their path. A carpet of
tough grass, still winter sere and dotted with rank weeds, spread before them, rippled by an east wind that had
nothing to cut it for a hundred miles. The groves of trees grew more scattered. The sun rose reluctantly, without
warmth.
Among the squat ridges Elyas followed the contours of the land as much as possible, and he avoided
topping the rises whenever possible. He seldom talked, and when he did . . .
"You know how long this is taking, going around every bloody little hill like this? Blood and ashes! I'll
be till summer getting you off my hands. No, we can't just go in a straight line! How many times do I have to
tell you? You have any idea, even the faintest, how a man stands out on a ridgeline in country like this? Burn
me, but we're going back and forth as much as forward. Wiggling like a snake. I could move faster with my feet
tied. Well, you going to stare at me, or you going to walk?"
Perrin exchanged glances with Egwene. She stuck her tongue out at Elyas's back. Neither of them said
anything. The one time Egwene had protested that Elyas was the one who wanted to go around the hills and he
should not blame them, it got her a lecture on how sound carried, delivered in a growl that could have been
heard a mile off. He gave the lecture over his shoulder, and he never even slowed to give it.
Whether he was talking or not, Elyas's eyes searched all around them, sometimes staring as if there were
something to see except the same coarse grass that was under their feet. If he did see anything, Perrin could not,
and neither could the wolves. Elyas's forehead grew extra furrows, but he would not explain, not why they had
to hurry, not what he was afraid was hunting them.
Sometimes a longer ridge than usual lay across their path, stretching miles and miles to east and west.
Even Elyas had to agree that going around those would take them too far out of their way. He did not let them
simply cross over, though. Leaving them at the base of the slope, he would creep up to the crest on his belly,
peering over as cautiously as though the wolves had not scouted there ten minutes before. Waiting at the bottom
of the ridge, minutes passed like hours, and the not knowing pressed on them. Egwene chewed her lip and
unconsciously clicked the beads Aram had given her through her fingers. Perrin waited doggedly. His stomach
twisted up in a sick knot, but he managed to keep his face calm, managed to keep the turmoil hidden inside.
The wolves will warn if there's danger. It would he wonderful if they went away, if they just vanished,
but right now . . . right now, they'll give warning. What is he looking for? What?
After a long search with only his eyes above the rise, Elyas always motioned them to come ahead. Every
time the way ahead was clear-until the next time they found a ridge they could not go around. At the third such
ridge, Perrin's stomach lurched. Sour fumes rose in his throat, and he knew if he had to wait even five minutes
he would vomit. "I. . ." He swallowed. "I'm coming, too."
"Keep low," was all Elyas said.
As soon as he spoke Egwene jumped down from Bela.
The fur-clad man pushed his round hat forward and peered at her from under the edge. "You expecting
to make that mare crawl?" he said dryly.
Her mouth worked, but no sound came out. Finally she shrugged, and Elyas turned away without
another word and began climbing the easy slope. Perrin hurried after him.
Well short of the crest Elyas made a downward motion and a moment later flattened himself on the
ground, wriggling forward the last few yards. Perrin flopped on his belly.
At the top, Elyas took off his hat before raising his head ever so slowly. Peering through a clump of
thorny weeds, Perrin saw only the same rolling plain that lay behind them. The downslope was bare, though a
clump of trees a hundred paces across grew in the hollow, perhaps half a mile south from the ridge. The wolves
had already been through it, smelling no trace of Trollocs or Myrddraal.
East and west the land was the same as far as Perrin could see, rolling grassland and wide-scattered
thickets. Nothing moved. The wolves were more than a mile ahead, out of sight; at that distance he could barely
feel them. They had seen nothing when they covered this ground. What it he looking for? There's nothing there.
"We're wasting time," he said, starting to stand, and a flock of ravens burst out of the trees below, fifty, a
hundred black birds, spiraling into the sky. He froze in a crouch as they milled over the trees. The Dark One's
Eyes. Did they see me? Sweat trickled down his face.
As if one thought had suddenly sparked in a hundred tiny minds, every raven broke sharply in the same
direction. South. The flock disappeared over the next rise, already descending. To the east another thicket
disgorged more ravens. The black mass wheeled twice and headed south.
Shaking, he lowered himself to the ground slowly. He tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry. After a
minute he managed to work up some spit. "Was that what you were afraid of? Why didn't you say something?
Why didn't the wolves see them?"
"Wolves don't look up in trees much," Elyas growled. "And no, I wasn't looking for this. I told you, I
didn't know what . . ." Far to the west a black cloud rose over yet another grove and winged southward. They
were too far off to make out individual birds. "It isn't a big hunt, thank the Light. They don't know. Even after. .
." He turned to stare back the way they had come.
Perrin swallowed. Even after the dream, Elyas had meant. "Not big?" he said. "Back home you won't see
that many ravens in a whole year."
Elyas shook his head. "In the Borderlands I've seen sweeps with a thousand ravens to the flock. Not too
often - there's a bounty on ravens there - but it has happened." He was still looking north. "Hush, now."
Perrin felt it, then; the effort of reaching out to the distant wolves. Elyas wanted Dapple and her
companions to quit scouting ahead, to hurry back and check their backtrail. His already gaunt face tightened and
thinned under the strain. The wolves were so far away Perrin could not even feel them. Hurry. Watch the sky.
Hurry.
Faintly Perrin caught the reply from far to the south. We come. An image flashed in his mind-wolves
running, muzzles pointing into the wind of their haste, running as if wildfire raced behind, running-flashed and
was gone in an instant.
Elyas slumped and drew a deep breath. Frowning, he peered over the ridge, then back to the north, and
muttered under his breath.
"You think there are more ravens behind us?" Perrin asked.
"Could be," Elyas said vaguely. "They do it that way, sometimes. I know a place, if we can reach it by
dark. We have to keep moving until full dark anyway, even if we don't get there, but we can't go as fast as I
would like. Can't afford to get too close to the ravens ahead of us. But if they're behind us, too . . ."
"Why dark?" Perrin said. "What place? Somewhere safe from the ravens?"
"Safe from ravens," Elyas said, "but too many people know . . . Ravens roost for the night. We don't
have to worry about them finding us in the dark. The Light send ravens are all we have to worry about then."
With one more look over the crest, he rose and waved to Egwene to bring Bela up. "But dark is a long way off.
We have to get moving." He started down the far slope in a shambling run, each stride barely catching him on
the edge of falling. "Move, burn you!"
Perrin moved, half running, half sliding, after him.
Egwene topped the rise behind them, kicking Bela to a trot. A grin of relief bloomed on her face when
she saw them. "What's going on?" she called, urging the shaggy mare to catch up. "When you disappeared like
that, I thought . . . . What happened?"
Perrin saved his breath for running until she reached them. He explained about the ravens and Elyas's
safe place, but it was a disjointed story. After a strangled, "Ravens!" she kept interrupting with questions for
which, as often as not, he had no answers. Between them, he did not finish until they reached the next ridge.
Ordinarily - if anything about the journey could be called ordinary - they would have gone around this
one rather than over, but Elyas insisted on scooting anyway.
"You want to just saunter right into the middle of them, boy?" was his sour comment.
Egwene stared at the crest of the ridge, licking her lips, as if she wanted to go with Elyas this time and
wanted to stay where she was, too. Elyas was the only one who showed no hesitation.
Perrin wondered if the ravens ever doubled back. It would be a fine thing to reach the crest at the same
time as a flock of ravens.
At the top he inched his head up until he could just see, and heaved a sigh of relief when all he saw was
a copse of trees a little to the west. There were no ravens to be seen. Abruptly a fox burst out of the trees,
running hard. Ravens poured from the branches after it. The beat of their wings almost drowned out a desperate
whining from the fox. A black whirlwind dove and swirled around it. The fox's jaws snapped at them, but they
darted in, and darted away untouched, black beaks glistening wetly. The fox turned back toward the trees,
seeking the safety of its den. It ran awkwardly now, head low, fur dark and bloody, and the ravens flapped
around it, mote and more of them at once, the fluttering mass thickening until it hid the fox completely. As
suddenly as they had descended the ravens rose, wheeled, and vanished over the next rise to the south. A
misshapen lump of torn fur marked what had been the fox.
Perrin swallowed hard. Light! They could do that to us. A hundred ravens. They could
"Move," Elyas growled, jumping up. He waved to Egwene to come on, and without waiting set off at a
trot toward the trees. "Move, burn you!" he called over his shoulder. "Move!"
Egwene galloped Bela over the rise and caught them before they reached the bottom of the slope. There
was no time for explanations, but her eyes picked out the fox right away. Her face went as white as snow.
Elyas reached the trees and turned there, at the edge of the copse, waving vigorously for them to hurry.
Perrin tried to run faster and stumbled. Arms wind-milling, he barely caught himself short of going flat on his
face. Blood and ashes! I'm running as fast as 1 can!
A lone raven winged out of the copse. It tilted toward them, screamed, and spun toward the south.
Knowing he was already too late, Perrin fumbled his sling from around his waist. He was still trying to get a
stone from his pocket to the sling when the raven abruptly folded up in mid-air and plummeted to the ground.
His mouth dropped open, and then he saw the sling hanging from Egwene's hand. She grinned at him
unsteadily.
"Don't stand there counting your toes!" Elyas called.
With a start Perrin hurried into the trees, then jumped out of the way to avoid being trampled by Egwene
and Bela.
Far to the west, almost out of sight, what seemed like a dark mist rose into the air. Perrin felt the wolves
passing in that direction, heading north. He felt them notice ravens, to the left and right of them, without
slowing. The dark mist swirled northward as if pursuing the wolves, then abruptly broke off and flashed to the
south.
"Do you think they saw us?" Egwene asked. "We were already in the trees, weren't we? They couldn't
see us at that distance. Could they? Not that far off."
"We saw them at that distance," Elyas said dryly. Perrin shifted uneasily, and Egwene drew a frightened
breath. "If they had seen us," Elyas growled, "they'd have been down on us like they were on that fox. Think, if
you want to stay alive. Fear will kill you if you don't control it." His penetrating stare held on each of them for a
moment. Finally he nodded. "They're gone, now, and we should be, too. Keep those slings handy. Might be
useful again."
As they moved out of the copse, Elyas angled them westward from the line of march they had been
following. Perrin's breath snagged in his throat; it was as if they were chasing after the last ravens they had
seen. Elyas kept on tirelessly, and there was nothing for them to do but follow. After all, Elyas knew a safe
place. Somewhere. So he said.
They ran to the next hill, waited till the ravens moved on, then ran again, waited, ran. The steady
progress they had been keeping had been tiring enough, but all except Elyas quickly began to flag under this
jerky pace. Perrin's chest heaved, and he gulped air when he had a few minutes to lie on a hilltop, leaving the
search to Elyas. Bela stood head down, nostrils flaring, at every stop. Fear lashed them on, and Perrin did not
know if it was controlled or not. He only wished the wolves would tell them what was behind them, if anything
was, whatever it was.
Ahead were more ravens than Perrin ever hoped to see again. To the left and right the black birds
billowed up, and to the south. A dozen times they reached the hiding place of a grove or the scant shelter of a
slope only moments before ravens swept into the sky. Once, with the sun beginning to slide from its midday
height, they stood in the open, frozen as still as statues, half a mile from the nearest cover, while a hundred of
the Dark One's feathered spies flashed by a bare mile to the east. Sweat rolled down Perrin's face despite the
wind, until the last black shape dwindled to a dot and vanished. He lost count of the stragglers they brought
down with their slings.
He saw more than enough evidence lying in the path the ravens had covered to justify his fear. He had
stared with a queasy fascination at a rabbit that had been torn to pieces. The eyeless head stood upright, with the
other bits-legs, entrails-scattered in a rough circle around it. Birds, too, stabbed to shapeless masses of feathers.
And two more foxes.
He remembered something Lan had said. All the Dark One's creatures delight in killing. The Dark One's
power is death. And if the ravens found them? Pitiless eyes shining like black beads. Stabbing beaks swirling
around them. Needle-sharp beaks drawing blood. A hundred of them. Or can they call more of their kind?
Maybe all of them in the hunt? A sickening image built up in his mind. A pile of ravens as big as a hill, seething
like maggots, fighting over a few bloody shreds.
Suddenly the image was swept away by others, each one clear for an instant, then spinning and fading
into another. The wolves had found ravens to the north. Screaming birds dove and whirled and dove again,
beaks drawing blood with every swoop. Snarling wolves dodged and leaped, twisting in the air, jaws snapping.
Again and again Perrin tasted feathers and the foul taste of fluttering ravens crushed alive, felt the pain of
oozing gashes all over his body, knew with a despair that never touched on giving up that all his effort was not
enough. Suddenly the ravens broke away, wheeling overhead for one last shriek of rage at the wolves. Wolves
did not die as easily as foxes, and they had a mission. A flap of black wings, and they were gone, a few black
feathers drifting down on their dead. Wind licked at a puncture on his left foreleg. There was something wrong
with one of Hopper's eyes. Ignoring her own hurts, Dapple gathered them and they settled into a painful lope in
the direction the ravens had gone. Blood matted their fur. We come. Danger comes before us.
Moving in a stumbling trot, Perrin exchanged a glance with Elyas. The man's yellow eyes were
expressionless, but he knew. He said nothing, just watched Perrin and waited, all the while maintaining that
effortless lope.
Waiting for me. Waiting for me to admit 1 feel the wolves.
"Ravens," Perrin panted reluctantly. "Behind us."
"He was right," Egwene breathed. "You can talk to them."
Perrin's feet felt like lumps of iron on the ends of wooden posts, but he tried to make them move faster.
If he could outrun their eyes, outrun the ravens, outrun the wolves, but above all Egwene's eyes, that knew him
now for what he was. What are you? Tainted, the Light blind me! Cursed!
His throat burned as it never had from breathing the smoke and heat of Master Luhhan's forge. He
staggered and hung on to Egwene's stirrup until she climbed down and all but pushed him into the saddle
despite his protests that he could keep going. It was not long, though, before she was clutching the stirrup as she
ran, holding up her skirts with her other hand, and only a little while after that until he dismounted, his knees
still wobbling. He had to pick her up to make her take his place, but she was too tired to fight him.
Elyas would not slow down. He urged them, and taunted them, and kept them so close behind the
searching ravens to the south that Perrin thought all it would take would be for one bird to look back. "Keep
moving, burn you! Think you'll do any better than that fox did, if they catch us? The one with its insides piled
on its head?" Egwene swayed out of the saddle and vomited noisily. "I knew you'd remember. Just keep going a
little more. That's all. Just a little more. Burn you, I thought farm youngsters had endurance. Work all day and
dance all night. Sleep all day and sleep all night, looks like to me. Move your bloody feet!"
They began coming down off the hills as soon as the last raven vanished over the next one, then while
the last trailers still flapped above the hilltop. One bird looking back. To east and west the ravens searched
while they hurried across the open spaces between. One bird is all it will take.
The ravens behind were coming fast. Dapple and the other wolves worked their way around them and
were coming on without stopping to lick their wounds, but they had learned all the lessons they needed about
watching the sky. How close? How long? The wolves had no notions of time the way men did, no reasons to
divide a day into hours. The seasons were time enough for them, and the light and the dark. No need for more.
Finally Perrin worked ot an image of where the sun would stand in the sky when the ravens overran them from
behind. He glanced over his shoulder at the setting sun, and licked his lips with a dry tongue. In an hour the
ravens would be on them, maybe less. An hour, and it was a good two hours to sunset, at least two to full dark.
We'll die with the setting sun, he thought, staggering as he ran. Slaughtered like the fox. He fingered his
axe, then moved to his sling. That would be more use. Not enough, though. Not against a hundred ravens, a
hundred darting targets, a hundred stabbing beaks.
"It's your turn to ride, Perrin," Egwene said tiredly.
"In a bit," he panted. "I'm good for miles, yet." She nodded, and stayed in the saddle. She is tired. Tell
her? Or let her think we still have a chance to escape? An hour of hope, even if it is desperate, or an hour of
despair?
Elyas was watching him again, saying nothing. He must know, but he did not speak. Perrin looked at
Egwene again and blinked away hot tears. He touched his axe and wondered if he had the courage. In the last
minutes, when the ravens descended on them, when all hope was gone, would he have the courage to spare her
the death the fox had died? Light make me strong!
The ravens ahead of them suddenly seemed to vanish. Perrin could still make out dark, misty clouds, far
to the east and west, but ahead . . . nothing. Where did they go? Light, if we've overrun them . . .
Abruptly a chill ran through him, one cold, clean tingle as if he had jumped into the Winespring Water
in midwinter. It rippled through him and seemed to carry away some of his fatigue, a little of the ache in his legs
and the burning of his lungs. It left behind . . . something. He could not say what, only he felt different. He
stumbled to a halt and looked around, afraid.
Elyas watched him, watched them all, with a gleam behind his eyes. He knew what it was, Perrin was
sure of it, but he only watched them.
Egwene reined in Bela and looked around uncertainly, half wondering and half fearful. "It's . . . strange,"
she whispered. "I feel as if I lost something." Even the mare had her head up expectantly, nostrils flaring as if
they detected a faint odor of new-mown hay.
"What . . . what was that?" Perrin asked.
Elyas cackled suddenly. He bent over, shoulders shaking, to rest his hands on his knees. "Safety, that's
what. We made it, you bloody fools. No raven will cross that line . . . not one that carries the Dark One's eyes,
anyways. A Trolloc would have to be driven across, and there'd need to be something fierce pushing the
Myrddraal to make him do the driving. No Aes Sedai, either. The One Power won't work here; they can't touch
the True Source. Can't even feel the Source, like it vanished. Makes them itch inside, that does. Gives them the
shakes like a seven-day drunk. It's safety."
At first, to Perrin's eyes, the land was unchanged from the rolling hills and ridges they had crossed the
whole day. Then he noticed green shoots among the grass; not many, and they were struggling, but more than
he had seen anywhere else. There were fewer weeds in the grass, too. He could not imagine what it was, but
there was . . . something about this place. And something in what Elyas said tickled his memory.
"What is it?" Egwene asked. "I feel. . . What is this place? I don't think I like it."
"A stedding," Elyas roared. "You never listen to stories? Of course, there hasn't been an Ogier here in
three thousand odd years, not since the Breaking of the World, but it's the stedding makes the Ogier, not the
Ogier make the stedding."
"Just a legend," Perrin' stammered. In the stories, the stedding were always havens, places to hide,
whether it was from Aes Sedai or from creatures of the Father of Lies. Elyas straightened; if not exactly fresh,
he gave no sign that he had spent most of a day running. "Come on. We'd better get deeper into this legend. The
ravens can't follow, but they can still see us this close to the edge, and there could be enough of them to watch
the whole border of it. Let them keep hunting right on by it."
Perrin wanted to stay right there, now that he was stopped; his legs trembled and told him to lie down
for a week. Whatever refreshment he had felt had been momentary; all the weariness and aches were back. He
forced himself to take one step, then another. It did not get easier, but he kept at it. Egwene flapped the reins to
get Bela moving again. Elyas settled into an effortless lope, only slowing to a walk when it became apparent the
others could not keep up. A fast walk.
"Why don't we stay here?" Perrin panted. He was breathing through his mouth, and he forced the words
out between deep, wracking breaths. "If it's really a stedding. We'd be safe. No Trollocs. No Aes Sedai. Why
don't we just stay here-until it's all over?" Maybe the wolves won't come here, either.
"How long will that be?" Elyas looked over his shoulder with one eyebrow raised. "What would you
eat? Grass, like the horse? Besides, there's others know about this place, and nothing keeps men out, not even
the worst of them. And there is only one place where there's still water to be found." Frowning uneasily, he
turned in a complete circle, scanning the land. When he was done, he shook his head and muttered to himself.
Perrin felt him calling to the wolves. Hurry. Hurry. "We take our chances on a choice of evils, and the ravens
are sure. Come on. It's only another mile or two."
Perrin would have groaned if he had been willing to spare the breath.
Huge boulders began to dot the low hills, irregular lumps of gray, lichen-coated stone half buried in the
ground, some as big as a house. Brambles webbed them, and low brush half hid most. Here and there amid the
desiccated brown of brambles and brush a lone green shoot announced that this was a special place. Whatever
wounded the land beyond its borders hurt it, too, but here the wound did not go quite as deep.
Eventually they straggled over one more rise, and at the base of this hill lay a pool of water. Any of
them could have waded across it in two strides, but it was clear and clean enough to show the sandy bottom like
a sheet of glass. Even Elyas hurried eagerly down the slope.
Perrin threw himself full length on the ground when he reached the pool and plunged his head in. An
instant later he was spluttering from the cold of water that had welled up from the depths of the earth. He shook
his head, his long hair spraying a rain of drops. Egwene grinned and splashed back at him. Perrin's eyes grew
sober. She frowned and opened her mouth, but he stuck his face back in the water. No questions. Not now. No
explanations. Not ever. But a small voice taunted him. But you would have done it, wouldn't you?
Eventually Elyas called them away from the pool. "Anybody wants to eat, I want some help."
Egwene worked cheerfully, laughing and joking as they prepared their scanty meal. There was nothing
left but cheese and dried meat; there had been no chance to hunt. At least there was still tea. Perrin did his share,
but silently. He felt Egwene's eyes on him, saw growing worry on her face, but he avoided meeting her eyes as
much as he could. Her laughter faded, and the jokes came further apart, each one more strained than the last.
Elyas watched, saying nothing. A somber mood descended, and they began their meal in silence. The sun grew
red in the west, and their shadows stretched out long and thin.
Not quite an hour till dark. If not for the stedding, all of you would be dead now. Would you have saved
her? Would you have cut her down like so many bushes? Bushes don't bleed, do they? Or scream, and look in
your eyes and ask, why?
Perrin drew in on himself more. He could feel something laughing at him, deep in the back of his mind.
Something cruel. Not the Dark One. He almost wished it was. Not the Dark One; himself.
For once Elyas had broken his rule about fires. There were no trees, but he had snapped dead branches
from the brush and built his fire against a huge chunk of rock sticking out of the hillside. From the layers of soot
staining the stone, Perrin thought then site must have been used by generation after generation of travelers.
What showed above ground of the big rock was rounded somewhat, with a sharp break on one side
where moss, old and brown, covered the ragged surface. The grooves and hollows eroded in the rounded part
looked odd to Perrin, but he was too absorbed in gloom to wonder about it. Egwene, though, studied it as she
ate.
"That," she said finally, "looks like an eye." Perrin blinked; it did look like an eye, under all that soot.
"It is," Elyas said. He sat with his back to the fire and the rock, studying the land around them while he
chewed a strip of dried meat almost as tough as leather. "Artur Hawkwing's eye. The eye of the High King
himself. This is what his power and glory came to, in the end." He said it absently. Even his chewing was
absentminded; his eyes and his attention were on the hills.
"Artur Hawkwing!" Egwene exclaimed. "You're joking with me. It isn't an eye at all. Why would
somebody carve Artur Hawkwing's eye on a rock out here?"
Elyas glanced over his shoulder at her, muttering, "What do they teach you village whelps?" He snorted
and straightened back to his watching, but he went on talking. "Artur Paendrag Tanreall, Artur Hawkwing, the
High King, united all the lands from the Great Blight to the Sea of Storms, from the Aryth Ocean to the Aiel
Waste, and even some beyond the Waste. He even sent armies the other side of the Aryth Ocean. The stories
say he ruled the whole world, but what he really did rule was enough for any man outside of a story. And he
brought peace and justice to the land."
"All stood equal before the law," Egwene said, "and no man raised his hand against another."
"So you've heard the stories, at least." Elyas chuckled, a dry sound. "Artur Hawkwing brought peace and
justice, but he did it with fire and sword. A child could ride alone with a bag of gold from the Aryth Ocean to
the Spine of the World and never have a moment's fear, but the High King's justice was as hard as that rock
there for anyone who challenged his power, even if it was just by being who they were, or by people thinking
they were a challenge. The common folk had peace, and justice, and full bellies, but he laid a twenty-year siege
to Tar Valon and put a price of a thousand gold crowns on the head of every Aes Sedai."
"I thought you didn't like Aes Sedai," Egwene said.
Elyas gave a wry smile. "Doesn't matter what I like, girl. Artur Hawkwing was a proud fool. An Aes
Sedai healer could have saved him when he took sick - or was poisoned, as some say - but every Aes Sedai still
alive was penned up behind the Shining Walls, using all their Power to hold off an army that lit up the night
with their campfires. He wouldn't have let one near him, anyway. He hated Aes Sedai as much as he hated the
Dark One."
Egwene's mouth tightened, but when she spoke, all she said was, "What does all that have to do with
whether that's Artur Hawkwing's eye?"
"Just this, girl. With peace except for what was going on across the ocean, with the people cheering him
wherever he went - they really loved him, you see; he was a harsh man, but never with the common folk - well,
with all of that, he decided it was time to build himself a capital. A new city, not connected in any man's mind
with any old cause or faction or rivalry. Here, he'd build it, at the very center of the land bordered by the seas
and the Waste and the Blight. Here, where no Aes Sedai would ever come willing of could use the Power if they
did. A capital from which, one day, the whole world would receive peace and justice. When they heard the
proclamation, the common people subscribed enough money to build a monument to him. Most of them looked
on him as only a step below the Creator. A short step. It took five years to carve and build. A statue of
Hawkwing, himself, a hundred times bigger than the man. They raised it right here, and the city was to rise
around it."
"There was never any city here," Egwene scoffed. "There would have to be something left if there was.
Something."
Elyas nodded, still keeping his watch. "Indeed there was not. Artur Hawkwing died the very day the
statue was finished, and his sons and the rest of his blood fought over who would sit on Hawkwing's throne.
The statue stood alone in the midst of these hills. The sons and the nephews and the cousins died, and the last of
the Hawkwing's blood vanished from the earth-except maybe for some of those who went over the Aryth
Ocean. There were those who would have erased even the memory of him, if they could. Books were burned
just because they mentioned his name. In the end there was nothing left of him but the stories, and most of them
wrong. That's what his glory came to.
"The fighting didn't stop, of course, just because the Hawkwing and his kin were dead. There was still a
throne to be won, and every lord and lady who could muster fighting men wanted it. It was the beginning of the
War of the Hundred Years. Lasted a hundred and twenty-three, really, and most of the history of that time is lost
in the smoke of burning towns. Many got a part of the land, but none got the whole, and sometime during those
years the statue was pulled down. Maybe they couldn't stand measuring themselves against it any longer."
"First you sound as if you despise him," Egwene said, "and now you sound as if you admire him." She
shook her head.
Elyas turned to look at her, a flat, unblinking stare. "Get some more tea now, if you want any. I want the
fire out before dark."
Perrin could make out the eye clearly now, despite the failing light. It was bigger than a man's head, and
the shadows falling across it made it seem like a raven's eye, hard and black and without pity. He wished they
were sleeping somewhere else.

Chapter 30

Children of Shadow


Egwene sat by the fire, staring up at the fragment of statue, but Perrin went down by the pool to be alone.
Day was fading, and the night wind was already rising out of the east, ruffling the surface of the water.
He took the axe from the loop on his belt and turned it over in his hands. The ashwood haft was as long
as his arm, and smooth and cool to the touch. He hated it. He was ashamed of how proud he had been of the axe
back in Emond's Field. Before he knew what he might be willing to do with it.
"You hate her that much?" Elyas said behind him.
Startled, he jumped and half raised the axe before he saw who it was. "Can . . . ? Can you read my mind,
too? Like the wolves?"
Elyas cocked his head to one side and eyed him quizzically. "A blind man could read your face, boy.
Well, speak up. Do you hate the girl? Despise her? That's it. You were ready to kill her because you despise her,
always dragging her feet, holding you back with her womanish ways."
"Egwene never dragged her feet in her life," he protested. "She always does her share. I don't despise
her, I love her." He glared at Elyas, daring him to laugh. "Not like that. I mean, she isn't like a sister, but she and
Rand . . . . Blood and ashes! If the ravens caught us . . . . If. . . . I don't know. "
"Yes, you do. If she had to choose her way of dying, which do you think she'd pick? One clean blow of
your axe, or the way the animals we saw today died? I know which I'd take."
"I don't have any right to choose for her. You won't tell her, will you? About . . . ." His hands tightened
on the axe haft; the muscles in his arms corded, heavy muscles for his age, built by long hours swinging the
hammer at Master Luhhan's forge. For an instant he thought the thick wooden shaft would snap. "I hate this
bloody thing," he growled. "I don't know what I'm doing with it, strutting around like some kind of fool. I
couldn't have done it, you know. When it was all pretend and maybe, I could swagger, and play as if I . . . ." He
sighed, his voice fading. "It's different, now. I don't ever want to use it again."
"You'll use it."
Perrin raised the axe to throw it in the pool, but Elyas caught his wrist.
"You'll use it, boy, and as long as you hate using it, you will use it more wisely than most men would.
Wait. If ever you don't hate it any longer, then will be the time to throw it as far as you can and run the other
way."
Perrin hefted the axe in his hands, still tempted to leave it in the pool. Easy for him to say wait. What if I
wait and then can't throw it away?
He opened his mouth to ask Elyas, but no words came out. A sending from the wolves, so urgent that his
eyes glazed over. For an instant he forgot what he had been going to say, forgot he had been going to say
anything, forgot even how to speak, how to breathe. Elyas's face sagged, too, and his eyes seemed to peer
inward and far away. Then it was gone, as quickly as it had come. It had only lasted a heartbeat, but that was
enough.
Perrin shook himself and filled his lungs deeply. Elyas did not pause; as soon as the veil lifted from his
eyes, he sped toward the fire without any hesitation. Perrin ran wordlessly behind him.
"Douse the fire!" Elyas called hoarsely to Egwene. He gestured urgently, and he seemed to be trying to
shout in a whisper. "Get it out!"
She rose to her feet, staring at him uncertainly, then stepped closer to the fire, but slowly, clearly not
understanding what was happening.
Elyas pushed roughly past her and snatched up the tea kettle, cursing when it burned him. Juggling the
hot pot, he upended it over the fire just the same. A step behind him, Perrin arrived in time to start kicking dirt
over the hissing coals as the last of the tea splashed into the fire, hissing and rising in tendrils of steam. He did
not stop until the last vestige of the fire was buried. Elyas tossed .the kettle to Perrin, who immediately let it fall
with a choked-off yell. Perrin blew on his hands, frowning at Elyas, but the fur-clad man was too busy giving
their campsite a hasty look to pay any attention.
"No chance to hide that somebody's been here," Elyas said. "We'll just have to hurry and hope. Maybe
they won't bother. Blood and ashes, but I was sure it was the ravens."
Hurriedly Perrin tossed the saddle on Bela, propping the axe against his thigh while he bent to tighten
the girth.
"What is it?" Egwene asked. Her voice shook. "Trollocs? A Fade?"
"Go east or west," Elyas told Perrin. "Find a place to hide, and I'll join you as soon as I can. If they see a
wolf . . ." He darted away, crouching almost as if he intended to go to all fours, and vanished into the
lengthening shadows of evening.
Egwene hastily gathered her few belongings, but she still demanded an explanation from Perrin. Her
voice was insistent and growing more frightened by the minute as he kept silent. He was frightened, too, but
fear made them move faster. He waited until they were headed toward the setting sun. Trotting ahead of Bela
and holding the axe across his chest in both hands, he told what he knew over his shoulder in snatches while
hunting for a place to go to ground and wait for Elyas.
"There are a lot of men coming, on horses. They came up behind the wolves, but the men didn't see
them. They're heading toward the pool. Probably they don't have anything to do with us; it's the only water for
miles. But Dapple says . . ." He glanced over his shoulder. The evening sun painted odd shadows on her face,
shadows that hid her expression. What is she thinking? Is she looking at you as if she doesn't know you
anymore? Does she know you? "Dapple says they smell wrong. It's . . . sort of the way a rabid dog smells
wrong." The pool was lost to sight behind them. He could still pick out boulders - fragments of Artur
Hawkwing's statue - in the deepening twilight, but not to tell which was the stone where the fire had been.
"We'll stay away from them, find a place to wait for Elyas."
"Why should they bother us?" she demanded. "We're supposed to be safe here. It's supposed to be safe.
Light, there has to be some place safe."
Perrin began looking harder for somewhere to hide. They could not be very far from the pool, but the
twilight was thickening. Soon it would be too dark to travel. Faint light still bathed the crests. From the hollows
between, where there was barely enough to see, it seemed bright by contrast. Off to the left a dark shape stood
sharp against the sky, a large, flat stone slanting out of a hillside, cloaking the slope beneath in darkness.
"This way," he said.
He trotted toward the hill, glancing over his shoulder for any sign of the men who were coming. There
was nothing - yet. More than once he had to stop and wait while the others stumbled after him. Egwene was
crouched over Bela's neck, and the mare was picking her way carefully over the uneven ground. Perrin thought
they both must be more tired than he had believed. This had better be a good hiding place. I don't think we can
hunt for another.
At the base of the hill he studied the massive, flat rock outlined against the sky, jutting out the slope
almost at the crest. There was an odd familiarity to the way the top of the huge slab seemed to form irregular
steps, three up and one down. He climbed the short distance and felt across the stone, walking along it. Despite
the weathering of centuries he could still feel four joined columns. He glanced up at the step-like top of the
stone, towering over his head like a huge lean-to. Fingers. We'll shelter in Artur Hawkwing's hand. Maybe some
of his justice is left here.
He motioned for Egwene to join him. She did not move, so he slid back down to the base of the hill and
told her what he had found.
Egwene peered up the hill with her head pushed forward. "How can you see anything?" she asked.
Perrin opened his mouth, then shut it. He licked his lips as he looked around, for the first time really
aware of what he was seeing. The sun was down. All the way down, now, and clouds hid the full moon, but it
still seemed like the deep purple fringes of twilight to him. "I felt the rock," he said finally. "That's what it has
to be. They won't be able to pick us out against the shadow of it even if they come this far." He took Bela's
bridle to lead her to the shelter of the hand. He could feel Egwene's eyes on his back.
As he was helping her down from the saddle, the night broke out in shouts back toward the pool. She
laid a hand on Perrin's arm, and he heard her unspoken question.
"The men saw Wind," he said reluctantly. It was difficult to pick out the meaning of the wolves'
thoughts. Something about fire. "They have torches." He pressed her down at the base of the fingers and
crouched beside her. "They're breaking up into parties to search. So many of them, and the wolves are all hurt."
He tried to make his voice heartier. "But Dapple and the others should be able to keep out of their way, even
injured, and they don't expect us. People don't see what they don't expect. They'll give up soon enough and
make camp." Elyas was with the wolves, and would not leave them while they were hunted. So many riders. So
persistent. Why so persistent?
He saw Egwene nod, but in the dark she did not realize it. "We'll be all right, Perrin."
Light, he thought wonderingly, she's trying to comfort me.
The shouts went on and on. Small knots of torches moved in the distance, flickering points of light in the
darkness.
"Perrin," Egwene said softly, "will you dance with me at Sunday? If we're home by then?"
His shoulders shook. He made no sound, and he did not know if he was laughing or crying. "I will. I
promise." Against his will his hands tightened on the axe, reminding him that he still held it. His voice dropped
to a whisper. "I promise," he said again, and hoped.
Groups of torch-carrying men now rode through the hills, bunches of ten or twelve. Perrin could not tell
how many groups there were. Sometimes three or four were in sight at once, quartering back and forth. They
continued to shout to one another, and sometimes there were screams in the night, the screams of horses, the
screams of men.
He saw it all from more than one vantage. He crouched on the hillside with Egwene, watching the
torches move through the darkness like fireflies, and in his mind he ran in the night with Dapple, and Wind, and
Hopper. The wolves had been too hurt by the ravens to run far or fast, so they intended to drive the men out of
the darkness, drive them to the shelter of their fires. Men always sought the safety of fires in the end, when
wolves roamed the night. Some of the mounted men led strings of horses without riders; they whinnied and
reared with wide, rolling eyes when the gray shapes darted among them, screaming and pulling their lead ropes
from the hands of the men who held them, scattering in all directions as fast as they could run. Horses with men
on their backs screamed, too, when gray shadows flashed out of the dark with hamstringing fangs, and
sometimes their riders screamed as well, just before jaws tore out their throats. Elyas was out there, also, more
dimly sensed, stalking the night with his long knife, a two-legged wolf with one sharp steel tooth. The shouts
became curses more often than not, but the searchers refused to give up.
Abruptly Perrin realized that the men with torches were following a pattern. Each time some of the
parties came in view, one of them, at least, was closer to the hillside where he and Egwene were hiding. Elyas
had said to hide, but . . . What if we run? Maybe we could hide in the dark, if we keep moving. Maybe. It has to
he dark enough for that.
He turned to Egwene, but as he did the decision was taken away from him. Bunched torches, a dozen of
them, came around the base of the hill, wavering with the trot of the horses. Lanceheads gleamed in the
torchlight. He froze, holding his breath, hands tightening on his axe haft.
The horsemen rode past the hill, but one of the men shouted, and the torches swung back. He thought
desperately, seeking for a way to go. But as soon as they moved they would be seen, if they had not already
been, and once they were marked they would have no chance, not even with the darkness to help.
The horsemen drew up at the foot of the hill, each man holding a torch in one hand and a long lance in
the other, guiding his horse by the pressure of his knees. By the light of the torches Perrin could see the white
cloaks of the Children of the Light. They held the torches high and leaned forward in their saddles, peering up at
the deep shadows under Artur Hawkwing's fingers.
"There is something up there," one of them said. His voice was too loud, as if he was afraid of what lay
outside the light of his torch. "I told you somebody could hide in that. Isn't that a horse?"
Egwene laid a hand on Perrin's arm; her eyes were big in the dark. Her silent question plain despite the
shadow hiding her features. What to do? Elyas and the wolves still hunted through the night. The horses below
shifted their feet nervously. If we run now, they'll chase us down.
One of the Whitecloaks stepped his horse forward and shouted up the hill. "If you can understand human
speech, come down and surrender. You'll not be harmed if you walk in the Light. If you don't surrender, you
will all be killed. You have one minute." The lances lowered, long steel heads bright with torchlight.
"Perrin," Egwene whispered, "we can't outrun them. If we don't give up, they'll kill us. Perrin?"
Elyas and the wolves were still free. Another distant, bubbling scream marked a Whitecloak who had
hunted Dapple too closely. If we run . . . Egwene was looking at him, waiting for him to tell her what to do. If
we run . . . He shook his head wearily and stood up like a man in a trance, stumbling down the hill toward the
Children of the Light. He heard Egwene sigh and follow him, her feet dragging reluctantly. Why are the
Whitecloaks so persistent, as if they hate wolves with a passion? Why do they smell wrong? He almost thought
he could smell the wrongness himself, when the wind gusted from the riders.
"Drop that axe," the leader barked.
Perrin stumbled toward him, wrinkling his nose to get rid of the smell he thought he smelt.
"Drop it, bumpkin!" The leader's lance shifted toward Perrin's chest.
For a moment he stared at the lancehead, enough sharp steel to go completely through him, and abruptly
he shouted, "No!" It was not at the horseman he shouted.
Out of the night Hopper came, and Perrin was one with the wolf. Hopper, the cub who had watched the
eagles soar, and wanted so badly to fly through the sky as the eagles did. The cub who hopped and jumped and
leaped until he could leap higher than any other wolf, and who never lost the cub's yearning to soar through the
sky. Out of the night Hopper came and left the ground in a leap, soaring like the eagles. The Whitecloaks had
only a moment to begin cursing before Hopper's jaws closed on the throat of the man with his lance leveled at
Perrin. The big wolf's momentum carried them both off the other side of the horse. Perrin felt the throat
crushing, tasted the blood.
Hopper landed lightly, already apart from the man he had killed. Blood matted his fur, his own blood
and that of others. A gash down his face crossed the empty socket where his left eye had been. His good eye
met Perrin's two for just an instant. Run, brother! He whirled to leap again, to soar one last time, and a lance
pinned him to the earth. A second length of steel thrust through his ribs, driving into the ground under him.
Kicking, he snapped at the shafts that held him. To soar.
Pain filled Perrin, and he screamed, a wordless scream that had something of a wolf's cry in it. Without
thinking he leaped forward, still screaming. All thought was gone. The horsemen had bunched too much to be
able to use their lances, and the axe was a feather in his hands, one huge wolf's tooth of steel. Something
crashed into his head, and as he fell, he did not know if it was Hopper or himself who died.
". . . soar like the eagles."
Mumbling, Perrin opened his eyes woozily. His head hurt, and he could not remember why. Blinking
against the light, he looked around. Egwene was kneeling and watching him where he lay. They were in a
square tent as big as a medium-sized room in a farmhouse, with a ground cloth for a floor. Oil lamps on tall
stands, one in each corner, gave a bright light.
"Thank the Light, Perrin," she breathed. "I was afraid they had killed you."
Instead of answering, he stared at the gray-haired man seated in the lone chair in the tent. A dark-eyed,
grandfatherly face looked back at him, a face at odds in his mind with the white-and-gold tabard the man wore,
and the burnished armor strapped over his pure-white undercoat. It seemed a kindly face, bluff and dignified,
and something about it fit the elegant austerity of the tent's furnishings. A table and a folding bed, a washstand
with a plain white basin and pitcher, a single wooden chest inlaid in simple geometric patterns. Where there was
wood, it was polished to a soft glow, and the metal gleamed, but not too brightly, and nothing was showy.
Everything in the tent had the look of craftsmanship, but only someone who had watched the work of
craftsmen-like Master Luhhan, or Master Aydaer, the cabinetmaker-would see it.
Frowning, the man stirred two small piles of objects on the table with a blunt finger. Perrin recognized
the contents of his pockets in one of those piles, and his belt knife. The silver coin Moiraine had given him
toppled out, and the man pushed it back thoughtfully. Pursing his lips, he left the piles and lifted Perrin's axe
from the table, hefting it. His attention came back to the Emond's Fielders.
Perrin tried to get up. Sharp pain stabbing along his arms and legs turned the movement into a flop. For
the first time he realized that he was tied, hand and foot. His eyes went to Egwene. She shrugged ruefully, and
twisted so that he could see her back. Half a dozen lashings wrapped her wrists and ankles, the cords making
ridges in her flesh. A length of rope ran between the bonds around ankles and wrists, short enough to stop her
from straightening to more than a crouch if she got to her feet.
Perrin stared. That they were tied was shock enough, but they wore enough ropes to hold horses. What
do they think we are?
The gray-haired man watched them, curious and thoughtful, like Master al'Vere puzzling out a problem.
He held the axe as if he had forgotten it.
The tent flap shifted aside, and a tall man stepped into the tent. His face was long and gaunt, with eyes
so deeply set they seemed to look out from caves. There was no excess flesh on him, no fat at all; his skin was
pulled tight over the muscle and bone beneath.
Perrin had a glimpse of night outside, and campfires, and two white-cloaked guards at the entrance of
the tent, then the flap fell back into place. As soon as the newcomer was into the tent, he stopped, standing as
rigid as an iron rod, staring straight ahead of him at the far wall of the tent. His plate-and-mail armor gleamed
like silver against his snowy cloak and undercoat.
"My Lord Captain." His voice was as hard as his posture, and grating, but somehow flat, without
expression.
The gray-haired man made a casual gesture. "Be at your ease, Child Byar. You have tallied our costs for
this . . . encounter?"
The tall man moved his feet apart, but other than that Perrin did not see anything ease about his stance.
"Nine men dead, my Lord Captain, and twenty-three injured, seven seriously. All can ride, though. Thirty
horses had to be put down. They were hamstrung!" He emphasized that in his emotionless voice, as if what had
happened to the horses were worse than the deaths and injuries to men. "Many of the remounts are scattered.
We may find some at daybreak, my Lord Captain, but with wolves to send them on their way, it will take days
to gather them all. The men who were supposed to be watching them have been assigned to night guard until we
reach Caemlyn. "
"We do not have days, Child Byar," the gray-haired man said mildly. "We ride at dawn. Nothing can
change that. We must be in Caemlyn in time, yes?"
"As you command, my Lord Captain."
The gray-haired man glanced at Perrin and Egwene, then away again. "And what have we to show for it,
aside from these two younglings?"
Byar drew a deep breath and hesitated. "I have had the wolf that was with this lot skinned, my Lord
Captain. The hide should make a fine rug for my Lord Captain's tent."
Hopper! Not even realizing what he was doing, Perrin growled and struggled against his bonds. The
ropes dug into his skin-his wrists became slippery with blood-but they did not give. For the first time Byar
looked at the prisoners. Egwene started back from him. His face was as expressionless as his voice, but a cruel
light burned in his sunken eyes, as surely as flames burned in Ba'alzamon's. Byar hated them as if they were
enemies of long years instead of people never seen before tonight.
Perrin stared back defiantly. His mouth curled into a tight smile at the thought of his teeth meeting in the
man's throat.
Abruptly his smile faded, and he shook himself. My teeth? I'm a man, not a wolf! Light, there has to be
an end to thin! But he still met Byar's glare, hate for hate.
"I do not care about wolf-hide rugs, Child Byar." The rebuke in the Lord Captain's voice was gentle, but
Byar's back snapped rigid again, his eyes locking to the wall of the tent. "You were reporting on what we
achieved this night, no? If we achieved anything."
"I would estimate the pack that attacked us at fifty beasts or more, my Lord Captain. Of that, we killed at
least twenty, perhaps thirty. I did not consider it worth the risk of losing more horses to have the carcasses
brought in tonight. In the morning I will have them gathered and burned, those that aren't dragged off in the
dark. Besides these two, there were at least a dozen other men. I believe we disposed of four or five, but it is
unlikely we will find any bodies, given the Darkfriends' propensity for carrying away their dead to hide their
losses. This seems to have been a coordinated ambush, but that raises the question of . . . ."
Perrin's throat tightened as the gaunt man went on. Elyas? Cautiously, reluctantly, he felt for Elyas, for
the wolves . . . and found nothing. It was as if he had never been able to feel a wolf's mind. Either they're dead,
or they've abandoned you. He wanted to laugh, a bitter laugh. At last he had what he had been wishing for, but
the price was high.
The gray-haired man did laugh, just then, a rich, wry chuckle that made a red spot bloom on each of
Byar's cheeks. "So, Child Byar, it is your considered estimate that we were attacked in a planned ambush by
upwards of fifty wolves and better than half a score of Darkfriends? Yes? Perhaps when you've seen a few more
actions . . . "
"But, my Lord Captain Bornhald . . . "
"I would say six or eight wolves, Child Byar, and perhaps no other humans than these two. You have the
true zeal, but no experience outside the cities. It is a different thing, bringing the Light, when streets and houses
are far distant. Wolves have a way of seeming more than they are, in the night-and men, also. Six or eight at
most, I think." Byar's flush deepened slowly. "I also suspect they were here for the same reason we are: the only
easy water for at least a day in any direction. A much simpler explanation than spies or traitors within the
Children, and the simplest explanation is usually the truest. You will learn, with experience."
Byar's face went deathly white as the grandfatherly man spoke; by contrast, the two spots in his hollow
cheeks deepened from red to purple. He cut his eyes toward the two prisoners for an instant.
He hates us even more, now, Perrin thought, for hearing this. But why did he hate us in the first place?
"What do you think of this?" the Lord Captain said, holding up Perrin's axe.
Byar looked a question at his commander and waited for an answering nod before he broke his rigid
stance to take the weapon. He hefted the axe and gave a surprised grunt, then whirled it in a tight arc above his
head that barely missed the top of the tent. He handled it as surely as if he had been born with an axe in his
hands. A look of grudging admiration flickered across his face, but by the time he lowered the axe he was
expressionless once more.
"Excellently balanced, my Lord Captain. Plainly made, but by a very good weaponsmith, perhaps even a
master." His eyes burned darkly at the prisoners. "Not a villager's weapon, my Lord Captain. Nor a farmer's."
"No." The gray-haired man turned toward Perrin and Egwene with a weary, slightly chiding smile, a
kindly grandfather who knew his grandchildren had been up to some mischief. "My name is Geofram
Bornhald," he told them. "You are Perrin, I understand. But you, young woman, what is your name?"
Perrin glowered at him, but Egwene shook her head. "Don't be silly, Perrin. I'm Egwene."
"Just Perrin, and just Egwene," Bornhald murmured. "But I suppose if you truly are Darkfriends, you
wish to hide your identities as much as possible. "
Perrin heaved himself up to his knees; he could rise no further because of the way he was bound. "We
aren't Darkfriends," he protested angrily.
The words were not completely out of his mouth before Byar reached him. The man moved like a snake.
He saw the handle of his own axe swinging toward him and tried to duck, but the thick haft caught him over the
ear. Only the fact that he was moving away from the blow kept his skull from being split. Even so, lights
flashed in his eyes. Breath left him as he struck the ground. His head rung, and blood ran down his cheek.
"You have no right," Egwene began, and screamed as the axe handle whipped toward her. She threw
herself aside, and the blow whistled through empty air as she tumbled to the ground cloth.
"You will keep a civil tongue," Byar said, "when speaking to an Anointed of the Light, or you will have
no tongue. " The worst of it was his voice still had no emotion at all. Cutting out their tongues would give him
no pleasure and no regret; it was just something he would do.
"Go easy, Child Byar." Bornhald looked at the captives again. "I expect you do not know much about
the Anointed, or about Lords Captain of the Children of the Light, do you? No, I thought not. Well, for Child
Byar's sake, at least, try not to argue or shout, yes? I want no more than that you should walk in the Light, and
letting anger get the better of you won't help any of us."
Perrin looked up at the gaunt-faced man standing over them. For Child Byar's .rake? He noticed that the
Lord Captain did not tell Byar to leave them alone. Byar met his eyes and smiled; the smile touched only his
mouth, but the skin of his face drew tighter, until it looked like a skull. Perrin shivered.
"I have heard of this thing of men running with wolves," Bornhald said musingly, "though I have not
seen it before. Men supposedly talking with wolves, and with other creatures of the Dark One. A filthy business.
It makes me fear the Last Battle is indeed coming soon."
"Wolves aren't -" Perrin cut off as Byar's boot drew back. Taking a deep breath, he went on in a milder
tone. Byar lowered his foot with a disappointed grimace. "Wolves aren't creatures of the Dark One. They hate
the Dark One. At least, they hate Trollocs, and Fades." He was surprised to see the gaunt-faced man nod as if to
himself.
Bornhald raised an eyebrow. "Who told you that?"
"A Warder," Egwene said. She scrunched away from Byar's heated eyes. "He said wolves hate Trollocs,
and Trollocs are afraid of wolves." Perrin was glad she had not mentioned Elyas.
"A Warder," the gray-haired man sighed. "A creature of the Tar Valon witches. What else would that
sort tell you, when he is a Darkfriend himself, and a servant of Darkfriends? Do you not know Trollocs have
wolves' muzzles and teeth, and wolves' fur?"
Perrin blinked, trying to clear his head. His brain still felt like jellied pain, but there was something
wrong here. He could not get his thoughts straight enough to puzzle it out.
"Not all of them," Egwene muttered. Perrin gave Byar a wary look, but the gaunt man only watched her.
"Some of them have horns, like rams or goats, or hawks' beaks, or . . . or . . . all sorts of things."
Bornhald shook his head sadly. "I give you every chance, and you dig yourself deeper with every word."
He held up one finger. "You run with wolves, creatures of the Dark One." A second finger. "You admit to being
acquainted with a Warder, another creature of the Dark One. I doubt he would have told you what he did if it
was only in passing." A third finger. "You, boy, carry a Tar Valon mark in your pocket. Most men outside Tar
Valon get rid of those as fast as they can. Unless they serve the Tar Valon witches." A fourth. "You carry a
fighting man's weapon while you dress like a farmboy. A skulker, then." The thumb rose. "You know Trollocs,
and Myrddraal. This far south, only a few scholars and those who have traveled in the Borderlands believe they
are anything but stories. Perhaps you have been to the Borderlands? If so, tell me where? I have traveled a good
deal in the Borderlands; I know them well. No? Ah, well, then." He looked at his spread hand, then dropped it
hard on the table. The grandfatherly expression said the grandchildren had been up to some very serious
mischief indeed. "Why do you not tell me the truth of how you came to be running in the night with wolves?"
Egwene opened her mouth, but Perrin saw the stubborn set of her jaw and knew right away she was
going to tell one of the stories they had worked out. That would not do. Not now, not here. His head ached, and
he wished he had time to think it out, but there was no time. Who could tell where this Bornhald had traveled,
with what lands and cities he was familiar? If he caught them in a lie, there would be no going back to the truth.
Bornhald would be convinced they were Darkfriends, then.
"We're from the Two Rivers," he said quickly.
Egwene stared at him openly before she caught herself, but he pressed on with the truth-or a version of
it. The two of them had left the Two Rivers to see Caemlyn. On the way they had heard of the ruins of a great
city, but when they found Shadar Logoth, there were Trollocs there. The two of them managed to escape across
the River Arinelle, but by that time they were completely lost. Then they fell in with a man who offered to
guide them to Caemlyn. He had said his name was none of their business, and he hardly seemed friendly, but
they needed a guide. The first either of them had seen of wolves had been after the Children of the Light
appeared. All they had been trying to do was hide so they would not get eaten by wolves or killed by the men
on horses.
". . . If we'd known you were Children of the Light," he finished, "we'd have gone to you for help."
Byar snorted with disbelief. Perrin did not care overmuch; if the Lord Captain was convinced, Byar
could not harm them. It was plain that Byar would stop breathing if Lord Captain Bornhald told him to.
"There is no Warder in that," the gray-haired man said after a moment.
Perrin's invention failed him; he knew he should have taken time to think it out. Egwene leaped into the
breach. "We met him in Baerlon. The city was crowded with men who had come down from the mines after the
winter, and we were put at the same table in an inn. We only talked to him for the length of a meal."
Perrin breathed again. Thank you, Egwene.
"Give them back their belongings, Child Byar. Not the weapons, of course." When Byar looked at him
in surprise, Bornhald added, "Or are you one of those who have taken to looting the unenlightened, Child Byar?
It is a bad business, that, yes? No man can be a thief and walk in the Light." Byar seemed to struggle with
disbelief at the suggestion.
"Then you're letting us go?" Egwene sounded surprised. Perrin lifted his head to stare at the Lord
Captain.
"Of course not, child," Bornhald said sadly. "You may be telling the truth about being from the Two
Rivers, since you know about Baerlon, and the mines. But Shadar Logoth . . . ? That is a name very, very few
know, most of them Darkfriends, and anyone who knows enough to know the name, knows enough not to go
there. I suggest you think of a better story on the journey to Amador. You will have time, since we must pause
in Caemlyn. Preferably the truth, child. There is freedom in truth and the Light. "
Byar forgot some of his diffidence toward the gray-haired man. He spun from the prisoners, and there
was an outraged snap to his words. "You can't! It is not allowed!" Bornhald raised one eyebrow quizzically, and
Byar pulled himself up short, swallowing. "Forgive me, my Lord Captain. I forgot myself, and I humbly beg
pardon and submit myself for penance, but as my Lord Captain himself has pointed out, we must reach
Caemlyn in time, and with most of our remounts gone, we will be hard pressed enough without carrying
prisoners along."
"And what would you suggest?" Bornhald asked calmly.
"The penalty for Darkfriends is death." The flat voice made it all the more jarring. He might have been
suggesting stepping on a bug. "There is no truce with the Shadow. There is no merry for Darkfriends."
"Zeal is to be applauded, Child Byar, but, as I must often tell my son, Dain, overzealousness can be a
grievous fault. Remember that the Tenets also say, 'No man is so lost that he cannot be brought to the Light.'
These two are young. They cannot yet be deep in the Shadow. They can yet be led to the Light, if they will only
allow the Shadow to be lifted from their eyes. We must give them that chance."
For a moment Perrin almost felt affection for the grandfatherly man who stood between them and Byar.
Then Bornhald turned his grandfather's smile on Egwene.
"If you refuse to come to the Light by the time we reach Amador, I will be forced to turn you over to the
Questioners, and beside them Byar's zeal is but a candle beside the sun." The gray-haired man sounded like a
man who regretted what he must do, but who had no intention of ever doing anything but his duty as he saw it.
"Repent, renounce the Dark One, come to the Light, confess your sins and tell what you know of this vileness
with wolves, and you will be spared that. You will walk free, in the Light." His gaze centered on Perrin, and he
sighed sadly. Ice filled Perrin's spine. "But you, just Perrin from the Two Rivers. You killed two of the
Children." He touched the axe that Byar still held. "For you, I fear, a gibbet waits in Amador."

Chapter 31

Play for Your Supper


Rand narrowed his eyes, watching the dust-tail that rose ahead, three or four bends of the road away.
Mat was already headed toward the wild hedgerow alongside the roadway. Its evergreen leaves and
densely intermeshed branches would hide them as well as a stone wall, if they could find a way
through to the other side. The other side of the road was marked by the sparse brown skeletons of head-high
bushes, and beyond was an open field for half a mile to the woods. It might have been part of a farm not too
long abandoned, but it offered no quick hiding place. He tried to judge the speed of the dust-tail, and the wind.
A sudden gust swirled road dust up around him, obscuring everything. He blinked and adjusted the
plain, dark scarf across his nose and mouth. None too clean now, it made his face itch, but it kept him from
inhaling dust with every breath. A farmer had given it to him, a long-faced man with grooves in his cheeks from
worry.
"I don't know what you're running from," he had said with an anxious frown, "and I don't want to. You
understand? My family." Abruptly the farmer had dug two long scarves out of his coat pocket and pushed the
tangle of wool at them. "It's not much, but here. Belong to my boys. They have others. You don't know me,
understand? It's hard times."
Rand treasured the scarf. The list of kindnesses he had made in his mind in the days since Whitebridge
was a short one, and he did not believe it would get much longer.
Mat, all but his eyes hidden by the scarf wrapped around his head, hunted swiftly along the tall
hedgerow, pulling at the leafy branches. Rand touched the heron-marked hilt at his belt, but let his hand fall
away. Once already, cutting a hole through a hedge had almost given them away. The dust-tail was moving
toward them, and staying together too long. Not the wind. At least it was not raining. Rain settled the dust. No
matter how hard it fell, it never turned the hard-packed road to mud, but when it rained there was no dust. Dust
was the only warning they had before whoever it was came close enough to hear. Sometimes that was too late.
"Here," Mat called softly. He seemed to step right through the hedge.
Rand hurried to the spot. Someone had cut a hole there, once. It was partly grown over, and from three
feet away it looked as solid as the rest, but close up there was only a thin screen of branches. As he pushed
through, he heard horses coming. Not the wind.
He crouched behind the barely covered opening, clutching the hilt of his sword as the horsemen rode by.
Five . . . six . . . seven of them. Plainly dressed men, but swords and spears said they were not villagers. Some
wore leather tunics with metal studs, and two had round steel caps. Merchants' guards, perhaps, between
hirings. Perhaps.
One of them casually swung his eyes toward the hedge as he went by the opening, and Rand bared an
inch of his sword. Mat snarled silently like a cornered badger, squinting above his scarf. His hand was under his
coat; he always clutched the dagger from Shadar Logoth when there was danger. Rand was no longer sure if it
was to protect himself or to protect the ruby-hilted dagger. Of late Mat seemed to forget he had a bow,
sometimes.
The riders passed at a slow trot, going somewhere with a purpose but not too great a haste. Dust sifted
through the hedge.
Rand waited until the clop of the hooves faded before he stuck his head cautiously back through the
hole. The dust-tail was well down the road, going the way they had come. Eastward the sky was clear. He
climbed out onto the roadway, watching the column of dust move west.
"Not after us," he said, halfway between a statement and a question.
Mat scrambled out after him, looking warily in both directions. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe."
Rand had no idea which way he meant it, but he nodded. Maybe. It had not begun like this, their journey
down the Caemlyn Road.
For a long time after leaving Whitebridge, Rand would suddenly find himself staring back down the
road behind them. Sometimes he would see someone who made his breath catch, a tall, skinny man hurrying up
the road, or a lanky, white-haired fellow up beside the driver on a wagon, but it was always a pack-peddler, or
farmers making their way to market, never Thom Merrilin. Hope faded as the days passed.
There was considerable traffic on the road, wagons and carts, people on horses and people afoot. They
came singly and in groups, a train of merchants' wagons or a dozen horsemen together. They did not jam the
road, and often there was nothing in sight except the all but leafless trees lining the hard-packed roadbed, but
there were certainly more people traveling than Rand had ever seen in the Two Rivers.
Most traveled in the same direction that they did, eastward toward Caemlyn. Sometimes they got a ride
in a farmer's wagon for a little distance, a mile, or five, but more often they walked. Men on horseback they
avoided; when they spotted even one rider in the distance they scrambled off the road and hid until he was past.
None ever wore a black cloak, and Rand did not really think a Fade would let them see him coming, but there
was no point in taking chances. In the beginning it was just the Halfmen they feared.
The first village after Whitebridge looked so much like Emond's Field that Rand's steps dragged when
he saw it. Thatched roofs with high peaks, and goodwives in their aprons gossiping over the fences between
their houses, and children playing on a village green. The women's hair hung unbraided around their shoulders,
and other small things were different, too, but the whole together was like home. Cows cropped on the green,
and geese waddled self-importantly across the road. The children tumbled, laughing, in the dust where the grass
was gone altogether. They did not even look around when Rand and Mat went by. That was another thing that
was different. Strangers were no oddity there; two more did not draw so much as a second glance. Village dogs
only raised their heads to sniff as he and Mat passed; none stirred themselves.
It was coming on evening as they went through the village, and he felt a pang of homesickness as lights
appeared in the windows. No matter what it looks like, a small voice whispered in his mind, it isn't really home.
Even if you go into one of those houses Tam won't be there. If he was, could you look him in the face? You
know, now, don't you? Except for little things like where you come from and who you are. No fever-dreams. He
hunched his shoulders against taunting laughter inside his head. You might as well stop, the voice snickered.
One place it as good as another when you aren't from anywhere, and the Dark One has you marked.
Mat tugged at his sleeve, but he pulled loose and stared at the houses. He did not want to stop, but he did
want to look and remember. So much like home, but you'll never see that again, will you?
Mat yanked at him again. His face was taut, the skin around his mouth and eyes white. "Come on," Mat
muttered. "Come on." He looked at the village as if he suspected something of hiding there. "Come on. We can't
stop yet. "
Rand turned in a complete circle, taking in the whole village, and sighed. They were not very far from
Whitebridge. If the Myrddraal could get past Whitebridge's wall without being seen, it would have no trouble at
all searching this small village. He let himself be drawn on into the countryside beyond, until the thatch-roofed
houses were left behind.
Night fell before they found a spot by moonlight, under some bushes still bearing their dead leaves.
They filled their bellies with cold water from a shallow rivulet not far away and curled up on the ground,
wrapped in their cloaks, without a fire. A fire could be seen; better to be cold.
Uneasy with his memories, Rand woke often, and every time he could hear Mat muttering and tossing in
his sleep. He did not dream, that he could remember, but he did not sleep well. You'll never see home again.
That was not the only night they spent with just their cloaks to protect them from the wind, and
sometimes the rain, cold and soaking. It was not the only meal they made from nothing but cold water. Between
them they had enough coins for a few meals at an inn, but a bed for the night would take too much. Things cost
more outside the Two Rivers, more this side of the Arinelle than in Baerlon. What money they had left had to
be saved for an emergency.
One afternoon Rand mentioned the dagger with the ruby in its hilt, while they were trudging down the
road with bellies too empty to rumble, and the sun low and weak, and nothing in view for the coming night but
more bushes. Dark clouds built up overhead for rain during the night. He hoped they were lucky; maybe no
more than an icy drizzle.
He went on a few steps before he realized that Mat had stopped. He stopped, too, wriggling his toes in
his boots. At least his feet felt warm. He eased the straps across his shoulders. His blanket roll and Thom's
bundled cloak were not heavy, but even a few pounds weighed heavy after miles on an empty stomach. "What's
the matter, Mat?" he said.
"Why are you so anxious to sell it?" Mat demanded angrily. "I found it, after all. You ever think I might
like to keep it? For a while, anyway. If you want to sell something, sell that bloody sword!"
Rand rubbed his hand along the heron-marked hilt. "My father gave this sword to me. It was his. I
wouldn't ask you to sell something your father gave you. Blood and ashes, Mat, do you like going hungry?
Anyway, even if I could find somebody to buy it, how much would a sword bring? What would a farmer want
with a sword? That ruby would fetch enough to take us all the way to Caemlyn in a carriage. Maybe all the way
to Tar Valon. And we'd eat every meal in an inn, and sleep every night in a bed. Maybe you like the idea of
walking halfway across the world and sleeping on the ground?" He glared at Mat, and his friend glared back.
They stood like that in the middle of the road until Mat suddenly gave an uncomfortable shrug, and
dropped his eyes to the road. "Who would I sell it to, Rand? A farmer would have to pay in chickens; we
couldn't buy a carriage with chickens. And if I even showed it in any village we've been through, they'd
probably think we stole it. The Light knows what would happen then."
After a minute Rand nodded reluctantly. "You're right. I know it. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to snap at you.
It's only that I'm hungry and my feet hurt. "
"Mine, too." They started down the road again, walking even more wearily than before. The wind gusted
up, blowing dust in their faces. "Mine, too." Mat coughed.
Farms did provide some meals and a few nights out of the cold. A haystack was nearly as warm as a
room with a fire, at least compared to lying under the bushes, and a haystack, even one without a tarp over it,
kept all but the heaviest rain off, if you dug yourself in deeply enough. Sometimes Mat tried his hand at stealing
eggs, and once he attempted to milk a cow left unattended, staked out on a long rope to crop in a field. Most
farms had dogs, though, and farm dogs were watchful. A two-mile run with baying hounds at their heels was
too high a price for two or three eggs as Rand saw it, especially when the dogs sometimes took hours to go
away and let them down out of the tree where they had taken shelter. The hours were what he regretted.
He did not really like doing it, but Rand preferred to approach a farmhouse openly in broad daylight.
Now and again they had the dogs set on them anyway, without a word being said, for the rumors and the times
made everyone who lived apart from other people nervous about strangers, but often an hour or so chopping
wood or hauling water would earn a meal and a bed, even if the bed was a pile of straw in the barn. But an hour
or two doing chores was an hour or two of daylight when they were standing still, an hour or two for the
Myrddraal to catch up. Sometimes he wondered how many miles a Fade could cover in an hour. He begrudged
every minute of it-though admittedly not so much when he was wolfing down a goodwife's hot soup. And when
they had no food, knowing they had spent every possible minute moving toward Caemlyn did not do much to
soothe an empty belly. Rand could not make up his mind if it was worse to lose time or go hungry, but Mat
went beyond worrying about his belly or pursuit.
"What do we know about them, anyway?" Mat demanded one afternoon while they were mucking out
stalls on a small farm.
"Light, Mat, what do they know about us?" Rand sneezed. They were working stripped to the waist, and
sweat and straw covered them both liberally, and motes of straw-dust hung in the air. "What I know is they'll
give us some roast lamb and a real bed to sleep in."
Mat dug his hayfork into the straw and manure and gave a sidelong frown at the farmer, coming from
the back of the barn with a bucket in one hand and his milking stool in the other. A stooped old man with skin
like leather and thin, gray hair, the farmer slowed when he saw Mat looking at him, then looked away quickly
and hurried on out of the barn, slopping milk over the rim of the bucket in his haste.
"He's up to something, I tell you," Mat said. "See the way he wouldn't meet my eye? Why are they so
friendly to a couple of wanderers they never laid eyes on before? Tell me that."
"His wife says we remind her of their grandsons. Will you stop worrying about them? What we have to
worry about is behind us. I hope."
"He's up to something," Mat muttered.
When they finished, they washed up at the trough in front of the barn, their shadows stretching long with
the sinking sun. Rand toweled off with his shirt as they walked to the farmhouse. The farmer met them at the
door; he leaned on a quarterstaff in a too-casual manner. Behind him his wife clutched her apron and peered
past his shoulder, chewing her lip. Rand sighed; he did not think he and Mat reminded them of their grandsons
any longer.
"Our sons are coming to visit tonight," the old man said. "All four of them. I forgot. They're all four
coming. Big lads. Strong. Be here any time, now. I'm afraid we don't have the bed we promised you."
His wife thrust a small bundle wrapped in a napkin past him. "Here. It's bread, and cheese, and pickles,
and lamb. Enough for two meals, maybe. Here." Her wrinkled face asked them to please take it and go.
Rand took the bundle. "Thank you. I understand. Come on, Mat."
Mat followed him, grumbling while he pulled his shirt over his head. Rand thought it best to cover as
many miles as they could before stopping to eat. The old farmer had a dog.
It could have been worse, he thought. Three days earlier, while they were still working, they'd had the
dogs set on them. The dogs, and the farmer, and his two sons waving cudgels chased them out to the Caemlyn
Road and half a mile down it before giving up. They had barely had time to snatch up their belongings and run.
The farmer had carried a bow with a broad-head arrow nocked.
"Don't come back, hear!" he had shouted after them. "I don't know what you're up to, but don't let me
see your shifty eyes again!"
Mat had started to turn back, fumbling at his quiver, but Rand pulled him on. "Are you crazy?" Mat gave
him a sullen look, but at least he kept running.
Rand sometimes wondered if it was worthwhile stopping at farms. The further they went, the more
suspicious of strangers Mat became, and the less he was able to hide it. Or bothered to. The meals got skimpier
for the same work, and sometimes not even the barn was offered as a place to sleep. But then a solution to all
their problems came to Rand, or so it seemed, and it came at Grinwell's farm.
Master Grinwell and his wife had nine children, the eldest a daughter not more than a year younger than
Rand and Mat. Master Grinwell was a sturdy man, and with his children he probably had no need of any more
help, but he looked them up and down, taking in their travel-stained clothes and dusty boots, and allowed as
how he could always find work for more hands. Mistress Grinwell said that if they were going to eat at her
table, they would not do it in those filthy things. She was about to do laundry, and some of her husband's old
clothes would fit them well enough for working. She smiled when she said it, and for a minute she looked to
Rand just like Mistress al'Vere, though her hair was yellow; he had never seen hair that color before. Even Mat
seemed to lose some of his tension when her smile touched him. The eldest daughter was another matter.
Dark-haired, big-eyed, and pretty, Else grinned impudently at them whenever her parents were not
looking. While they worked, moving barrels and sacks of grain in the barn, she hung over a stall door, humming
to herself and chewing the end of one long pigtail, watching them. Rand she watched especially. He tried to
ignore her, but after a few minutes he put cm the shirt Master Grinwell had loaned him. It was tight across the
shoulders and too short, but it was better than nothing. Else laughed out loud when he tugged it on. He began to
think that this time it would not be Mat's fault when they were chased off.
Perrin would know how to handle this, he thought. He'd make some offhand comment, and pretty soon
she'd be laughing at his joker instead of mooning around where her father can see. Only he could not think of
any offhand comment, or any jokes, either. Whenever he looked in her direction, she smiled at him in a way that
would have her father loosing the dogs on them if he saw. Once she told him she liked tall men. All the boys on
the farms around there were short. Mat gave a nasty snicker. Wishing he could think of a joke, Rand tried to
concentrate on his hayfork.
The younger children, at least, were a blessing in Rand's eyes. Mat's wariness always eased a little when
there were children around. After supper they all settled in front of the fireplace, with Master Grinwell in his
favorite chair thumbing his pipe full of tabac and Mistress Grinwell fussing with her sewing box and the shirts
she had washed for him and Mat. Mat dug out Thom's colored balls and began to juggle. He never did that
unless there were children. The children laughed when he pretended to be dropping the balls, snatching them at
the last minute, and they clapped for fountains and figure-eights and a six-ball circle that he really did almost
drop. But they took it in good part, Master Grinwell and his wife applauding as hard as their children. When
Mat was done, bowing around the room with as many flourishes as Thom might have made, Rand took Thom's
flute from its case.
He could never handle the instrument without a pang of sadness. Touching its gold-and-silver
scrollwork was like touching Thom's memory. He never handled the harp except to see that it was safe and dry-
Thom had always said the harp was beyond a farmboy's clumsy hands-but whenever a farmer allowed them to
stay, he always played one tune on the flute after supper. It was just a little something extra to pay the farmer,
and maybe a way of keeping Thom's memory fresh.
With a laughing mood already set by Mat's juggling, he played "Three Girls in the Meadow." Master
and Mistress Grinwell clapped along, and the smaller children danced around the floor, even the smallest boy,
who could barely walk, stomping his feet in time. He knew he would win no prizes at Bel Tine, but after
Thom's teaching he would not be embarrassed to enter.
Else was sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, and as he lowered the flute after the last note, she
leaned forward with a long sigh and smiled at him. "You play so beautifully. I never heard anything so
beautiful."
Mistress Grinwell suddenly paused in her sewing and raised an eyebrow at her daughter, then gave Rand
a long, appraising look.
He had picked up the leather case to put the flute away, but under her stare he dropped the case and
almost the flute, too. If she accused him of trifling with her daughter . . . . In desperation he put the flute back to
his lips and played another song, then another, and another. Mistress Grinwell kept watching him. He played
"The Wind That Shakes the Willow," and "Coming Home From Tarwin's Gap," and "Mistress Aynora's
Rooster," and "The Old Black Bear." He played every song he could think of, but she never took her eyes off
him. She never said anything, either, but she watched, and weighed.
It was late when Master Grinwell finally stood up, chuckling and rubbing his hands together. "Well, this
has been rare fun, but it's way past our bedtime. You traveling lads make your own hours, but morning comes
early on a farm. I'll tell you lads, I have paid good money at an inn for no better entertainment than I've had this
night. For worse."
"I think they should have a reward, father," Mistress Grinwell said as she picked up her youngest boy,
who had long since fallen asleep in front of the fire. "The barn is no fit place to sleep. They can sleep in Else's
room tonight, and she will sleep with me."
Else grimaced. She was careful to keep her head down, but Rand saw it. He thought her mother did, too.
Master Grinwell nodded. "Yes, yes, much better than the barn. If you don't mind sleeping two to a bed,
that is." Rand flushed; Mistress Grinwell was still looking at him. "I do wish I could hear more of that flute.
And your juggling, too. I like that. You know, there's a little task you could help with tomorrow, and-"
"They'll be wanting an early start, father," Mistress Grinwell cut in. "Arien is the next village the way
they're going, and if they intend to try their luck at the inn there, they'll have to walk all day to get there before
dark."
"Yes, mistress," Rand said, "we will. And thank you."
She gave him a tight-lipped smile as if she knew very well that his thanks were for more than her advice,
or even supper and a warm bed.
The whole next day Mat twitted him about Else as they made their way down the road. He kept trying to
change the subject, and what the Grinwells had suggested about performing at inns was the easiest thing to
mind. In the morning, with Else pouting as he left, and Mistress Grinwell watching with a sharp-eyed look of
good-riddance and soonest-mended, it was just something to keep Mat from talking. By the time they did reach
the next village, it was something else again.
With dusk descending, they entered the only inn in Arien, and Rand spoke to the innkeeper. He played
"Ferry O'er the River" - which the plump innkeeper called "Darling Sara' - and part of "The Road to Dun Aren,"
and Mat did a little juggling, and the upshot was that they slept in a bed that night and ate roasted potatoes and
hot beef. It was the smallest room in the inn, to be sure, up under the eaves in the back, and the meal came in
the middle of along night of playing and juggling, but it was still a bed beneath a roof. Even better, to Rand,
every daylight hour had been spent traveling. And the inn's patrons did not seem to care if Mat stared at them
suspiciously. Some of them even looked askance at one another. The times made suspicion of strangers a
commonplace, and there were always strangers at an inn.
Rand slept better than he had since leaving Whitebridge, despite sharing a bed with Mat and his
nocturnal muttering. In the morning the innkeeper tried to talk them into staying another day or two, but when
he could not, he called over a bleary-eyed farmer who had drunk too much to drive his cart home the night
before. An hour later they were five miles further east, sprawling on their backs on the straw in the back of
Eazil Forney's cart.
That became the way of their traveling. With a little luck, and maybe a ride or two, they could almost
always reach the next village by dark. If there was more than one inn in a village, the innkeepers would bid for
them once they heard Rand's flute and saw Mat juggle. Together they still did not come close to a gleeman, but
they were more than most villages saw in a year. Two or three inns in a town meant a better room, with two
beds, and more generous portions of a better cut of meat, and sometimes even a few coppers in their pockets
when they left besides. In the mornings there was almost always someone to offer a ride, another farmer who
had stayed too late and drunk too much, or a merchant who had liked their entertainment enough not to mind if
they hopped up on the back of one of his wagons. Rand began to think their problems were over till they
reached Caemlyn. But then they came to Four Kings.

Chapter 32

Four Kings in Shadow


The village was bigger than most, but still a scruffy town to bear a name like Four Kings. As usual, the
Caemlyn Road ran straight through the center of the town, but another heavily traveled highway came
in from the south, too. Most villages were markets and gathering places for the farmers of the area, but
there were few farmers to be seen here. Four Kings survived as a stopover for merchants' wagon trains on their
way to Caemlyn and to the mining towns in the Mountains of Mist beyond Baerlon, as well as the villages
between. The southern road carried Lugard's trade with the mines in the west; Lugarder merchants going to
Caemlyn had a more direct route. The surrounding country held few farms, barely enough to feed themselves
and the town, and everything in the village centered on the merchants and their wagons, the men who drove
them and the laborers who loaded the goods.
Plots of bare earth, ground to dust, lay scattered through Four Kings, filled with wagons parked wheel to
wheel and abandoned except for a few bored guards. Stables and horse-lots lined the streets, all of which were
wide enough to allow wagons to pass and deeply rutted from too many wheels. There was no village green, and
the children played in the ruts, dodging wagons and the curses of wagon drivers. Village women, their heads
covered with scarves, kept their eyes down and walked quickly, sometimes followed by wagoneers' comments
that made Rand blush; even Mat gave a start at some of them. No woman stood gossiping over the fence with a
neighbor. Drab wooden houses stood cheek by jowl, with only narrow alleys between and whitewash - where
anyone had bothered to whitewash the weathered boards - faded as if it had not been freshened in years. Heavy
shutters on the houses had not been open in so long that the hinges were solid lumps of rust. Noise hung over
everything, clanging from blacksmiths, shouts from the wagon drivers, raucous laughter from the town's inns.
Rand swung down from the back of a merchant's canvas-topped wagon as they came abreast of a
garishly painted inn, all greens and yellows that caught the eye from afar among the leaden houses. The line of
wagons kept moving. None of the drivers even seemed to notice that he and Mat had gone; dusk was falling,
and they all had their eyes on unhitching the horses and reaching the inns. Rand stumbled in a rut, then leaped
quickly to avoid a heavy-laden wagon clattering the other way. The driver shouted a curse at him as the wagon
rolled by. A village woman stepped around him and hurried on without ever meeting his eye.
"I don't know about this place," he said. He thought he could hear music mixed in the din, but he could
not tell from where it was coming. From the inn, maybe, but it was hard to be sure. "I don't like it. Maybe we'd
better go on this time."
Mat gave him a scornful look, then rolled his eyes at the sky. Dark clouds thickened overhead. "And
sleep under a hedge tonight? In that? I'm used to a bed again." He cocked his head to listen, then grunted.
"Maybe one of these places doesn't have musicians. Anyway, I'll bet they don't have a juggler." He slung his
bow across his shoulders and started for the bright yellow door, studying everything through narrowed eyes.
Rand followed doubtfully.
There were musicians inside, their zither and drum almost drowned in coarse laughter and drunken
shouting. Rand did not bother to find the landlord. The next two inns had musicians as well, and the same
deafening cacophony. Roughly dressed men filled the tables and stumbled across the floor, waving mugs and
trying to fondle serving maids who dodged with fixed, long-suffering smiles. The buildings shook with the
racket, and the smell was sour, a stench of old wine and unwashed bodies. Of the merchants, in their silk and
velvet and lace, there was no sign; private dining rooms abovestairs protected their ears and noses. He and Mat
only put their heads in the doors before leaving. He was beginning to think they would have no choice but to
move on.
The fourth inn, The Dancing Cartman, stood silent.
It was as gaudy as the other inns, yellow trimmed in bright red and bilious, eye-wrenching green, though
here the paint was cracked and peeling. Rand and Mat stepped inside.
Only half a dozen men sat at the tables that filled the common room, hunched over their mugs, each one
glumly alone with his thoughts. Business was definitely not good, but it had been better once. Exactly as many
serving maids as there were patrons busied themselves around the room. There was plenty for them to do - dirt
crusted the floor and cobwebs filled the corners of the ceiling - but most were not doing anything really useful,
only moving so they would not be seen standing still.
A bony man with long, stringy hair to his shoulders turned to scowl at them as they came through the
door. The first slow peal of thunder rumbled across Four Kings. "What do you want?" He was rubbing his
hands on a greasy apron that hung to his ankles. Rand wondered if more grime was coming off on the apron or
on the man's hands. He was the first skinny innkeeper Rand had seen. "Well? Speak up, buy a drink, or get out!
Do I look like a raree show?"
Flushing, Rand launched into the spiel he had perfected at inns before this. "I play the flute, and my
friend juggles, and you'll not see two better in a year. For a good room and a good meal, we'll fill this common
room of yours." He remembered the filled common rooms he had already seen that evening, especially the man
who had vomited right in front of him at the last one. He had had to step lively to keep his boots untouched. He
faltered, but caught himself and went on. "We'll fill your inn with men who will repay the little we cost twenty
times over with the food and drink they buy. Why should-"
"I've got a man plays the dulcimer," the innkeeper said sourly.
"You have a drunk, Saml Hake," one of the serving maids said. She was passing him with a tray and two
mugs, and she paused to give Rand and Mat a plump smile. "Most times, he can't see well enough to find the
common room," she confided in a loud whisper. "Haven't even seen him in two days."
Without taking his eyes off Rand and Mat, Hake casually backhanded her across the face. She gave a
surprised grunt and fell heavily to the unwashed floor; one of the mugs broke, and the spilled wine washed
rivulets in the dirt. "You're docked for the wine and breakage. Get 'em fresh drinks. And hurry. Men don't pay to
wait while you laze around." His tone was as offhand as the blow. None of the patrons looked up from their
wine, and the other serving maids kept their eyes averted.
The plump woman rubbed her cheek and stared pure murder at Hake, but she gathered the empty mug
and the broken pieces on her tray and went off without a word.
Hake sucked his teeth thoughtfully, eyeing Rand and Mat. His gaze clung to the heron-mark sword
before he pulled it away. "Tell you what," he said finally. "You can have a couple of pallets in an empty
storeroom in the back. Rooms are too expensive to give away. You eat when everybody's gone. There ought to
be something left."
Rand wished there was an inn in Four Kings they had not yet tried. Since leaving Whitebridge he had
met coolness, indifference, and outright hostility, but nothing that gave him the sense of unease that this man
and this village did. He told himself it was just the dirt and squalor and noise, but the misgivings did not go
away. Mat was watching Hake as if he suspected some trap, but he gave no sign of wanting to give up The
Dancing Cartman for a bed under a hedge. Thunder rattled the windows. Rand Sighed.
"The pallets will do if they're clean, and if there are enough clean blankets. But we eat two hours after
full dark, no later, and the best you have. Here. We'll show you what we can do." He reached for the flute case,
but Hake shook his head.
"Don't matter. This lot'll be satisfied with any kind of screeching so long as it sounds something like
music." His eyes touched Rand's sword again; his thin smile touched nothing but his lips. "Eat when you want,
but if you don't bring the crowd in, out you go in the street." He nodded over his shoulder at two hard-faced
men sitting against the wall. They were not drinking, and their arms were thick enough for legs. When Hake
nodded at them, their eyes shifted to Rand and Mat, flat and expressionless.
Rand put one hand on his sword hilt, hoping the twisting in his stomach did not show on his face. "As
long as we get what's agreed on," he said in a level tone.
Hake blinked, and for a moment he seemed uneasy himself. Abruptly he nodded. "What I said, isn't it?
Well, get started. You won't bring anybody in just standing there." He stalked off, scowling and shouting at the
serving maids as if there were fifty customers they were neglecting. There was a small, raised platform at the far
end of the room, near the door to the back. Rand lifted a bench up on it, and settled his cloak, blanketroll, and
Thom's bundled cloak behind the bench with the sword lying atop them.
He wondered if he had been wise to keep wearing the sword openly. Swords were common enough, but
the heron-mark attracted attention and speculation. Not from everybody, but any notice at all made him
uncomfortable. He could be leaving a clear trail for the Myrddraal-if Fades needed that kind of trail. They did
not seem to. In any case, he was reluctant to stop wearing it. Tam had given it to him. His father. As long as he
wore the sword, there was still some connection between Tam and him, a thread that gave him the right to still
call Tam father. Too late now, he thought. He was not sure what he meant, but he was sure it was true. Too late.
At the first note of "Cock o' the North" the half-dozen patrons in the common room lifted their heads out
of their wine. Even the two bouncers sat forward a little. They all applauded when he finished, including the
two toughs, and once more when Mat sent a shower of colored balls spinning through his hands. Outside, the
sky muttered again. The rain was holding off, but the pressure of it was palpable; the longer it waited, the harder
it would fall.
Word spread, and by the time it was dark outside the inn was packed full with men laughing and talking
so loud that Rand could barely hear what he was playing. Only the thunder overpowered the noise in the
common room. Lightning flashed in the windows, and in the momentary lulls he could faintly hear rain
drumming on the roof. Men who came in now dripped trails across the floor.
Whenever he paused, voices shouted the names of tunes through the din. A good many names he did not
recognize, though when he got someone to hum a bit of it, he often found he did know the song. It had been that
way other places, before. "Jolly Jaim" was "Rhea's Fling" here, and had been "Colors of the Sun" at an earlier
stop. Some names stayed the same; others changed with ten miles' distance, and he had learned new songs, too.
"The Drunken Peddler" was a new one, though sometimes it was called "Tinker in the Kitchen." "Two Kings
Came Hunting" was "Two Horses Running" and several other names besides. He played the ones he knew, and
men pounded the tables for more.
Others called for Mat to juggle again. Sometimes fights broke out between those wanting music and
those who fancied juggling. Once a knife flashed, and a woman screamed, and a man reeled back from a table
with blood streaming down his face, but Jak and Strom, the two bouncers, closed in swiftly and with complete
impartiality threw everyone involved into the street with lumps on their heads. That was their tactic with any
trouble. The talk and the laughing went on as if nothing had occurred. Nobody even looked around except those
the bouncers jostled on their way to the door.
The patrons were free with their hands, too, when one of the serving maids let herself grow unwary.
More than once Jak or Strom had to rescue one of the women, though they were none too quick about it. The
way Hake carried on, screaming and shaking the woman involved, he always considered it her fault, and the
teary eyes and stammered apologies said she was willing to accept his opinion. The women jumped whenever
Hake frowned, even if he was looking somewhere else. Rand wondered why any of them put up with it.
Hake smiled when he looked at Rand and Mat. After a while Rand realized Hake was not smiling at
them; the smiles came when his eyes slid behind them, to where the heron-mark sword lay. Once, when Rand
set the gold-and-silver-chased flute down beside his stool, the flute got a smile, too.
The next time he changed places with Mat at the front of the dais, he leaned over to speak in Mat's ear.
Even that close he had to speak loudly, but with all the noise he doubted if anyone else could hear. "Hake's
going to try to rob us."
Mat nodded as if it was nothing he had not expected. "We'll have to bar our door tonight."
"Bar our door? Jak and Strom could break down a door with their fists. Let's get out of here."
"Wait till after we eat, at least. I'm hungry. They can't do anything here," Mat added. The packed
common room shouted impatiently for them to get on with it. Hake was glaring at them. "Anyway, you want to
sleep outside tonight?" An especially strong crack of lightning drowned out everything else, and for an instant
the light through the windows was stronger than the lamps.
"I just want to get out without my head being broken," Rand said, but Mat was already slouching back to
take his rest on the stool. Rand sighed and launched into "The Road to Dun Aren." A lot of them seemed to like
that one; he had already played it four times, and they still shouted for it.
The trouble was that Mat was right, as far as he went. He was hungry, too. And he could not see how
Hake could give them any trouble while the common room was full, and getting fuller. For every man who left
or was thrown out by Jak and Strom, two came in from the street. They shouted for the juggling or for a
particular tune, but mostly they were interested in drinking and fondling the serving maids. One man was
different, though.
He stood out in every way among the crowd in The Dancing Cartman. Merchants apparently had no use
for the run-down inn; there were not even any private dining rooms for them, as far as he could make out. The
patrons were all rough-dressed, with the tough skin of men who labored in the sun and wind. This man was
sleekly fleshy, with a soft look to his hands, and a velvet coat, and a dark green velvet cloak lined with blue silk
'as slung around his shoulders. All of his clothes had an expensive cut to them. His shoes-soft velvet slippers,
not boots - were not made for the rutted streets of Four Kings, or for any streets at all, for that matter.
He came in well after dark, shaking the rain off his cloak as he looked around, a twist of
distaste on his mouth. He scanned the room once, already turning to go, then suddenly gave a start at nothing
Rand could see and sat down at a table Jak and Strom had just emptied. A serving maid stopped at his table,
then brought him a mug of wine which he pushed to one side and never touched again. She seemed in a hurry to
leave his table both times, though he did not try to touch her of even look at her. Whatever it was about him that
made her uneasy, others who came close to him noticed it, too. For all of his soft look, whenever some callushanded
wagon driver decided to share his table, one glance was all it took to send the man looking elsewhere.
He sat as if there were no one else in the room but him-and Rand and Mat. Them he watched over steepled
hands that glittered with a ring on each finger. He watched them with a smile of satisfied recognition.
Rand murmured to Mat as they were changing places again, and Mat nodded. "I saw him," he muttered.
"Who it he? I keep thinking I know him. "
The same thought had occurred to Rand, tickling the back of his memory, but he could not bring it
forward. Yet he was sure that face was one he had never seen before.
When they had been performing for two hours, as near as Rand could estimate, he slipped the flute into
its case and he and Mat gathered up their belongings. As they were stepping down from the low platform, Hake
came bustling up, anger twisting his narrow face.
"It's time to eat," Rand said to forestall him, "and we don't want our things stolen. You want to tell the
cook?" Hake hesitated, still angry, trying unsuccessfully to keep his eyes off what Rand held in his arms.
Casually Rand shifted his bundles so he could rest one hand on the sword. "Or you can try throwing us out." He
made the emphasis deliberately, then added, "There's a lot of night left for us to play, yet. We have to keep our
strength up if we're going to perform well enough to keep this crowd spending money. How long do you think
this room will stay full if we fall over from hunger?"
Hake's eyes twitched over the room full of men putting money in his pocket, then he turned and stuck
his head through the door to the rear of the inn. "Feed 'em!" he shouted. Rounding on Rand and Mat, he snarled,
"Don't be all night about it. I expect you up there till the last man's gone. "
Some of the patrons were shouting for the musician and the juggler, and Hake turned to soothe them.
The man in the velvet cloak was one of the anxious ones. Rand motioned Mat to follow him.
A stout door separated the kitchen from the front of the inn, and, except when it opened to let a serving
maid through, the rain pounding the roof was louder in the kitchen than the shouts from the common room. It
was a big room, hot and steamy from stoves and ovens, with a huge table covered with half-prepared food and
dishes ready to be served. Some of the serving maids sat clustered on a bench near the rear door, rubbing their
feet and chattering away all at once with the fat cook, who talked back at the same time and waved a big spoon
to emphasize her points. They all glanced up as Rand and Mat came in, but it did not slow their conversation or
stop their foot rubbing.
"We ought to get out of here while we have the chance," Rand said softly, but Mat shook his head, his
eyes fixed on the two plates the cook was filling with beef and potatoes and peas. She hardly looked at the two
of them, keeping up her talk with the other women while she pushed things aside on the table with her elbows
and set the plates down, adding forks. "After we eat is time enough." Mat slid onto a bench and began using his
fork as if it were a shovel.
Rand sighed, but he was right behind Mat. He had had only a butt-end of bread to eat since the night
before. His belly felt as empty as a beggar's purse, and the cooking smells that filled the kitchen did not help.
He quickly had his mouth full, though Mat was getting his plate refilled by the cook before he had finished half
of his. He did not mean to eavesdrop on the women's talk, but some of the words reached out and grabbed him.
"Sounds crazy to me."
"Crazy or not, it's what I hear. He went to half the inns in town before he came here. Just walked in,
looked around, and walked out without saying one word, even at the Royal Inn. Like it wasn't raining at all."
"Maybe he thought here was the most comfortable." That brought gales of laughter.
"What I hear is he didn't even get to Four Kings till after nightfall, and his horses blowing like they'd
been pushed hard."
"Where'd he come from, to get caught out after dark? Nobody but a fool or a madman travels anywhere
and plans it that badly."
"Well, maybe he's a fool, but he's a rich one. I hear he even has another carriage for his servants and
baggage. There's money there, mark my words. Did you see that cloak of his? I wouldn't mind having that my
ownself. "
"He's a little plump for my taste, but I always say a man can't be too fat if enough gold comes with it."
They all doubled over giggling, and the cook threw back her head and roared with laughter.
Rand dropped his fork on his plate. A thought he did not like bubbled in his head. "I'll be back in a
minute," he said. Mat barely nodded, stuffing a piece of potato into his mouth.
Rand picked up his sword belt along with his cloak as he stood, and buckled it around his waist on the
way to the back door. No one paid him any mind.
The rain was bucketing down. He swung his cloak around his shoulders and pulled the hood over his
head, holding the cloak closed as he trotted across the stableyard. A curtain of water hid everything except when
lightning flashed, but he found what he was hunting. The horses had been taken into the stable, but the two
black-lacquered carriages glistened wetly outside. Thunder grumbled, and a bolt of lightning streaked above the
inn. In the brief burst of light he made out a name in gold script on the coach doors. Howal Gode.
Unmindful of the rain beating at him, he stood staring at the name he could no longer see. He
remembered where he had last seen black-lacquered coaches with their owners' names on the door, and sleek,
overfed men in silk-lined velvet cloaks and velvet slippers. Whitebridge. A Whitebridge merchant could have a
perfectly legitimate reason to be on his way to Caemlyn. A reason that sends him to half the inns in town before
he chooses the one where you are? A reason that makes him look at you as if he’s found what he's searching
for?
Rand shivered, and suddenly he was aware of rain trickling down his back. His cloak was tightly woven,
but it had never been meant to stand up to this kind of downpour. He hurried back to the inn, splashing through
deepening puddles. Jak blocked the door as he started through.
"Well, well, well. Out here alone in the dark. Dark's dangerous, boy."
Rain slicked Rand's hair down across his forehead. The stableyard was empty except for them. He
wondered if Hake had decided he wanted the sword and the flute badly enough to forgo keeping the crowd in
the common room.
Brushing water out of his eyes with one hand, he put the other on his sword. Even wet, the nobby leather
made a sure grip for his fingers. "Has Hake decided all those men will stay just for his ale, instead of going
where there's entertainment, too? If he has, we'll call the meal even for what we've done so far and be on our
way."
Dry in the doorway, the big man looked out at the rain and snorted. "In this?" His eyes slid down to
Rand's hand on the sword. "You know, me and Strom got a bet. He figures you stole that from your old
grandmother. Me, I figure your grandmother'd kick you round the pigpen and hang you out to dry." He grinned.
His teeth were crooked and yellow, and the grin made him look even meaner. "Night's long yet, boy."
Rand brushed past him, and Jak let him by with an ugly chuckle.
Inside, he tossed off his cloak and dropped on the bench at the table he had left only minutes before. Mat
was done with his second plate and working on a third, eating more slowly now, but intently, as if he planned to
finish every bite if it killed him. Jak took up a place by the door to the stableyard, leaning against the wall and
watching them. Even the cook seemed to feel no urge to talk with him there.
"He's from Whitebridge," Rand said softly. There was no need to say who "he" was. Mat's head
swiveled toward him, a piece of beef on the end of the fork suspended halfway to his mouth. Conscious of Jak
watching, Rand stirred the food on his plate. He could not have gotten a mouthful down if he had been starving,
but he tried to pretend an interest in the peas as he told Mat about the carriages, and what the women had said,
in case Mat had not been listening.
Obviously he had not been. Mat blinked in surprise and whistled between his teeth, then frowned at the
meat on his fork and grunted as he tossed the fork onto his plate. Rand wished he would make at least an effort
to be circumspect.
"After us," Mat said when he finished. The creases in Mat's forehead deepened. "A Darkfriend?"
"Maybe. I don't know." Rand glanced at Jak and the big man stretched elaborately, shrugging shoulders
as big as any blacksmith's. "Do you think we can get past him?"
"Not without him making enough noise to bring Hake and the other one. I knew we should never have
stopped here."
Rand gaped, but before he could say anything Hake pushed through the door from the common room.
Strom bulked large over his shoulder. Jak stepped in front of the back door. "You going to eat all night?" Hake
barked. "I didn't feed you so you could lie around out here."
Rand looked at his friend. Later, Mat mouthed, and they gathered their things under the watchful eyes of
Hake, Strom, and Jak.
In the common room, cries for juggling and the names of tunes burst through the clamor as soon as Rand
and Mat appeared. The man in the velvet cloak - Howal Gode - still appeared to ignore everyone around him,
but he was nonetheless seated on the edge of his chair. At the sight of them he leaned back, the satisfied smile
returning to his lips.
Rand took the first turn at the front of the dais, playing "Drawing Water From the Well" with only half
his mind on it. No one seemed to notice the few wrong notes. He tried to think of how they were going to get
away, and tried to avoid looking at Gode, too. If he was after them, there was no point in letting him know they
knew it. As for getting away…
He had never realized before what a good trap an inn made. Hake, Jak, and Strom did not even have to
keep a close eye on them; the crowd would let them know if he or Mat left the dais. As long as the common
room was full of people, Hake could not send Jak and Strom after them, but as long as the common room was
full of people they could not get away without Hake knowing. And Gode was watching their every move, too. It
was so funny he would have laughed if he had not been on the point of throwing up. They would just have to be
wary and wait their chance.
When he changed places with Mat, Rand groaned to himself. Mat glared at Hake, at Strom, at Jak,
without a care to whether they noticed or wondered why. When he was not actually handling the balls, his hand
rested under his coat. Rand hissed at him, but he paid no attention. If Hake saw that ruby, he might not wait
until they were alone. If the men in the common room saw it, half of them might join in with Hake.
Worst of all, Mat stared at the Whitebridge merchant-the Darkfriend?-twice as hard as at anyone else,
and Gode noticed. There was no way he could avoid noticing. But it did not disturb his aplomb is the least. His
smile deepened, if anything, and he nodded to Mat as if to an old acquaintance, then looked at Rand and raised a
questioning eyebrow. Rand did not want to know what the question was. He tried to avoid looking at the man,
but he knew it was too late for that. Too late. Too late again.
Only one thing seemed to shake the velvet-cloaked man's equilibrium. Rand's sword. He had left it on.
Two or three men staggered up to ask if he thought his playing was so bad that he needed protection, but none
of them had noticed the heron on the hilt. Gode noticed. His pale hands clenched, and he frowned at the sword
for a long time before his smile came back. When it did, it was not as sure as before.
One good thing, at least, Rand thought. If he believes I can live up to the heron-mark, maybe he'll leave
us alone. Then all we have to worry about is Hake and his bullies. It was hardly a comforting thought, and,
sword or no sword, Gode kept watching. And smiling.
To Rand the night seemed to last a year. All those eyes looking at him: Hake and Jak and Strom like
vultures watching a sheep caught in a bog, Gode waiting like something even worse. He began to think that
everybody in the room was watching with some hidden motive. Sour wine fumes and the stench of dirty,
sweating bodies made his head swim, and the din of voices beat at him till his eyes blurred and even the sound
of his own flute scratched at his ears. The crash of the thunder seemed to be inside his skull. Weariness hung on
him like an iron weight.
Eventually the need to be up with the dawn began to pull men reluctantly out into the dark. A farmer had
only himself to answer to, but merchants were notoriously unfeeling about hangovers when they were paying
drivers' wages. In the small hours the common room slowly emptied as even those who had rooms abovestairs
staggered off to find their beds.
Gode was the last patron. When Rand reached for the leather flute case, yawning, Gode stood up and
slung his cloak over his arm. The serving maids were cleaning up, muttering among themselves about the mess
of spilled wine and broken crockery. Hake was locking the front door with a big key. Gode cornered Hake for a
moment, and Hake called one of the women to show him to a room. The velvet-cloaked man gave Mat and
Rand a knowing smile before he disappeared upstairs.
Hake was looking at Rand and Mat. Jak and Strom stood at his shoulders.
Rand hastily finished hanging his things from his shoulders, holding them all awkwardly behind him
with his left hand so he could reach his sword. He made no move toward it, but he wanted to know it was ready.
He suppressed a yawn; how tired he was, was something they should not know.
Mat shouldered his bow and his few other belongings awkwardly, but he put his hand under his coat as
he watched Hake and his toughs approach.
Hake was carrying an oil lamp, and to Rand's surprise he gave a little bow and gestured to a side door
with it. "Your pallets are this way." Only a slight twist of his lips spoiled his act.
Mat thrust his chin out at Jak and Strom. "You need those two to show us our beds?"
"I'm a man of property," Hake said, smoothing the front of his soiled apron, "and men of property can't
be too careful." A crash of thunder rattled the windows, and he glanced significantly at the ceiling, then gave
them a toothy grin. "You want to see your beds or not?"
Rand wondered what would happen if he said they wanted to leave. If you really did know more about
using a sword than the few exercises Lan showed you . . . "Lead the way," he said, trying to make his voice
hard. "I don't like having anybody behind me."
Strom snickered, but Hake nodded placidly and turned toward the side door, and the two big men
swaggered after him. Taking a deep breath, Rand gave a wishful glance at the door to the kitchen. If Hake had
already locked the back door, running now would only begin what he was hoping to avoid. He followed the
innkeeper glumly.
At the side door he hesitated, and Mat crowded into his back. The reason for Hake's lamp was apparent.
The door let into a hall as black as pitch. Only the lamp Hake carried, silhouetting Jak and Strom, gave him the
courage to keep on. If they turned, he would know it. And do what? The floor creaked under his boots.
The hall ended in a rough, unpainted door. He had not seen if there were any other doors along the way.
Hake and his bullies went through, and he followed quickly, before they could have a chance to set a trap, but
Hake merely lifted the lamp high and gestured at the room. "Here it is."
An old storeroom, he had called it, and by the look of it not used in some time. Weathered barrels and
broken crates filled half the floor. Steady drips fell from more than one place on the ceiling, and a broken pane
in the filthy window let the rain blow in freely. Unidentifiable odds and ends littered the shelves, and thick dust
covered almost everything. The presence of the promised pallets was a surprise.
The sword makes him nervous. He won't try anything until we're sound asleep.
Rand had no intention of sleeping under Hake's roof. As soon as the innkeeper left, he intended to be out
the window. "It'll do," he said. He kept his eyes on Hake, wary for a signal to the two grinning men at the
innkeeper's side. It was an effort not to wet his lips. "Leave the lamp."
Hake grunted, but pushed the lamp onto a shelf. He hesitated, looking at them, and Rand was sure he
was about to give the word for Jak and Strom to jump them, but his eyes went to Rand's sword with a
calculating frown, and he jerked his head at the two big men. Surprise flashed across their broad faces, but they
followed him out of the room without a backward glance.
Rand waited for the creak-creak-creak of their footsteps to fade away, then counted to fifty before
sticking his head into the hall. The blackness was broken only by a rectangle of light that seemed as distant as
the moon: the door to the common room. As he pulled his head in, something big moved in the darkness near
the far door. Jak or Strom, standing guard.
A quick examination of the door told him all he needed to know, little of it good. The boards were thick
and stout, but there was no lock, and no bar on the inside. It did open into the room, though.
"I thought they were going for us," Mat said. "What are they waiting for?" He had the dagger out,
gripped in a white-knuckled fist. Lamplight flickered on the blade. His bow and quiver lay forgotten on the
floor.
"For us to go to sleep." Rand started rummaging through the barrels and crates. "Help me find
something to block the door."
"Why? You don't really intend to sleep here, do you? Let's get out the window and gone. I'd rather be
wet than dead."
"One of them is at the end of the hall. We make any noise, and they'll be down on us before we can
blink. I think Hake would rather face us awake than risk letting us get away."
Muttering, Mat joined his search, but there was nothing useful in any of the litter on the floor. The
barrels were empty, the crates splintered, and the whole lot of them piled in front of the door would not stop
anyone from opening it. Then something familiar on a shelf caught Rand's eye. Two splitting wedges, covered
with rust and dust. He took them down with a grin.
Hastily he shoved them under the door and, when the next roll of thunder rattled the inn, drove them in
with two quick kicks of his heel. The thunder faded, and he held his breath, listening. All he heard was the rain
pounding on the roof. No floorboards creaking under running feet.
"The window," he said.
It had not been opened in years, from the dirt crusted around it. They strained together, pushing up with
all their might. Rand's knees wobbled before the sash budged; it groaned with each reluctant inch. When the
opening was wide enough for them to slip through, he crouched, then stopped.
"Blood and ashes!" Mat growled. "No wonder Hake wasn't worried about us slipping out."
Iron bars in an iron frame glistened wetly in the light from the lamp. Rand pushed at them; they were as
solid as a boulder.
"I saw something," Mat said. He pawed hurriedly through the litter on the shelves and came back with a
rusty crowbar. He rammed the end of it under the iron frame on one side, and Rand winced.
"Remember the noise, Mat."
Mat grimaced and muttered under his breath, but he waited. Rand put his hands on the crowbar and tried
to find good footing in the growing puddle of water under the window. Thunder rolled and they heaved. With a
tortured squeal of nails that made the hairs lift on Rand's neck, the frame shifted-a quarter of an inch, if that.
Timing themselves to peals of thunder and lightning cracks, they heaved on the crowbar again and again.
Nothing. A quarter of an inch. Nothing. A hairsbreadth. Nothing. Nothing.
Suddenly Rand's feet slipped in the water, and they crashed to the floor. The crowbar clattered against
the bars like a gong. He lay in a puddle holding his breath and listening. Silence but for the rain.
Mat nursed bruised knuckles and glared at him. "We'll never get out at this rate." The iron frame was
pushed out from the window not quite far enough to get two fingers under it. Dozens of thick nails crossed the
narrow opening.
"We just have to keep trying," Rand said, getting up. But as he set the crowbar under the edge of the
frame, the door creaked as someone tried to open it. The splitting wedges held it shut. He exchanged a worried
look with Mat. Mat pulled the dagger out again. The door gave another screak.
Rand took a deep breath and tried to make his voice steady. "Go away, Hake. We're trying to sleep."
"I fear you mistake me." The voice was so sleek and full of itself that it named its owner. Howal Gode.
"Master Hake and his . . . minions will not trouble us. They sleep soundly, and in the morning they will only be
able to wonder where you vanished to. Let me in, my young friends. We must talk. "
"We don't have anything to talk to you about," Mat said. "Go away and let us sleep."
Gode's chuckle was nasty. "Of course we have things to talk about. You know that as well as I. I saw it
in your eyes. I know what you are, perhaps better than you do. I can feel it coming from you in waves. Already
you halfway belong to my master. Stop running and accept it. Things will be so much easier for you. If the Tar
Valon hags find you, you'll wish you could cut your own throat before they are done, but you won't be able to.
Only my master can protect you from them."
Rand swallowed hard. "We don't know what you're talking about. Leave us alone." The floorboards in
the hall squeaked. Gode was not alone. How many men could he have brought in two carriages?
"Stop being foolish, my young friends. You know. You know very well. The Great Lord of the Dark has
marked you for his own. It is written that when he awakes, the new Dreadlords will be there to praise him. You
must be two of them, else I would not have been sent to find you. Think of it. Life everlasting, and power
beyond dreams." His voice was thick with hunger for that power himself.
Rand glanced back at the window just as lightning split the sky, and he almost groaned. The brief flash
of light showed men outside, men ignoring the rain that drenched them as they stood watching the window.
"I tire of this," Gode announced. "You will submit to my master - to your master - or you will be made
to submit. That would not be pleasant for you. The Great Lord of the Dark rules death, and he can give life in
death or death in life as he chooses. Open this door. One way or another, your running is at an end. Open it, I
say!"
He must have said something else, too, for suddenly a heavy body thudded against the door. It shivered,
and the wedges slid a fraction of an inch with a grate of rust rubbing off on wood. Again and again the door
trembled as bodies hurled themselves at it. Sometimes the wedges held; sometimes they slid another tiny bit,
and bit by tiny bit the door crept inexorably inward.
"Submit," Gode demanded from the hall, "or spend eternity wishing that you had!"
"If we don't have any choice - " Mat licked his lips under Rand's stare. His eyes darted like the eyes of a
badger in a trap; his face was pale, and he panted as he spoke. "We could say yes, and then get away later.
Blood and ashes, Rand, there's no way out!"
The words seemed to drift to Rand through wool stuffed in his ears. No way out. Thunder muttered
overhead, and was drowned in a slash of lightning. Have to find a way out. Gode called to them, demanding,
appealing; the door slid another inch toward being open. A way out!
Light filled the room, flooding vision; the air roared and burned. Rand felt himself picked up and dashed
against the wall. He slid down in a heap, ears ringing and every hair on his body trying to stand on end. Dazed,
he staggered to his feet. His knees wobbled, and he put a hand against the wall to steady himself. He looked
around in amazement.
The lamp, lying on its side on the edge of one of the few shelves still clinging to the walls, still burned
and gave light. All the barrels and crates, some blackened and smoldering, lay toppled where they had been
hurled. The window, bars and all, and most of the wall, too, had vanished, leaving a splintered hole. The roof
sagged, and tendrils of smoke fought the rain around the jagged edges of the opening. The door hung off its
hinges, jammed in the doorframe at an angle slanting into the hall.
With a feeling of woozy unreality he stood the lamp up. It seemed the most important thing in the world
was making sure it did not break.
A pile of crates suddenly heaved apart, and Mat stood up in the middle of it. He weaved on his feet,
blinking and fumbling at himself as if wondering if everything was still attached. He peered toward Rand.
"Rand? Is that you? You're alive. I thought we were both -" He broke off, biting his lip and shaking. It took
Rand a moment to realize he was laughing, and on the edge of hysteria.
"What happened, Mat? Mat? Mat! What happened?"
One last shiver wracked Mat, and then he was still. "Lightning, Rand. I was looking right at the window
when it hit the bars. Lightning. I can't see worth -" He broke off, squinting at the aslant door, and his voice went
sharp. "Where's Gode?"
Nothing moved in the dark corridor beyond the door. Of Gode and his companions there was neither
sign nor sound, though anything could have lain in the blackness. Rand found himself hoping they were dead,
but he would not have put his head into the hall to find out for sure if he had been offered a crown. Nothing
moved out in the night beyond where the wall had been, either, but others were up and about. Confused shouts
came from abovestairs in the inn, and the pounding of running feet.
"Let's go while we can," Rand said.
Hastily helping separate their belongings from the rubble, he grabbed Mat's arm and half pulled, half
guided his friend through the gaping hole into the night. Mat clutched his arm, stumbling beside him with his
head pushed forward in an effort to see. As the first rain hit Rand's face, lightning forked above the inn, and he
came to a convulsive stop. Gode's men were still there, lying with their feet toward the opening. Pelted by the
rain, their open eyes stared at the sky.
"What is it?" Mat asked. "Blood and ashes! I can hardly see my own bloody hand!"
"Nothing," Rand said. Luck. The Light's own . . . Is it? Shivering, he carefully guided Mat around the
bodies. "Just the lightning."
There was no light save the lightning, and he stumbled in the ruts as they ran staggering away from the
inn. With Mat almost hanging on him, every stumble almost pulled them both down, but tottering, panting, they
ran.
Once he looked back. Once, before the rain thickened to a deafening curtain that blotted The Dancing
Cartman from sight. Lightning silhouetted the figure of a man at the back of the inn, a man shaking his fist at
them, or at the sky. Gode or Hake, he did not know, but either one was as bad as the other. The rain came in a
deluge, isolating them in a wall of water. He hurried through the night, listening through the roar of the storm
for the sound of pursuit.

Chapter 33

The Dark Waits


Under a leaden sky the high-wheeled cart bumped east along the Caemlyn Road. Rand pulled himself
out of the straw in back to look over the side. It was easier than it had been an hour earlier. His arms
felt as if they might stretch instead of drawing him up, and for a minute his head wanted to keep on
going and float away, but it was easier. He hooked his elbows over the low slats and watched the land roll past.
The sun, still hidden by dull clouds, yet stood high overhead, but the cart was clattering into another village of
vine-covered, red brick houses. Towns had been getting closer together since Four Kings.
Some of the people waved or called a greeting to Hyam Kinch, the farmer whose cart it was. Master
Kinch, leathery-faced and taciturn, shouted back a few words each time, around the pipe in his teeth. The
clenched teeth made what he said all but unintelligible, but it sounded jovial and seemed to satisfy; they went
back to what they were doing without another glance at the cart. No one appeared to pay any mind to the
farmer's two passengers.
The village inn moved through Rand's field of vision. It was whitewashed, with a gray slate roof. People
bustled in and out, nodding casually and waving to one another. Some of them stopped to speak. They knew one
another. Villagers, mostly, by their clothes-boots and trousers and coats not much different from what he wore
himself, though with an inordinate fondness for colorful stripes. The women wore deep bonnets that hid their
faces and white aprons with stripes. Maybe they were all townsmen and local farmfolk. Does that make any
difference?
He dropped back on the straw, watching the village dwindle between his feet. Fenced fields and trimmed
hedges lined the road, and small farmhouses with smoke rising from red brick chimneys. The only woods near
the road were coppices, well tended for firewood, tame as a farmyard. But the branches stood leafless against
the sky, as stark as in the wild woods to the west.
A line of wagons heading the other way rumbled down the center of the road, crowding the cart over
onto the verge. Master Kinch shifted his pipe to the corner of his mouth and spat between his teeth. With one
eye on his off-side wheel, to make sure it did not tangle in the hedge, he kept the cart moving. His mouth
tightened as he glanced at the merchants' train.
None of the wagon drivers cracking their long whips in the air above eight-horse teams, none of the
hard-faced guards slouching in their saddles alongside the wagons, looked at the cart. Rand watched them go,
his chest tight. His hand was under his cloak, gripping his sword hilt, until the last wagon lurched by.
As that final wagon rattled away toward the village they had just left, Mat turned on the seat beside the
farmer and leaned back until he found Rand's eyes. The scarf that did duty for dust, when need be, shaded his
own eyes, folded over thickly and tied low around his forehead. Even so he squinted in the gray daylight. "You
see anything back there?" he asked quietly. "What about the wagons?"
Rand shook his head, and Mat nodded. He had seen nothing either.
Master Kinch glanced at them out of the corner of his eye, then shifted his pipe again, and flapped the
reins. That was all, but he had noticed. The horse picked up the pace a step.
"Your eyes still hurt?" Rand asked.
Mat touched the scarf around his head. "No. Not much. Not unless I look almost right at the sun,
anyway. What about you? Are you feeling any better?"
"Some." He really was feeling better, he realized. It was a wonder to get over being sick so fast. More
than that, it was a gift of the Light. It has to be the Light. It has to be.
Suddenly a body of horsemen was passing the cart, heading west like the merchants' wagons. Long
white collars hung down over their mail and plate, and their cloaks and undercoats were red, like the
gatetenders' uniforms in Whitebridge, but better made and better fitting. Each man's conical helmet shone like
silver. They sat their horses with straight backs. Thin red streamers fluttered beneath the heads of their lances,
every lance held at the same angle.
Some of them glanced into the cart as they passed in two columns. A cage of steel bars masked each
face. Rand was glad his cloak covered his sword. A few nodded to Master Kinch, not as if they knew him, but
in a neutral greeting. Master Kinch nodded back in much the same way, but despite his unchanging expression
there was a hint of approval in his nod.
Their horses were at a walk, but with the speed of the cart added, they went by quickly. With a part of
his mind Rand counted them. Ten . . . twenty . . . thirty . . . thirty-two. He raised his head to watch the columns
move on down the Caemlyn Road.
"Who were they?" Mat asked, half wondering, half suspicious.
"Queen's Guards," Master Kinch said around his pipe. He kept his eyes on the road ahead. "Won't go
much further than Breen's Spring, 'less they're called for. Not like the old days." He sucked on his pipe, then
added, "I suppose, these days, there's parts of the Realm don't see the Guards in a year or more. Not like the old
days."
"What are they doing?" Rand asked.
The farmer gave him a look. "Keeping the Queen's peace and upholding the Queen's law." He nodded to
himself as if he liked the sound of that, and added, "Searching out malefactors and seeing them before a
magistrate. Minmph!" He let out a long streamer of smoke. "You two must be from pretty far off not to
recognize the Queen's Guard. Where you from?"
"Far off," Mat said at the same instant that Rand said, "The Two Rivers." He wished he could take it
back as soon as he said it. He still was not thinking clearly. Trying to hide, and mentioning a name a Fade
would hear like a bell.
Master Kinch glanced at Mat out of the corner of his eye, and puffed his pipe in silence for a while.
"That's far off, all right," he said finally. "Almost to the border of the Realm. But things must be worse than I
thought if there's places in the Realm where people don't even recognize the Queen's Guards. Not like the old
days at all."
Rand wondered what Master al'Vere would say if someone told him the Two Rivers was part of some
Queen's Realm. The Queen of Andor, he supposed. Perhaps the Mayor did know-he knew a lot of things that
surprised Rand-and maybe others did, too, but he had never heard anyone mention it. The Two Rivers was the
Two Rivers. Each village handled its own problems, and if some difficulty involved more than one village the
Mayors, and maybe the Village Councils, solved it between them.
Master Kinch pulled on the reins, drawing the cart to a halt. "Far as I go." A narrow cart path led off to
the north; several farmhouses were visible in that direction across open fields, plowed but still bare of crops.
"Two days will see you in Caemlyn. Least, it would if your friend had his legs under him."
Mat hopped down and retrieved his bow and other things, then helped Rand climb off the tail of the cart.
Rand's bundles weighed on him, and his legs wobbled, but he shrugged off his friend's hand and tried a few
steps on his own. He still felt unsteady, but his legs held him up. They even seemed to grow stronger as he used
them.
The farmer did not start his horse up again right away. He studied them for a minute, sucking on his
pipe. "You can rest up a day or two at my place, if you want. Won't miss anything in that time, I suppose.
Whatever sickness you're getting over, young fellow . . . well, the old woman and me, we already had about
every sickness you can think of before you were born, and nursed our younglings through 'em, too. I expect
you're past the catching stage, anyway." Mat's eyes narrowed, and Rand caught himself frowning. Not everyone
is part of it. It can't be everybody.
"Thank you," he said, "but I'm all right. Really. How far to the next village?"
"Carysford? You can reach it before dark, walking." Master Kinch took his pipe from between his teeth
and pursed his lips thoughtfully before going on. "First off, I reckoned you for runaway 'prentices, but now I
expect it's something more serious you're running from. Don't know what. Don't care. I'm a good enough judge
to say you're not Darkfriends, and not likely to rob or hurt anybody. Not like some on the road these days. I got
in trouble a time or two myself when I was your age. You need a place to keep out of sight a few days, my farm
is five miles that way" - he jerked his head toward the cart track - "and don't nobody ever come out there.
Whatever's chasing you, won't likely find you there." He cleared his throat as if embarrassed by speaking so
many words together.
"How would you know what Darkfriends look like?" Mat demanded. He backed away from the cart, and
his hand went under his coat. "What do you know about Darkfriends?"
Master Kinch's face tightened. "Suit yourselves," he said, and clucked to his horse. The cart rolled off
down the narrow path, and he never looked back.
Mat looked at Rand, and his scowl faded. "Sorry, Rand. You need a place to rest. Maybe if we go after
him . . ." He shrugged. "I just can't get over the feeling that everybody's after us. Light, I wish I knew why they
were. I wish it was over. I wish. . ." He trailed off miserably.
"There are still some good people," Rand said. Mat started toward the cart path, jaw clenched as if it
were the last thing he wanted to do, but Rand stopped him. "We can't afford to stop just to rest, Mat. Besides, I
don't think there is anywhere to hide."
Mat nodded, his relief evident. He tried to take some of Rand's burdens, the saddlebags and Thom's
cloak wrapped around the cased harp, but Rand held onto them. His legs really did feel stronger. Whatever's
chasing us? he thought as they started off down the road. Not chasing. Waiting.
The rain had continued through the night they staggered away from The Dancing Cartman, hammering
at them as hard as the thunder out of a black sky split by lightning. Their clothes became sodden in minutes; in
an hour Rand's skin felt sodden, too, but they had left Four Kings behind them. Mat was all but blind in the
dark, squinting painfully at the sharp flashes that made trees stand out starkly for an instant. Rand led him by
the hand, but Mat still felt out each step uncertainly. Worry creased Rand's forehead. If Mat did not regain his
sight, they would be slowed to a crawl. They would never get away.
Mat seemed to sense his thought. Despite the hood of his cloak, the rain had plastered Mat's hair across
his face. "Rand," he said, "you won't leave me, will you? If I can't keep up?" His voice quavered.
"I won't leave you." Rand tightened his grip on his friend's hand. "I won't leave you no matter what."
Light help us! Thunder crashed overhead, and Mat stumbled, almost falling, almost pulling him down, too. "We
have to stop, Mat. If we keep going, you'll break a leg."
"Gode." Lightning split the dark right above them as Mat spoke, and the thunder crack pounded every
other sound into the ground, but in the flash Rand could make out the name on Mat's lips.
"He's dead." He has to be. Light, let him he dead.
He led Mat to some bushes the lightning flash had showed him. They had leaves enough to give a little
shelter from the driving rain. Not as much as a good tree might, but he did not want to risk another lightning
strike. They might not be so lucky, next time.
Huddled together beneath the bushes, they tried to arrange their cloaks to make a little tent over the
branches. It was far too late to think of staying dry, but just stopping the incessant pelting of the raindrops
would be something. They crouched against each other to share what little body warmth was left to them.
Dripping wet as they were, and more drips coming through the cloaks, they shivered themselves into sleep.
Rand knew right away it was a dream. He was back in Four Kings, but the town was empty except for
him. The wagons were there, but no people, no horses, no dogs. Nothing alive. He knew someone was waiting
for him, though.
As he walked down the rutted street, the buildings seemed to blur as they slid behind him. When he
turned his head, they were all there, solid, but the indistinctness remained at the cornersof his vision. It was as if
only what he saw really existed, and then just while he was seeing. He was sure if he turned quickly enough he
would see . . . He was not sure what, but it made him uneasy, thinking about it.
The Dancing Cartman appeared in front of him. Somehow its garish paint seemed gray and lifeless. He
went in. Code was there, at a table.
He only recognized the man from his clothes, his silk and dark velvets. Gode's skin was red, burned and
cracked and oozing. His face was almost a skull, his lips shriveled to bare teeth and gums. As Gode turned his
head, some of his hair cracked off, powdering to soot when it hit his shoulder. His lidless eyes stared at Rand.
"So you are dead," Rand said. He was surprised that he was not afraid. Perhaps it was knowing that it
was a dream this time.
"Yes," said Ba'alzamon's voice, "but he did find you for me. That deserves some reward, don't you
think?"
Rand turned, and discovered he could be afraid, even knowing it was a dream. Ba'alzamon's clothes
were the color of dried blood, and rage and hate and triumph battled on his face.
"You see, youngling, you cannot hide from me forever. One way or another I find you. What protects
you also makes you vulnerable. One time you hide, the next you light a signal fire. Come to me, youngling." He
held out his hand to Rand. "If my hounds must pull you down, they may not be gentle. They are jealous of what
you will be, once you have knelt at my feet. It is your destiny. You belong to me." Gode's burned tongue made
an angry, eager garble of sound. Rand tried to wet his lips, but he had no spit in his mouth. "No," he managed,
and then the words came more easily. "I belong to myself. Not you. Not ever. Myself. If your Darkfriends kill
me, you'll never have me."
The fires in Ba'alzamon's face heated the room till the air swam. "Alive or dead, youngling, you are
mine. The grave belongs to me. Easier dead, but better alive. Better for you, youngling. The living have more
power in most things." Gode made a gabbling sound again. "Yes, my good hound. Here is your reward."
Rand looked at Gode just in time to see the man's body crumble to dust. For an instant the burned face
held a look of sublime joy that turned to horror in the final moment, as if he had seen something waiting he did
not expect. Gode's empty velvet garments settled on the chair and the floor among the ash.
When he turned back, Ba'alzamon's outstretched hand had become a fist. "You are mine, youngling,
alive or dead. The Eye of the World will never serve you. I mark you as mine." His fist opened, and a ball of
flame shot out. It struck Rand in the face, exploding, searing.
Rand lurched awake in the dark, water dripping through the cloaks onto his face. His hand trembled as
he touched his cheeks. The skin felt tender, as if sunburned.
Suddenly he realized Mat was twisting and moaning in his sleep. He shook him, and Mat came awake
with a whimper.
"My eyes! Oh, Light, my eyes! He took my eyes!"
Rand held him close, cradling him against his chest as if he were a baby. "You're all right, Mat. You're
all right. He can't hurt us. We won't let him." He could feel Mat shaking, sobbing into his coat. "He can't hurt
us," he whispered, and wished he believed it. What protects you makes you vulnerable. I am going mad.
Just before first light the downpour dwindled, the last drizzle fading as dawn came. The clouds
remained, threatening until well into the morning. The wind came up, then, driving the clouds off to the south,
baring a warmthless sun and slicing through their dripping wet clothes. They had not slept again, but groggily
they donned their cloaks and set off eastward, Rand leading Mat by the hand. After a while Mat even felt well
enough to complain about what the rain had done to his bowstring. Rand would not let him stop to exchange it
for a dry string from his pocket, though; not yet.
They came on another village shortly after midday. Rand shivered harder at the sight of snug brick
houses and smoke rising from chimneys, but he kept clear, leading Mat through the woods and fields to the
south. A lone farmer working with a spading fork in a muddy field was the only person he saw, and he took care
that the man did not see them, crouching through the trees. The farmer's attention was all on his work, but Rand
kept one eye on him till he was lost to sight. If any of Gode's men were alive, perhaps they would believe he
and Mat had taken the southern road out of Four Kings when they could not find anyone who had seen them in
this village. They came back to the road out of sight of the town, and walked their clothes, if not dry, at least to
just damp.
An hour beyond the town a farmer gave them a ride in his half-empty haywain. Rand had been taken by
surprise while lost in worry about Mat. Mat shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand, weak as the afternoon
light was, squinting through slitted lids even so, and he muttered continually about how bright the sun was.
When Rand heard the rumble of the haywain, it was too late already. The sodden road deadened sound, and the
wagon with its two-horse hitch was only fifty yards behind them, the driver already peering at them.
To Rand's surprise he drew up and offered them a lift. Rand hesitated, but it was too late to avoid being
seen, and refusing a ride might fix them in the man's mind. He helped Mat up to the seat beside the farmer, then
climbed up behind him.
Alpert Mull was a stolid man, with a square face and square hands, both worn and grooved from hard
work and worry, and he wanted someone to talk to. His cows had gone dry, his chickens had stopped laying,
and there was no pasture worth the name. For the first time in memory he had had to buy hay, and half a wagon
was all "old Bain" would let him have. He wondered whether there was any chance of getting hay on his own
land this year, or any kind of crop.
"The Queen should do something, the Light illumine her," he muttered, knuckling his forehead
respectfully but absentmindedly.
He hardly looked at Rand or Mat, but when he let them down by the narrow, rail-lined track that led off
to his farm, he hesitated, then said, almost as if to himself, "I don't know what you're running from, and I don't
want to. I have a wife and children. You understand? My family. It's hard times for helping strangers."
Mat tried to stick his hand under his coat, but Rand had his wrist and he held on. He stood in the road,
looking at the man without speaking.
"If I was a good man," Mull said, "I'd offer a couple of lads soaked to the skin a place to dry out and get
warm in front of my fire. But it's 'hard times, and strangers… I don't know what you're running from, and I don't
want to. You understand? My family." Suddenly he pulled two long, woolen scarves, dark and thick, out of his
coat pocket. "It's not much, but here. Belong to my boys. They have others. You don't know me, understand?
It's hard times."
"We never even saw you," Rand agreed as he took the scarves. "You are a good man. The best we've
met in days."
The farmer looked surprised, then grateful. Gathering his reins, he turned his horses down the narrow
lane. Before he completed the turn Rand was leading Mat on down the Caemlyn Road.
The wind stiffened as dusk closed in. Mat began to ask querulously when they were going to stop, but
Rand kept moving, pulling Mat behind him, searching for more shelter than a spot under a hedge. With their
clothes still clammy and the wind getting colder by the minute, he was not sure they could survive another night
in the open. Night fell without him spotting anything useful. The wind grew icy, beating his cloak. Then,
through the darkness ahead, he saw lights. A village.
His hand slid into his pocket, feeling the coins there. More than enough for a meal and a room for the
two of them. A room out of the cold night. If they stayed in the open, in the wind and cold in damp clothes,
anyone who found them would likely as not find only two corpses. They just had to keep from attracting any
more notice than they could help. No playing the flute, and with his eyes, Mat certainly could not juggle. He
grasped Mat's hand again and set out toward the beckoning lights.
"When are we going to stop?" Mat asked again. The way he peered ahead, with his head stuck forward,
Rand was not sure if Mat could see him, much less the village lights.
"When we're somewhere warm," he replied.
Pools of light from house windows lit the streets of the town, and people walked them unconcerned with
what might be out in the dark. The only inn was a sprawling building, all on one floor, with the look of having
had rooms added in bunches over the years without any particular plan. The front door opened to let someone
out, and a wave of laughter rolled out after him.
Rand froze in the street, the drunken laughter at The Dancing Cartman echoing in his head. He watched
the man go down the street with a none too-steady stride, then took a deep breath and pushed the door open. He
took care that his cloak covered his sword. Laughter swept over him.
Lamps hanging from the high ceiling made the room bright, and right away he could see and feel the
difference from Saml Hake's inn. There was no drunkenness here, for one thing. The room was filled with
people who looked to be farmers and townsmen, if not entirely sober, not too far from it. The laughter was real,
if a bit forced around the edges. People laughing to forget heir troubles, but with true mirth in it, too. The
common room itself was neat and clean, and warm from a fire roaring in a big fireplace at the far end. The
serving maids' smiles were as warm as the fire, and when they laughed Rand could tell it was because they
wanted to.
The innkeeper was as clean as his inn, with a gleaming white apron around his bulk. Rand was glad to
see he was a stout man; he doubted if he would ever again trust a skinny innkeeper. His name was Rulan
Allwine - good omen, Rand thought, with so much of the sound of Emond's Field to it - and he eyed them up
and down, then politely mentioned paying in advance.
"Not suggesting you're the sort, understand, but there's some on the road these days aren't too particular
about paying up come morning. Seems to be a lot of young folks headed for Caemlyn."
Rand was not offended, not as damp and bedraggled as he was. When Master Allwine mentioned the
price, though, his eyes widened, and Mat made a sound as if he had choked on something.
The innkeeper's jowls swung as he shook his head regretfully, but he seemed to be used to it. "Times are
hard," he said in a resigned voice.
"There isn't much, and what there is costs five times what it used to. It'll be more next month, I'll lay
oath on it."
Rand dug his money out and looked at Mat. Mat's mouth tightened stubbornly. "You want to sleep under
a hedge?" Rand asked. Mat sighed and reluctantly emptied his pocket. When the reckoning was paid, Rand
grimaced at the little that remained to divide with Mat. But ten minutes later they were eating stew at a table in
a corner near the fireplace, pushing it onto their spoons with chunks of bread. The portions were not as large as
Rand could have wished, but they were hot, and filling. Warmth from the hearth seeped into him slowly. He
pretended to keep his eyes on his plate, but he watched the door intently. Those who came in or went out all
looked like farmers, but it was not enough to quiet his fear.
Mat ate slowly, savoring each bite, though he muttered about the light from the lamps. After a time he
dug out the scarf Alpert Mull had given him and wound it around his forehead, pulling it down until his eyes
were almost hidden. That got them some looks Rand wished they could have avoided. He cleaned his plate
hurriedly, urging Mat to do the same, then asked Master Allwine for their room.
The innkeeper seemed surprised that they were retiring so early, but he made no comment. He got a
candle and showed them through a jumble of corridors to a small room, with two narrow beds, back in a far
corner of the inn. When he left, Rand dropped his bundles beside his bed, tossed his cloak over a chair, and fell
on the coverlet fully dressed. All of his clothes were still damp and uncomfortable, but if they had to run, he
wanted to be ready. He left the sword belt on, too, and slept with his hand on the hilt.
A rooster crowing jerked him awake in the morning. He lay there, watching dawn lighten the window,
and wondered if he dared sleep a little longer. Sleep during daylight, when they could be moving. A yawn made
his jaws crack.
"Hey," Mat exclaimed, "I can see!" He sat up on his bed, squinting around the room. "Some, anyway.
Your face is still a little blurry, but I can tell who you are. I knew I'd be all right. By tonight I'll see better than
you do. Again."
Rand sprang out of bed, scratching as he scooped up his cloak. His clothes were wrinkled from drying
on him while he slept, and they itched. "We're wasting daylight," he said. Mat scrambled up as fast as he had;
he was scratching, too.
Rand did feel good. They were a day away from Four Kings, and none of Gode's men had showed up. A
day closer to Caemlyn, where Moiraine would be waiting for them. She would. No more worrying about
Darkfriends once they were back with the Aes Sedai and the Warder. It was strange to be looking forward so
much to being with an Aes Sedai. Light, when I see Moiraine again, I'll kiss her! He laughed at the thought. He
felt good enough to invest some of their dwindling stock of coins in breakfast-a big loaf of bread and a pitcher
of milk, cold from the springhouse.
They were eating in the back of the common room when a young man came in, a village youth by the
look of him, with a cocky spring to his walk and twirling a cloth cap, with a feather in it, on one finger. The
only other person in the room was an old man sweeping out; he never looked up from his broom. The young
man's eyes swept jauntily around the room, but when they lit on Rand and Mat, the cap fell off his finger. He
stared at them for a full minute before snatching the cap from the floor, then stared some more, running his
fingers through his thick head of dark curls. Finally he came over to their table, his feet dragging.
He was older than Rand, but he stood looking down at them diffidently. "Mind if I sit down?" he asked,
and immediately swallowed hard as if he might have said the wrong thing.
Rand thought he might be hoping to share their breakfast, though he looked able to buy his own. His
blue-striped shirt was embroidered around the collar, and his dark blue cloak all around the hem. His leather
boots had never been near any work that scuffed them that Rand could see. He nodded to a chair.
Mat stared at the fellow as he drew the chair to the table. Rand could not tell if he was glaring or just
trying to see clearly. In any case, Mat's frown had an effect. The young man froze halfway to sitting, and did not
lower himself all the way until Rand nodded again. "What's your name?" Rand asked.
"My name? My name. Ah . . . call me Paitr." His eyes shifted nervously. "Ah . . . this is not my idea, you
understand. I have to do it. I didn't want to, but they made me. You have to understand that. I don't - "
Rand was beginning to tense when Mat growled, "Darkfriend."
Paitr gave a jerk and half lifted out of his chair, staring wildly around the room as if there were fifty
people to overhear. The old man's head was still bent over the broom, his attention on the floor. Paitr sat back
down and looked from Rand to Mat and back uncertainly. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. It was accusation
enough to make anyone sweat, but he said not a word against it.
Rand shook his head slowly. After Gode, he knew that Darkfriends did not necessarily have the
Dragon's Fang on their foreheads, but except for his clothes this Paitr could have fit right in Emond's Field.
Nothing about him hinted at murder and worse. Nobody would have remarked him twice. At least Gode had
been . . . different.
"Leave us alone," Rand said. "And tell your friends to leave us alone. We want nothing from them, and
they'll get nothing from us."
"If you don't," Mat added fiercely, "I'll name you for what you are. See what your village friends think
of that."
Rand hoped he did not really mean it. That could cause as much trouble for the two of them as it did for
Paitr.
Paitr seemed to take the threat seriously. His face grew pale. "I . . . I heard what happened at Four Kings.
Some of it, anyway. Word travels. We have ways of hearing things. But there's nobody here to trap you. I'm
alone, and . . . and I just want to talk."
"About what?" Mat asked at the same time that Rand said, "We're not interested." They looked at each
other, and Mat shrugged. "We're not interested," he said.
Rand gulped the last of the milk and stuffed the heel of his half of the bread into his pocket. With their
money almost gone, it might be their next meal.
How to leave the inn? If Paitr discovered that Mat was almost blind, he would tell others . . .other
Darkfriends. Once Rand had seen a wolf separate a crippled sheep from the flock; there were other wolves
around, and he could neither leave the flock nor get a clear shot with his bow. As soon as the sheep was alone,
bleating with terror, hobbling frantically on three legs, the one wolf chasing it became ten as if by magic. The
memory of it turned his stomach. They could not stay there, either. Even if Paitr was telling the truth about
being alone, how long would he stay that way?
"Time to go, Mat," he said, and held his breath. As Mat started to stand, he pulled Paitr's eyes to himself
by leaning forward and saying, "Leave us alone, Darkfriend. I won't tell you again. Leave-us-alone."
Paitr swallowed hard and pressed back in his chair; there was no blood left in his face at all. It made
Rand think of a Myrddraal.
By the time he looked back at Mat, Mat was on his feet, his awkwardness unseen. Rand hastily hung his
own saddlebags and other bundles around him, trying to keep his cloak over the sword as he did. Maybe Paitr
already knew about it; maybe Gode had told Ba'alzamon, and Ba'alzamon had told Paitr; but he did not think so.
He thought Paitr had only the vaguest idea of what had happened in Four Kings. That was why he was so
frightened.
The comparatively bright outline of the door helped Mat make a beeline for it, if not quickly, then not
slow enough to seem unnatural, either. Rand followed closely, praying for him not to stumble. He was thankful
Mat had a clear, straight path, with no tables or chairs in the way.
Behind him Paitr suddenly leaped to his feet. "Wait," he said desperately. "You have to wait."
"Leave us alone," Rand said without looking back. They were almost to the door, and Mat had not put a
foot wrong yet.
"Just listen to me," Paitr said, and put his hand on Rand's shoulder to stop him.
Images spun in his head. The Trolloc, Narg, leaping at him in his own home. The Myrddraal threatening
at the Stag and Lion in Baerlon. Halfmen everywhere, Fades chasing them to Shadar Logoth, coming for them
in Whitebridge. Darkfriends everywhere. He whirled, his hand balling up. "I said, leave us alone!" His fist took
Paitr flush on the nose.
The Darkfriend fell on his bottom and sat there on the floor staring at Rand. Blood trickled from his
nose. "You won't get away," he spat angrily. "No matter how strong you are, the Great Lord of the Dark is
stronger. The Shadow will swallow you!"
There was a gasp from further into the common room, and the clatter of a broom handle hitting the floor.
The old man with the broom had finally heard. He stood staring wide-eyed at Paitr. The blood drained from his
wrinkled face and his mouth worked, but no sound came out. Paitr stared back for an instant, then gave a wild
curse and sprang to his feet, darting out of the inn and down the street as if starving wolves were at his heels.
The old man shifted his attention to Rand and Mat, looking not a whit less frightened.
Rand hustled Mat out of the inn and out of the village as fast as he could, listening all the while for a hue
and cry that never came but was no less loud in his ears for that.
"Blood and ashes," Mat growled, "they're always there, always right on our heels. We'll never get
away."
"No they're not," Rand said. "If Ba'alzamon knew we were here, do you think he'd have left it to that
fellow? There'd have been another Gode, and twenty or thirty bullyboys. They're still hunting, but they won't
know until Paitr tells them, and maybe he really is alone. He might have to go all the way to Four Kings, for all
we know."
"But he said - "
"I don't care." He was unsure which "he" Mat meant, but it changed nothing. "We're not going to lie
down and let them take us."
They got six rides, short ones, during the day. A farmer told them that a crazy old man at the inn in
Market Sheran was claiming there were Darkfriends in the village. The farmer could hardly talk for laughing;
he kept wiping tears off his cheeks. Darkfriends in Market Sheran! It was the best story he had heard since
Ackley Farren got drunk and spent the night on the inn roof.
Another man, a round-faced wagonwright with tools hanging from the sides of his cart and two wagon
wheels in the back, told a different story. Twenty Darkfriends had held a gathering in Market Sheran. Men with
twisted bodies, and the women worse, all dirty and in rags. They could make your knees grow weak and your
stomach heave just by looking at you, and when they laughed, the filthy cackles rang in your ears for hours and
your head felt as if it were splitting open. He had seen them himself, just at a distance, far enough off to be safe.
If the Queen would not do something, then somebody ought to ask the Children of the Light for help.
Somebody should do something.
It was a relief when the wagonwright let them down.
With the sun low behind them they walked into a small village, much like Market Sheran. The Caemlyn
Road split the town neatly in two, but on both sides of the wide road stood rows of small brick houses with
thatched roofs. Webs of vine covered the bricks, though only a few leaves hung on them. The village had one
inn, a small place no bigger than the Winespring Inn, with a sign on a bracket out front, creaking back and forth
in the wind. The Queen's Man. Strange, to think of the Winespring Inn as small. Rand could remember when he
thought it was about as big as a building could be. Anything bigger would be a palace. But he had seen a few
things, now, and suddenly he realized that nothing would look the same to him when he got back home. If you
ever do.
He hesitated in front of the inn, but even if prices at The Queen's Man were not as high as in Market
Sheran, they could not afford a meal or a room, either one.
Mat saw where he was looking and patted the pocket where he kept Thom's colored balls. "I can see
well enough, as long as I don't try to get too fancy." His eyes had been getting better, though he still wore the
scarf around his forehead, and had squinted whenever he looked at the sky during the day. When Rand said
nothing, Mat went on. "There can't be Darkfriends at every inn between here and Caemlyn. Besides, I don't
want to sleep under a bush if I can sleep in a bed." He made no move toward the inn, though, just stood waiting
for Rand.
After a moment Rand nodded. He felt as tired as he had at any time since leaving home. Just thinking of
a night in the open made his bones ache. It's all catching up. All the running, all the looking over your shoulder.
"They can't be everywhere," he agreed.
With the first step he took into the common room, he wondered if he had made a mistake. It was a clean
place, but crowded. Every table was filled, and some men leaned against the walls because there was nowhere
for them to sit. From the way the serving maids scurried between the tables with harried looks - and the
landlord, too - it was a larger crowd than they were used to. Too many for this small village. It was easy to pick
out the people who did not belong there. They were dressed no differently from the rest, but they kept their eyes
on their food and drink. The locals watched the strangers as much as anything else.
A drone of conversation hung in the air, enough that the innkeeper took them into the kitchen when
Rand made him understand that they needed to talk to him. The noise was almost as bad there, with the cook
and his helpers banging pots and darting about.
The innkeeper mopped his face with a large handkerchief. "I suppose you're on your way to Caemlyn to
see the false Dragon like every other fool in the Realm. Well, it's six to a room and two or three to a bed, and if
that doesn't suit, I've nothing for you."
Rand gave his spiel with a feeling of queasiness. With so many people on the road, every other one
could be a Darkfriend, and there was no way to pick them out from the rest. Mat demonstrated his juggling - he
kept it to three balls, and was careful even then - and Rand took out Thom's flute. After only a dozen notes of
"The Old Black Bear," the innkeeper nodded impatiently.
"You'll do. I need something to take those idiots' minds off this Logain. There's been three fights already
over whether or not he's really the Dragon. Stow your things in the corner, and I'll go clear a space for you. If
there's any room to. Fools. The world's full of fools who don't know enough to stay where they belong. That's
what's causing all the trouble. People who won't stay where they belong." Mopping his face again, he hurried
out of the kitchen, muttering under his breath.
The cook and his helpers ignored Rand and Mat. Mat kept adjusting the scarf around his head, pushing it
up, then blinking at the light and tugging it back down again. Rand wondered if he could see well enough to do
anything more complicated than juggle three balls. As for himself…
The queasiness in his stomach grew thicker. He dropped on a low stool, holding his head in his hands.
The kitchen felt cold. He shivered. Steam filled the air; stoves and ovens crackled with heat. His shivers became
stronger, his teeth chattering. He wrapped his arms around himself, but it did no good. His bones felt as if they
were freezing.
Dimly he was aware of Mat asking him something, shaking his shoulder, and of someone cursing and
running out of the room. Then the innkeeper was there, with the cook frowning at his side, and Mat was arguing
loudly with them both. He could not make out any of what they said; the words were a buzz in his ears, and he
could not seem to think at all.
Suddenly Mat took his arm, pulling him to his feet. All of their things - saddlebags, blanketrolls, Thom's
bundled cloak and instrument cases - hung from Mat's shoulders with his bow. The innkeeper was watching
them, wiping his face anxiously. Weaving, more than half supported by Mat, Rand let his friend steer him
toward the back door.
"S-s-sorry, M-m-mat," he managed. He could not stop his teeth from chattering. "M-m-must have . . . bbeen
t-the . . . rain. O-one m-more night out . . . w-won't h-hurt . . . I guess." Twilight darkened the sky, spotted
by a handful of stars.
"Not a bit of it," Mat said. He was trying to sound cheerful, but Rand could hear the hidden worry. "He
was scared the other folk would find out there was somebody sick in his inn. I told him if he kicked us out, I'd
take you into the common room. That'd empty half his rooms in ten minutes. For all his talk about fools, he
doesn't want that."
"Then w-where?"
"Here," Mat said, pulling open the stable door with a loud creak of hinges.
It was darker inside than out, and the air smelled of hay and grain and horses, with a strong undersmell
of manure. When Mat lowered him to the straw-covered floor, he folded over with his chest on his knees, still
hugging himself and shaking from head to toe. All of his strength seemed to go for the shaking. He heard Mat
stumble and curse and stumble again, then a clatter of metal. Suddenly light blossomed. Mat held up a battered
old lantern.
If the inn was full, so was its stable. Every stall had a horse, some raising their heads and blinking at the
light. Mat eyed the ladder to the hayloft, then looked at Rand, crouched on the floor, and shook his head.
"Never get you up there," Mat muttered. Hanging the lantern on a nail, he scrambled up the ladder and
began tossing down armloads of hay. Hurriedly climbing back down, he made a bed at the back of the stable
and got Rand onto it. Mat covered him with both their cloaks, but Rand pushed them off almost immediately.
"Hot," he murmured. Vaguely he knew that he had been cold only a moment before, but now he felt as if
he were in an oven. He tugged at his collar, tossing his head. "Hot." He felt Mat's hand on his forehead.
"I'll be right back," Mat said, and disappeared.
He twisted fitfully on the hay, how long he was not sure, until Mat returned with a heaped plate in one
hand, a pitcher in the other, and two white cups dangling from fingers by their handles.
"There's no Wisdom here," he said, dropping to his knees beside Rand. He filled one of the cups and
held it to Rand's mouth. Rand gulped the water down as if he had had nothing to drink in days; that was how he
felt. "They don't even know what a Wisdom is. What they do have is somebody called Mother Brune, but she's
off somewhere birthing a baby, and nobody knows when she'll be back. I did get some bread, and cheese, and
sausage. Good Master Inlow will give us anything as long as we stay out of sight of his guests. Here, try some."
Rand turned his head away from the food. The sight of it, the thought of it, made his stomach heave.
After a minute Mat sighed and settled down to eat himself. Rand kept his eyes averted, and tried not to listen.
The chills came once more, and then the fever, to be replaced by the chills, and the fever again. Mat
covered him when he shook, and fed him water when he complained of thirst. The night deepened, and the
stable shifted in the flickering lantern light. Shadows took shape and moved on their own. Then he saw
Ba'alzamon striding down the stable, eyes burning, a Myrddraal at either side with faces hidden in the depths of
their black cowls.
Fingers scrabbling for his sword hilt, he tried to get to his feet, yelling, "Mat! Mat, they're here! Light,
they're here!"
Mat jerked awake where he sat cross-legged against the wall. "What? Darkfriends? Where?"
Wavering on his knees, Rand pointed frantically down the stable . . . and gaped. Shadows stirred, and a
horse stamped in its sleep. Nothing more. He fell back on the straw.
"There's nobody but us," Mat said. "Here, let me take that." He reached for Rand's sword belt, but Rand
tightened his grip on the hilt.
"No. No. I have to keep it. He's my father. You understand? He's m-my f-father!" The shivering swept
over him once more, but he clung to the sword as if to a lifeline. "M-my f-father!" Mat gave up trying to take it
and pulled the cloaks back over him.
There were other visitations in the night, while Mat dozed. Rand was never sure if they were really there
or not. Sometimes he looked at Mat, with his head on his chest, wondering if he would see them, too, if he
woke.
Egwene stepped out of the shadows, her hair in a long, dark braid as it had been in Emond's Field, her
face pained and mournful. "Why did you leave us?" she asked. "We're dead because you left us."
Rand shook his head weakly on the hay. "No, Egwene. I didn't want to leave you. Please."
"We're all dead," she said sadly, "and death is the kingdom of the Dark One. The Dark One has us,
because you abandoned us."
"No. I had no choice, Egwene. Please. Egwene, don't go. Come back, Egwene!"
But she turned into the shadows, and was shadow.
Moiraine's expression was serene, but her face was bloodless and pale. Her cloak might as well have
been a shroud, and her voice was a lash. "That is right, Rand al'Thor. You have no choice. You must go to Tar
Valon, or the Dark One will take you for his own. Eternity chained in the Shadow. Only Aes Sedai can save
you, now. Only Aes Sedai."
Thom grinned at him sardonically. The gleeman's clothes hung in charred rags that made him see the
flashes of light as Thom wrestled with the Fade to give them time to run. The flesh under the rags was
blackened and burned. "Trust Aes Sedai, boy, and you'll wish you were dead. Remember, the price of Aes Sedai
help is always smaller than you can believe, always greater than you can imagine. And what Ajah will find you
first, eh? Red? Maybe Black. Best to run, boy. Run."
Lan's stare was as hard as granite, and blood covered his face. "Strange to see a heron-mark blade in the
hands of a sheepherder. Are you worthy of it? You had better be. You're alone, now. Nothing to hold to behind
you, and nothing before, and anyone can be a Darkfriend." He smiled a. wolf's smile, and blood poured out of
his mouth. "Anyone."
Perrin came, accusing, pleading for help. Mistress al'Vere, weeping for her daughter, and Bayle Domon,
cursing him for bringing Fades down on his vessel, and Master Fitch, wringing his hands over the ashes of his
inn, and Min, screaming in a Trolloc's clutches, people he knew, people he had only met. But the worst was
Tam. Tam stood over him, frowning and shaking his head, and said not a word.
"You have to tell me," Rand begged him. "Who am I? Tell me, please. Who am I? Who am I?" he
shouted.
"Easy, Rand. "
For a moment he thought it was Tam answering, but then he saw that Tam was gone. Mat bent over him,
holding a cup of water to his lips.
"Just rest easy. You're Rand al'Thor, that's who you are, with the ugliest face and the thickest head in the
Two Rivers. Hey, you're sweating! The fever's broken. "
"Rand al'Thor?" Rand whispered. Mat nodded, and there was something so comforting in it that Rand
drifted off to sleep without even touching the water.
It was a sleep untroubled by dreams - at least by any he remembered - but light enough that his eyes
drifted open whenever Mat checked on him. Once he wondered if Mat was getting any sleep at all, but he fell
back asleep himself before the thought got very far.
The squeal of the door hinges roused him fully, but for a moment he only lay there in the hay wishing he
was still asleep. Asleep he would not be aware of his body. His muscles ached like wrung-out rags, and had
about as much strength. Weakly he tried to raise his head; he made it on the second try.
Mat sat in his accustomed place against the wall, within arm's reach of Rand. His chin rested on his
chest, which rose and fell in the easy rhythm of deep sleep. The scarf had slipped down over his eyes.
Rand looked toward the door.
A woman stood there holding it open with one hand. For a moment she was only a dark shape in a dress,
outlined by the faint light of early morning, then she stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind her. In
the lantern light he could see her more clearly. She was about the same age as Nynaeve, he thought, but she was
no village woman. The pale green silk of her dress shimmered as she moved. Her cloak was a rich, soft gray,
and a frothy net of lace caught up her hair. She fingered a heavy gold necklace as she looked thoughtfully at
Mat and him.
"Mat," Rand said, then louder, "Mat!"
Mat snorted and almost fell over as he came awake. Scrubbing sleep from his eyes, he stared at the
woman.
"I came to look at my horse," she said, gesturing vaguely at the stalls. She never took her eyes away
from the two of them, though. "Are you ill?"
"He's all right," Mat said stiffly. "He just caught a chill in the rain, that's all. "
"Perhaps I should look at him. I have some knowledge . . .”
Rand wondered if she were Aes Sedai. Even more than her clothes, her self-assured manner, the way she
held her head as if on the point of giving a command, did not belong here. And if she is Aes Sedai, of what
Ajah?
"I'm fine, now," he told her. "Really, there's no need."
But she came down the length of the stable, holding her skirt up and placing her gray slippers gingerly.
With a grimace for the straw, she knelt beside him and felt his forehead.
"No fever," she said, studying him with a frown. She was pretty, in a sharp-featured fashion, but there
was no warmth in her face. It was not cold, either; it just seemed to lack any feeling whatsoever. "You were
sick, though. Yes. Yes. And still weak as a day-old kitten. I think . . ." She reached under her cloak, and
suddenly things were happening too fast for Rand to do more than give a strangled shout.
Her hand flashed from under her cloak; something glittered as she lunged across Rand toward Mat. Mat
toppled sideways in a flurry of motion, and there was a solid tchunk of metal driven into wood. It all took just
an instant, and then everything was still.
Mat lay half on his back, one hand gripping her wrist just above the dagger she had driven into the wall
where his chest had been, his other hand holding the blade from Shadar Logoth to her throat.
Moving nothing but her eyes, she tried to look down at the dagger Mat held. Eyes widening, she drew a
ragged breath and tried to pull back from it, but he kept the edge against her skin. After that, she was as still as a
stone.
Licking his lips, Rand stared at the tableau above him. Even if he had not been so weak, he did not
believe he could have moved. Then his eyes fell on her dagger, and his mouth went dry. The wood around the
blade was blackening; thin tendrils of smoke rose from the char. "Mat! Mat, her dagger!"
Mat flicked a glance at the dagger, then back to the woman, but she had not moved. She was licking her
lips nervously. Roughly Mat pried her hand off the hilt and gave her a push; she toppled back, sprawling away
from them and catching herself with her hands behind her, still watching the blade in his hand. "Don't move," he
said. "I'll use this if you move. Believe me, I will. " She nodded slowly; her eyes never left Mat's dagger.
"Watch her, Rand."
Rand was not sure what he was supposed to do if she tried anything - shout, maybe; he certainly could
not run after her if she tried to flee - but she sat there without twitching while Mat yanked her dagger free of the
wall. The black spot stopped growing, though a faint wisp of smoke still trailed up from it.
Mat looked around for somewhere to put the dagger, then thrust it toward Rand. He took it gingerly, as
if it were a live adder. It looked ordinary, if ornate, with a pale ivory hilt and a narrow, gleaming blade no
longer than the palm of his hand. Just a dagger. Only he had seen what it could do. The hilt was not even warm,
but his hand began to sweat. He hoped he did not drop it in the hay.
The woman did not move from her sprawl as she watched Mat slowly turn toward her. She watched him
as if wondering what he would do next, but Rand saw the sudden tightening of Mat's eyes, the tightening of his
hand on the dagger. "Mat, no!"
"She tried to kill me, Rand. She'd have killed you, too. She's a Darkfriend." Mat spat the word.
"But we're not," Rand said. The woman gasped as if she had just realized what Mat had intended. "We
are not, Mat."
For a moment Mat remained frozen, the blade in his fist catching the lantern light. Then he nodded.
"Move over there," he told the woman, gesturing with the dagger toward the door to the tack room.
She got to her feet slowly, pausing to brush the straw from her dress. Even when she started in the
direction Mat indicated, she moved as if there were no reason to hurry. But Rand noticed that she kept a wary
eye on the ruby-hilted dagger in Mat's hand. "You really should stop struggling," she said. "It would be for the
best, in the end. You will see."
"The best?" Mat said wryly, rubbing his chest where her blade would have gone if he had not moved.
"Get over there. "
She gave a casual shrug as she obeyed. "A mistake. There has been considerable . . . confusion since
what happened with that egotistical fool Gode. Not to mention whoever the idiot was who started the panic in
Market Sheran. No one is sure what happened there, or how. That makes it more dangerous for you, don't you
see? You will have honored places if you come to the Great Lord of your own free will, but as long as you run,
there will be pursuit, and who can tell what will happen then?"
Rand felt a chill. My hounds are jealous, and may not he gentle.
"So you're having trouble with a couple of farmboys." Mat's laugh was grim. "Maybe you Darkfriends
aren't as dangerous as I've always heard." He flung open the door of the tack room and stepped back.
She paused just through the doorway, looking at him over her shoulder. Her gaze was ice, and her voice
colder still. "You will find out how dangerous we are. When the Myrddraal gets here - "
Whatever else she had to say was cut off as Mat slammed the door and pulled the bar down into its
brackets. When he turned, his eyes were worried. "Fade," he said in a tight voice, tucking the dagger back under
his coat. "Coming here, she says. How are your legs?"
"I can't dance," Rand muttered, "but if you'll help me get on my feet, I can walk." He looked at the blade
in his hand and shuddered. "Blood and ashes, I'll run."
Hurriedly hanging himself about with their possessions, Mat pulled Rand to his feet. Rand's legs
wobbled, and he had to lean on his friend to stay upright, but he tried not to slow Mat down. He held the
woman's dagger well away from himself. Outside the door was a bucket of water. He tossed the dagger into it as
they passed. The blade entered the water with a hiss; steam rose from the surface. Grimacing, he tried to take
faster steps.
With light come, there were plenty of people in the streets, even so early. They were about their own
business, though, and no one had any attention to spare for two young men walking out of the village, not with
so many strangers about. Just the same, Rand stiffened every muscle, trying to stand straight. With each step he
wondered if any of the folk hurrying by were Darkfriends. Are any of them waiting for the woman with the
dagger? For the Fade?
A mile outside the village his strength gave out. One minute he was panting along, hanging on Mat; the
next they were both on the ground. Mat tugged him over to the side of the road.
"We have to keep going," Mat said. He scrubbed his hand through his hair, then tugged the scarf down
above his eyes. "Sooner or later, somebody will let her out, and they'll be after us again."
"I know," Rand panted. "I know. Give me a hand."
Mat pulled him up again, but he wavered there, knowing it was no good. The first time he tried to take a
step, he would be flat on his face again.
Holding him upright, Mat waited impatiently for a horse-cart, approaching from the village, to pass
them. Mat gave a grunt of surprise when the cart slowed to a stop before them. A leathery-faced man looked
down from the driver's seat.
"Something wrong with him?" the man asked around his pipe.
"He's just tired," Mat said.
Rand could see that was not going to do, not leaning on Mat the way he was. He let go of Mat and took a
step away from him. His legs quivered, but he willed himself to stay erect. "I haven't slept in two days," he
said., "Ate something that made me sick. I'm better, now, but I haven't slept."
The man blew a streamer of smoke from the corner of his mouth. "Going to Caemlyn, are you? Was
your age, I expect I might be off to see this false Dragon myself."
"Yes." Mat nodded. "That's right. We're going to see the false Dragon."
"Well, climb on up, then. Your friend in the back. If he's sick again, best it's on the straw, not up here.
Name's Hyam Kinch."

Chapter 34

The Last Village


It was after dark when they reached Carysford, longer than Rand had thought it would take from what
Master Kinch said when he let them down. He wondered if his whole sense of time was getting skewed.
Only three nights since Howal Gode and Four Kings, two since Paitr had surprised them in Market Sheran.
Just a bare day since the nameless Darkfriend woman tried to kill them in the stable of The Queen's Man, but
even that seemed a year ago, or a lifetime.
Whatever was happening to time, Carysford appeared normal enough, on the surface, at least. Neat,
vine-covered brick houses and narrow lanes, except for the Caemlyn Road itself, quiet and outwardly peaceful.
But what's underneath? he wondered. Market Sheran had been peaceful to look at, and so had the village where
the woman . . . He had never learned the name of that one and he did not want to think about it.
Light spilled from the windows of the houses into streets all but empty of people. That suited Rand.
Slinking from cornet to corner, he avoided the few people abroad. Mat stuck to his shoulder, freezing when the
crunch of gravel announced the approach of a villager, dodging from shadow to shadow when the dim shape
had gone past.
The River Cary was a bare thirty paces wide there, and the black water moved sluggishly, but the ford
had long since been bridged over. Centuries of rain and wind had worn the stone abutments until they seemed
almost like natural formations. Years of freight wagons and merchant trains had ground at the thick wooden
planks, too. Loose boards rattled under their boots, sounding as loud as drums. Until long after they were
through the village and into the countryside beyond, Rand waited for a voice to demand to know who they
were. Or worse, knowing who they were.
The countryside had been filling up the further they went, becoming more and more settled. There were
always the lights of farmhouses in sight. Hedges and rail fences lined the road and the fields beyond. Always
the fields were there, and never a stretch of woods close to the road. It seemed as if they were always on the
outskirts of a village, even when they were hours from the nearest town. Neat and peaceful. And with never an
indication that Darkfriends or worse might be lurking.
Abruptly Mat sat down in the road. He had pushed the scarf up on top of his head, now that the only
light came from the moon. "Two paces to the span," he muttered. "A thousand spans to the mile, four miles to
the league . . . I'm not walking another ten paces unless there's a place to sleep at the end of it. Something to eat
wouldn't be amiss, either. You haven't been hiding anything in your pockets, have you? An apple, maybe? I
won't hold it against you if you have. You could at least look."
Rand peered down the road both ways. They were the only things moving in the night. He glanced at
Mat, who had pulled off one boot and was rubbing his foot. Or they had been. His own feet hurt, too. A tremor
ran up his legs as if to tell him he had not yet regained as much strength as he thought.
Dark mounds stood in a field just ahead of them. Haystacks, diminished by winter feeding, but still
haystacks.
He nudged Mat with his toe. "We'll sleep there."
"Haystacks again." Mat sighed, but he tugged on his boot and got up.
The wind was rising, the night chill growing deeper. They climbed over the smooth poles of the fence
and quickly were burrowing into the hay. The tarp that kept the rain off the hay cut the wind, too.
Rand twisted around in the hollow he had made until he found a comfortable position. Hay still managed
to poke at him through his clothes, but he had learned to put up with that. He tried counting the haystacks he
had slept in since Whitebridge. Heroes in the stories never had to sleep in haystacks, or under hedges. But it was
not easy to pretend, anymore, that he was a hero in a story, even for a little while. With a sigh, he pulled his
collar up in the hopes of keeping hay from getting down his back.
"Rand?" Mat said softly. "Rand, do you think we'll make it?"
"Tar Valon? It's a long way yet, but - "
"Caemlyn. Do you think we'll make it to Caemlyn?"
Rand raised his head, but it was dark in their burrow; the only thing that told him where Mat was, was
his voice. "Master Kinch said two days. Day after tomorrow, the next day, we'll get there."
"If there aren't a hundred Darkfriends waiting for us down the road, or a Fade or two." There was silence
for a moment, then Mat said, "I think we're the last ones left, Rand." He sounded frightened. "Whatever it's all
about, it's just us two, now. just us."
Rand shook his head. He knew Mat could not see in the darkness, but it was more for himself than Mat,
anyway. "Go to sleep, Mat," he said tiredly. But he lay awake a long time himself, before sleep came. Just us.
A cock's crow woke him, and he scrambled out into the false dawn, brushing hay off his clothes. Despite
his precautions some had worked its way down his back; the straws clung between his shoulder blades, itching.
He took off his coat and pulled his shirt out of his breeches to get to it. It was while he had one hand down the
back of his neck and the other twisted up behind him that he became aware of the people.
The sun was not yet truly up, but already a steady trickle moved down the road in ones and twos,
trudging toward Caemlyn, some with packs or bundles on their backs, others with nothing but a walking staff, if
that. Most were young men, but here and there was a girl, or someone older. One and all they had the travelstained
look of having walked a long way. Some had their eyes on their feet and a weary slump to their
shoulders, early as it was; others had their gaze fixed on something out of sight ahead, something toward the
dawn.
Mat rolled out of the haystack, scratching vigorously. He only paused long enough to wrap the scarf
around his head; it shaded his eyes a little less this morning. "You think we might get something to eat today?"
Rand's stomach rumbled in sympathy. "We can think about that when we're on the road," he said.
Hastily arranging his clothes, he dug his share of their bundles out of the haystack.
By the time they reached the fence, Mat had noticed the people, too. He frowned, stopping in the field
while Rand climbed over. A young man, not much older than they, glanced at them as he passed. His clothes
were dusty, and so was the blanketroll strapped across his back. "Where are you bound?" Mat called.
"Why, Caemlyn, for to see the Dragon," the fellow shouted back without stopping. He raised an
eyebrow at the blankets and saddlebags hanging from their shoulders, and added, "Just like you." With a laugh
he went on, his eyes already seeking eagerly ahead.
Mat asked the same question several times during the day, and the only people who did not give much
the same answer were local folk. If those answered at all, it was by spitting and turning away in disgust. They
turned away, but they kept a watchful eye, too. They looked at all the travelers the same way, out of the corners
of their eyes. Their faces said strangers might get up to anything if not watched.
People who lived in the area were not only wary of the strangers, they seemed more than a little put out.
Just enough people were on the road, scattered out just enough, that when farmers' carts and wagons appeared
with the sun peeking over the horizon, even their usually slow pace was halved. None of them was in any mood
to give a ride. A sour grimace, and maybe a curse for the work they were missing, were more likely.
The merchants' wagons rolled by with little hindrance beyond shaken fists, whether they were going
toward Caemlyn or away from it. When the first merchants' train appeared, early on in the morning, coming at a
stiff trot with the sun barely above the horizon behind the wagons, Rand stepped out of the road. They gave no
sign of slowing for anything, and he saw other folk scrambling out of the way. He moved all the way over onto
the verge, but kept walking.
A flicker of motion as the first wagon rumbled close was all the warning he had. He went sprawling on
the ground as the wagon driver's whip cracked in the air where his head had been. From where he lay he met the
driver's eyes as the wagon rolled by. Hard eyes above a mouth in a tight grimace. Not a care that he might have
drawn blood, or taken an eye.
"Light blind you!" Mat shouted after the wagon. "You can't - " A mounted guard caught him on the
shoulder with the butt of his spear, knocking him down atop Rand.
"Out of the way, you dirty Darkfriend!" the guard growled without slowing.
After that, they kept their distance from the wagons. There were certainly enough of them. The rattle and
clatter of one hardly faded before another could be heard coming. Guards and drivers, they all stared at the
travelers heading for Caemlyn as if seeing dirt walk.
Once Rand misjudged a driver's whip, just by the length of the tip. Clapping his hand to the shallow
gash over his eyebrow, he swallowed hard to keep from vomiting at how close it had come to his eye. The
driver smirked at him. With his other hand he grabbed Mat, to stop him nocking an arrow.
"Let it go," he said. He jerked his head at the guards riding alongside the wagons. Some of them were
laughing; others gave Mat's bow a hard eye. "If we're lucky, they'd just beat us with their spears. If we're lucky."
Mat grunted sourly, but he let Rand pull him on down the road.
Twice squadrons of the Queen's Guards came trotting down the road, streamers on their lances fluttering
in the wind. Some of the farmers hailed them, wanting something done about the strangers, and the Guards
always paused patiently to listen. Near midday Rand stopped to listen to one such conversation.
Behind the bars of his helmet, the Guard captain's mouth was a tight line. "If one of them steals
something, or trespasses on your land," he growled at the lanky farmer frowning beside his stirrup, "I'll haul
him before a magistrate, but they break no Queen's Law by walking on the Queen's Highway."
"But they're all over the place," the farmer protested. "Who knows who they are, or what they are. All
this talk about the Dragon . . .”
"Light, man! You only have a handful here. Caemlyn's walls are bulging with them, and more coming
every day." The captain's scowl deepened as he caught sight of Rand and Mat, standing in the road nearby. He
gestured down the road with a steel-backed gauntlet. "Get on with you, or I'll have you in for blocking traffic."
His voice was no rougher with them than with the farmer, but they moved on. The captain's eyes
followed them for a time; Rand could feel them on his back. He suspected the Guards had little patience left
with the wanderers, and no sympathy for a hungry thief. He decided to stop Mat if he suggested stealing eggs
again.
Still, there was a good side to all the wagons and people on the road, especially all the young men
heading for Caemlyn. For any Darkfriends hunting them, it would be like trying to pick out two particular
pigeons in a flock. If the Myrddraal on Winternight had not known exactly who it was after, maybe its fellow
would do no better here.
His stomach rumbled frequently, reminding him that they had next to no money left, certainly not
enough for a meal at the prices charged this close to Caemlyn. He realized once he had a hand on the flute case,
and firmly pushed it around to his back. Gode had known all about the flute, and the juggling. There was no
telling how much Ba'alzamon had learned from him before the end-if what Rand had seen had been the end-or
how much had been passed to other Darkfriends.
He looked regretfully at a farm they were passing. A man patrolled the fences with a pair of dogs,
growling and tugging at their leashes. The man looked as if he wanted nothing more than an excuse to let them
loose. Not every farm had the dogs out, but no one was offering jobs to travelers.
Before the sun went down, he and Mat walked through two more villages. The village folk stood in
knots, talking among themselves and watching the steady stream pass by. Their faces were no friendlier than the
faces of the farmers, or the wagon drivers, or the Queen's Guards. All these strangers going to see the false
Dragon. Fools who did not know enough to stay where they belonged. Maybe followers of the false Dragon.
Maybe even Darkfriends. If there was any difference between the two.
With evening coming, the stream began to thin at the second town. The few who had money disappeared
into the inn, though there seemed to be some argument about letting them inside; others began hunting for
handy hedges or fields with no dogs. By dusk he and Mat had the Caemlyn Road to themselves. Mat began
talking about finding another haystack, but Rand insisted on keeping on.
"As long as we can see the road," he said. "The further we go before stopping, the further ahead we are."
If they are chasing you. Why should they chase now, when they've been waiting for you to come to them so far?
It was argument enough for Mat. With frequent glances over his shoulder, he quickened his step. Rand
had to hurry to keep up.
The night thickened, relieved only a bit by scant moonlight. Mat's burst of energy faded, and his
complaints started up again. Aching knots formed in Rand's calves. He told himself he had walked further in a
hard day working on the farm with Tam, but repeat it as often as he would, he could not make himself believe
it. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the aches and pains and would not stop.
With Mat complaining and him concentrating on the next step, they were almost on the village before he
saw the lights. He tottered to a stop, suddenly aware of a burning that ran from his feet right up his .legs. He
thought he had a blister on his right foot.
At the sight of the village lights, Mat sagged to his knees with a groan. "Can we stop now?" he panted.
"Or do you want to find an inn and hang out a sign for the Darkfriends? Or a Fade."
"The other side of the town," Rand answered, staring at the lights. From this distance, in the dark, it
could have been Emond's Field. What's waiting there? "Another mile, that's all."
"All! I'm not walking another span!"
Rand's legs felt like fire, but he made himself take a step, and then another. It did not get any easier, but
he kept on, one step at a time. Before he had gone ten paces he heard Mat staggering after him, muttering under
his breath. He thought it was just as well he could not make out what Mat was saying.
It was late enough for the streets of the village to be empty, though most houses had a light in at least
one window. The inn in the middle of town was brightly lit, surrounded by a golden pool that pushed back the
darkness. Music and laughter, dimmed by thick walls, drifted from the building. The sign over the door creaked
in the wind. At the near end of the inn, a cart and horse stood in the Caemlyn Road with a man checking the
harness. Two men stood at the far end of the building, on the very edge of the light.
Rand stopped in the shadows beside a house that stood dark. He was too tired to hunt through the lanes
for a way around. A minute resting could not hurt. Just a minute. Just until the men went away. Mat slumped
against the wall with a grateful sigh, leaning back as if he meant to go to sleep right there.
Something about the two men at the rim of the shadows made Rand uneasy. He could not put a finger on
anything, at first, but he realized the man at the cart felt the same way about them. He reached the end of the
strap he was checking, adjusted the bit in the horse's mouth, then went back and started over from the beginning
again. He kept his head down the whole while, his eyes on what he was doing and away from the other men. It
could have been that he simply was not aware of them, though they were less than fifty feet off, except for the
stiff way he moved and the way he sometimes turned awkwardly in what he was doing so he would not be
looking toward them.
One of the men in the shadows was only a black shape, but the other stood more into the light, with his
back to Rand. Even so it was plain he was not overjoyed at the conversation he was having. He wrung his hands
and kept his eyes on the ground, jerking his head in a nod now and then at something the other had said. Rand
could not hear anything, but he got the impression that the man in the shadows was doing all the talking; the
nervous man just listened, and nodded, and wrung his hands anxiously.
Eventually the one who was wrapped in darkness turned away, and the nervous fellow started back into
the light. Despite the chill he was mopping his face with the long apron he wore, as if he were drenched in
sweat.
Skin prickling, Rand watched the shape moving off in the night. He did not know why, but his
uneasiness seemed to follow that one, a vague tingling in the back of his neck and the hair stirring on his arms
as if he had suddenly realized something was sneaking up on him. With a quick shake of his head, he rubbed his
arms briskly. Getting as foolish as Mat, aren't you?
At that moment the form slipped by the edge of the light from a window - just on the brink of it - and
Rand's skin crawled. The inn's sign went scree-scree-scree in the wind, but the dark cloak never stirred.
"Fade," he whispered, and Mat jerked to his feet as if he had shouted.
"What - ?"
He clamped a hand over Mat's mouth. "Softly." The dark shape was lost in the darkness. Where? "It's
gone, now. I think. I hope." He took his hand away; the only sound Mat made was a long, indrawn breath.
The nervous man was almost to the inn door. He stopped and smoothed down his apron, visibly
composing himself before he went inside.
"Strange friends you've got, Raimun Holdwin," the man by the cart said suddenly. It was an old man's
voice, but strong. The speaker straightened, shaking his head. "Strange friends in the dark for an innkeeper."
The nervous man jumped when the other spoke, looking around as if he had not seen the cart and the
other man until right then. He drew a deep breath and gathered himself, then asked sharply, "And what do you
mean by that, Almen Bunt?"
"Just what I said, Holdwin. Strange friends. He's not from around here, is he? Lot of odd folk coming
through the last few weeks. Awful lot of odd folk."
"You're a fine one to talk." Holdwin cocked an eye at the man by the cart. "I know a lot of men, even
men from Caemlyn. Not like you, cooped up alone out on that farm of yours." He paused, then went on as if he
thought he had to explain further. "He's from Four Kings. Looking for a couple of thieves. Young men. They
stole a heron-mark sword from him."
Rand's breath had caught at the mention of Four Kings; at the mention of the sword he glanced at Mat.
His friend had his back pressed hard against the wall and was staring into the darkness with eyes so wide they
seemed to be all whites. Rand wanted to stare into the night, too - the Halfman could be anywhere - but his eyes
went back to the two men in front of the inn.
"A heron-mark sword!" Bunt exclaimed. "No wonder he wants it back."
Holdwin nodded. "Yes, and them, too. My friend's a rich man, a . . . a merchant, and they've been
stirring up trouble with the men who work for him. Telling wild stories and getting people upset. They're
Darkfriends, and followers of Logain, too."
"Darkfriends and followers of the false Dragon? And telling wild stories, too? Getting up to a lot for
young fellows. You did say they were young?" There was a sudden note of amusement in Bunt's voice, but the
innkeeper did not seem to notice.
"Yes. Not yet twenty. There's a reward - a hundred crowns in gold - for the two of them." Holdwin
hesitated, then added, "They've sly tongues, these two. The Light knows what kind of tales they'll tell, trying to
turn people against one another. And dangerous, too, even if they don't look it. Vicious. Best you stay clear if
you think you see them. Two young men, one with a sword, and both looking over their shoulders. If they're the
right ones, my . . . my friend will pick them up once they're located."
"You sound almost as if you know them to look at."
"I'll know them when I see them," Holdwin said confidently. "Just don't try to take them yourself. No
need for anyone to get hurt. Come tell me if you see them. My . . . friend will deal with them. A hundred crowns
for the two, but he wants the pair."
"A hundred crowns for the two," Bunt mused. "How much for this sword he wants so bad?"
Abruptly Holdwin appeared to realize the other man was making fun of him. "I don't know why I'm
telling you," he snapped. "You're still fixed on that fool plan of yours, I see."
"Not such a fool plan," Bunt replied placidly. "There might not be another false Dragon to see before I
die - Light send it so! - and I'm too old to eat some merchant's dust all the way to Caemlyn. I'll have the road to
myself, and I'll be in Caemlyn bright and early tomorrow."
"To yourself?" The innkeeper's voice had a nasty quiver. "You can never tell what might be out in the
night, Almen Bunt. All alone on the road, in the dark. Even if somebody hears you scream, there's no one will
unbar a door to help. Not these days, Bunt. Not your nearest neighbor."
None of that seemed to ruffle the old farmer at all; he answered as calmly as before. "If the Queen's
Guards can't keep the road safe this close to Caemlyn, then we're none of us safe even in our own beds. If you
ask me, one thing the Guards could do to make sure the roads are safe would be clap that friend of yours in
irons. Sneaking around in the dark, afraid to let anybody get a look at him. Can't tell me he's not up to no good."
"Afraid!" Holdwin exclaimed. "You old fool, if you knew-" His teeth clicked shut abruptly, and he gave
himself a shake. "I don't know why I'm wasting time on you. Get off with you! Stop cluttering up the front of
my place of business." The door of the inn boomed shut behind him.
Muttering to himself, Bunt took hold of the edge of the cart seat and set his foot on the wheelhub.
Rand hesitated only a moment. Mat caught his arm as he started forward.
"Are you crazy, Rand? He'll recognize us for sure!"
"You'd rather stay here? With a Fade around? How far do you think we'll get on foot before it finds us?"
He tried not to think of how far they would get in a cart if it found them. He shook free of Mat and trotted up
the road. He carefully held his cloak shut so the sword was hidden; the wind and the cold were excuse enough
for that.
"I couldn't help overhearing you're going to Caemlyn," he said.
Bunt gave a start, jerking a quarterstaff out of the cart. His leathery face was a mass of wrinkles and half
his teeth were gone, but his gnarled hands held the staff steady. After a minute he lowered one end of the staff
to the ground and leaned on it. "So you two are going to Caemlyn. To see the Dragon, eh?"
Rand had not realized that Mat had followed him. Mat was keeping well back, though, out of the light,
watching the inn and the old farmer with as much suspicion as he was the night.
"The false Dragon," Rand said with emphasis.
Bunt nodded. "Of course. Of course." He threw a sideways look at the inn, then abruptly shoved his staff
back under the cart seat. "Well, if you want a ride, get in. I've wasted enough time." He was already climbing to
the seat.
Rand clambered over the back as the farmer flicked the reins. Mat ran to catch up as the cart started off.
Rand caught his arms and pulled him aboard.
The village faded quickly into the night at the pace Bunt set. Rand lay back on the bare boards, fighting
the lulling creak of the wheels. Mat stifled his yawns with a fist, warily staring into the countryside. Darkness
weighed heavily on the fields and farms, dotted with the lights of farmhouses. The lights seemed distant,
seemed to struggle vainly against the night. An owl called, a mourner's cry, and the wind moaned like lost souls
in the Shadow.
It could be out there anywhere, Rand thought.
Bunt seemed to feel the oppression of the night, too, for he suddenly spoke up. "You two ever been to
Caemlyn before?" He gave a little chuckle. "Don't suppose you have. Well, wait till you see it. The greatest city
in the world. Oh, I've heard all about Illian and Ebou Dar and Tear and all - there's always some fool thinks a
thing is bigger and better just because it's off somewheres over the horizon - but for my money, Caemlyn is the
grandest there is. Couldn't be grander. No, it couldn't. Unless maybe Queen Morgase, the Light illumine her, got
rid of that witch from Tar Valon. "
Rand was lying back with his head pillowed on his blanketroll atop the bundle of Thom's cloak,
watching the night drift by, letting the farmer's words wash by him. A human voice kept the darkness at bay and
muted the mournful wind. He twisted around to look up at the dark mass of Bunt's back. "You mean an Aes
Sedai?"
"What else would I mean? Sitting there in the Palace like a spider. I'm a good Queen's man-never say
I'm not-but it just isn't right. I'm not one of those saying Elaida's got too much influence over the Queen. Not
me. And as for the fools who claim Elaida's really the queen in all but name . . ." He spat into the night. "That
for them. Morgase is no puppet to dance for any Tar Valon witch."
Another Aes Sedai. If . . . when Moiraine got to Caemlyn, she might well go to a sister Aes Sedai. If the
worst happened, this Elaida might help them reach Tar Valon. He looked at Mat, and just as if he had spoken
aloud Mat shook his head. He could not see Mat's face, but he knew it was fixed in denial.
Bunt went right on talking, flicking the reins whenever his horse slowed but otherwise letting his hands
rest on his knees. "I'm a good Queen's man, like I said, but even fools say something worthwhile now and again.
Even a blind pig finds an acorn sometimes. There's got to be some changes. This weather, the crops failing,
cows drying up, calves and lambs born dead, or with two heads. Bloody ravens don't even wait for things to die.
People are scared. They want somebody to blame. Dragon's Fang turning up on people's doors. Things creeping
about in the night. Barns getting burned. Fellows around like that friend of Holdwin, scaring people. The
Queen's got to do something before it's too late. You see that, don't you?"
Rand made a noncommittal sound. It sounded as if they had been even luckier than he had thought to
find this old man and his cart. They might not have gotten further than that last village if they had waited for
daylight. Things creeping about in the night. He lifted up to look over the side of the cart at the darkness.
Shadows and shapes seemed to writhe in the black. He dropped back before his imagination convinced him
there was something there.
Bunt took it for agreement. "Right. I'm a good Queen's man, and I'll stand against any who try to harm
her, but I'm right. You take the Lady Elayne and the Lord Gawyn, now. There's a change wouldn't harm
anything, and might do some good. Sure, I know we've always done it that way in Andor. Send the DaughterHeir
off to Tar Valon to study with the Aes Sedai, and the eldest son off to study with the Warders. I believe in
tradition, I do, but look what it got us last time. Luc dead in the Blight before he was ever anointed First Prince
of the Sword, and Tigraine vanished-run off or dead-when it came time for her to take the throne. Still troubling
us, that.
"There's some saying she's still alive, you know, that Morgase isn't the rightful Queen. Bloody fools. I
remember what happened. Remember like it was yesterday. No Daughter-Heir to take the throne when the old
Queen died, and every House in Andor scheming and fighting for the right. And Taringail Damodred. You
wouldn't have thought he'd lost his wife, him hot to figure which House would win so he could marry again and
become Prince Consort after all. Well, he managed it, though why Morgase chose . . . ah, no man knows the
mind of a woman, and a queen is twice a woman, wed to a man, wed to the land. He got what he wanted,
anyway, if not the way he wanted it.
"Brought Cairhien into the plotting before he was done, and you know how that ended. The Tree
chopped down, and black-veiled Aiel coming over the Dragonwall. Well, he got himself decently killed after
he'd fathered Elayne and Gawyn, so there's an end to it, I suppose. But why send them to Tar Valon? It's time
men didn't think of the throne of Andor and Aes Sedai in the same thought anymore. If they've got to go some
place else to learn what they need, well, Illian's got libraries as good as Tar Valon, and they'll teach the Lady
Elayne as much about ruling and scheming as ever the witches could. Nobody knows more about scheming than
an Illianer. And if the Guards can't teach the Lord Gawyn enough about soldiering, well, they've soldiers in
Illian, too. And in Shienar, and Tear, for that matter. I'm a good Queen's man, but I say let's stop all this truck
with Tar Valon. Three thousand years is long enough. Too long. Queen Morgase can lead us and put things
right without help from the White Tower. I tell you, there's a woman makes a man proud to kneel for her
blessing. Why, once . . ."
Rand fought the sleep his body cried out for, but the rhythmic creak and sway of the cart lulled him and
he floated off on the drone of Bunt's voice. He dreamed of Tam. At first they were at the big oak table in the
farmhouse, drinking tea while Tam told him about Prince Consorts, and Daughter-Heirs, and the Dragonwall,
and black-veiled Aielmen. The heron-mark sword lay on the table between them, but neither of them looked at
it. Suddenly he was in the Westwood, pulling the makeshift litter through the moon-bright night. When he
looked over his shoulder, it was Thom on the litter, not his father, sitting cross-legged and juggling in the
moonlight.
"The Queen is wed to the land," Thom said as brightly colored balls danced in a circle, "but the Dragon .
. . the Dragon is one with the land, and the land is one with the Dragon."
Further back Rand saw a Fade coming, black cloak undisturbed by the wind, horse ghosting silently
through the trees. Two severed heads hung at the Myrddraal's saddlebow, dripping blood that ran in darker
streams down its mount's coal-black shoulder. Lan and Moiraine, faces distorted in grimaces of pain. The Fade
pulled on a fistful of tethers as it rode. Each tether ran back to the bound wrists of one of those who ran behind
the soundless hooves, their faces blank with despair. Mat and Perrin. And Egwene.
"Not her!" Rand shouted. "The Light blast you, it's me you want, not her!"
The Halfman gestured, and flames consumed Egwene, flesh crisping to ash, bone blacking and
crumbling.
"The Dragon is one with the land," Thom said, still juggling unconcernedly, "and the land is one with
the Dragon."
Rand screamed . . . and opened his eyes.
The cart creaked along the Caemlyn Road, filled with night and the sweetness of long-vanished hay and
the faint smell of horse. A shape blacker than the night rested on his chest, and eyes blacker than death looked
into his.
"You are mine," the raven said, and the sharp beak stabbed into his eye. He screamed as it plucked his
eyeball out of his head.
With a throat-ripping shriek, he sat up, clapping both hands to his face.
Early morning daylight bathed the cart. Dazed, he stared at his hands. No blood. No pain. The rest of the
dream was already fading, but that . . . Gingerly he felt his face and shuddered.
"At least. . . ." Mat yawned, cracking his jaws. "At least you got some sleep." There was little sympathy
in his bleary eyes. He was huddled under his cloak, with his blanketroll doubled up beneath his head. "He talked
all bloody night. "
"You all the way awake?" Bunt said from the driver's seat. "Gave me a start, you did, yelling like that.
Well, we're there." He swept a hand out in front of them in a grand gesture. "Caemlyn, the grandest city in the
world. "