“Egwene,” he said immediately. “I want to be her Warder.”
“Well, which is it?”
Gawyn frowned.
“Do you want Egwene, or do you want to be her Warder?”
“To be her Warder, of course. And…and, well, to marry her. I love her, Bryne.”
“It seems to me that those are two different things. Similar, but separate. But, other than things to do with Egwene, what is it that you want?”
“Nothing,” Gawyn said. “She’s everything.”
“Well, there’s your problem.”
“How is that a problem? I love her.”
“So you said.” Bryne regarded Gawyn, one arm on the table, the other resting on his leg. Gawyn resisted the urge to squirm beneath that gaze. “You always were the passionate one, Gawyn. Like your mother and your sister. Impulsive, never calculating like your brother.”
“Galad doesn’t calculate,” Gawyn said. “He just acts.”
“No,” Bryne said. “Perhaps I spoke wrong—Galad may not be calculating, but he isn’t impulsive. To be impulsive is to act without careful thought; Galad has given everything a great deal of thought. He’s worked out his code of morality that way. He can act quickly and decisively because he’s already determined what to do.
“You act with passion. You don’t act because of the way you think, but because of the way you feel. In a rush, with a snap of emotion. That gives you strength. You can act when you need to, then sort through the ramifications later. Your instincts are usually good, just like your mother’s were. But because of that, you’ve never had to face what to do when your instincts lead you in the wrong direction.”
Gawyn found himself nodding.
“But son,” Bryne said, leaning forward. “A man is more than one drive, one goal. No woman wants that in a man. It seems to me that men who spend time making something of themselves—rather than professing their devotion—are the ones who get somewhere. Both with women, and with life itself.” Bryne rubbed his chin. “So, if I have advice for you, it’s this: Find out who you would be without Egwene, and then figure out how to fit her into that. I think that’s what a woman—”
“You’re an expert on women now?” a new voice asked.
Gawyn turned, surprised, to find Siuan Sanche pushing open the door.
Bryne didn’t miss a beat. “You’ve been there listening long enough, Siuan, to know that’s not what the conversation was about.”
Siuan snorted, bustling into the room with a pot of tea. “You should be in bed,” she said, ignoring Gawyn after a cursory glance.
“Very true,” Bryne said casually. “Oddly, the needs of the land don’t submit to my whims.”
“Maps can be studied in the morning.”
“And they can be studied at night. And during the afternoon. Every hour I spend could mean leagues of ground defended if Trollocs break through.”
Siuan sighed loudly, handing him a cup, then pouring the tea, which smelled of cloudberry. It was decidedly odd to see Siuan—who, because of her stilling, looked like a woman Gawyn’s age—mothering the grizzled General Bryne.
Siuan turned to Gawyn as Bryne accepted his drink. “And you, Gawyn Trakand,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you. Giving orders to the Amyrlin, telling her what she should do? Honestly. Men seem to think that women are nothing more than their personal messengers, sometimes. You dream up all sorts of ridiculous schemes, then expect us to somehow carry them out.”
She eyed him, not looking like she expected any response other than an ashamed lowering of the eyes. Gawyn gave that and then made a hasty exit to avoid further bullying.
He wasn’t surprised by anything Bryne had said. The man was nothing if not consistent, and he had repeated the same themes to Gawyn before. Think instead of being impulsive; be deliberate. But he’d spent weeks thinking, his ideas chasing one another in circles like flies trapped in a jar. He’d gotten nowhere.
Gawyn walked the hallways, noting Chubain’s guards posted at regular intervals. He told himself he wasn’t climbing to Egwene; he was merely checking on the guards. And yet, he soon found himself in a hallway near the Amyrlin’s quarters. Just one hallway over. He’d check on her quickly and…
Gawyn froze. What am I doing? he thought.
A lot of his nervousness tonight came from not knowing if Egwene was properly guarded or not. He wouldn’t be able to sleep until—
No, he told himself forcefully. This time, I’ll do as she asks. He turned to go.
A sound made him hesitate, glancing over his shoulder. Footfalls and clothing rustling. It was too late for novices, but servants might well be delivering late meals. Bryne and Gawyn weren’t the only ones who kept unusual hours in the White Tower.
It came again. So soft, barely audible. Frowning, Gawyn slipped off his boots, then sneaked forward to glance around the corner.
There was nothing. Egwene’s door—inlaid with gold in the shape of Avendesora—sat closed, the hallway empty. Sighing, Gawyn shook his head, leaning back against the wall to slip his boots back on. He wished Egwene would at least let Chubain set guards at her room. Leaving it unwatched was—
Something moved in the shadow just down from Egwene’s doorway. Gawyn froze. There wasn’t much of a dark patch there, only a shadow a few inches wide made by an alcove. But as he studied that patch, he had trouble keeping his eyes on it. His gaze slid free, like a dollop of butter on a hot turnip.
It seemed…it seemed that the darkness was larger than he had originally thought. Why couldn’t he look straight at it?
There was a flash of movement, and something spun in the air. Gawyn threw himself to the side, and steel struck stone. One boot on, he dropped the other as he pulled his sword free. The knife that had been thrown for his heart skidded across the tiled floor.
Gawyn peered round the corner, tense. Someone was fleeing down the hallway. Someone wearing all black, a hood over the head.
Gawyn took off after the person, sword held before him, arms pumping, gait awkward as his unbooted foot hit opposite his booted one. The assassin was extremely fast. Gawyn bellowed the alarm, his voice echoing through the silent halls of the Tower; then he cut left. The assassin would have to turn and come up the hallway here to the right.
Gawyn burst into another hallway, charging on a heading that would cut off the assassin. He skidded around the corner.
The hallway was empty. Had the assassin doubled back? Gawyn cursed as he ran forward and reached the original hallway at the other end. It was empty. A doorway, perhaps? All would be dead ends. If Gawyn waited until help came…
No, Gawyn thought, spinning. Darkness. Look for darkness. There was a deep patch of it by a doorframe to his left. Far too small to hold anyone, but he had that same sense of disorientation as he looked at it.
A person leaped out, swinging a sword for Gawyn’s head. He whipped his blade into Cutting the Reeds, knocking aside the attack. The assassin was much shorter than Gawyn, so he should have had a strong advantage in reach. Yet the assassin moved with a blurring speed, sword darting at Gawyn in a series of thrusts, not using any sword forms Gawyn recognized.
Gawyn fell into Twisting the Wind, as he was forced to act as if he were surrounded. He barely kept the attacker at bay. He could hear yells in the distance—guards responding to his call. He shouted again.
He could sense frustration in the attacker’s moves; the assassin had expected to defeat Gawyn quickly. Well, Gawyn had expected the same, but focusing on this opponent was very difficult. Gawyn’s blows—when he could make them—hit air when they should have landed on flesh.
Gawyn twisted to the side, raising his blade for Boar Rushes Down the Mountain. But that gave the assassin an opening; he flung another knife at Gawyn, forcing him to the side.
The knife clanged against the wall, and the assassin fled down the hallway. Gawyn rushed after, but he couldn’t keep up. Soon the assassin was far away, darting to the left. That direction led to a series of
intersections.
Such speed, Gawyn thought, stopping, breathing in and out in gasps, hands on knees. It isn’t natural.
Two of Chubain’s guards arrived a moment later, swords at the ready. Gawyn pointed. “Assassin. Listening at Egwene’s door. Went that way.”
One ran where he pointed. The other went to raise the general alarm.
Light! Gawyn thought. What if I didn’t interrupt him listening? What if I interrupted him on his way out?
Gawyn dashed to Egwene’s door, fatigue evaporating. Sword out, he tested the door. It was unlocked!
“Egwene!” he cried, throwing the door open and leaping into the room.
There was a sudden explosion of light and a crashing sound. Gawyn found himself wrapped up in something strong: invisible cords, towing him into the air. His sword fell to the ground, and his mouth filled with an unseen force.
And so it was that he found himself hanging from the ceiling, disarmed, struggling, as the Amyrlin herself walked from her bedroom. She was alert and fully dressed in a crimson dress trimmed with gold.
She did not look pleased.
Mat sat beside the inn’s hearth, wishing the fire were a little less warm. He could feel its heat through the layers of his ragged jacket and white shirt, matched by a pair of workman’s thick trousers. The boots on his feet had good soles, but the sides were worn. He did not wear his hat, and his scarf was pulled up around the bottom half of his face as he leaned back in the mountain oak chair.
Elayne still had his medallion. He felt naked without it. He had a shortsword sitting by his chair, but that was mostly for show. A walking staff leaned innocently beside it; he would rather use that, or the knives hidden in his coat. But a sword was more visible, and would make the footpads who sauntered through the streets of Low Caemlyn think twice.
“I know why you’re asking after him,” Chet said. There was a man like Chet in nearly every tavern. Old enough to have seen men like Mat be born, grow up, and die, and willing to talk of all those years if you got enough drink in them. Or often if you didn’t.
The stubble on Chet’s long face was dappled silver, and he wore a lopsided cap. His patched coat had once been black, and the red-and-white insignia on his pocket was too faded to read. It was vaguely military, and one did not usually get scars like the thick, angry one on his cheek and neck from a bar fight.
“Aye,” Chet continued, “many are askin’ after the leader of that Band. Well, this mug of ale is appreciated, so let me give you some advice. You walk like you know which end of that sword means business, but you’d be a fool to challenge that one. Prince of Ravens, Lord of Luck. He faced old death himself and diced for his future, he did. Ain’t never lost a fight.”
Mat said nothing. He leaned back in his chair. This was his fourth tavern this night, and in three of them he had been able to find rumors about Matrim Cauthon. Barely a lick of truth to them. Blood and bloody ashes!
Oh, sure, there were tales of other people, too. Most about Rand, each one making the colors swirl when he heard them. Tear had fallen to the Seanchan, no Illian, no Rand had defeated them all and was fighting the Last Battle right now. No! He visited women in their sleep, getting them with child. No, that was the Dark One. No, Mat was the Dark One!
Bloody stories. They were supposed to leave Mat alone. Some he could trace back to the Band—like the story of a city full of the dead awakening. But many of the people claimed that the stories had come from their uncle, or cousin, or nephew.
Mat flicked Chet a copper. The man tipped his hat politely and went to get himself another drink. Mat did not feel like drinking. He had a suspicion that those pictures of him were part of why the stories were spreading so quickly. In the last tavern he had visited, someone had actually pulled out a copy of the sketch—folded and wrinkled—and shown it to him. Nobody had recognized him so far, though.
The hearthfire continued to crackle. Low Caemlyn was growing, and enterprising men had realized that providing rooms and drinks for the transients could make a healthy profit. So shanties had started to become taverns, and those had begun to grow into full inns.
Wood was in high demand, and many of the mercenary bands had taken to woodcutting. Some worked honestly, paying the Queen’s levy for claims. Others worked less legally. There had already been hangings for it. Who would have thought? Men hanging for poaching trees? What next? Men hanging for stealing dirt?
Low Caemlyn had changed drastically, roads springing up, buildings being enlarged. A few years, and Low Caemlyn would be a city itself! They’d have to build another wall to close it in.
The room smelled of dirt and sweat, but no more so than other taverns. Spills were quickly cleaned up and the serving girls looked eager to have work. One in particular gave him a quiet smile, refilling his mug and showing some ankle. Mat made sure to remember her; she would be good for Talmanes.
Mat lifted up his scarf enough to drink. He felt like a fool wearing the scarf this way. But it was too hot for a hooded cloak, and the beard had been torture. Even with the scarf on his face, he did not stand out too much in Low Caemlyn; he was not the only tough walking around with his face obscured. He explained that he had a bad scar he wanted to cover; others assumed he had a bounty on his head. Both were actually true, unfortunately.
He sat for a time, staring into the dancing flames of the hearth. Chet’s warning caused an uncomfortable pit to open in Mat’s stomach. The greater his reputation grew, the more likely he would be challenged. There would be great notoriety in killing the Prince of the Ravens. Where had they gotten that name? Blood and bloody ashes!
A figure joined him at the fire. Lanky and bony, Noal looked like a scarecrow who had dusted himself off and decided to go to town. Despite his white hair and leathery face, Noal was as spry as men half his age. When he was handling a weapon, anyway. Other times he seemed as clumsy as a mule in a dining parlor.
“You’re quite the notable man,” Noal said to Mat, holding out his palms to the fire. “When you stumbled across me in Ebou Dar, I had no idea what illustrious company I’d find myself in. Give this a few more months and you’ll be more famous than Jain Farstrider.”
Mat hunkered down farther into his chair.
“Men always think it would be grand to be known in every tavern and every city,” Noal said softly. “But burn me if it isn’t just a headache.”
“What do you know of it?”
“Jain complained about it,” Noal said softly.
Mat grunted. Thom arrived next. He was dressed as a merchant’s servant, wearing a blue outfit that was not too fine, but also not in disrepair. He was claiming to have come to Low Caemlyn to determine whether his master would be well advised to put a shopfront here.
Thom pulled off the disguise with aplomb, waxing his mustaches to points and speaking with a faint Murandian accent. Mat had offered to come up with a backstory for his act, but Thom had coughed and said that he already had one worked out. Flaming liar of a gleeman.
Thom pulled up a chair, seating himself delicately, as if he were a servant who thought highly of himself. “Ah, what a waste of my time this was! My master insists that I associate with such rabble as this! And here I find the worst of the lot.”
Noal chuckled softly.
“If only,” Thom said dramatically, “I had been instead sent to the camp of the majestic, amazing, indestructible, famous Matrim Cauthon! Then I would certainly have—”
“Burn me, Thom,” Mat said. “Let a man suffer in peace.”
Thom laughed, waving over the serving girl and buying drinks for the three of them. He gave her an extra coin and quietly asked her to keep casual ears from getting too close to the hearth.
“Are you sure you want to meet here?” Noal asked.
“It’ll do,” Mat said. He did not want to be seen back in camp, lest the gholam look there for him.
“All right, then,” Noal said. “We know where the tower is, and can get there, assuming Mat procures us a gateway.”
>
“I will,” Mat said.
“I haven’t been able to find anyone who has gone inside,” Noal continued.
“Some say it’s haunted,” Thom said, taking a slurp from his mug. “Others say it’s a relic from the Age of Legends. The sides are said to be of smooth steel, without an opening. I did find a captain’s widow’s younger son who once heard a story of someone who found great treasures in the tower. He didn’t say how the lad had gotten in, though.”
“We know how to get in,” Mat said.
“Olver’s story?” Noal asked skeptically.
“It’s the best we have,” Mat said. “Look, the game and the rhyme are about the Aelfinn and Eelfinn. People knew about them once. Those bloody doorframes are proof of that. So they left the game and the rhyme as warning.”
“That game can’t be won, Mat,” Noal said, rubbing his leathery chin.
“And that’s the point of it. You need to cheat.”
“But maybe we should try a deal,” Thom said, playing with the waxed tip of a mustache. “They did give you answers to your questions.”
“Bloody frustrating ones,” Mat said. He had not wanted to tell Thom and Noal about his questions—he still had not told them what he had asked.
“But they did answer,” Thom said. “It sounds like they had some kind of deal with the Aes Sedai. If we knew what it was the Aes Sedai had that the snakes and foxes wanted—the reason they were willing to bargain—then maybe we could trade it to them for Moiraine.”
“If she’s still alive,” Noal said grimly.
“She is,” Thom said, staring straight ahead. “Light send it. She has to be alive.”
“We know what they want.” Mat glanced at those flames.
“What?” Noal asked.
“Us,” Mat replied. “Look, they can see what’s going to happen. They did it to me, they did it to Moiraine, if that letter is any clue. They knew she would leave a letter for you, Thom. They knew it. And they still answered her questions.”
The Wheel of Time Page 1147
