Rand twisted up to kneel behind the driver's seat. He could not help laughing with relief. "We made it, Mat! I told you we'd . . ."
Words died in his mouth as his eyes fell on Caemlyn. After Baerlon, even more after the ruins of Shadar Logoth, he had thought he knew what a great city would look like, but this . . . this was more than he would have believed.
Outside the great wall, buildings clustered as if every town he had passed through had been gathered and set down there, side-by-side and all pushed together. Inns thrust their upper stories above the tile roofs of houses, and squat warehouses, broad and windowless, shouldered against them all. Red brick and gray stone and plastered white, jumbled and mixed together, they spread as far as the eye could see. Baerlon could have vanished into it without being noticed, and Whitebridge swallowed up twenty times over with hardly a ripple.
And the wall itself. The sheer, fifty-foot height of pale gray stone, streaked with silver and white, swept out in a great circle, curving to north and south till he wondered how far it must run. All along its length towers rose, round and standing high above the wall's own height, red-and-white banners whipping in the wind atop each one. From inside the wall other towers peeked out, slender towers even taller than those at the walls, and domes gleaming white and gold in the sun. A thousand stories had painted cities in his mind, the great cities of kings and queens, of thrones and powers and legends, and Caemlyn fit into those mind-deep pictures as water fits into a jug.
The cart creaked down the wide road toward the city, toward tower-flanked gates. The wagons of a merchants' train rolled out of those gates, under a vaulting archway in the stone that could have let a giant through, or ten giants abreast. Unwalled markets lined the road on both sides, roof tiles glistening red and purple, with stalls and pens in the spaces between. Calves bawled, cattle lowed, geese honked, chickens clucked, goats bleated, sheep baaed, and people bargained at the top of their lungs. A wall of noise funneled them toward the gates of Caemlyn.
"What did I tell you?" Bunt had to raise his voice to near a shout in order to be heard. "The grandest city in the world. Built by Ogier, you know. Least, the Inner City and the Palace were. It's that old, Caemlyn is. Caemlyn, where good Queen Morgase, the Light illumine her, makes the law and holds the peace for Andor. The greatest city on earth."
Rand was ready to agree. His mouth hung open, and he wanted to put his hands over his ears to shut out the din. People crowded the road, as thick as folk in Emond's Field crowded the Green at Bel Tine. He remembered thinking there were too many people in Baerlon to be believed, and almost laughed. He looked at Mat and grinned. Mat did have his hands over his ears, and his shoulders were hunched up as if he wanted to cover them with those, too.
"How are we going to hide in this?" he demanded loudly when he saw Rand looking. "How can we tell who to trust with so many? So bloody many. Light, the noise!"
Rand looked at Bunt before answering. The farmer was caught up in staring at the city; with the noise, he might not have heard anyway. Still, Rand put his mouth close to Mat's ear. "How can they find us among so many? Can't you see it, you wool-headed idiot? We're safe, if you ever learn to watch your bloody tongue!" He flung out a hand to take in everything, the markets, the city walls still ahead. "Look at it, Mat! Anything could happen here. Anything! We might even find Moiraine waiting for us, and Egwene, and all the rest."
"If they're alive. If you ask me, they're as dead as the gleeman."
The grin faded from Rand's face, and he turned to watch the gates come nearer. Anything could happen in a city like Caemlyn. He held that thought stubbornly.
The horse could not move any faster, flap the reins as Bunt would; the closer to the gates they came, the thicker the crowd grew, jostling together shoulder to shoulder, pressing against the carts and wagons heading in. Rand was glad to see a good many were dusty young men afoot with little in the way of belongings. Whatever their ages, a lot of the crowd pushing toward the gates had a travel-worn look, rickety carts and tired horses, clothes wrinkled from many nights of sleeping rough, dragging steps and weary eyes. But weary or not, those eyes were fixed on the gates as if getting inside the walls would strip away all their fatigue.
Half a dozen of the Queen's Guards stood at the gates, their clean red-and-white tabards and burnished plate-and-mail a sharp contrast to most of the people streaming under the stone arch. Backs rigid and heads straight, they eyed the incomers with disdainful wariness. It was plain they would just as soon have turned away most of those coming in. Aside from keeping a way clear for traffic leaving the city, though, and having a hard word with those who tried to push too fast, they did not hinder anyone.
"Keep your places. Don't push. Don't push, the Light blind you! There's room for everybody, the Light help us. Keep your places."
Bunt's cart rolled past the gates with the slow tide of the throng, into Caemlyn.
The city rose on low hills, like steps climbing to a center. Another wall encircled that center, shining pure white and running over the hills. Inside that were even more towers and domes, white and gold and purple, their elevation atop the hills making them seem to look down on the rest of Caemlyn. Rand thought that must be the Inner City of which Bunt had spoken.
The Caemlyn Road itself changed as soon as it was inside the city, becoming a wide boulevard, split down the middle by broad strips of grass and trees. The grass was brown and the tree branches bare, but people hurried by as if they saw nothing unusual, laughing, talking, arguing, doing all the things that people do. Just as if they had no idea that there had been no spring yet this year and might be none. They did not see, Rand realized, could not or would not. Their eyes slid away from leafless branches, and they walked across the dead and dying grass without once looking down. What they did not see, they could ignore; what they did not see was not really there.
Gaping at the city and the people, Rand was taken by surprise when the cart turned down a side street, narrower than the boulevard, but still twice as wide as any street in Emond's Field. Bunt drew the horse to a halt and turned to look back at them hesitantly. The traffic was a bit lighter here; the crowd split around the cart without breaking stride.
"What you're hiding under your cloak, is it really what Holdwin says?"
Rand was in the act of tossing his saddlebags over his shoulder. He did not even twitch. "What do you mean?" His voice was steady, too. His stomach was a sour knot, but his voice was steady.
Mat stifled a yawn with one hand, but he shoved the other under his coat - clutching the dagger from Shadar Logoth, Rand knew - and his eyes had a hard, hunted look under the scarf around his head. Bunt avoided looking at Mat, as if he knew there was a weapon in that hidden hand.
"Don't mean nothing, I suppose. Look, now, if you heard I was coming to Caemlyn, you were there long enough to hear the rest. Was I after a reward, I'd have made some excuse to go in the Goose and Crown, speak to Holdwin. Only I don't much like Holdwin, and I don't like that friend of his, not at all. Seems like he wants you two more than he wants . . . anything else."
"I don't know what he wants," Rand said. "We've never seen him before." It might even be the truth; he could not tell one Fade from another.
"Uh-huh. Well, like I say, I don't know nothing, and I guess I don't want to. There's enough trouble around for everybody without I go looking for more."
Mat was slow in gathering his things, and Rand was already in the street before he started climbing down. Rand waited impatiently. Mat turned stiffly from the cart, hugging bow and quiver and blanket roll to his chest, muttering under his breath. Heavy shadows darkened the undersides of his eyes.
Rand's stomach rumbled, and he grimaced. Hunger combined with a sour twisting in his gut made him afraid he was going to vomit. Mat was staring at him now, expectantly. Which way to go? What to do now?
Bunt leaned over and beckoned him closer. He went, hoping for advice about Caemlyn.
"I'd hide that . . ." The old farmer paused and looked around warily. People pushed by on both sides of the cart, but except for a few passing curses about blocking the way, no one paid them any attention. "Stop wearing it," he said, "hide it, sell it. Give it away. That's my advice. Thing like that's going to draw attention, and I guess you don't want any of that."
Abruptly he straightened, clucking to his horse, and drove slowly on down the crowded street without another word or a backward glance. A wagon loaded with barrels rumbled toward them. Rand jumped out of the way, staggered, and when he looked again Bunt and his cart were lost to sight.
"What do we do now?" Mat demanded. He licked his lips, staring wide-eyed at all the people pushing by and the buildings towering as much as six stories above the street. "We're in Caemlyn, but what do we do?" He had uncovered his ears, but his hands twitched as if he wanted to put them back. A hum lay on the city, the low, steady drone of hundreds of shops working, thousands of people talking. To Rand it was like being inside a giant beehive, constantly buzzing. "Even if they are here, Rand, how could we find them in all of this?"
"Moiraine will find us," Rand said slowly. The immensity of the city was a weight on his shoulders; he wanted to get away, to hide from all the people and noise. The void eluded him despite Tam's teachings; his eyes drew the city into it. He concentrated instead on what was right around him, ignoring everything that lay beyond. Just looking at that one street, it almost seemed like Baerlon. Baerlon, the last place they had all thought they were safe. Nobody's safe anymore. Maybe they are all dead. What do you do then?
"They're alive! Egwene's alive!" he said fiercely. Several passersby looked at him oddly.
"Maybe," Mat said. "Maybe. What if Moiraine doesn't find us? What if nobody does but the . . . the. . . ." He shuddered, unable to say it.
"We'll think about that when it happens," he told Mat firmly. "If it happens." The worst meant seeking out Elaida, the Aes Sedai in the Palace. He would go on to Tar Valon, first. He did not know if Mat remembered what Thom had said about the Red Ajah - and the Black - but he surely did. His stomach twisted again. "Thom said to find an inn called The Queen's Blessing. We'll go there first."
"How? We can't afford one meal between the two of us."
"At least it's a place to start. Thom thought we could find help there."
"I can't. . . . Rand, they're everywhere." Mat dropped his eyes to the paving stones and seemed to shrink in on himself, trying to pull away from the people that were all around them. "Wherever we go, they're right behind us, or they're waiting for us. They'll be at The Queen's Blessing, too. I can't. . . . I. . . . Nothing's going to stop a Fade."
Rand grabbed Mat's collar in a fist that he was trying hard to keep from trembling. He needed Mat. Maybe the others were alive - Light, please! - but right then and there, it was just Mat and him. The thought of going on alone . . . He swallowed hard, tasting bile.
He looked around quickly. No one seemed to have heard Mat mention the Fade; the crowd pressed past lost in its own worries. He put his face close to Mat's. "We've made it this far, haven't we?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. "They haven't caught us yet. We can make it all the way, if we just don't quit. I won't just quit and wait for them like a sheep for slaughter. I won't! Well? Are you going to stand here till you starve to death? Or until they come pick you up in a sack?"
He let go of Mat and turned away. His fingernails dug into his palms, but his hands still trembled. Suddenly Mat was walking alongside him, his eyes still down, and Rand let out a long breath.
"I'm sorry, Rand," Mat mumbled.
"Forget it," Rand said.
Mat barely looked up enough to keep from walking into people while the words poured out in a lifeless voice. "I can't stop thinking I'll never see home again. I want to go home. Laugh if you want; I don't care. What I wouldn't give to have my mother blessing me out for something right now. It's like weights on my brain; hot weights. Strangers all around, and no way to tell who to trust, if I can trust anybody. Light, the Two Rivers is so far away it might as well be on the other side of the world. We're alone, and we'll never get home. We're going to die, Rand."
"Not yet, we won't," Rand retorted. "Everybody dies. The Wheel turns. I'm not going to curl up and wait for it to happen, though."
"You sound like Master al'Vere," Mat grumbled, but his voice had a little spirit in it.
"Good," Rand said. "Good." Light, let the others be all right. Please don't let us be alone.
He began asking directions to The Queen's Blessing. The responses varied widely, a curse for all those who did not stay where they belonged or a shrug and a blank look being the most common. Some stalked on by with no more than a glance, if that.
A broad-faced man, nearly as big as Perrin, cocked his head and said, "The Queen's Blessing, eh? You country boys Queen's men?" He wore a white cockade on his wide-brimmed hat, and a white armband on his long coat. "Well, you've come too late."
He went off roaring with laughter, leaving Rand and Mat to stare at one another in puzzlement. Rand shrugged; there were plenty of odd folk in Caemlyn, people like he had never seen before.
Some of them stood out in the crowd, skins too dark or too pale, coats of strange cut or bright colors, hats with pointed peaks or long feathers. There were women with veils across their faces, women in stiff dresses as wide as the wearer was tall, women in dresses that left more skin bare than any tavernmaid he had seen. Occasionally a carriage, all vivid paint and gilt, squeezed through the thronged streets behind a four - or six-horse team with plumes on their harness. Sedan chairs were everywhere, the polemen pushing along with never a care for who they shoved aside.
Rand saw one fight start that way, a brawling heap of men swinging their fists while a pale-skinned man in a red-striped coat climbed out of the sedan chair lying on its side. Two roughly dressed men, who seemed to have been just passing by up till then, jumped on him before he was clear. The crowd that had stopped to watch began to turn ugly, muttering and shaking fists. Rand pulled at Mat's sleeve and hurried on. Mat needed no second urging. The roar of a small riot followed them down the street. Several times men approached the two of them instead of the other way around. Their dusty clothes marked them as newcomers, and seemed to act like a magnet on some types. Furtive fellows who offered relics of Logain for sale with darting eyes and feet set to run. Rand calculated he was offered enough scraps of the false Dragon's cloak and fragments of his sword to make two swords and half a dozen cloaks. Mat's face brightened with interest, the first time at least, but Rand gave them all a curt no, and they took it with a bob of the head and a quick, "Light illumine the Queen, good master," and vanished. Most of the shops had plates and cups painted with fanciful scenes purporting to show the false Dragon being displayed before the Queen in chains. And there were Whitecloaks in the streets. Each walked in an open space that moved with him, just as in Baerlon.
Staying unnoticed was something Rand thought about a great deal. He kept his cloak over his sword, but that would not be good enough for very long. Sooner or later someone would wonder what he was hiding. He would not - could not - take Bunt's advice to stop wearing it, not his link to Tam. To his father.
Many others among the throng wore swords, but none with the heron-mark to pull the eye. All the Caemlyn men, though, and some of the strangers, had their swords wound in strips of cloth, sheath and hilt, red bound with white cord, or white bound with red. A hundred heron-marks could be hidden under those wrappings and no one would see. Besides, following local fashion would make them seem to fit in more.
A good many shops were fronted with tables displaying the cloth and cord, and Rand stopped at one. The red cloth was cheaper than the white, though he could see no difference apart from the color, so he bought that and the white cord to go with it, despite Mat's complaints about how little money they had left. The tight-lipped shopkeeper eyed them up and down with a twist to his mouth while he took Rand's coppers, and cursed them when Rand asked for a place inside to wrap his sword.
"We didn't come to see Logain," Rand said patiently. "We just came to see Caemlyn." He remembered Bunt, and added, "The grandest city in the world." The shopkeeper's grimace remained in place. "The Light illumine good Queen Morgase," Rand said hopefully.
"You make any trouble," the man said sourly, "and there's a hundred men in sound of my voice will take care of you even if the Guards won't." He paused to spit, just missing Rand's foot. "Get on about your filthy business. "
Rand nodded as if the man had bid him a cheerful farewell, and pulled Mat away. Mat kept looking back over his shoulder toward the shop, growling to himself, until Rand tugged him into an empty alleyway. With their backs to the street no passerby could see what they were doing. Rand pulled off the sword belt and set to wrapping the sheath and hilt.
"I'll bet he charged you double for that bloody cloth," Mat said. "Triple."
It was not as easy as it looked, fastening the strips of cloth and the cord so the whole thing would not fall off.
"They'll all be trying to cheat us, Rand. They think we've come to see the false Dragon, like everybody else. We'll be lucky if somebody doesn't hit us on the head while we sleep. This is no place to be. There are too many people. Let's leave for Tar Valon now. Or south, to Illian. I wouldn't mind seeing them gather for the Hunt of the Horn. If we can't go home, let's just go." .
"I'm staying," Rand said. "If they're not here already, they'll come here sooner or later, looking for us."
He was not sure if he had the wrappings done the way everyone else did, but the herons on scabbard and hilt were hidden and he thought it was secure. As he went back out on the street, he was sure that he had one less thing to worry about causing trouble. Mat trailed along beside him as reluctantly as if he were being pulled on a leash.
Bit by bit Rand did get the directions he wanted. At first they were vague, on the order of "somewhere in that direction" and "over that way." The nearer they came, though, the clearer the instructions, until at last they stood before a broad stone building with a sign over the door creaking in the wind. A man kneeling before a woman with red-gold hair and a crown, one of her hands resting on his bowed head. The Queen's Blessing.
"Are you sure about this?" Mat asked.
"Of course," Rand said. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
The common room was large and paneled with dark wood, and fires on two hearths warmed it. A serving maid was sweeping the floor, though it was clean, and another was polishing candlesticks in the corner. Each smiled at the two newcomers before going back to her work.
Only a few tables had people at them, but a dozen men was a crowd for so early in the day, and if none looked exactly happy to see him and Mat, at least they looked clean and sober. The smells of roasting beef and baking bread drifted from the kitchen, making Rand's mouth water.
The innkeeper was fat, he was pleased to see, a pink-faced man in a starched white apron, with graying hair combed back over a bald spot that it did not quite cover. His sharp eye took them in from head to toe, dusty clothes and bundles and worn boots, but he had a ready, pleasant smile, too. Basel Gill was his name.
"Master Gill," Rand said, "a friend of ours told us to come here. Thom Merrilin. He - " The innkeeper's smile slipped. Rand looked at Mat, but he was too busy sniffing the aromas coming from the kitchen to notice anything else. "Is something wrong? You do know him?"
"I know him," Gill said curtly. He seemed more interested in the flute case at Rand's side now, than in anything else. "Come with me." He jerked his head toward the back. Rand gave Mat a jerk to get him started, then followed, wondering what was going on.
In the kitchen, Master Gill paused to speak to the cook, a round woman with her hair in a bun at the back of her head who almost matched the innkeeper pound for pound. She kept stirring her pots while Master Gill talked. The smells were so good-two days' hunger made a fine sauce for anything, but this smelled as good as Mistress al'Vere's kitchen-that Rand's stomach growled. Mat was leaning toward the pots, nose first. Rand nudged him; Mat hastily wiped his chin where he had begun drooling.
Then the innkeeper was hurrying them out the back door. In the stableyard he looked around to make sure no one was close, then rounded on them. On Rand. "What's in the case, lad?"
"Thom's flute," Rand said slowly. He opened the case, as if showing the gold-and-silver-chased flute would help. Mat's hand crept under his coat.
Master Gill did not take his eyes off Rand. "Aye, I recognize it. I saw him play it often enough, and there's not likely two like that outside a royal court." The pleasant smiles were gone, and his sharp eyes were suddenly as sharp as a knife. "How did you come by it? Thom would part with his arm as soon as that flute."
"He gave it to me." Rand took Thom's bundled cloak from his back and set it on the ground, unfolding enough to show the colored patches, as well as the end of the harp case. "Thom's dead, Master Gill. If he was your friend, I'm sorry. He was mine, too."
"Dead, you say. How?"
"A . . . a man tried to kill us. Thom pushed this at me and told us to run." The patches fluttered in the wind like butterflies. Rand's throat caught; he folded the cloak carefully back up again. "We'd have been killed if it hadn't been for him. We were on our way to Caemlyn together. He told us to come here, to your inn. "
"I'll believe he's dead," the innkeeper said slowly, "when I see his corpse." He nudged the bundled cloak with his toe and cleared his throat roughly. "Nay, nay, I believe you saw whatever it was you saw; I just don't believe he's dead. He's a harder man to kill than you might believe, is old Thom Merrilin."
Rand put a hand on Mat's shoulder. "It's all right, Mat. He's a friend."
Master Gill glanced at Mat, and sighed. "I suppose I am at that."
Mat straightened up slowly, folding his arms over his chest. He was still watching the innkeeper warily, though, and a muscle in his cheek twitched.
"Coming to Caemlyn, you say?" The innkeeper shook his head. "This is the last place on earth I'd expect Thom to come, excepting maybe it was Tar Valon." He waited for a stableman to pass, leading a horse, and even then he lowered his voice. "You've trouble with the Aes Sedai, I take it."
"Yes," Mat grumbled at the same time that Rand said, "What makes you think that?"
Master Gill chuckled dryly. "I know the man, that's what. He'd jump into that kind of trouble, especially to help a couple of lads about the age of you . . . ." The reminiscence in his eyes flickered out, and he stood up straight with a chary look. "Now . . . ah . . . I'm not making any accusations, mind, but . . . ah . . . I take it neither of you can . . . ah . . . what I'm getting at is . . . ah . . . what exactly is the nature of your trouble with Tar Valon, if you don't mind my asking?"
Rand's skin prickled as he realized what the man was suggesting. The One Power. "No, no, nothing like that. I swear. There was even an Aes Sedai helping us. Moiraine was. . . ." He bit his tongue, but the innkeeper's expression never changed.
"Glad to hear it. Not that I've all that much love for Aes Sedai, but better them than . . . that other thing." He shook his head slowly. "Too much talk of that kind of thing, with Logain being brought here. No offense meant, you understand, but . . . well, I had to know, didn't I?"
"No offense," Rand said. Mat's murmur could have been anything, but the innkeeper appeared to take it for the same as Rand had said.
"You two look the right sort, and I do believe you were-are-friends of Thom, but it's hard times and stony days. I don't suppose you can pay? No, I didn't think so. There's not enough of anything, and what there is costs the earth, so I'll give you beds - not the best, but warm and dry - and something to eat, and I cannot promise more, however much I'd like."
"Thank you," Rand said with a quizzical glance at Mat. "It's more than I expected." What was the right sort, and why should he promise more?
"Well, Thom's a good friend. An old friend. Hot-headed and liable to say the worst possible thing to the one person he shouldn't, but a good friend all the same. If he doesn't show up . . . well, we'll figure something out then. Best you don't talk any more talk about Aes Sedai helping you. I'm a good Queen's man, but there are too many in Caemlyn right now who'd take it wrong, and I don't mean just the Whitecloaks."
Mat snorted. "For all I care, the ravens can take every Aes Sedai straight to Shayol Ghul!"
"Watch your tongue," Master Gill snapped. "I said I don't love them; I didn't say I'm a fool thinks they're behind everything that's wrong. The Queen supports Elaida, and the Guards stand for the Queen. The Light send things don't go so bad that changes. Anyway, lately some Guards have forgotten themselves enough to be a little rough with folks they overhear speaking against Aes Sedai. Not on duty, thank the Light, but it's happened, just the same. I don't need off-duty Guards breaking up my common room to teach you a lesson, and I don't need Whitecloaks egging somebody on to paint the Dragon's Fang on my door, so if you want any help out of me, you just keep thoughts about Aes Sedai to yourself, good or bad." He paused thoughtfully, then added, "Maybe it's best you don't mention Thom's name, either, where anyone but me can hear. Some of the Guards have long memories, and so does the Queen. No need taking chances. "
"Thom had trouble with the Queen?" Rand said incredulously, and the innkeeper laughed.
"So he didn't tell you everything. Don't know why he should. On the other hand, I don't know why you shouldn't know, either. Not like it's a secret, exactly. Do you think every gleeman thinks as much of himself as Thom does? Well, come to think of it, I guess they do, but it always seemed to me Thom had an extra helping of thinking a lot of himself. He wasn't always a gleeman, you know, wandering from village to village and sleeping under a hedge as often as not. There was a time Thom Merrilin was Court-bard right here in Caemlyn, and known in every royal court from Tear to Maradon. "
"Thom?" Mat said.
Rand nodded slowly. He could picture Thom at a Queen's court, with his stately manner and grand gestures.
"That he was," Master Gill said. "It was not long after Taringail Damodred died that the . . . trouble about his nephew cropped up. There were some said Thom was, shall we say, closer to the Queen than was proper. But Morgase was a young widow, and Thom was in his prime, then, and the Queen can do as she wishes is the way I look at it. Only she's always had a temper, has our good Morgase, and he took off without a word when he learned what kind of trouble his nephew was in. The Queen didn't much like that. Didn't like him meddling in Aes Sedai matters, either. Can't say I think it was right, either, nephew or no. Anyway, when he came back, he said some words, all right. Words you don't say to a Queen. Words you don't say to any woman with Morgase's spirit. Elaida was set against him because of his trying to mix in the business with his nephew, and between the Queen's temper and Elaida's animosity, Thom left Caemlyn half a step ahead of a trip to prison, if not the headsman's axe. As far as I know, the writ still stands."
"If it was a long time ago," Rand said, "maybe nobody remembers."
Master Gill shook his head. "Gareth Bryne is Captain-General of the Queen's Guards. He personally commanded the Guardsmen Morgase sent to bring Thom back in chains, and I misdoubt he'll ever forget returning empty-handed to find Thom had already been back to the Palace and left again. And the Queen never forgets anything. You ever know a woman who did? My, but Morgase was in a taking. I'll swear the whole city walked soft and whispered for a month. Plenty of other Guardsmen old enough to remember, too. No, best you keep Thom as close a secret as you keep that Aes Sedai of yours. Come, I'll get you something to eat. You look as if your bellies are gnawing at your backbones."
3:04 AM
Friday, July 28, 2006
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 travel-stained 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 Daughter-Heir 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."
9:43 PM
Saturday, July 22, 2006
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. Mmmph!" 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 corners of 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 their 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 . . . b-been 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."
