WoT Prequel 2 - Earlier - Ravens

by Jordan, Robert

  She froze, hoping Loise would look the other way, just for an instant. That was what she got for trying to watch for Perrin and Mat as well as her sisters. Loise was only fifteen, but she had a sour expression on her face and her hands on her hips as she confronted Dag Coplin. Egwene could never make herself call him Master Coplin except aloud, to be polite; her mother said you had to be polite, even to someone like Dag Coplin.

  Dag was a wrinkled old man with gray hair that he did not wash very often. Or maybe not at all. The tag hanging from the table by a string was inked to match the ear-notches on his sheep. “That’s good wool you’re setting aside,” he growled at Loise. “I won’t be cheated on my clip, girl. Step aside and I’ll show you what goes where my own self.”

  Loise did not move an inch. “Wool from bellies, hindquarters and tails has to be washed again, Master Coplin.” She put just a bit of emphasis on ‘Master.’ She was feeling snippish. “You know as well as I, if the merchants find twice-washed wool in just one bale, everyone will get less for their clip. Maybe my father can explain it to you better than I can.”

  Dag drew in his chin and grumbled something under his breath. He knew better than to try this with Egwene’s father.

  “I’m sure my mother could explain it so you’d understand,” Loise said relentlessly.

  Dag’s cheek twitched, and he put on a sickly grin.

  Muttering that he trusted Loise to do what was right, he backed away, then hurried off little short of running. He was not foolish enough to bring himself to the attention of the Women’s Circle if he could help it. Loise watched him go with a definite look of satisfaction.

  Egwene took the opportunity to dart away, breathing a sigh of relief when Loise did not shout after her. Loise might prefer sorting wool to helping with the cooking, but she would much rather be climbing trees or swimming in the Waterwood, even if most girls had abandoned that sort of thing by her age. And she would take her chore out on Egwene, given half a chance. Egwene would have liked to go swimming with her, but Loise plainly considered her company a nuisance, and Egwene was too proud to ask.

  She scowled. All of her sisters treated her like a baby. Even Alene, when Alene noticed her at all. Most of the time, Alene had her nose in a book, reading and re-reading their father’s library. He had almost forty books! Egwene’s favorite was The Travels of Jain Farstrider. She dreamed of seeing all those strange lands he wrote about. But if she was reading a book and Alene wanted it, she always said it was much too ‘complex’ for Egwene and just took it! Drat all four of them!

  She saw some of the water-carriers taking breaks to sit in the shade or trade jokes, but she kept moving, although her arms did ache. Egwene al’Vere was not going to slack off. She kept watching for her sisters, too. And for Perrin.

  And Mat. Drat Adora, anyway! Drat all of them!

  She did pause when she neared the Wisdom. Doral Barran was the oldest woman in Emond’s Field, maybe in the whole Two Rivers, white-haired and frail, but still clear-eyed and not stooped at all. The Wisdom’s apprentice, Nynaeve, was on her knees with her back to Egwene, tending Bili Congar, wrapping a bandage around his leg. His breeches had been cut away short. Bili, sitting on a log, was another grownup who Egwene found it hard to show the proper respect. He was always doing silly things and getting himself hurt. He was the same age as Master Luhhan, but he looked at least ten years older, his face hollow-cheeked and his eyes sunken.

  “You’ve played the fool often enough in the past, Bili Congar,” Mistress Barran said sternly, “but drinking while handling wool shears is worse than playing the fool.”

  Oddly, she was not looking down at him, but at Nynaeve.

  “I only had a little ale, Wisdom,” he whined. “Because of the heat. Just a swallow.”

  The Wisdom sniffed in disbelief, but she continued to watch Nynaeve like a hawk. That was surprising. Mistress Barran often praised Nynaeve publicly for being such a quick learner. She had apprenticed Nynaeve three years earlier, after her then-apprentice died of some sickness even Mistress Barran could not cure. Nynaeve had been a recent orphan, and a lot of people said the Wisdom should have sent her to her relatives in the country after her mother died, and taken on someone years older. Egwene’s mother did not say so, but Egwene knew she thought it.

  Nynaeve straightened on her knees, done with fastening the bandage, and gave a satisfied nod. And to Egwene’s surprise, Mistress Barran knelt down and undid it again, even lifting the bread-poultice to peer at the gash in Bili’s thigh before beginning to wrap the cloth back around his leg. She actually looked . . . disappointed. But why? Nynaeve began fiddling with her braid, tugging at it the way she did when she was nervous, or trying to bring attention to the fact that she was a grown woman, now.

  When is she going to outgrow that? Egwene thought. It was nearly a year since the Women’s Circle had let Nynaeve braid her hair.

  A flutter of motion in the air caught Egwene’s eye, and she stared. More ravens dotted the trees around the meadow now. Dozens and dozens of them, and all watching. She knew they were. Not one made a try to steal anything from the tables of food. That was just unnatural.

  Come to think of it, the birds were not looking at the trestle tables at all. Or at the tables where women were working with the wool. They were watching the boys herding sheep. And the men shearing sheep and carrying wool. And the boys carrying water, too. Not the girls, or the women, just the men and boys. She would have bet on it, even if her mother did say she should not bet. She opened her mouth to ask the Wisdom what it meant.

  “Don’t you have work to do, Egwene?” Nynaeve said without turning around.

  Egwene jumped in spite of herself. Nynaeve had been doing that ever since last fall, knowing that Egwene was there without looking, and Egwene wished she would stop.

  Nynaeve turned her head then, and looked at her over one shoulder. It was a level look, the sort Egwene had been trying on Kenley. She did not have to hop for Nynaeve the way she would for the Wisdom. Nynaeve was just trying to make up for Mistress Barran doubting her work. Egwene thought about telling her that Mistress Ayellin wanted to talk to her about a pie. Studying Nynaeve’s face, she decided that might not be a good notion. Anyway, she had been doing what she had vowed not to, slacking off, standing around watching Nynaeve and the Wisdom.

  Making as much of a curtsey as she could while holding her bucket—to the Wisdom, not Nynaeve—she turned away. She was not hopping, and not because Nynaeve looked at her. Certainly not. And not hurrying, either. Just walking—quickly—to get back to her work.

  Still, she walked quickly enough that before she realized it, she was back among the tables where the women were working wool. And face to face across one of the tables with her sister Elisa.

  Elisa was folding fleece for baling, and making a bad job of it. She seemed distracted, barely even noticing Egwene, and Egwene knew why. Elisa was eighteen, but her waist-length hair was still tied with a blue kerchief. Not that was she was thinking about getting married—most girls waited at least a few years—but she was a year older than Nynaeve. Elisa often worried aloud about why the Women’s Circle still thought she was too young. It was hard not to feel sympathy. Especially since Egwene had been thinking about Elisa’s predicament for weeks, now.

  Well, not about Elisa’s problem, exactly, but it had set her thinking.

  Off to one side of the tables, Calle Coplin was talking with some young men from the farms, giggling and twisting her skirts. She was always talking to some man or other, but she was supposed to be folding fleece. That was not why she caught Egwene’s eye, though.

  “Elisa, you shouldn’t worry so,” she said gently. “Maybe Berowyn and Alene got their hair braided at sixteen . . . ”

  Most girls did, she thought. She was not all sympathy.

  Elisa had a habit of offering sayings. “The hour wasted won’t be found again,” or “A smile makes the work lighter,” till your teeth started to ache from them. Egwene knew for a fact that a
smile would not make her bucket lighter by one dipperful “ . . . but Calle’s twenty, with her nameday coming in a few months now. Her hair’s not braided, and you don’t see her moping.”

  Elisa’s hands went still on the fleece on the table in front of her. For some reason, the women on either side of her put their hands over their mouths, trying to hide laughter.

  For some reason, Elisa’s face turned bright red. Very bright red.

  “Children should not . . . ” Elisa spluttered. Her face might be burning like the sun, but for all her spluttering her voice was cold as mid-winter snow. “A child who talks when . . . Children who . . . ” Jillie Lewin, a year younger than Elisa and her black hair in a thick braid that hung below her waist, sank to her knees, she was laughing into her hand so hard. “Go away, child!” Elisa snapped. “Grownups are tying to work here!”

  With an indignant glare, Egwene turned and stalked away from the folding tables, the bucket thumping her leg at every step. Try to help someone, try to buck up her spirits, and see what you got? I should have told her she isn’t a grownup, she thought fiercely. Not until the Circle lets her braid her hair, she isn’t. That’s what I should have said.

  The fierce mood stayed with her until her bucket was empty again, and when she filled it once more, she squared her shoulders. If you were going to do a thing, then you had to do it. Heading straight for the sheep-pens, she walked as fast as she could and ignored anyone who motioned for water. It was not slacking off. The boys would need water, too.

  At the pens, the dozen or so boys waiting to move sheep gave her surprised looks when she offered the dipper, and some said they could get water when they went to the river, but she kept on. And she always asked the same question. “Have you seen Perrin? Or Mat? Where can I find them?”

  Some told her Perrin and Mat were herding sheep to the river, and others that they had seen the pair of them watching sheep that had already been shorn, but she did not mean to go chasing off just to find them already gone.

  Finally, a big-eyed boy named Wil al’Seen, from one of the farms south of Emond’s Field, gave her a suspicious look and said, “Why do you want them?” Some girls said Wil was pretty, but Egwene thought his ears looked funny.

  She started to give him a level look, then thought better of it. “I . . . need to ask them something,” she said. It was only a small lie. She really did hope one of them would lead her to some answers. He said nothing for a long time, studying her, and she waited. Patience is always repaid, Elisa often said. Too often. She wished she could forget Elisa’s sayings. She tried to forget. But kicking Wil’s shins would not get what she wanted from him. Even if he did deserve it.

  “They’re over behind that far pen,” he said finally, jerking his head toward the east side of the meadow. “The one with the sheep that have Paet al’Caar’s ear-marks.” The boys herding sheep had to talk that way, even if it was not really proper, or no one would know whether they were talking about Paet al’Caar’s sheep or Jac al’Caar’s or sheep belonging to one of a dozen other al’Caars. “They’re just taking a rest, mind. Now, don’t you go getting them in hot water by telling anybody different.”

  “Thank you, Wil,” she said, just to show that she could be polite even to a woolhead. As if she would run carrying tales! He looked startled, and she thought about kicking his shins anyway.

  The large pen holding Paet al’Caar’s shorn sheep was almost to the trees on the Waterwood side of the meadow.

  Master al’Caar’s big black sheepdog raised her head from where she was lying in front of the pen and watched Egwene approach for a moment before settling back down.

  Egwene eyed the sheepdog warily. She did not like dogs very much, and they did not seem to care for her, either. The dog went out of her head completely, though, once she was close enough to see clearly. The split wooden railings of the pen gave little concealment, and she could see a group of boys behind the pen. She could not really make out who they were, though.

  Setting her bucket down carefully, she walked along the side of the sheep-pen. Not sneaking. She just did not want to make too much noise, in case . . . In case noise might startle the sheep; that was it. At the corner of the pen, she peeked around the cornerpost.

  Perrin was there, and Mat Cauthon, just as Wil had said, and some other boys about the same age, all with their shirts unlaced and sweaty. There was Dav Ayellin and Urn Thane, Ban Crawe and Elam Dowtry. And Rand, a skinny boy, almost as tall as Perrin, with hands and feet that were too big for his size. He could always be found with Mat or Perrin sooner or later. Rand, who everybody said she would marry one day. They were talking and laughing and punching one another on the shoulder. Why did boys do that?

  Glowering, she pulled back from the cornerpost and leaned back against the railings. One of the sheep inside the pen snuffled at her back, but she ignored it. She had heard women say that about her and Rand, but she had not known that everybody said it. Drat Elisa! If Elisa had not started sighing and moaning over her hair, Egwene would never have started thinking about husbands. She expected she would marry one day—most women in the Two Rivers did—but she was not like those scatterbrains she heard going on about how they could hardly wait. Most women waited at least a few years after their hair was braided, and she . . . She wanted to see those lands that Jain Farstrider had written about. How would a husband feel about that? About his wife going off to see strange lands. Nobody ever left the Two Rivers, as far as she knew.

  I will, she vowed silently.

  Even if she did marry, would Rand make a good husband? She was not sure what made a good husband.

  Someone like her father, brave and kind and wise. She thought Rand was kind. He had carved her a whistle once, and a horse, and he had given her an eagle’s black-tipped feather when she said it was pretty, though she still suspected he had wanted to keep it for himself. And he watched his father’s sheep in pasture, so he had to be brave. The sheepdog would help, if wolves came, or a bear, but the boy watching had to be ready with his sling, or a bow if he was old enough. Only . . . She saw him every time he and his father came in from their farm, but she did not really know him. She hardly knew anything about him. Now was as good a time as any to start learning. She eased back to the cornerpost and peeked around it again.

  “I’d like to a be a king,” Rand was saying. “That’s what I’d like to be.” He flourished his arm and made an awkward bow, laughing to show that he was joking. A good thing, too. Egwene grimaced. A king! She studied his face. No, he was not pretty. Well, perhaps he was. Maybe it did not matter. But it might be nice to have a husband she liked to look at. His eyes were blue. No, gray. They seemed to change while you watched. Nobody else in the Two Rivers had blue eyes. Sometimes his eyes looked sad.

  His mother had died when he was little, and Egwene thought he envied boys who had mothers. She could not imagine losing her mother. She did not even want to try.

  “A king of sheep!” Mat hooted. He was smaller than the others, always bouncing on his toes. One glance at his face, and you knew he was looking for mischief. He always looked for mischief. And usually found it. “Rand al’Thor, King of the Sheep.” Lem snickered. Ban punched him on the shoulder, and Lem punched Ban back, and then they both snickered. Egwene shook her head.

  “It’s better than saying you want to run off and never have to work,” Rand said mildly. He never seemed to get angry. Not that she had seen, anyway. “How could you live without working, Mat?”

  “Sheep aren’t so bad,” Elam said, rubbing at his long nose. His hair was cut short, and he had a cowlick that stood up at the back. He looked a little like a sheep.

  “I’ll rescue an Aes Sedai, and she’ll reward me,” Mat shot back. “Anyway, I don’t go around looking for work when there’s more than work enough without looking.” He grinned and poked Perrin’s shoulder.

  Perrin rubbed his nose, abashed. “Sometimes you have to be sensible, Mat,” he said slowly. “Sometimes you have to think ahead.” Perri
n always talked slowly, when he talked at all. And he moved carefully, as if he was afraid he might break something. Rand spoke before he thought, sometimes, and he always looked as though he was ready to start haring off and not stop until he caught the horizon.

  “ ‘Sensible’ says I’ll work in my da’s mill,” Lem sighed. “Inherit it one day, I expect. Not too soon, I hope. I’d like to have an adventure first, though, wouldn’t you, Rand?”

  “Of course.” Rand laughed. “But where do I find an adventure in the Two Rivers?”

  “There has to be a way,” Ban muttered. “Maybe there’s gold up in the mountains. Or Trollocs?” He suddenly sounded as if he was not so certain about going up in the mountains. Did he really believe in Trollocs?

  “I want to have more sheep than anybody in the whole Two Rivers,” Elam said stoutly. Mat rolled his eyes in exasperation.

  Dav had been sitting back on his heels listening, and now he shook his head. “You look like a sheep, Elam,” he muttered. At least she had not said it aloud. Dav was taller than Mat, and stockier, but his eyes had that same light. His clothes were always rumpled from something he should not have been doing. “Listen, I just got a great idea.”

  “I just got a better one,” Mat put in quickly. “Come on. I’ll show you.” He and Dav glared at one another.

  Elam and Ban and Lem looked ready to follow either one, or both, if they could figure out how. Rand put a hand on Mat’s shoulder, though. “Hold on. Let’s hear these great ideas, first.” Perrin nodded thoughtfully.

  Egwene sighed. Dav and Mat seemed to compete to see who could get into the most trouble. And Rand might sound sensible, but when he was around the village, they often managed to pull him along, too. And Perrin, as well.

  The other three would fall in with anything at all Mat or Dav suggested.

  It seemed time for her to leave. She would not be able to follow them to see what they were getting up to, not without them seeing her. She would die before she let Rand suspect that she had been watching him like some goosebrain. And I didn’t even learn anything.