The gleeman joined him, limping slightly from his old wound. Mat glanced back at Barlden, who stood with sleeves rolled up in the center of the room, looking down at his teacup. He seemed like he was wishing that cup held something a little stronger.
“Poor fellow,” Mat said, then stepped out into the morning light after Thom and pulled the door shut behind him.
“I assume we’re going after that person spreading around pictures of you?” Thom asked.
“Right as Light, we are,” Mat said, tying his ashandarei to Pips’ saddle. “It’s on the way to Four Kings anyway. I’ll lead your horse if you can drive the wagon.”
Thom nodded. He was studying the mayor’s home.
“What?” Mat asked.
“Nothing, lad,” the gleeman said. “It’s just . . . well, it’s a sad tale. Something’s wrong in the world. There’s a snag in the Pattern here. The town unravels at night, and then the world tries to reset it each morning to make things right again.”
“Well, they should be more forthcoming,” Mat said. The villagers had pulled the food-filled wagon up while Mat and Thom had been chatting with the mayor. It was hitched to two strong draft horses, tan of coloring and wide of hoof.
“More forthcoming?” Thom asked. “How? The mayor is right, they did try to warn us.”
Mat grunted, walking over to open the chest and check on his gold. It was there, as the mayor had said. “I don’t know,” he said. “They could put up a warning sign or something. Hello. Welcome to Hinderstap. We will murder you in the night and eat your bloody face if you stay past sunset. Try the pies. Martna Baily makes them fresh daily.”
Thom didn’t chuckle. “Poor taste, lad. There’s too much tragedy in this town for levity.”
“Funny,” Mat said. He counted out about as much gold as he figured would be a good price for the food and the wagon. Then, after a moment, he added ten more silver crowns. He set all of this in a pile on the mayor’s doorstep, then closed the chest. “The more tragic things get, the more I feel like laughing.”
“Are we really going to take this wagon?”
“We need the food,” Mat said, lashing the chest to the back of the wagon. Several large wheels of white cheese and a half dozen legs of mutton lay prominently alongside the casks of ale. The food smelled good, and his stomach rumbled. “I won it fair.” He glanced at the villagers passing on the street. When he’d first seen them the day before, he’d thought the slowness of their pace was due to the lazy nature of the mountain villagers. Now it struck him that there was another reason entirely.
He turned back to his work, checking the horses’ harness. “And I don’t feel a bit bad taking the wagon and horses. I doubt these villagers are going to be doing much traveling in the future. . . .”
CHAPTER 29
Into Bandar Eban
Moiraine Damodred, who died because of my weakness.
Rand slowed Tai’daishar to a walk as he passed through the massive gateway to Bandar Eban, his entourage following, ranks of Aiel leading him. The gates were said to be carved with the city’s seal, but swung open as they were, Rand couldn’t see them.
The nameless Darkfriend I beheaded in those Murandian hills. I’ve forgotten the looks of the others with her, but I will never forget her face.
The list ran through his head. Almost a daily ritual now, the name of every woman who had died by his hand or because of his actions. The street inside the city was of packed earth, lined with ruts that crisscrossed at the intersections. The dirt was lighter here than he was used to.
Colavaere Saighan, who died because I made her a pauper.
He rode past ranks of Domani, women in diaphanous gowns, men with thin mustaches and colorful coats. The roadways here had wooden boardwalks at the sides, and the people crowded them, watching. Rand could hear banners and flags flapping in the wind. There seemed to be a lot of them in the city.
The list always began with Moiraine. That name hurt the most of all, for he could have saved her. He should have. He hated himself for allowing her to sacrifice herself for him.
A child stepped off the boardwalk and started to run out into the street, but his father caught him by the hand and hauled him back into the press of people. Some coughed and muttered, but most were silent. The sounds of Rand’s troops marching on the packed earth seemed a thunder by comparison.
Was Lanfear alive again? If Ishamael could be returned, what about her? In that case, Moiraine’s death had been for naught, and his cowardice was even more galling. Never again. The list would remain, but he would never again be too weak to do what must be done.
There were no cheers from the people on those boardwalks. Well, he had not come to liberate. He had come to do what must be done. Perhaps he would find Graendal here; Asmodean said she had been in the country, but that had been so long ago. If he found her, perhaps that would assuage his conscience at invading.
Did he have one of those anymore? He could not decide.
Liah, of the Cosaida Chareen, whom I killed, telling myself it was for her own good. Oddly, Lews Therin started to chant with him, reading off the names, a strange, echoing chant inside his head.
Ahead, a large group of Aiel stood waiting for him in a city square set with copper fountains in the shape of horses leaping from a frothy wave. A man on horseback waited before the fountain, an honor guard around him. He was a solid, square-faced man with furrowed skin and gray hair. His forehead was shaved and powdered, after the fashion of Cairhienin soldiers. Dobraine was trustworthy, as much as any Cairhienin was, at least.
Sendara of the Iron Mountain Taardad, Lamelle of the Smoke Water Miagoma, Andhilin of the Red Salt Goshien.
Ilyena Therin Moerelle, Lews Therin said, slipping the name in between two others. Rand let it stand. At least the madman didn’t scream again.
“Lord Dragon,” Dobraine said smoothly, bowing to Rand as he approached. “I deliver to you the city of Bandar Eban. Order has been restored, as you commanded.”
“I asked you to restore order to the entire country, Dobraine,” Rand said softly. “Not just one city.”
The nobleman wilted slightly.
“You have one of the merchant council for me?” Rand asked.
“Yes,” Dobraine said. “Milisair Chadmar, last to flee the city’s chaos.” His eyes were eager. He had always been stalwart, but was that a ruse? Rand had trouble trusting anyone lately. The ones who seemed most trustworthy were the ones you needed to watch the most. And Dobraine was Cairhienin. Dared Rand trust anyone from Cairhien, with their games?
Moiraine was Cairhienin. I trusted her. Mostly.
Perhaps Dobraine hoped that Rand would choose him as king in Arad Doman. He had been steward of Cairhien, but he—like most others—knew that Rand intended Elayne for the Sun Throne.
Well, Rand might give this kingdom to Dobraine at that. He was better than most. Rand nodded for him to lead the way, and he did so, turning with the group of Aiel to march down a large side street. Rand continued, list still running through his mind.
The buildings here were tall and square, with the shape of boxes stacked atop one another. Many of them had balconies, packed with people, like the boardwalks beneath.
Each name on Rand’s list pained him, but that pain was a strange, distant thing now. His feelings were . . . different since the day he had killed Semirhage. She had taught him how to bury his guilt and his hurt. She had thought to chain him, but instead had given him strength.
He added her name and Elza’s name to the list. They didn’t have any right to be there. Semirhage was less a woman and more a monster. Elza had betrayed him, serving the Shadow all along. But he added the names. They had as much claim on him for killing them as any. More, even. He had been unwilling to kill Lanfear to save Moiraine, but he had used balefire to burn Semirhage out of existence rather than allow himself to be captured again.
He fingered the object he carried in a pouch on his saddle. It was a smooth figurine. He had not told Cads
uane that his servants had recovered it from her room. Now that Cadsuane was exiled from his presence, he never would. He knew that she tagged along still with his entourage, pushing the limits of his command to never let him see her face. But she did as ordered, and so he let it be. He would not speak to her, and she would not speak to him.
Cadsuane had been a tool, and that tool had proven ineffective. He did not regret casting it aside.
Jendhilin, Maiden of the Cold Peak Miagoma, he thought, Lews Therin muttering alongside him. The list was so long. It would grow before he died.
Death no longer worried him. Finally, he understood Lews Therin’s cries to let it end. Rand deserved to die. Was there a death so strong that a man would never have to be reborn? He reached the end of the list, finally. Once, he’d repeated it to keep himself from forgetting the names. That was not possible now; he could not forget them if he wished. He repeated them as a reminder of what he was.
But Lews Therin had one more name to add. Elmindreda Farshaw, he whispered.
Rand pulled Tai’daishar up short, stopping his column of Aiel, Saldaean cavalry, and camp attendants in the middle of the street. Dobraine turned back questioningly on his white stallion.
I did not kill her! Rand thought. Lews Therin, she lives on. We didn’t kill her! That was Semirhage who was to blame, in any case.
Silence. He could still feel his fingers on her flesh, squeezing, impotent yet incredibly strong. Even if Semirhage had been behind the actions, Rand was the one who had been too weak to send Min away and protect her.
He hadn’t sent her away. Not because he was too weak, but because something in him had stopped caring. Not about her—he loved her fiercely, and always would. But he knew that death, pain and destruction came in his wake, and he dragged them behind him like a cloak. Min might die here, but if he sent her away, she would be in just as much danger. His enemies likely suspected that he loved her.
There was no safety. If she died, he would add her to the list and suffer for it.
He started moving again before question could be called to his actions. Tai’daishar’s hooves thumped on the earthen streets, made soft by the humidity. Rains came often here; Bandar Eban was the prime port city of the northwest. If it wasn’t a great city like those in the south, it was still impressive. Row upon row of square houses, built of wood, ridged at the second and third stories. They looked like children’s blocks, stacked on top of one another, so perfectly square with the stories divided. They filled the city, rolling down a gentle incline to the massive port.
The city was widest at the port, making it seem like the head of a man opening his mouth wide, as if to drink in the ocean itself. The docks were nearly empty; the only ships moored were a cluster of Sea Folk vessels—three-masted rakers—and some fishing trawlers. The massive size of the port only made it look more desolate for the lack of ships.
That was the first sign that all was not well in Bandar Eban.
Other than the virtually unoccupied harbor, the most distinctive aspect of the city was the banners. They flew above—or hung from—every building, no matter how humble. Many of those banners proclaimed the trade practiced in a given building—much as a simple wooden sign would in Caemlyn. The banners were far more extravagant than most, bright-colored and fluttering in the wind above the buildings. Matching tapestry-like banners hung from the sides of most buildings, announcing in bright lettering the owner, master craftsman and merchant of each shop. Even homes bore banners with the names of the families who lived therein.
Copper-skinned and dark-haired, the Domani favored bright clothing. Domani women were infamous for their dresses, which were filmy enough to be scandalous. It was said that very young Domani girls practiced the art of manipulating men, preparing for the day when they would be of age.
The sight of them all standing along the roads, watching, was nearly spectacle enough to draw Rand out of his brooding. Perhaps a year ago, he would have gawked, but now he barely gave them a glance. In fact, it came to him that Domani people were far less striking when gathered together like this. A flower in a field of weeds was always a sight, but if you passed cultivated flower beds every day, none of them drew your notice.
Distracted though he was, he did pick out the signs of starvation. There was no mistaking that haunted cast to the children, that lean look to the faces of the adults. This city had been in chaos just weeks ago, though Dobraine and the Aiel had restored the law. Some of the buildings bore poorly mended windows or broken boards, and some of the banners had obviously been ripped recently and shoddily mended. Law had been restored, but the lack of it was still a fresh memory.
Rand’s group reached a central crossroads, proclaimed by large flapping banners to be Arandi Square, and Dobraine turned the procession to the east. Many of the Aiel with the Cairhienin wore the red headband marking them as siswai’aman. Spears of the Dragon. Rhuarc had some twenty thousand Aiel camped around the city and in the nearby towns; by now most Domani would know that these Aiel followed the Dragon Reborn.
Rand was glad to find that the Sea Folk rakers had arrived—finally—with grain from the south. Hopefully, that would do as much to restore order as Dobraine and the Aiel had.
The procession turned into the wealthy section of the city. He knew where they’d find it long before the homes started looking more lavish: as far from the docks as possible, while still remaining a comfortable distance from the city walls. Rand could have found the rich even without looking at a map. The city’s landscape all but demanded their location.
A horse clopped up beside Rand. At first, he assumed it would be Min—but no, she was riding behind, with the Wise Ones. Did she look at him differently now, or was he just imagining it? Did she remember his fingers at her throat every time she saw his face?
It was Merise who had moved up beside him, riding a placid dun mare. The Aes Sedai was infuriated by Rand’s exile of Cadsuane. Unsurprising. Aes Sedai liked to maintain a very calm and controlled front, but Merise and the others had pandered to Cadsuane much like a village innkeeper simpering over a visiting king.
The Taraboner woman had chosen to wear her shawl today, proclaiming her affiliation to the Green Ajah. She wore it, perhaps, in an effort to reinforce her authority. Inwardly, Rand sighed. He had been expecting a confrontation, but he had hoped that the business of the move would delay it until tempers subsided. He respected Cadsuane, after a fashion, but he had never trusted her. There had to be consequences for failure, and he felt a great relief from having dealt with her. There would be no more of her strings wrapping themselves around him.
Or, at least, fewer of them.
“This exile, it is foolish, Rand al’Thor,” Merise said dismissively. Was she intentionally trying to rile him, perhaps to make him easier to bully? After months of dealing with Cadsuane herself, this woman’s pale imitation was almost amusing.
“You should beg for her forgiveness,” Merise continued. “She has condescended to continue with us, though your inane restriction has forced her to wear a cloak with the hood up, despite the warmth of the day. You should be ashamed.”
Cadsuane again. He shouldn’t have left her room to wiggle around his command.
“Well?” Merise asked.
Rand turned his head and looked Merise in the eyes. He had discovered something shocking during the last few hours. By bottling up the seething fury within him—by becoming cuendillar—he had gained an understanding that had long eluded him.
People did not respond to anger. They did not respond to demands. Silence and questions, these were far more effective. Indeed, Merise—a fully trained Aes Sedai—wilted before that stare.
He put no emotion into it. His rage, his anger, his passion—it was all still there, buried within. But he had surrounded it with ice, cold and immobilizing. It was the ice of the place Semirhage had taught him to go, the place that was like the void, but far more dangerous.
Perhaps Merise could sense frozen rage within him. Or perhaps
she could sense the other thing, the fact that he’d used that . . . power. Distantly, Lews Therin began to cry. The madman did that whenever Rand thought of what he had done to escape Semirhage’s collar.
“What you did, it was a foolish move,” Merise continued. “You should—”
“Do you think me a fool, then?” Rand asked softly.
Respond to demands with silence, respond to challenges with questions. It was amazing how it worked. Merise cut off, then shivered visibly. She glanced down, to the pouch on his saddle where he carried the small statue of a man holding aloft a sphere. Rand fingered it, holding his reins loosely.
He did not flaunt the statuette. He simply carried it, but Merise and most of the others knew the nearly unlimited power he could tap if he wished. It was a weapon greater than any other ever known. With it, he might be able to annihilate the world itself. And it sat innocently on his saddle. That had an effect on people.
“I . . . No, I don’t,” she admitted. “Not always.”
“Do you think that failures should be unpunished?” Rand asked, voice still soft. Why had he lost his temper? These little annoyances were not worth his passion, his fury. If one bothered him too much, all he needed do was snuff it out, like a candle.
A dangerous thought. Had that been his? Had it been Lews Therin’s? Or . . . had the thought come from . . . elsewhere?
“Surely you have been too harsh,” Merise said.
“Too harsh?” he asked. “Do you realize her mistake, Merise? Have you considered what could have happened? What should have happened?”
“I—”
“The end of all things, Merise,” he whispered. “The Dark One with control of the Dragon Reborn. The two of us, fighting on the same side.”
She fell silent, then said, “Yes. But mistakes, you yourself have made them. They might have ended in similar disaster.”
“I pay for my mistakes,” he said, turning away. “I pay for them each day. Each hour. Each breath.”
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