The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  “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 be 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.”

  CHAPTER

  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 corner 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 patro
lled 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.