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 but 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.
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