“Don’t trust that man, Lady Caraline.” She could not stop herself. “He will murder anyone he thinks is in his way; he’ll kill for a whim, kill anybody.” She clamped her teeth shut before saying more.
Caraline glanced over her shoulder as the hatchet-faced man turned away abruptly. “I could believe it easily of Daved Hanlon,” she said wryly. “His White Lions fight for gold, not Cairhien, and loot worse than the Aiel. Andor became too hot for them, it seems.” That with an arch glance at Rand. “Toram has promised him a great deal of gold, I think, and estates I know.” She tilted her eyes up to Min. “Do you know the man, Jaisi?”
Min could only shake her head. How to explain what she did know about Hanlon now, that his hands would be red with more rapes and murders before he died? If she had known when or who. . . . But all she knew was that he would. Anyway, telling about a viewing never changed it; what she saw happened, no matter who she warned. Sometimes, before she had learned better, it had happened because she warned.
“I’ve heard of the White Lions,” Rand said coldly. “Look among them for Darkfriends, and you won’t be disappointed.” They had been some of Gaebril’s soldiers; Min knew that much, and little more, except that Lord Gaebril had really been Rahvin. It stood to reason that soldiers serving one of the Forsaken would include Darkfriends.
“What of him?” Rand nodded toward a man across the tent whose long dark coat had as many stripes as Caraline’s dress. Very tall for a Cairhienin, perhaps less than a full head shorter than Rand, he was slender except for broad shoulders, and strikingly good-looking, with a strong chin and just a touch of gray at his dark temples. For some reason, Min’s eyes were drawn to his companion, a skinny little fellow with a large nose and wide ears, in a red silk coat that did not fit him very well. He kept fingering a curved dagger at his belt, a fancy piece with a golden sheath and a large red stone capping the hilt that seemed to catch the light darkly. She saw no auras around him. He seemed vaguely familiar. They were both looking at her and Rand.
“That,” Caraline breathed in a tight voice, “is Lord Toram Riatin himself. And his constant companion these past days, Master Jeraal Mordeth. Odious little man. His eyes make me want to take a bath. They both make me feel unclean.” She blinked, surprised at what she had said, but recovered quickly. Min had the feeling little put Caraline Damodred off her stride for long. In that, she was very like Moiraine. “I would be careful were I you, Cousin Tomas,” she went on. “You may have wrought some miracle or ta’veren-work on me—and perhaps even on Darlin—though I cannot say what it might come to—I make no promises—but Toram hates you with a passion. It was not so bad before Mordeth joined him, yet since. . . . Toram would have us attack the city immediately, in the night. With you dead, he says, the Aiel would go, but I think it is you dead he seeks now even more than he does the throne.”
“Mordeth,” Rand said. His eyes were locked to Toram Riatin and the skinny fellow. “His name is Padan Fain, and there are one hundred thousand golden crowns on his head.”
Caraline nearly dropped her goblet. “Queens have been ransomed for less. What did he do?”
“He ravaged my home because it was my home.” Rand’s face was frozen, his voice ice. “He brought Trollocs to kill my friends because they were my friends. He is a Darkfriend, and a dead man.” Those last words came through clenched teeth. Punch splashed to the carpet as the silver goblet bent in his gloved fist.
Min felt sick for him, for his pain—she had heard what Fain had done in the Two Rivers—but she put a hand on Rand’s chest in near panic. If he gave way now, channeled with who knew how many Aes Sedai around. . . . “For the Light’s sake, take hold of yourself,” she began, and a woman’s voice spoke pleasantly behind her.
“Will you present me to your tall young friend, Caraline?”
Min looked over her shoulder, right into an ageless face, cool-eyed beneath iron-gray hair pulled up into a bun from which dangled small golden ornaments. Swallowing a squeak, Min coughed. She had thought Caraline had taken her in in one glance, but these cool eyes seemed to know things about her she herself had forgotten. The Aes Sedai’s smile, as she adjusted her green-fringed shawl, was not nearly so pleasant as her voice.
“Of course, Cadsuane Sedai.” Caraline sounded shaken, but she smoothed her tone well before she finished introducing her visiting “cousin” and his “wife.” “But I fear Cairhien is no place for them at present,” she said, all self-possession once more, smiling regret that she could not keep Rand and Min longer. “They have agreed to take my advice and return to Andor.”
“Have they?” Cadsuane said dryly. Min’s heart sank. Even if Rand had not spoken of her, it was clear from the way she looked at him that she knew him. Tiny golden birds and moons and stars swayed as she shook her head. “Most boys learn not to stick their fingers into the pretty fire the first time they are burned, Tomas. Others need to be spanked, to learn. Better a tender bottom than a seared hand.”
“You know I’m no child,” Rand told her sharply.
“Do I?” She eyed him from head to toe, and made it seem no very great distance. “Well, it seems I shall soon see whether or not you need spanking.” Those cool eyes drifted to Min, to Caraline, and with a final hitch to her shawl, Cadsuane herself drifted away into the crowd.
Min swallowed the lump in her throat, and was pleased to see Caraline do the same, self-possession or no. Rand—the blind fool!—stared after the Aes Sedai as though intending to go after her. This time it was Caraline who laid a hand on Rand’s chest.
“I take it you know Cadsuane,” she said breathily. “Be careful of her; even the other sisters stand in awe of her.” Her throaty tones took on a note of gravity. “I have no idea what will come of today, but whatever it is, I think it is time you were gone, ‘Cousin Tomas.’ Past time. I will have horses—”
“This is your cousin, Caraline?” said a deep, rich man’s voice, and Min jumped in spite of herself.
Toram Riatin was even better-looking close up than at a distance, with the sort of strong male beauty and air of worldly knowledge that would have attracted Min before she met Rand. Well, she still found them attractive, just not as much as she did Rand. His firm-lipped smile was quite appealing.
Toram’s gaze fell to Caraline’s hand, still on Rand’s chest. “The Lady Caraline is to be my wife,” he said lazily. “Did you know that?”
Caraline’s cheeks reddened angrily. “Do not say that, Toram! I have told you I will not, and I will not!”
Toram smiled at Rand. “I think women never know their minds until you show them. What do you think, Jeraal? Jeraal?” He looked around, scowling. Min stared at him in amazement. And he was so pretty, with just the right air of. . . . She wished she could call up viewings at will. She very much wanted to know what the future held for this man.
“I saw your friend scurry off that way, Toram.” Mouth twisted with distaste, Caraline gave a vague wave of her hand. “You will find him near the drink, I think, or else bothering the serving girls.”
“Later, my precious.” He tried to touch her cheek, and looked amused when she stepped back. Without a pause he transferred his amusement to Rand. And the sword at his side. “Would you care for a little sport, cousin? I call you that because we will be cousins, once Caraline is my wife. With practice swords, of course.”
“Certainly not,” Caraline laughed. “He is a boy, Toram, and scarce knows one end of that thing from the other. His mother would never forgive me, if I allowed—”
“Sport,” Rand said abruptly. “I might as well see where this leads. I agree.”
CHAPTER
36
Blades
Min did not know whether to groan or shout or sit down and cry. Caraline, staring wide-eyed at Rand, seemed in the same quandary.
With a laugh, Toram began rubbing his hands together. “Listen, everyone,” he shouted. “You are going to see some sport. Clear a space. Clear a space.” He strode off, waving people away from
the center of the tent.
“Sheepherder,” Min growled, “you’re not wool-brained. You don’t have any brains!”
“I would not put it quite so,” Caraline said in a very dry voice, “but I suggest you leave, now. Whatever . . . tricks . . . you think you might use, there are seven Aes Sedai in this tent, four of them Red Ajah lately arrived from the south on their way to Tar Valon. Should one of them so much as suspect, I very much fear that Whatever might have come of today, never will. Leave.”
“I won’t use any . . . tricks.” Rand unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to Min. “If I’ve touched you and Darlin in one way, maybe I can touch Toram in another.” The crowd was pushing back, opening up an area twenty paces across between two of the great centerpoles. Some looked to Rand, and there was a great deal of rib nudging and sly laughter. The Aes Sedai were offered pride of place, of course, Cadsuane and her two friends on one side, four ageless women in Red Ajah shawls on the other. Cadsuane and her companions were eyeing Rand with open disapproval and as close to irritation as any Aes Sedai ever let show, but the Red sisters looked more concerned with those three. At least, although they stood directly opposite, they managed to seem oblivious of the presence of any other sisters. No one could be that blind without trying.
“Listen to me, cousin.” Caraline’s low voice almost crackled with urgency. She stood very close, her neck craned to look up at him. Barely reaching his chest, she seemed ready to box his ears. “If you use none of your special tricks,” Caraline went on, “he can hurt you badly, even with practice swords, and he will. He has never liked another touching what he thinks is his, and he suspects every pretty young man who speaks to me of being my lover. When we were children, he pushed a friend—a friend!—down the stairs and broke his back because Derowin rode his pony without asking. Go, cousin. No one will think less; no one expects a boy to face a blademaster. Jaisi . . . Whatever your real name is . . . help me convince him!”
Min opened her mouth—and Rand laid a finger across her lips. “I am who I am,” he smiled. “And I don’t think I could run from him if I wasn’t. So, he’s a blademaster.” Unbuttoning his coat, he strode out into the cleared area.
“Why must they be so stubborn when you least wish it?” Caraline whispered in tones of frustration. Min could only nod in agreement.
Toram had stripped to shirt and breeches, and carried two practice swords, their “blades” bundles of thin lathes tied together. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of Rand with his coat simply hanging open. “You will be confined in that, cousin.” Rand shrugged.
Without warning, Toram tossed one of the swords; Rand caught it out of the air by the long hilt.
“Those gloves will slip, cousin. You want a firm grip.”
Rand took the hilt in both hands and turned slightly sideways, blade down and left foot forward.
Toram spread his hands as if to say he had done all he could. “Well, at least he knows how to stand,” he laughed, and on the last word darted forward, practice sword streaking for Rand’s head with all his might behind it.
With a loud clack, bundled lathes met bundled lathes. Rand had moved nothing except his sword. For a moment, Toram stared at him, and Rand looked back calmly. Then they began to dance.
That was all Min could call it, that gliding, flowing movement, wooden blades flickering and spinning. She had watched Rand practice the sword against the best he could find, often against two or three or four at once, but that had been nothing to this. So beautiful, and so easy to forget that had those lathes been steel, blood could have flowed. Except that no blade, steel or lathes, touched flesh. Back and forth they danced, circling one another, swords now probing, now slashing, Rand attacking, now defending, and every movement punctuated by those loud clacks.
Caraline gripped Min’s arm hard without taking her eyes from the contest. “He is also a blademaster,” she breathed. “He must be. Look at him!”
Min was looking, and hugging Rand’s sword belt and scabbarded blade as if they were him. Back and forth in beauty, and Whatever Rand thought, Toram clearly wished his blade was steel. Cold rage burned on his face, and he pressed harder, harder. Still no blade touched anything but another, yet now Rand backed away constantly, sword darting to defend, and Toram moved forward, attacking, eyes glittering with icy fury.
Outside, someone screamed, a wail of utter horror, and suddenly the huge tent snapped up into the air, vanishing into a thick grayness that hid the sky. Fog billowed on every side, filled with distant shrieks and bellows. Thin tendrils wafted into the clear inverted bowl left by the tent. Everyone stared in amazement. Almost everyone.
Toram’s lathe blade smashed into Rand’s side with a bone-crack sound, doubling him over. “You are dead, cousin,” Toram sneered, lifting his sword high to strike again—and froze, staring, as part of the heavy gray mist overhead . . . solidified. A tentacle of fog, it might have been, a thick three-toed arm, reaching down, closed around the stout Red sister, snatching her into the air before anyone had a chance to move.
Cadsuane was the first to overcome shock. Her arms rose, shaking back her shawl, her hands made a twist, and a ball of fire seemed to shoot upward from each palm, streaking into the mist. Above, something suddenly burst into flame, one violent gout that vanished immediately, and the Red sister fell back into sight, dropping with a thud facedown on the carpets near where Rand knelt on one knee clutching his side. At least, she would have been facedown had her head not been twisted around so her dead eyes stared up into the fog.
Whatever scraps of composure remained in the tent fled with that. The Shadow had been given flesh. Screaming people fled in every direction, knocking over tables, nobles clawing past servants and servants past nobles. Buffeted, Min fought her way to Rand with fists and elbows and his sword as a club.
“Are you all right?” she asked, pulling him to his feet. She was surprised to see Caraline on the other side, helping him, too. For that matter, Caraline looked surprised.
He took his hand from beneath his coat, fingers thankfully free of blood. That half-healed scar, so tender, had not broken open. “I think we best move,” he said, taking his sword belt. “We have to get out of this.” The inverted bowl of clear air was noticeably smaller. Almost everyone else had fled. Out in the fog, screams rose, most cutting off abruptly but always replaced by new.
“I agree, Tomas,” Darlin said. Sword in hand, he planted himself with his back to Caraline, between her and the fog. “The question is, in which direction? And also, how far do we have to go?”
“This is his work,” Toram spat. “Al’Thor’s.” Hurling down his practice sword, he stalked to his discarded coat and calmly donned it. Whatever else he was, he was no coward. “Jeraal?” he shouted at the fog as he fastened his sword belt. “Jeraal, the Light burn you, man, where are you? Jeraal!” Mordeth—Fain—did not answer, and he went on shouting.
The only others still there were Cadsuane and her two companions, faces calm but hands running nervously over their shawls. Cadsuane herself might have been setting out for a stroll. “I should think north,” she said. “The slope lies closer that way, and climbing may take us above this. Stop that caterwauling, Toram! Either your man’s dead, or he can’t hear.” Toram glared at her, but he did stop shouting. Cadsuane did not appear to notice or care, so long as he was silent. “North, then. We three will take care of anything your steel can’t handle.” She looked straight at Rand when she said that, and he gave a whisker of a nod before buckling his sword belt and drawing his blade. Trying not to goggle, Min exchanged glances with Caraline; the other woman’s eyes looked as large as teacups. The Aes Sedai knew who he was, and she was going to keep anyone else from knowing.
“I wish we had not left our Warders back in the city,” the slim Yellow sister said. Tiny silver bells in her dark hair chimed as she tossed her head. She had almost as commanding an air as Cadsuane, enough that you did not realize how pretty she was at first, except that that toss of her head seemed
. . . well . . . a touch petulant. “I wish I had Roshan here.”
“A circle, Cadsuane?” the Gray asked. Head turning this way and that to peer at the fog, she looked like a plump, pale-haired sparrow with her sharp nose and inquisitive eyes. Not a frightened sparrow, but one definitely ready to take wing. “Should we link?”
“No, Niande,” Cadsuane sighed. “If you see something, you must be able to strike at it without waiting to point it out for me. Samitsu, stop worrying about Roshan. We have three fine swords here, two of them heron-mark, I see. They will do.”
Toram showed his teeth on seeing the heron engraved on the blade Rand had unsheathed. If it was a smile, it held no mirth. His own bared blade bore a heron, too. Darlin’s did not, but he gave Rand and his sword a weighing look, then a respectful nod that was considerably deeper than he had offered plain Tomas Trakand, of a minor branch of the House.
The gray-haired Green had taken charge, clearly, and she kept it despite attempted protests from Darlin, who like many Tairens seemed not to relish Aes Sedai a great deal, and Toram, who just seemed to dislike anyone giving orders but himself. For that matter, so did Caraline, but Cadsuane ignored her frowns as completely as she did the men’s voiced complaints. Unlike them, Caraline appeared to realize complaints would do no good. Wonder of wonders, Rand meekly let himself be placed to Cadsuane’s right as she quickly arranged everyone. Well, not exactly meekly—he stared down his nose at her in a way that would have made Min slap him if he did it to her; Cadsuane just shook her head and muttered something that reddened his face—but at least he kept his mouth shut. Right then, Min almost thought he would announce who he was. And maybe expect the fog to vanish in fear of the Dragon Reborn. He smiled at her as though fog in this weather was nothing, even a fog that snatched tents and people.
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