The Dragon Reborn

by Robert Jordan

  “Rand is trying to escape? But—” Maybe she knew Rand had proclaimed himself the Dragon Reborn, and maybe she did not, but he would not tell her. The Black Ajah! Blood and bloody ashes! “Who are you, Selene? If you’re not Aes Sedai, what are you?”

  Her smile hid secrets. “Just remember that there is another choice. You need not be a puppet for the White Tower or prey for Ba’alzamon’s Darkfriends. The world is more complex than you can imagine. Do as these Aes Sedai wish for the present, but remember your choices. Will you do that?”

  “I don’t see that I have much choice at all,” he said glumly. “I suppose I will.”

  Selene’s look sharpened. Friendliness sloughed off her voice like an old snake skin. “Suppose? I did not come to you like this, talk in this way, for suppose, Matrim Cauthon.” She stretched out a slim hand.

  Her hand was empty, and she stood halfway across the room, but he leaned back, away from her hand, as if she were right on top of him with a dagger. He did not know why, really, except that there was a threat in her eyes, and he was sure it was real. His skin began to tingle, and his headache returned.

  Suddenly tingle and pain vanished together, and Selene’s head whipped around as if listening to something beyond the walls. A tiny frown appeared on her face, and she lowered her hand. The frown vanished. “We will talk again, Mat. I have much to say to you. Remember your choices. Remember that there are many hands that would kill you. I alone guarantee you life, and all you seek, if you do as I say.” She slipped out of the door as silently and gracefully as she had entered.

  Mat let out a long breath. Sweat ran down his face. Who in the Light is she? A Darkfriend, perhaps. Except that she had sounded as contemptuous of Ba’alzamon as she was of Aes Sedai. Darkfriends spoke of Ba’alzamon the way anyone else might speak of the Creator. And she had not asked him to conceal her visit from the Aes Sedai.

  Right, he thought sourly. Pardon me, Aes Sedai, but this woman came to see me. She wasn’t Aes Sedai, but I think maybe she started to use the One Power on me, and she said she wasn’t a Darkfriend, but she did say you mean to use me, and the Black Ajah’s in your Tower. Oh, and she said I’m important. I don’t know how. You don’t mind if I leave now, do you?

  Going was beginning to be a better idea by the minute. He slid awkwardly off the bed and made his way unsteadily to the wardrobe, still clutching his blanket around him. His boots were on the floor inside, and his cloak hung from a peg, under his belt, with pouch and sheathed belt knife. It was just a country knife, with a stout blade, but it could do as much as any fine dagger. The rest of his clothes—two sturdy wool coats, three pairs of breeches, half a dozen linen shirts and smallclothes—had been brushed or washed as required, and neatly folded on the shelves that took up one side of the wardrobe. He felt the pouch hanging from the belt, but it was empty. Its contents lay jumbled on a shelf with what had been emptied from his pockets.

  He brushed aside a redhawk’s feather, a smooth, striped rock he had liked the colors of, his razor, and his bone-handled pocketknife, and freed his wash-leather purse from some coils of spare bowstring. When he tugged it open, he found his memory had been all too good in this instance.

  “Two silver marks and a handful of copper,” he muttered. “I won’t get far on that.” Once it would have seemed a small fortune to him, but that had been before he left Emond’s Field.

  He stooped to peer back into the shelf. Where are they? He began to be afraid the Aes Sedai might have thrown them out, the way his mother would if she had ever found them. Where . . . ? He felt a surge of relief. Way in the back, behind his tinderbox and ball of twine for snares and the like, were his two leather dice cups.

  They rattled as he pulled them out, but he still popped off the tight-fitting round caps. Everything was as it should be. Five dice carved with symbols, for crowns, and five marked with spots. The spotted dice would do for a number of games, but more men seemed to play crowns than anything else. With these, his two marks would become enough to take him far away from Tar Valon. Away from Aes Sedai and Selene, both.

  A peremptory knock was followed immediately by the door opening. He whirled around. The Amyrlin Seat and the Keeper of the Chronicles were entering. He would have recognized them even without the Amyrlin’s broad, striped stole, and the Keeper’s narrower blue stole. He had seen them once and only once, a long way from Tar Valon, but he could not forget the two most powerful women among the Aes Sedai.

  The Amyrlin’s eyebrows rose at the sight of him standing there with the blanket hanging from his shoulders and his purse and dice cups in his hands. “I don’t think you will need those for a while yet, my son,” she said dryly. “Put them up and get back to bed before you fall on your face.”

  He hesitated, his back stiffening, but his knees chose that moment to wobble, and the two Aes Sedai were looking at him, dark eyes and blue alike appearing to read his every rebellious thought. He did as he was told, holding the blanket around him with both hands. He lay down straight as a board, not sure what else he could do.

  “How are you feeling?” the Amyrlin asked briskly as she put a hand on his head. Goose bumps covered his skin. Had she done something with the One Power, or was it being touched by an Aes Sedai that made him feel a chill?

  “I’m fine,” he told her. “Why, I am ready to be on my way. Just let me say goodbye to Egwene and Nynaeve, and I’ll be out of your hair. I mean, I will go . . . uh, Mother.” Moiraine and Verin had not seemed to care much how he talked, but this was the Amyrlin Seat, after all.

  “Nonsense,” the Amyrlin said. She pulled the high-backed chair around, closer to the bed, and sat, addressing Leane. “Men always seem to refuse to admit they are sick until they’re sick enough to make twice as much work for women. Then they claim they’re well too soon, with the same result.”

  The Keeper glanced at Mat and nodded. “Yes, Mother, yet this one cannot claim he is well when he can barely stand up. At least he has eaten everything on his tray.”

  “I’d be surprised if he had left enough crumbs to interest a finch. And still hungry, unless I miss my guess.”

  “I could have someone bring him a pie, Mother. Or some cakes.”

  “No, I think he has had as much as he can hold for now. If he brings it all back up, it won’t do him any good.”

  Mat scowled. It seemed to him that when you got sick, you became invisible to women unless they were actually talking to you. And then they took at least ten years off your age. Nynaeve, his mother, his sisters, the Amyrlin Seat, they all did it.

  “I’m not hungry at all,” he announced. “I am fine. If you will let me put my clothes on, I’ll show you how well I am. I will be out of here before you know it.” They were both looking at him, now. He cleared his throat. “Uh . . . Mother.”

  The Amyrlin snorted. “You’ve eaten a meal for five, and you will eat three or four like it every day for days yet, or else you will starve to death. You’ve just been Healed from a link to the evil that killed every man, woman, and child in Aridhol, and no less strong for near two thousand years waiting for you to pick it up. It was killing you just as surely as it killed them. That is not like having a fish spine stuck in your thumb, boy. We very nearly killed you ourselves trying to save you.”

  “I am not hungry,” he maintained. His stomach growled loudly to give him the lie.

  “I read you aright the first time I saw you,” the Amyrlin said. “I knew right then you’d bolt like a startled fisher-bird if you ever thought someone was trying to hold you. As well I took precautions.”

  He eyed them warily. “Precautions?” They looked back, all serenity. He felt as if their eyes were pinning him to the bed.

  “Your name and description are on their way to the bridge guards,” the Amyrlin said, “and the dockmasters. I’ll not try to hold you inside the Tower, but you will not leave Tar Valon until you are well. Should you try to hide in the city, hunger will drive you back here eventually, or if it doesn’t, we will find you be
fore you starve.”

  “Why do you want to keep me here so badly?” he demanded. He heard Selene’s voice. They want to use you. “Why should you care whether I starve or not? I can feed myself.”

  The Amyrlin gave a small laugh with little amusement in it. “With two silver marks and a handful of copper, my son? Your dice would need to be very lucky indeed to buy all the food you’ll need in the next few days. We do not Heal people, then let them waste our efforts by dying while they still need care. In addition to which, you may yet need more Healing.”

  “More? You said you had Healed me. Why should I need more?”

  “My son, you carried that dagger for months. I believe we dug every trace of it out of you, but if we missed even the smallest speck, it could still be fatal. And who knows what effect your having it in your possession so long may have? Half a year from now, a year, and you may wish you had an Aes Sedai to hand to Heal you again.”

  “You want me to stay here a year?” he said incredulously, and loudly. Leane shifted her feet and eyed him sharply, but the Amyrlin’s calm features were unruffled.

  “Perhaps not so long as that, my son. Long enough to be certain, though. Surely you want as much. Would you set sail in a boat when you didn’t know whether the caulking would hold, or whether a plank might be rotten?”

  “I never had much to do with boats,” Mat muttered. It might be true. Aes Sedai never lied, but there were too many mights and mays in it for him. “I’ve been gone from home a long time, Mother. My da and my mother probably think I am dead.”

  “If you wish to write a letter to them, I will see that it is carried to Emond’s Field.”

  Mat waited for more, but no more came. “Thank you, Mother.” He essayed a small laugh. “I’m half surprised my da did not come looking for me. He’s the kind of man who would.” He was not sure, but he thought there was a small hesitation before the Amyrlin answered.

  “He did come. Leane spoke to him.”

  The Keeper took it up immediately. “We did not know where you were then, Mat. I told him so, and he left before the heavy snows. I gave him some gold to make the journey home easier.”

  “No doubt,” the Amyrlin said, “he will be pleased to hear from you. And your mother will, certainly. Give me the letter when you have written it, and I will see to it.”

  They had told him, but he had had to ask. And they didn’t mention Rand’s da. Maybe because they didn’t think I would care, and maybe because. . . . Burn me, I don’t know. Who can tell with Aes Sedai? “I was traveling with a friend, Mother. Rand al’Thor. You remember him. Do you know if he is all right? I’ll bet his da is worried, too.”

  “As far as I know,” the Amyrlin said smoothly, “the boy is well enough, but who can say? I have seen him only once, the time I saw you, in Fal Dara.” She turned to the Keeper. “Perhaps he could do with a small piece of pie, Leane. And something for his throat, if he is going to do all this talking. Will you see that it is brought to him?”

  The tall Aes Sedai left with a murmured, “As you command, Mother.”

  When the Amyrlin turned back to Mat, she was smiling, but her eyes were blue ice. “There are things it would be dangerous for you to talk about, perhaps even in front of Leane. A flapping tongue has killed more men than sudden storms ever did.”

  “Dangerous, Mother?” His mouth felt suddenly parched, but he resisted the urge to lick his lips. Light, how much does she know about Rand? If only Moiraine didn’t keep so many secrets. “Mother, I don’t know anything dangerous. I can hardly remember half of what I do know.”

  “Do you remember the Horn?”

  “What horn is that, Mother?”

  She was on her feet and looming over him so fast he hardly saw her move. “You play games with me, boy, and I will make you weep for your mother to come running. I have no time for games, and neither do you. Now, do—you—remember?”

  Clutching the blanket tightly around him, he had to swallow before he could say, “I remember, Mother.”

  She seemed to relax, just a little, and Mat shrugged his shoulders queasily. He felt as if he had just been allowed to lift them off a chopping block.

  “Good. That is good, Mat.” She sat back down slowly, studying him. “Do you know that you are linked to the Horn?” He mouthed the word “linked” silently, shocked, and she nodded. “I did not think you knew. You were first to blow the Horn of Valere after it was found. For you, it will summon dead heroes back from the grave. For anyone else, it is only a horn—so long as you live.”

  He took a deep breath. “So long as I live,” he said in a dull voice, and the Amyrlin nodded. “You could have let me die.” She nodded again. “Then you could have had anyone you want blow it, and it would have worked for them.” Another nod. “Blood and ashes! You mean me to blow it for you. When the Last Battle comes, you mean me to call heroes back from the grave to fight the Dark One for you. Blood and bloody ashes!”

  She put an elbow on the arm of the chair and propped her chin on her hand. Her eyes never left him. “Would you prefer the alternative?”

  He frowned, then remembered what the alternative was. If someone else had to sound the Horn. . . . “You want me to blow the Horn? Then I’ll blow the Horn. I never said I would not, did I?”

  The Amyrlin gave an exasperated sigh. “You remind me of my uncle Huan. No one could ever pin him down. He liked to gamble, too, and he’d much rather have fun than work. He died pulling children out of a burning house. He wouldn’t stop going back as long as there was one left inside. Are you like him, Mat? Will you be there when the flames are high?”

  He could not meet her eyes. He studied his fingers as they plucked irritably at his blanket. “I’m no hero. I do what I have to do, but I am no hero.”

  “Most of those we call heroes only did what they had to do. I suppose it will have to be enough. For now. You must not speak to anyone but me of the Horn, my son. Or of your link to it.”

  For now? he thought. It’s all you are going to bloody get, now or ever. “I don’t mean to bloody tell everybo—” She arched an eyebrow, and he made his voice smooth again. “I do not want to tell anyone. I wish nobody knew. Why do you want to keep it such a secret? Don’t you trust your Aes Sedai?”

  For a long moment he thought he had gone too far. Her face hardened, and her look could have carved axe handles.

  “If I could make it so that only you and I knew,” she said coldly, “I would. The more people know a thing, the more the knowledge spreads, even with the best will. Most of the world believes the Horn of Valere is only legend, and those who know better believe one of the Hunters has yet to find it. But Shayol Ghul knows it has been found, and that means at least some Darkfriends know. But they do not know where it is, and, if the Light shines on us, they do not know you sounded it. Do you really want Darkfriends coming after you? Halfmen, or other Shadowspawn? They want the Horn. You must know that. It will work as well for the Shadow as for the Light. But if it is to work for them, they must take you, or kill you. Do you want to risk that?”

  Mat wished he had another blanket, and maybe a goose-down comforter. The room suddenly felt very cold. “Are you telling me Darkfriends could come after me here? I thought the White Tower could keep Darkfriends out.” He remembered what Selene had said about the Black Ajah, and wondered what the Amyrlin would say to that.

  “A good reason to stay, wouldn’t you say?” She got to her feet, smoothing her skirts. “Rest, my son. Soon you will feel much better. Rest.” She closed the door softly behind her.

  For a long time Mat lay staring up at the ceiling. He barely noticed when a serving woman came with his piece of pie and another pitcher of milk, taking the tray of empty dishes when she went. His stomach rumbled loudly at the warm smell of apples and spices, but he paid that no mind, either. The Amyrlin thought she held him like a sheep in a pen. And Selene. . . . Who in the Light is she? What does she want? Selene had been right about some things; but the Amyrlin had told him she meant to use
him, and how. In a way. There were too many holes in what she had said to suit him, too many holes she could slip something deadly through. The Amyrlin wanted something, and Selene wanted something, and he was the rope they were tugging between them. He thought he would rather face Trollocs than be caught between those two.

  There had to be a way out of Tar Valon, a way out of both their grasps. Once he was beyond the river, he could keep out of Aes Sedai hands, and Selene’s, and Darkfriends’, too. He was sure of it. There had to be a way. All he had to do was think about it from every angle.

  The pie grew cold on the table.

  CHAPTER

  21

  A World of Dreams

  Egwene scrubbed her hands with a hand towel as she hurried down the dimly lit corridor. She had washed them twice, but they still felt greasy. She had not thought there could be so many pots in the world. And today had been bake day, so buckets of ashes had had to be hauled from the ovens. And the hearths cleaned. And the tables rubbed bone-white with fine sand, and the floors scrubbed on hands and knees. Ash and grease stained her white dress. Her back ached, and she wanted to be in her bed, but Verin had come to the kitchens, supposedly for a meal to eat in her rooms, and whispered a summons to her in passing.

  Verin had her quarters above the library, in corridors used only by a few other Brown sisters. There was a dusty air to the halls there, as if the women who lived along them were too busy with other things to bother having the servants clean very often, and the passages took odd turns and twists, sometimes dipping or rising unexpectedly. The tapestries were few, their colorful weavings dulled, apparently cleaned as seldom as everything else here. Many of the lamps were unlit, plunging much of the hall into gloom. Egwene thought she had it to herself, except for a flash of white ahead, perhaps a novice or a servant scurrying about some task. Her shoes, clicking on bare black and white floor tiles, made echoes. It was not a comforting place for one thinking of the Black Ajah.