The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  Mother Guenna brewed some sort of strong tea with a rank smell and forced it down Thom’s throat, holding his nose when he tried to complain. Mat decided she had less fat on her than he had thought, from the way she held the gleeman’s head steady in the crook of one arm while she poured the black liquid into him no matter how hard he tried to stop her.

  When she took the cup away, Thom coughed and scrubbed at his mouth with equal vigor. “Gaaah! Woman . . . I don’t know . . . whether you . . . mean to drown me . . . or kill me . . . with the taste! You ought . . . to be a bloody . . . blacksmith!”

  “You will take the same twice a day till that hacking is gone,” she said firmly. “And I have a salve that you’ll rub on your chest every night.” Some of the weariness left her voice as she confronted the gleeman, fists on her broad hips. “That salve stinks as bad as this tea tastes, but you will rub it on—thoroughly!—or I’ll drag you upstairs like a scrawny carp in a net and tie you to a bed with that cloak of yours! I never had a gleeman come to me before, and I’ll not let the first one that does cough himself to death.”

  Thom glowered and blew out his mustaches with a cough, but he seemed to take her threat seriously. At least, he did not say anything, but he looked as if he meant to throw her tea and her salve right back at her.

  The more this Mother Guenna talked, the more she sounded like the Amyrlin to Mat. From the sour look on Thom’s face, and the steady stare on hers, he decided he had better smooth matters over a little before the gleeman refused to take her medicines. And she decided to make him. “I knew a woman once who talked like you,” he said. “All fish and nets and things. Sounded like you, too. The same accent, I mean. I suppose she’s Tairen.”

  “Perhaps.” The gray-haired woman suddenly sounded tired again, and she kept staring at the floor. “I knew some girls with the sound of your speech on their tongues, too. Two of them had it, anyway.” She sighed heavily.

  Mat felt his scalp prickle. My luck can’t be this good. But he would not bet a copper on two other women with Two Rivers accents just happening to be in Tear. “Three girls? Young women? Named Egwene, and Nynaeve, and Elayne? That one has hair like the sun, and blue eyes.”

  She frowned at him. “Those were not the names they gave,” she said slowly, “yet I suspected they did not give me their true names. But they had their reasons, I thought. One of them was a pretty girl with bright blue eyes and red-gold hair to her shoulders.” She described Nynaeve with her braid to her waist and Egwene with her big, dark eyes and ready smile, too. Three pretty women as different from one another as they could be. “I see they are the ones you know,” she finished. “I am sorry, boy.”

  “Why are you sorry? I have been trying to find them for days!” Light, I walked right past this place the first night! Right past them! I wanted random. What could be more random than where a ship docks on a rainy night, and where you happen to look in a bloody lightning flash? Burn me! Burn me! “Tell me where they are, Mother Guenna.”

  The gray-haired woman stared wearily at the stove where her spouted kettle was steaming. Her mouth worked, but she said nothing.

  “Where are they?” Mat demanded. “It is important! They are in danger if I don’t find them.”

  “You do not understand,” she said softly. “You are an outlander. The High Lords. . . .”

  “I do not care about any—” Mat blinked, and looked at Thom. The gleeman seemed to be frowning, but he was coughing so hard, Mat could not be sure. “What do the High Lords have to do with my friends?”

  “You just do not—”

  “Don’t tell me I do not understand! I will pay for the information!”

  Mother Guenna glared at him. “I do not take money for . . . !” She grimaced fiercely. “You ask me to tell you things I have been told not to speak of. Do you know what will happen to me if I do and you breathe my name? I will lose my tongue, to begin. Then I will lose other parts before the High Lords have what is left of me hung up to scream its last hours as a reminder to others to obey. And it will do those young women no good, not my telling or my dying!”

  “I promise I will never mention your name to anyone. I swear it.” And I’ll keep that oath, old woman, if you only tell me where they bloody are! “Please? They are in danger.”

  She studied him for a long time; before she was done he had the feeling she knew every detail of him. “On that oath, I will tell you. I . . . liked them. But you can do nothing. You are too late, Matrim Cauthon. Too late by nearly three hours. They have been taken to the Stone. The High Lord Samon sent for them.” She shook her head in worried puzzlement. “He sent . . . women who . . . could channel. I hold nothing against Aes Sedai myself, but that is against the law. The law the High Lords made. If they break every other law, they would not break that one. Why would a High Lord send Aes Sedai on his errands? Why would he want those girls at all?”

  Mat almost burst out laughing. “Aes Sedai? Mother Guenna, you had my heart in my throat, and maybe my liver, too. If Aes Sedai came for them, there is nothing to worry about. All three of them are going to be Aes Sedai themselves. Not that I like it much, but that’s what they—” His grin faded at the heavy way she shook her head.

  “Boy, those girls fought like lionfish in a net. Whether they mean to be Aes Sedai or not, those who took them treated them like bilge pumpings. Friends do not give bruises like that.”

  He felt his face twisting. Aes Sedai hurt them? What in the Light? The bloody Stone. It makes the Palace in Caemlyn look like walking into a barnyard! Burn me! I stood right out there in the rain and stared at this house! Burn me for a bloody Light-blinded fool!

  “If you break your hand,” Mother Guenna said, “I will splint and poultice it, but if you damage my wall, I will strip your hide like a redfish!”

  He blinked, then looked at his fist, at scraped knuckles. He did not even remember punching the wall.

  The broad woman took his hand in a strong grip, but the fingers she used to probe were surprisingly gentle. “Nothing broken,” she grunted after a while. Her eyes were just as gentle as she studied his face. “It seems you care for them. One of them, at least, I suppose it is. I am sorry, Mat Cauthon.”

  “Don’t be,” he told her. “At least I know where they are, now. All I have to do is get them out.” He fished out his last two Andoran gold crowns and pressed them into her hand. “For Thom’s medicines, and for letting me know about the girls.” On impulse, he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and a grin. “And that’s for me.”

  Startled, she touched her cheek, not seeming to know whether to look at the coins or at him. “Get them out, you say. Just like that. Out of the Stone.” Abruptly she stabbed him in the ribs with a finger as hard as a tree stub. “You remind me of my husband, Mat Cauthon. He was a headstrong fool who would sail into the teeth of a gale and laugh, too. I could almost think you’ll manage it.” Suddenly she saw his muddy boots, apparently for the first time. “It took me six months to teach him not to track mud into my house. If you do get those girls out, whichever of them you have your eye on will have a hard time training you to make you fit to be let inside.”

  “You are the only woman who could do that,” he said with a grin that broadened at her glare. Get them out. That’s all I have to do. Bring them right out of the Stone of bloody Tear. Thom coughed again. He isn’t going into the Stone like that. Only, how do I stop him? “Mother Guenna, can I leave my friend here? I think he is too sick to go back to the inn.”

  “What?” Thom barked. He tried to push himself out of the chair, coughing so he could hardly speak. “I am no . . . such thing, boy! You think . . . walking into the Stone . . . will be like . . . walking into your mother’s kitchen? You think you . . . would make it . . . as far as the gates . . . without me?” He hung on the back of the chair, his wheezing and hacking keeping him from rising more than halfway to his feet.

  Mother Guenna put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down as easily as a child. The gleeman gave her a s
tartled look. “I will take care of him, Mat Cauthon,” she said.

  “No!” Thom shouted. “You cannot . . . do this to me! You can’t . . . leave me . . . with this old. . . .” Only her hand on his shoulder kept him from doubling over.

  Mat grinned at the white-haired man. “I have enjoyed knowing you, Thom.”

  As he hurried out into the street, he found himself wondering why he had said that. He isn’t going to bloody die. That woman will keep him alive if she has to drag him kicking and screaming out of his grave by his mustaches. Yes, but who is going to keep me alive?

  Ahead of him, the Stone of Tear loomed over the city, impregnable, a fortress besieged a hundred times, a stone on which a hundred armies had broken their teeth. And he had to get inside, somehow. And bring out three women. Somehow.

  With a laugh that made even the sullen folk in the street look at him, he headed back for The White Crescent, uncaring of mud or the damp heat. He could feel the dice tumbling inside his head.

  CHAPTER

  53

  A Flow of the Spirit

  Perrin shrugged into his coat as he walked back toward the Star through the evening shadows. A good tiredness soaked through his arms and shoulders; along with more common work, Master Ajala had had him make a large piece of ornamental work, all elaborate curves and scrolls, to go on some country lord’s new gate. He had enjoyed making something so pretty.

  “I thought his eyes would come out of his face, blacksmith, when you said you would not make that thing if it was for a High Lord.”

  He glanced sideways at Zarine, walking beside him, the shadows masking her face. Even for his eyes, the shadows were there, just fainter than they would have been for another’s. They emphasized her high cheekbones, softened the strong curve of her nose. He just could not make up his mind about her. Even if Moiraine and Lan still insisted they stay close to the inn, he wished she could find something else to do besides watch him work. For some reason, he had found himself growing awkward whenever he thought of her tilted eyes on him. More than once he had fumbled with his hammer till Master Ajala frowned at him wonderingly. Girls had always been able to make him feel awkward especially when they smiled at him, but Zarine did not have to smile. Only look. He wondered again if she was the beautiful woman Min had warned him against. Better if she is the falcon. That thought surprised him so much that he stumbled.

  “I did not want anything I make to get into the hands of one of the Forsaken.” His eyes glowed golden as he looked at her. “If it was for a High Lord, how could I tell where it might end?” She shivered. “I did not mean to frighten you, Fai—Zarine.”

  She smiled broadly, no doubt thinking he could not see her. “You will fall yet, farmboy. Have you ever thought of wearing a beard?”

  It is bad enough she’s always mocking me, but half the time I do not even understand her!

  As they reached the front door of the inn, Moiraine and Lan met them, coming the other way. Moiraine wore that linen cloak with the wide, deep hood that hid her face. Light from the common-room windows made yellow pools on the paving stones. Two or three carriages rumbled past, and there were perhaps a dozen people in sight, hurrying home for their suppers, but for the most part, shadows populated the street. The weaver’s shop was closed tight. The silence was deafening.

  “Rand is in Tear.” The Aes Sedai’s cool voice issued from the depths of her hood as from a cavern.

  “Are you sure?” Perrin asked. “I have not heard of anything strange happening. No weddings, or wells drying up.” He saw Zarine frown in confusion. Moiraine had not been forthcoming with her, and neither had he. Keeping Loial’s tongue silent had been more difficult.

  “Don’t you listen to rumors, blacksmith?” the Warder said. “There have been marriages, as many in the last four days as in half a year before. And as many murders as in a whole year. A child fell from a tower balcony today. A hundred paces onto stone paving. She got up and ran to her mother without a bruise. The First of Mayene, a ‘guest’ in the Stone since before the winter, announced today that she will submit to the will of the High Lords, after saying yesterday she would see Mayene and all its ships burn before one Tairen country lord set foot in the city. They had not brought themselves to torture her, and that young woman has a will like iron, so you tell me if you think it might be Rand’s doing. Blacksmith, from top to bottom, Tear bubbles like a cauldron.”

  “These things were not needed to tell me,” Moiraine said. “Perrin, did you dream of Rand last night?”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “He was in the Heart of the Stone, holding that sword”—he felt Zarine shift beside him—“but I have been worrying about that so much it is no wonder I dream of it. I had nothing but nightmares last night.”

  “A tall man?” Zarine said. “With reddish hair and gray eyes? Holding something that shines so brightly it hurts your eyes? In a place that is all great redstone columns? Blacksmith, tell me that was not your dream.”

  “You see,” Moiraine said. “I have heard this dream spoken of a hundred times today. They all speak of nightmares—Be’lal apparently does not care to shield his dreams—but that one above all else.” She laughed suddenly, like low, cool chimes. “People say he is the Dragon Reborn. They say he is coming. They whisper it fearfully in corners, but they say it.”

  “And what of Be’lal?” Perrin asked.

  Moiraine’s reply was cold-drawn steel. “I will deal with him tonight.” There was no fear scent from her.

  “We will deal with him tonight,” Lan told her.

  “Yes, my Gaidin. We will deal with him.”

  “And what do we do? Sit here and wait? I had enough waiting to last me a lifetime in the mountains, Moiraine.”

  “You and Loial—and Zarine—will go to Tar Valon,” she told him. “Until this is done. It will be the safest place for you.”

  “Where is the Ogier?” Lan said. “I want all three of you on your way north as soon as possible.”

  “Upstairs, I suppose,” Perrin said. “In his room, or maybe the dining room. There are lights in the windows up there. He is always working on those notes of his. I suppose he will have plenty to say in his book about us running away.” He was surprised at the bitterness in his voice. Light, fool, do you want to face one of the Forsaken? No. No, but I am tired of running. I remember not running, once. I remember fighting back, and it was better. Even if I thought I was going to die, it was better.

  “I will find him,” Zarine announced. “I have no shame in admitting I will be glad enough to run from this fight. Men fight when they should run, and fools fight when they should run. But I had no need to say it twice.” She strode ahead of them, her narrow, divided skirts making small whisking noises as they entered the inn.

  Perrin glanced around the common room as they followed her toward the stairs in the back. There were fewer men at the tables than he expected. Some sat alone, with dull eyes, but where two or three sat together they talked in frightened whispers his ears could barely catch. Even so, he heard “Dragon” three times.

  As he reached the top of the stairs, he heard another soft sound, a thump as of something falling in the private dining room. He peered that way along the hall. “Zarine?” There was no answer. He felt the hair on the back of his neck shift, and padded that way. “Zarine?” He pushed open the door. “Faile!”

  She was lying on the floor near the table. As he started to rush into the room, Moiraine’s commanding shout halted him.

  “Stop, you fool! Stop, for your life!” She came along the hallway slowly, head turning as if she were listening for something, or searching for something. Lan followed with his hand on his sword—and a look in his eye as if he already knew steel would do no good. She came abreast of the door and stopped. “Move back, Perrin. Move back!”

  In agony he stared at Zarine. At Faile. She lay there as if lifeless. Finally he made himself step back from the door, leaving it open, standing where he could see her. She looked as if she were dead. He coul
d not see her chest stir. He wanted to howl. Frowning, he worked his hand, the one he had used to push the door into the room, opening and closing his fingers. It tingled sharply, as if he had struck his elbow. “Aren’t you going to do anything, Moiraine? If you will not, I am going to her.”

  “Stand still or you will go nowhere,” she said calmly. “What is that by her right hand? As if it dropped from her grip when she fell. I cannot make it out.”

  He glared at her, then peered into the room. “A hedgehog. It looks like a hedgehog carved out of wood. Moiraine, tell me what is going on! What has happened? Tell me!”

  “A hedgehog,” she murmured. “A hedgehog. Be silent, Perrin. I must think. I felt it trigger. I can sense the residues of the flows woven to set it. Spirit. Pure Spirit, and nothing else. Almost nothing uses pure flows of Spirit! Why does that hedgehog make me think of Spirit?”

  “You felt what trigger, Moiraine? What was set? A trap?”

  “Yes, a trap,” she said, irritation making tiny cracks in her cool serenity. “A trap meant for me. I would have been first into that room if Zarine had not rushed ahead. Lan and I would surely have gone there to plan and wait for supper. I will not wait on supper now. Be quiet, if you wish me to help the girl at all. Lan! Bring me that innkeeper!” The Warder flowed away down the stairs.

  Moiraine paced up and down in the hall, sometimes stopping to peer through the door from the depths of her hood. Perrin could see no sign that Zarine lived. Her breast did not stir. He tried listening for her heartbeat, but even for his ears it was impossible.

  When Lan returned, shoving a frightened Jurah Haret ahead of him by the scruff of his fat neck, the Aes Sedai rounded on the balding man. “You promised to keep this room for me, Master Haret.” Her voice was as hard, as precise, as a skinning knife. “To allow not even a serving woman to enter to clean unless I was present. Who did you let enter it, Master Haret? Tell me!”