Earlier—Ravens
Prequel to The Wheel of Time
Robert Jordan
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This is a new prologue written for the Wheel of Time series. It was first published in “From the Two Rivers,” a new paperback published in late 2001 that is actually just the first half of “The Eye of The World.”
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Earlier—Ravens
Robert Jordan
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This far below Emond’s Field, halfway to the Waterwood, trees lined the banks of the Winespring Water. Mostly willows, their leafy branches made a shady canopy over the water near the bank. Summer was not far off, and the sun was climbing toward midday, yet here in the shadows a soft breeze made Egwene’s sweat feel cool on her skin. Tying the skirts of her brown wool dress up above her knees, she waded a little way into the river to fill her wooden bucket. The boys just waded in, not caring whether their snug breeches got wet. Some of the girls and boys filling buckets laughed and used their wooden dippers to fling water at one another, but Egwene settled for enjoying the stir of the current on her bare legs, and her toes wriggling on the sandy bottom as she climbed back out. She was not here to play. At nine, she was carrying water for the first time, but she was going to be the best water-carrier ever.
Pausing on the bank, she set down her bucket to unfasten her skirts and let them fall to her ankles. And to retie the dark green kerchief that gathered her hair at the nape of her neck. She wished she could cut it at her shoulders, or even shorter, like the boys. She would not need to have long hair for years yet, after all. Why did you have to keep doing something just because it had always been done that way? But she knew her mother, and she knew her hair was going to stay long.
Close to a hundred paces further down the river, men stood knee-deep in the water, washing the black-faced sheep that would later be sheared. They took great care getting the bleating animals into the river and back out safely. The Winespring Water did not flow as swiftly here as it did in Emond’s Field, yet it was not slow. A sheep that got swept away might drown before it could struggle ashore.
A large raven flew across the river to perch high in the branches of a whitewood near where the men were washing sheep. Almost immediately a redcrest began diving at the raven, a flash of scarlet that chattered noisily.
The redcrest must have a nest nearby. Instead of taking flight and maybe attacking the smaller bird, though, the raven just shuffled sideways on the limb to where a few smaller branches sheltered it a little. It peered down toward the working men.
Ravens sometimes bothered the sheep, but ignoring the redcrest’s attempts to frighten it away was more than unusual. More than that, she had the strange feeling that the black bird was watching the men, not the sheep. Which was silly, except . . . She had heard people say that ravens and crows were the Dark One’s eyes. That thought made goosebumps break out all down her arms and even on her back. It was a silly idea. What would the Dark One want to see in the Two Rivers? Nothing ever happened in the Two Rivers.
“What are you up to, Egwene?” Kenley Ahan demanded, stopping beside her. “You can’t play with the children today.” Two years older than she, he carried himself very straight, stretching to seem taller than he was. This was his last year carrying water at the shearing, and he behaved as if that cloaked him with some sort of authority.
She gave him a level look, but it did not work as well as she hoped.
His square face twisted up in a frown. “If you’re turning sick, go see the Wisdom. If not . . . well . . . get on about your work.” With a quick nod, as if he, had solved a problem, he hurried off making a great show of holding his bucket with one hand, well away from his side. He won’t keep that up long once he’s out of my sight, she thought sourly. She was going to have to work on that look. She had seen it work for older girls.
The dipper’s handle slid on the rim of her bucket as she picked it up with both hands. It was heavy, and she was not big for her age, but she followed Kenley as quickly as she could. Not because of anything he had said, certainly. She did have work to do, and she was going to be the best water-carrier ever. Her face set with determination. The mulch of last year’s leaves rustled under her feet as she walked through the river’s shadowy fringe of trees, out into the sunlight. The heat was not too bad, but a few small white clouds high in the sky seemed to emphasize the brightness of the morning.
Widow Aynal’s Meadow—it had been called that as long as anyone could remember, though no one knew which Aynal widow it had been named after—the tree-ringed meadow stood empty most of the year, but now people and sheep crowded the whole long length of it, a good many more sheep than people. Large stones stuck out of the ground here and there, a few almost as tall as a man, but they did not interfere with the activity in the meadow.
Farmers came from all around Emond’s Field for this, and village folk came out to help relatives. Everyone in the village had kith or kin of some sort on the farms. Shearing would be going on all across the Two Rivers, down at Deven Ride and up to Watch Hill. Not at Taren Ferry, of course. Many of the women wore shawls draped loosely over their arms and flowers in their hair, for the formality, and so did some of the older girls, though their hair was not in the long braid the women had. A few even wore dresses with embroidery around the neck, as if this really were a feastday. In contrast, most of the men and boys went coatless, and some even had their shirts unlaced.
Egwene did not understand why they were allowed to do that. The women’s work was no cooler than the men’s.
Big, wooden-railed pens at the far end of the meadow held sheep already sheared, and others held those waiting to be washed, all watched by boys of twelve and up. The sheepdogs sprawled around the pens were no good for this work. Groups of those older boys were using wooden staffs to herd sheep to the river for washing, then to keep them from lying down and getting dirty again until they were dry for the men at this end of the meadow who were doing the shearing. Once the sheep were shorn, the boys herded them back to the pens while men carried the fleece to the slatted tables where women sorted the wool and folded it for baling. They kept a tally, and had to be careful that no one’s wool was mixed with anyone else’s. Along the trees to Egwene’s left, other women were beginning to set out food for the midday meal on long trestle tables. If she was good enough at carrying water, maybe they would let her help with the food or the wool next year, instead of two years later. If she did the best job ever, no one would ever be able to call her a baby again.
She began making her way through the crowd, sometimes carrying the bucket in both hands, sometimes shifting it from one to the other, pausing whenever someone motioned for a dipper of water. Soon she began to perspire again, sweating dark patches on her woolen dress. Maybe the boys with their shirts unlaced were not just being foolish. She ignored the younger children, running around rolling hoops and tossing balls and playing keep-away.
There were only five times each year when so many gathered: at Bel Tine, which was past; at shearing; when the merchants came to buy the wool, still a month or more off, when the merchants came for the cured tabac, after Sunday; and at Foolday, in the fall. There were other feastdays, of course, but none where everyone got together.
Her eyes kept moving, searching the crowd. Among all these people, it would be all too easy to walk up on one of her four sisters. She always avoided them as much as possible. Berowyn, the eldest, was worst. She had been widowed by the breakbone fever last fall and moved back home in the spring. It was hard not to feel for Berowyn, but she fussed so, wanting to dress Egwene and brush her hair. Sometimes she wept and told Egwene how lucky, she felt that the fever had not taken her baby siste
r, too. Feeling for Berowyn would have been easier if Egwene could stop thinking that sometimes Berowyn saw her as the infant she had lost along with her husband. Maybe all the time. She was just watching for Berowyn. Or one of the other three. That was all.
Near the sheep-pens, she stopped to wipe the sweat from her forehead. Her bucket was lighter, now, and no trouble to hold with one hand. She eyed the nearest dog cautiously. Standing in front of one of the pens, it was a large animal with a close, curly gray coat and intelligent eyes that seemed to know she was no danger to the sheep.
Still, it was very big, almost waist-high to a grown man.
Mainly the dogs helped protect the flocks when they were in pasture, guarding against wolves and bears and the big mountain cats. She edged away from the dog. Three boys passed her, herding a few dozen sheep toward the river. All five or six years older than she, the boys barely gave her a glance, their full attention on the animals. The herding was easy enough—she could have done it, she was sure—but they had to make sure none of the sheep had a chance to crop grass. A sheep that ate before being sheared could get the gasping and die. A quick look around told her that none of the other boys in sight was anyone she wanted to speak to. Not that she was looking for a particular boy to speak to, of course. She was just looking. Anyway, her bucket would need refilling soon. It was time to start back toward the Winespring Water.
This time she decided to go by way of the row of trestle tables. The smells were tantalizing, as good as any feastday, everything from roast goose to honeycakes. The spicy aroma of the honeycakes filled her nose more than all the rest. Every woman who cooked would have done her very best for the shearing. As she made her way down the tables, she offered water to the women setting out food, but they just smiled at her and shook their heads. She kept on, though, and not just because of the smells. They had tea water boiling on fires behind the tables, but some of them might want cool water from the river. Well, not so cool, now, but still . . .
Ahead of her Kenley was slouching along beside the tables, no longer trying for every inch of height. If anything, he seemed to be trying for shorter. He still carried his bucket in one hand, but from the way it swung, it must have been empty, so he could not be offering water to anyone. Egwene frowned. Furtive was the only word to describe him. Now, what was he . . . ? Abruptly his hand darted out and snatched a honeycake from the table.
Egwene’s mouth fell open indignantly. And he had the nerve to talk to her about children? He was as bad as Ewin Finngar!
Before Kenley could take a second step, Mistress Ayellin descended on him like a stooping falcon, seizing his ear with one hand and the honeycake with the other.
They were her honeycakes. A slim woman with a thick gray braid that hung below her hips, Corin Ayellin baked the best sweets in Emond’s Field. Except for mother, Egwene added loyally. But even her mother said Mistress Ayellin was better. With sweets, anyway. Mistress Ayellin handed out crusty cakes and slices of pie with a free hand, so long as it was not near mealtime or your mother had not asked her not to, but she could deal heavily with boys who tried to filch behind her back. Or with anyone else.
Stealing, she called it, and Mistress Ayellin did not abide stealing. She still had Kenley by his ear and was shaking a finger at him, talking in a low voice. Kenley’s face was all twisted up as if he was about cry, and he shrank in on himself till he appeared shorter than Egwene. She gave a satisfied nod. She did not think he would try to give orders to anyone any time soon.
She moved further from the tables as she walked on by Mistress Ayellin and Kenley, so no one would suspect her of trying to filch sweets. The thought had never entered her head. Not really, anyway, not so it counted.
Suddenly she leaned forward, peering between the people moving back and forth in front of her. Yes. That was Perrin Aybara, a stocky boy taller than most his age.
And he was a friend of Rand. She darted through the crowd without noticing whether anyone motioned for water and did not stop until she was only a few paces from Perrin.
He was with his parents, and his mother had the baby, Paetram, on her hip, and little Deselle clinging to her skirt with one hand, though Perrin’s little sister was looking around with interest at all the people and even sheep being herded past. Adora, his other sister, stood with her arms folded across her chest and a sullen expression that she was trying to hide from her mother. Adora would not have to carry water until next year, and she probably was anxious to be off playing with her friends. The last person in the little group was Master Luhhan. The tallest man in Emond’s Field, with arms like treetrunks and a chest that strained his white shirt, he made Master Aybara look slight instead of just slender. He was talking with Mistress Aybara and Master Aybara both. That puzzled Egwene.
Master Luhhan was the blacksmith in Emond’s Field, but neither Master Aybara nor Mistress Aybara would bring the whole family to ask after smithing. He was on the Village Council, too, but the same thing applied. Besides, Mistress Aybara would no sooner open her mouth about Council business than Master Aybara would about Women’s Circle business. Egwene might only be nine, but she knew that much. Whatever they were talking about, they were almost done, and that was good. She did not care what they were talking about.
“He’s a good lad, Joslyn,” Master Luhhan said. “A good lad, Con. He’ll do just fine.”
Mistress Aybara smiled fondly. Joslyn Aybara was a pretty woman, and when she smiled, it seemed the sun might bide its head in defeat. Perrin’s father laughed softly and ruffled Perrin’s curly hair. Perrin blushed very red and said nothing. But then, he was shy, and he seldom said very much.
“Make me fly, Perrin,” Deselle said, lifting up her hands to him. “Make me fly.”
Perrin barely waited to sketch a polite bow to the grownups before turning to take his sister’s hands. They moved a few steps from the others, and then Perrin begin to spin around and around, faster and faster, until Deselle’s feet left the ground. Round and round he spun her, higher and higher in great swoops, while she laughed and laughed in delight.
After a few minutes, Mistress Aybara said, “That’s enough, Perrin. Put her down before she sicks up.” But she said it kindly, with a smile.
Once Deselle’s feet were back on the ground, she clung to one of Perrin’s hands with both hers, staggering a little, and maybe not too far from sicking up. But she kept laughing and demanding he make her fly some more.
Shaking his head, he bent to talk to her. He was always so serious. He did not laugh very often.
Abruptly Egwene realized that someone else was watching Perrin. Cilia Cole, a pink-cheeked girl a couple of years older than she, stood only a few feet away with a silly smile on her face, making calf eyes at him. All he needed to do was turn his head to see her! Egwene grimaced in disgust. She would never be fool enough to make big eyes at a boy like some kind of woolhead. Anyway, Perrin was not even a whole year older than Cilia. Three or four years older was best. Egwene’s sisters might have no time to talk to her, but she listened to other girls old enough to know.
Some said more, but most thought three or four. Perrin glanced toward Egwene and Cilia and went back to talking quietly to Deselle. Egwene shook her head. Maybe Cilia was a ninny, but he ought to at least notice.
Movement in the limbs of a big wateroak beyond Cilia caught her eye, and she gave a start. The raven was up there, and it still seemed to be watching. And there was a raven in that tall pine tree, too, and one in the next, and in that hickory, and . . . Nine or ten ravens that she could see, and they all seemed to be watching. It had to be her imagination. Just her—
“Why were you staring at him?”
Startled, Egwene jumped and spun around so fast that she banged herself on the knee with her bucket. A good thing it was nearly empty, or she could have hurt herself.
She shifted her feet, wishing she could rub her knee.
Adora stood looking up at her with a perplexed expression on her face, but she could not be more p
uzzled than Egwene.
“What are you talking about, Adora?”
“Perrin, of course. Why were you staring at him? Everybody says you’ll marry Rand al’Thor. When you’re older, I mean, and have your hair in a braid.”
“What do you mean, everybody says?” Egwene said dangerously, but Adora just giggled. It was exasperating. Nothing was working the way it should today.
“Perrin is pretty, of course. At least, I’ve heard lots of girls say so. And lots of girls look at him, just like you and Cilia.”
Egwene blinked and managed to put that last out of her head. She had not been looking at him anything at all the way Cilia had! But, Perrin, pretty? Perrin? She looked over her shoulder to see whether she could find pretty in him.
He was gone! His father was still there, and his mother, with Paetrarn and Deselle, but Perrin was nowhere to be seen. Drat! She had meant to follow him.
“Aren’t you lonely without your dolls, Adora?” she said sweetly. “I didn’t think you ever left your house without at least two.”
Adora’s open-mouth stare of outrage was quite satisfying.
“Excuse me,” Egwene said, brushing past her. “Some of us are old enough to have work to do.” She managed not to limp as she made her way back to the river.
This time she did not pause to look at the men washing sheep, and she very carefully did not look for a raven. She did examine her knee, but it was not even bruised.
Carrying her filled bucket back out to the meadow, she refused to limp. It had just been a little bump.
She kept watching cautiously for her sisters as she carried water, pausing only to let someone take the dipper.
And for Perrin. Mat would be as good as Perrin, but she did not see him, either. Drat Adora! She had no right to say things like that!
Walking in among the tables where women were sorting the wool, Egwene came to a dead stop, staring at her youngest sister.
WoT Prequel 2 - Earlier - Ravens Page 1
