“Not yet. If we win at the Eye of the World, perhaps not ever again.”
“Can you even find the Eye, Aes Sedai? If holding the Dark One depends on that, we might as well be dead. Many have tried and failed.”
“I can find it, Lord Agelmar. Hope is not lost yet.”
Agelmar studied her, and then the others. He appeared puzzled by Nynaeve and Egwene; their farmclothes contrasted sharply with Moiraine’s silk dress, though all were travel-stained. “They are Aes Sedai, too?” he asked doubtfully. When Moiraine shook her head, he seemed even more confused. His gaze ran over the young men from Emond’s Field, settling on Rand, brushing the red-wrapped sword at his waist. “A strange guard you take with you, Aes Sedai. Only one fighting man.” He glanced at Perrin, and at the axe hanging from his belt. “Perhaps two. But both barely more than lads. Let me send men with you. A hundred lances more or less will make no difference in the Gap, but you will need more than one Warder and three youths. And two women will not help, unless they are Aiel in disguise. The Blight is worse than usual this year. It—stirs.”
“A hundred lances would be too many,” Lan said, “and a thousand not enough. The larger the party we take into the Blight, the more chance we will attract attention. We must reach the Eye without fighting, if we can. You know the outcome is all but foretold when Trollocs force battle inside the Blight.”
Agelmar nodded grimly, but he refused to give up. “Fewer, then. Even ten good men would give you a better chance of escorting Moiraine Sedai and the other two women to the Green Man than will just these young fellows.”
Rand abruptly realized the Lord of Fal Dara assumed it was Nynaeve and Egwene who with Moiraine would fight against the Dark One. It was natural. That sort of struggle meant using the One Power, and that meant women. That sort of struggle means using the Power. He tucked his thumbs behind his sword belt and gripped the buckle hard to keep his hands from shaking.
“No men,” Moiraine said. Agelmar opened his mouth again, and she went on before he could speak. “It is the nature of the Eye, and the nature of the Green Man. How many from Fal Dara have ever found the Green Man and the Eye?”
“Ever?” Agelmar shrugged. “Since the War of the Hundred Years, you could count them on the fingers of one hand. No more than one in five years from all the Borderlands together.”
“No one finds the Eye of the World,” Moiraine said, “unless the Green Man wants them to find it. Need is the key, and intention. I know where to go—I have been there before.” Rand’s head whipped around in surprise; his was not the only one among the Emond’s Fielders, but the Aes Sedai did not seem to notice. “But one among us seeking glory, seeking to add his name to those four, and we may never find it though I take us straight to the spot I remember.”
“You have seen the Green Man, Moiraine Sedai?” The Lord of Fal Dara sounded impressed, but in the next breath he frowned. “But if you have already met him once. . . .”
“Need is the key,” Moiraine said softly, “and there can be no greater need than mine. Than ours. And I have something those other seekers have not.”
Her eyes barely stirred from Agelmar’s face, but Rand was sure they had drifted toward Loial, just for an instant before the Aes Sedai pulled them back. Rand met the Ogier’s eyes, and Loial shrugged.
“Ta’veren,” the Ogier said softly.
Agelmar threw up his hands. “It will be as you say, Aes Sedai. Peace, if the real battle is to be at the Eye of the World, I am tempted to take the Black Hawk banner after you instead of to the Gap. I could cut a path for you—”
“That would be disaster, Lord Agelmar. Both at Tarwin’s Gap and at the Eye. You have your battle, and we ours.”
“Peace! As you say, Aes Sedai.”
Having reached a decision, however much he disliked it, the shaven-headed Lord of Fal Dara seemed to put it out of his mind. He invited them to table with him, all the while making conversation about hawks and horses and dogs, but with never a mention of Trollocs, or Tarwin’s Gap, or the Eye of the World.
The chamber where they ate was as stark and plain as Lord Agelmar’s study had been, with little more furnishing it than the table and chairs themselves, and they were severe in line and form. Beautiful, but severe. A big fireplace warmed the room, but not so much that a man called out hurriedly would be stunned by the cold outside. Liveried servants brought soup and bread and cheese, and the talk was of books and music until Lord Agelmar realized the Emond’s Field folk were not talking. Like a good host he asked gently probing questions designed to bring them out of their quiet.
Rand soon found himself competing to tell about Emond’s Field and the Two Rivers. It was an effort not to say too much. He hoped the others were guarding their tongues, Mat especially. Nynaeve alone held herself back, eating and drinking silently.
“There’s a song in the Two Rivers,” Mat said. “ ‘Coming Home From Tarwin’s Gap.’ ” He finished hesitantly, as if suddenly realizing that he was bringing up what they had been avoiding, but Agelmar handled it smoothly.
“Little wonder. Few lands have not sent men to hold back the Blight over the years.”
Rand looked at Mat and Perrin. Mat silently formed the word Manetheren.
Agelmar whispered to one of the servants, and while others cleared the table that man vanished and returned with a canister, and clay pipes for Lan, Loial, and Lord Agelmar. “Two Rivers tabac,” the Lord of Fal Dara said as they filled their pipes. “Hard to come by, here, but worth the cost.”
When Loial and the two older men were puffing contentedly, Agelmar glanced at the Ogier. “You seem troubled, Builder. Not beset by the Longing, I hope. How long have you been away from the stedding?”
“It is not the Longing; I have not been gone such a time as that.” Loial shrugged, and the blue-gray streamer rising from his pipe made a spiral above the table as he gestured. “I expected—hoped—that the grove would still be here. Some remnant of Mafal Dadaranell, at least.”
“Kiserai ti Wansho,” Agelmar murmured. “The Trolloc Wars left nothing but memories, Loial, son of Arent, and people to build on them. They could not duplicate the Builders’ work, any more than could I. Those intricate curves and patterns your people create are beyond human eyes and hands to make. Perhaps we wished to avoid a poor imitation that would only have been an ever-present reminder to us of what we had lost. There is a different beauty in simplicity, in a single line placed just so, a single flower among the rocks. The harshness of the stone makes the flower more precious. We try not to dwell too much on what is gone. The strongest heart will break under that strain.”
“The rose petal floats on water,” Lan recited softly. “The kingfisher flashes above the pond. Life and beauty swirl in the midst of death.”
“Yes,” Agelmar said. “Yes. That one has always symbolized the whole of it to me, too.” The two men bowed their heads to one another.
Poetry out of Lan? The man was like an onion; every time Rand thought he knew something about the Warder, he discovered another layer underneath.
Loial nodded slowly. “Perhaps I also dwell too much on what is gone. And yet, the groves were beautiful.” But he was looking at the stark room as if seeing it anew, and suddenly finding things worth seeing.
Ingtar appeared and bowed to Lord Agelmar. “Your pardon, Lord, but you wanted to know of anything out of the ordinary, however small.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“A small thing, Lord. A stranger tried to enter the town. Not of Shienar. By his accent, a Lugarder. Sometimes, at least. When the South Gate guards attempted to question him, he ran away. He was seen to enter the forest, but only a short time later he was found scaling the wall.”
“A small thing!” Agelmar’s chair scraped across the floor as he stood. “Peace! The tower watch is so negligent a man can reach the walls unseen, and you call it a small thing?”
“He is a madman, Lord.” Awe touched Ingtar’s voice. “The Light shields madmen. Perhaps the Light cloaked the tower w
atch’s eyes and allowed him to reach the walls. Surely one poor madman can do no harm.”
“Has he been brought to the keep yet? Good. Bring him to me here. Now.” Ingtar bowed and left, and Agelmar turned to Moiraine. “Your pardon, Aes Sedai, but I must see to this. Perhaps he is only a pitiful wretch with his mind blinded by the Light, but. . . . Two days gone, five of our own people were found in the night trying to saw through the hinges of a horse-gate. Small, but enough to let Trollocs in.” He grimaced. “Darkfriends, I suppose, though I hate to think it of any Shienaran. They were torn to pieces by the people before the guards could take them, so I’ll never know. If Shienarans can be Darkfriends, I must be especially careful of outlanders in these days. If you wish to withdraw, I will have you shown to your rooms.”
“Darkfriends know neither border nor blood,” Moiraine said. “They are found in every land, and are of none. I, too, am interested in seeing this man. The Pattern is forming a Web, Lord Agelmar, but the final shape of the Web is not yet set. It may yet entangle the world, or unravel and set the Wheel to a new weaving. At this point, even small things can change the shape of the Web. At this point I am wary of small things out of the ordinary.”
Agelmar glanced at Nynaeve and Egwene. “As you wish, Aes Sedai.”
Ingtar returned, with two guards carrying long bills, and escorting a man who looked like a ragbag turned inside out. Grime layered his face and matted his scraggly, uncut hair and beard. He hunched into the room, sunken eyes darting this way and that. A rancid smell wafted ahead of him.
Rand sat forward intently, trying to see through all the dirt.
“You’ve no cause to be holding me like this,” the filthy man whined. “I’m only a poor destitute, abandoned by the Light and seeking a place, like everyone else, to shelter from the Shadow.”
“The Borderlands are a strange place to seek—” Agelmar began, when Mat cut him off.
“The peddler!”
“Padan Fain,” Perrin agreed, nodding.
“The beggar,” Rand said, suddenly hoarse. He sat back at the sudden hatred that flared in Fain’s eyes. “He’s the man who was asking about us in Caemlyn. He has to be.”
“So this concerns you after all, Moiraine Sedai,” Agelmar said slowly.
Moiraine nodded. “I greatly fear that it does.”
“I didn’t want to.” Fain began to cry. Fat tears cut runnels in the dirt on his cheeks, but they were unable to reach the bottom layer. “He made me! Him and his burning eyes.” Rand flinched. Mat had his hand under his coat, no doubt clutching the dagger from Shadar Logoth again. “He made me his hound! His hound, to hunt and follow with never a bit of rest. Only his hound, even after he threw me away.”
“It does concern us all,” Moiraine said grimly. “Is there a place where I can talk with him alone, Lord Agelmar?” Her mouth tightened with distaste. “And wash him first. I may need to touch him.” Agelmar nodded and spoke softly to Ingtar, who bowed and disappeared through the door.
“I will not be compelled!” The voice was Fain’s, but he was no longer crying, and an arrogant snap had replaced the whine. He stood upright, not crouching at all. Throwing back his head, he shouted at the ceiling. “Never again! I—will—not!” He faced Agelmar as if the men flanking him were his own bodyguard and the Lord of Fal Dara his equal rather than his captor. His tone became sleek and oily. “There is a misunderstanding here, Great Lord. I am sometimes taken by spells, but that will pass soon. Yes, soon I will be rid of them.” Contemptuously he flicked his fingers against the rags he wore. “Do not be misled by these, Great Lord. I have had to disguise myself against those who have tried to stop me, and my journey has been long and hard. But at last I have reached lands where men still know the dangers of Ba’alzamon, where men still fight the Dark One.”
Rand stared, goggling. It was Fain’s voice, but the words did not sound like the peddler at all.
“So you’ve come here because we fight Trollocs,” Agelmar said. “And you are so important that someone wants to stop you. These people say you are a peddler called Padan Fain, and that you are following them.”
Fain hesitated. He glanced at Moiraine and hurriedly pulled his eyes away from the Aes Sedai. His gaze ran across the Emond’s Fielders, then jerked back to Agelmar. Rand felt the hate in that look, and the fear. When Fain spoke again, though, his voice was unruffled. “Padan Fain is simply one of the many disguises I have been forced to wear over the years. Friends of the Dark pursue me, for I have learned how to defeat the Shadow. I can show you how to defeat him, Great Lord.”
“We do as well as men can,” Agelmar said dryly. “The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, but we have fought the Dark One almost since the Breaking of the World without peddlers to teach us how.”
“Great Lord, your might is unquestioned, but can it stand against the Dark One forever? Do you not often find yourself pressed to hold? Forgive my temerity, Great Lord; he will crush you in the end, as you are. I know; believe me, I do. But I can show you how to scour the Shadow from the land, Great Lord.” His tone became even more unctuous, though still haughty. “If you but try what I advise, you will see, Great Lord. You will cleanse the land. You, Great Lord, can do it, if you direct your might in the right direction. Avoid letting Tar Valon entangle you in its snares, and you can save the world. Great Lord, you will be the man remembered through history for bringing final victory to the Light.” The guards held their places, but their hands shifted on the long shafts of the bills as if they thought they might have to use them.
“He thinks a great deal of himself for a peddler,” Agelmar said to Lan over his shoulder. “I think Ingtar is right. He is mad.”
Fain’s eyes tightened angrily, but his voice remained smooth. “Great Lord, I know my words must appear grandiose, but if you will only—” He cut off abruptly, stepping back, as Moiraine rose and started slowly around the table. Only the guards’ lowered bills kept Fain from backing right out of the room.
Stopping behind Mat’s chair, Moiraine put a hand on his shoulder and bent to whisper in his ear. Whatever she said, the tension went out of his face, and he took his hand from under his coat. The Aes Sedai went on until she stood beside Agelmar, confronting Fain. As she came to a halt, the peddler sank into a crouch once more.
“I hate him,” he whimpered. “I want to be free of him. I want to walk in the Light again.” His shoulders began to shake, and tears streamed down his face even more heavily than before. “He made me do it.”
“I am afraid he is more than a peddler, Lord Agelmar,” Moiraine said. “Less than human, worse than vile, more dangerous than you can imagine. He can be bathed after I have spoken with him. I dare not waste a minute. Come, Lan.”
CHAPTER
47
More Tales of the Wheel
An itchy restlessness had Rand pacing beside the dining table. Twelve strides. The table was exactly twelve strides long no matter how many times he stepped it off. Irritably he made himself stop keeping tally. Stupid thing to be doing. I don’t care how long the bloody table is. A few minutes later he discovered that he was counting the number of trips he made up the table and back. What is he saying to Moiraine and Lan? Does he know why the Dark One is after us? Does he know which of us the Dark One wants?
He glanced at his friends. Perrin had crumbled a piece of bread and was idly pushing the crumbs around on the table with one finger. His yellow eyes stared unblinking at the crumbs, but they seemed to see something far off. Mat slouched in his chair, eyes half closed and the beginnings of a grin on his face. It was a nervous grin, not amusement. Outwardly he looked like the old Mat, but from time to time he unconsciously touched the Shadar Logoth dagger through his coat. What is Fain telling her? What does he know?
Loial, at least, did not look worried. The Ogier was studying the walls. First he had stood in the middle of the room and stared, turning slowly in a circle; now he was almost pressing his broad nose against the stone while he gently traced a particular join w
ith fingers thicker than most men’s thumbs. Sometimes he closed his eyes, as if the feeling was more important than seeing. His ears gave an occasional twitch, and he muttered to himself in Ogier, appearing to have forgotten anyone else was in the room with him.
Lord Agelmar stood talking quietly with Nynaeve and Egwene in front of the long fireplace at the end of the room. He was a good host, adept at making people forget their troubles; several of his stories had Egwene in giggles. Once even Nynaeve threw back her head and roared with laughter. Rand gave a start at the unexpected sound, and jumped again when Mat’s chair crashed to the floor.
“Blood and ashes!” Mat growled, ignoring the way Nynaeve’s mouth tightened at his language. “What’s taking her so long?” He righted his chair and sat back down without looking at anyone. His hand strayed to his coat.
The Lord of Fal Dara looked at Mat disapprovingly—his gaze took in Rand and Perrin without any improvement—then turned back to the women. Rand’s pacing had taken him close to them.
“My Lord,” Egwene was saying, as glibly as if she had been using titles all of her life, “I thought he was a Warder, but you call him Dai Shan, and talk about a Golden Crane banner, and so did those other men. Sometimes you sound almost as if he’s a king. I remember once Moiraine called him the last Lord of the Seven Towers. Who is he?”
Nynaeve began studying her cup intently, but it was obvious to Rand that abruptly she was listening even more closely than was Egwene. Rand stopped and tried to overhear without seeming to eavesdrop.
“Lord of the Seven Towers,” Agelmar said with a frown. “An ancient title, Lady Egwene. Not even the High Lords of Tear have older, though the Queen of Andor comes close.” He heaved a sigh, and shook his head. “He will not speak of it, yet the story is well known along the Border. He is a king, or should have been, al’Lan Mandragoran, Lord of the Seven Towers, Lord of the Lakes, crownless King of the Malkieri.” His shaven head lifted high, and there was a light in his eye as if he felt a father’s pride. His voice grew stronger, filled with the force of his feeling. The whole room could hear without straining. “We of Shienar call ourselves Bordermen, but fewer than fifty years ago, Shienar was not truly of the Borderlands. North of us, and of Arafel, was Malkier. The lances of Shienar rode north, but it was Malkier that held back the Blight. Malkier, Peace favor her memory, and the Light illumine her name.”
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