The Dragon Reborn

by Robert Jordan

  Gawyn looked at him wonderingly. “Galad, you just very nearly made a joke.”

  “I do have a sense of humor, Gawyn,” Galad said with a frown. “You only think I do not because I do not care to mock people.”

  With a shake of his head, Gawyn turned back to Mat. “You should learn something of the sword. Everyone can do with that sort of knowledge these days. Your friend—Rand al’Thor—carried a most unusual sword. What do you hear of him?”

  “I haven’t seen Rand in a long time,” Mat said quickly. Just for a moment, when he had mentioned Rand, Gawyn’s look had gained intensity. Light, does he know about Rand? He couldn’t. If he did, he’d be denouncing me for a Darkfriend just for being Rand’s friend. But he knows something. “Swords aren’t the be-all and end-all, you know. I could do fairly well against either of you, I think, if you had a sword and I had my quarterstaff.”

  Gawyn’s cough was obviously meant to swallow a laugh. Much too politely, he said, “You must be very good.” Galad’s face was frankly disbelieving.

  Perhaps it was that they both clearly thought he was making a wild boast. Perhaps it was because he had mishandled questioning the guardsman. Perhaps it was because Else, who had such an eye for the boys, wanted nothing to do with him, and all those women were staring at Galad like cats watching a jug of cream. Aes Sedai and Accepted or not, they were still women. All these explanations ran through Mat’s head, but he rejected them angrily, especially the last. He was going to do it because it would be fun. And it might earn some coin. His luck would not even have to be back.

  “I will wager,” he said, “two silver marks to two from each of you that I can beat both of you at once, just the way I said. You can’t have fairer odds than that. There are two of you, and one of me, so two to one are fair odds.” He almost laughed aloud at the consternation on their faces.

  “Mat,” Gawyn said, “there’s no need to make wagers. You have been sick. Perhaps we will try this some time when you are stronger.”

  “It would be far from a fair wager,” Galad said. “I’ll not take your wager, now or later. You are from the same village as Egwene, are you not? I . . . I would not have her angry with me.”

  “What does she have to do with it? Thump me once with one of your swords, and I will hand over a silver mark to each of you. If I thump you till you quit, you give me two each. Don’t you think you can do it?”

  “This is ridiculous,” Galad said. “You would have no chance against one trained swordsman, let alone two. I’ll not take such advantage.”

  “Do you think that?” asked a gravel voice. The blocky Warder joined them, thick black eyebrows pulled down in a scowl. “You think you two are good enough with your swords to take a boy with a stick?”

  “It would not be fair, Hammar Gaidin,” Galad said.

  “He has been sick,” Gawyn added. “There is no need for this.”

  “To the yard,” Hammar grated with a jerk of his head back over his shoulder. Galad and Gawyn gave Mat regretful looks, then obeyed. The Warder eyed Mat up and down doubtfully. “Are you sure you’re up to this, lad? Now I take a close look at you, you ought to be in a sickbed.”

  “I am already out of one,” Mat said, “and I’m up to it. I have to be. I don’t want to lose my two marks.”

  Hammar’s heavy brows rose in surprise. “You mean to hold to that wager, lad?”

  “I need the money.” Mat laughed.

  His laughter cut off abruptly as he turned toward the nearest stand that held quarterstaffs and his knees almost buckled. He stiffened them so quickly he thought anyone who noticed would think he had just stumbled. At the stand he took his time choosing out a staff, nearly two inches thick and almost a foot taller than he was. I have to win this. I opened my fool mouth, and now I have to win. I can’t afford to lose those two marks. Without those to build on, it will take forever to win the money I need.

  When he turned back, the quarterstaff in both hands before him, Gawyn and Galad were already waiting out where they had been practicing. I have to win. “Luck,” he muttered. “Time to toss the dice.”

  Hammar gave him an odd look. “You speak the Old Tongue, lad?”

  Mat stared back at him for a moment, not speaking. He felt cold to the bone. With an effort, he made his feet start out onto the practice yard. “Remember the wager,” he said loudly. “Two silver marks from each of you against two from me.”

  A buzz rose from the Accepted as they realized what was happening. The Aes Sedai watched in silence. Disapproving silence.

  Gawyn and Galad split apart, one to either side of him, keeping their distance, neither with his sword more than half-raised.

  “No wager,” Gawyn said. “There’s no wager.”

  At the same time, Galad said, “I’ll not take your money like this.”

  “I mean to take yours,” Mat said.

  “Done!” Hammar roared. “If they have not the nerve to cover your wager, lad, I’ll pay the score myself.”

  “Very well,” Gawyn said. “If you insist on it—done!”

  Galad hesitated a moment more before growling, “Done, then. Let us put an end to this farce.”

  The moment’s warning was all Mat needed. As Galad rushed at him, he slid his hands along the quarterstaff and pivoted. The end of the staff thudded into the tall man’s ribs, bringing a grunt and a stumble. Mat let the staff bounce off Galad and spun, carrying it on around just as Gawyn came within range. The staff dipped, darted under Gawyn’s practice sword, and clipped his ankle out from under him. As Gawyn fell, Mat completed the spin in time to catch Galad across his upraised wrist, sending his practice sword flying. As if his wrist did not pain him at all, Galad threw himself into a smooth, rolling dive and came up with his sword in both hands.

  Ignoring him for the moment, Mat half turned, twisting his wrists to whip the length of the staff back beside him. Gawyn, just starting to rise, took the blow on the side of his head with a loud thump only partly softened by the padding of hair. He went down in a heap.

  Mat was only vaguely aware of an Aes Sedai rushing out to tend Elayne’s fallen brother. I hope he’s all right. He should be. I’ve hit myself harder than that falling off a fence. He still had Galad to deal with, and from the way Galad was poised on the balls of his feet, sword raised precisely, he had begun to take Mat seriously.

  Mat’s legs chose that moment to tremble. Light, I can’t weaken now. But he could feel it creeping back in, the wobbly feeling, the hunger as if he had not eaten for days. If I wait for him to come to me, I’ll fall on my face. It was hard to keep his knees straight as he started forward. Luck, stay with me.

  From the first blow, he knew that luck, or skill, or whatever had brought him this far, was still there. Galad managed to turn that one with a sharp clack, and the next, and the next, and the next, but strain stiffened his face. That smooth swordsman, almost as good as the Warders, fought with every ounce of his skill to keep Mat’s staff from him. He did not attack; it was all he could do to defend. He moved continually to the side, trying not to be forced back, and Mat pressed him, staff a blur. And Galad stepped back, stepped back again, wooden blade a thin shield against the quarterstaff.

  Hunger gnawed at Mat as if he had swallowed weasels. Sweat rolled down into his eyes, and his strength began to fade as if it leached out with the sweat. Not yet. I can’t fall yet. I have to win. Now. With a roar, he threw all his reserves into one last surge.

  The quarterstaff flickered past Galad’s sword and in quick succession struck knee, wrist, and ribs and finally thrust into Galad’s stomach like a spear. With a groan, Galad folded over, fighting not to fall. The staff quivered in Mat’s hands, on the point of a final crushing thrust to the throat. Galad sank to the ground.

  Mat almost dropped the quarterstaff when he realized what he had been about to do. Win, not kill. Light, what was I thinking? Reflexively he grounded the butt of the staff, and as soon he did, he had to clutch at it to hold himself erect. Hunger hollowed him like
a knife reaming marrow from a bone. Suddenly he realized that not only the Aes Sedai and Accepted were watching. All practice, all learning, had stopped. Warders and students alike stood watching him.

  Hammar moved to stand beside Galad, still groaning on the ground and trying to push himself up. The Warder raised his voice to shout, “Who was the greatest blademaster of all time?”

  From the throats of dozens of students came a massed bellow. “Jearom, Gaidin!”

  “Yes!” Hammar shouted, turning to make sure all heard. “During his lifetime, Jearom fought over ten thousand times, in battle and single combat. He was defeated once. By a farmer with a quarterstaff! Remember that. Remember what you just saw.” He lowered his eyes to Galad, and lowered his voice as well. “If you cannot get up by now, lad, it is finished.” He raised a hand, and the Aes Sedai and Accepted rushed to surround Galad.

  Mat slid down the staff to his knees. None of the Aes Sedai even glanced his way. One of the Accepted did, a plump girl he might have liked to ask for a dance if she were not going to be an Aes Sedai. She frowned at him, sniffed, and turned back to peering at what the Aes Sedai were doing around Galad.

  Gawyn was on his feet, Mat noted with relief. He pulled himself up as Gawyn came over. Mustn’t let them know. I’ll never get out of here if they decide to nurse me from sunup to sunup. Blood darkened the red-gold hair on the side of Gawyn’s head, but there was neither cut nor bruise apparent.

  He pushed two silver marks into Mat’s hand with a dry “I think I will listen next time.” He noticed Mat’s glance, touched his head. “They Healed it, but it was not bad. Elayne has given me worse more than once. You are good with that.”

  “Not as good as my da. He’s won the quarterstaff at Bel Tine every year as long as I can remember, except once or twice when Rand’s da did.” That interested look came back into Gawyn’s eyes, and Mat wished he had never mentioned Tam al’Thor. The Aes Sedai and the Accepted were all still clustered around Galad. “I . . . I must have hurt him badly. I did not mean to do that.”

  Gawyn glanced that way—there was nothing to be seen but two rings of women’s backs, Accepted’s white dresses making the outer ring as they peered over the shoulders of crouching Aes Sedai—and laughed. “You did not kill him—I heard him groaning—so he should be on his feet by now, but they are not going to let this chance pass, now they have their hands on him. Light, four of them are Green Ajah!” Mat gave him a confused look—Green Ajah? What does that have to do with anything?—and Gawyn shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Just rest assured that the worst Galad has to worry about is finding himself Warder to a Green Aes Sedai before his head clears.” He laughed. “No, they would not do that. But I will wager you those two marks of mine in your hand that some of them wish they could.”

  “Not your marks,” Mat said, shoving them in his coat pocket, “mine.” The explanation had made little sense to him. Except that Galad was well. All he knew of what passed between Warders and Aes Sedai were the pieces he remembered of Lan and Moiraine, and there was nothing there like what Gawyn seemed to be suggesting. “Do you think they’d mind if I collected my wager from him?”

  “They very likely would,” Hammar said dryly as he joined them. “You are not very popular with those particular Aes Sedai right now.” He snorted. “You’d think even Green Aes Sedai would be better than girls just loose from their mother’s apron strings. He isn’t that good-looking.”

  “He is not,” Mat agreed.

  Gawyn grinned at both of them, until Hammar glared at him. “Here,” the Warder said, pushing two more silver coins into Mat’s hand. “I will collect from Galad later. Where are you from, lad?”

  “Manetheren.” Mat froze when he heard the name come out of his mouth. “I mean, I’m from the Two Rivers. I have heard too many old stories.” They just looked at him without saying anything. “I. . . . I think I will go back and see if I can find something to eat.” Not even the Midmorning bell had rung yet, but they nodded as if it made sense.

  He kept the quarterstaff—no one had told him to put it back—and walked slowly until the trees hid him from the practice yard. When they did, he leaned on the staff as though it were the only thing holding him up. He was not sure it was not.

  He thought that if he parted his coat, he would see a hole where his stomach should have been, a hole growing larger as it pulled the rest of him in. But he hardly thought of hunger. He kept hearing voices in his head. You speak the Old Tongue, lad? Manetheren. It made him shiver. Light help me, I keep digging myself deeper. I have to get out of here. But how? He hobbled back toward the Tower proper like an old, old man. How?

  CHAPTER

  25

  Questions

  Egwene lay across Nynaeve’s bed, chin in her hands, watching Nynaeve pace back and forth. Elayne sprawled in front of the fireplace, which was still full of the ashes of last night’s fire. Yet again Elayne was studying the list of names Verin had produced, patiently reading every word one more time. The other pages, the list of ter’angreal, sat on the table; after one shocked reading they had not discussed that one further, though they had talked of everything else. And argued, too.

  Egwene stifled a yawn. It was only the middle of the morning, but none of them had gotten much sleep. They had had to be up early. For the kitchens, and breakfast. For other things that she refused to think about. The little sleep she herself had managed had been filled with unpleasant dreams. Maybe Anaiya could help me understand them, those that need understanding, but. . . . But what if she is Black Ajah? After staring at every woman in that chamber last night, wondering which was Black Ajah, she was finding trust for anyone but her two companions hard to come by. But she did wish she had some way of interpreting those dreams.

  The nightmares about what had happened inside the ter’angreal last night were easy enough to understand, though they had made her wake up weeping. She had dreamed of the Seanchan, too, of women in dresses with lightning bolts woven on their breasts, collaring a long line of women who wore Great Serpent rings, forcing them to call lightning against the White Tower. That had started her awake in a cold sweat, but that had to be just a nightmare, too. And the dream about Whitecloaks binding her father’s hands. A nightmare brought on by homesickness, she supposed. But the others. . . .

  She glanced at the other two women again. Elayne was still reading. Nynaeve still paced with that steady tread.

  There had been a dream of Rand, reaching for a sword that seemed to be made of crystal, never seeing the fine net dropping over him. And one of him kneeling in a chamber where a parched wind blew dust across the floor, and creatures like the one on the Dragon banner, but much smaller, floated on that wind, and settled into his skin. There had been a dream of him walking down into a great hole in a black mountain, a hole filled with a reddish glare as from vast fires below, and even a dream of him confronting Seanchan.

  About that last, she was uncertain, but she knew the others had to mean something. Back when she had been sure she could trust Anaiya, back before she had left the Tower, before she learned the reality of the Black Ajah, a little cautious questioning of the Aes Sedai—done, oh, so carefully, so Anaiya would think it no more than the curiosity she showed about other things—had revealed that a Dreamer’s dreams about ta’veren were almost always significant, and the more strongly ta’veren, the more “almost always” became “certainly.”

  But Mat and Perrin were ta’veren, too, and she had also dreamed of them. Odd dreams, even more difficult to understand than the dreams of Rand. Perrin with a falcon on his shoulder, and Perrin with a hawk. Only the hawk held a leash in her talons—Egwene was somehow convinced both hawk and falcon were female—and the hawk was trying to fasten it around Perrin’s neck. That made her shiver even now; she did not like dreams about leashes. And that dream of Perrin—with a beard!—leading a huge pack of wolves that stretched as far as the eye could see. Those about Mat had been even nastier. Mat, placing his own left eye on a balance scale. M
at, hanging by his neck from a tree limb. There had been a dream of Mat and Seanchan, too, but she was willing to dismiss that as a nightmare. It had to have been just a nightmare. Just like the one about Mat speaking the Old Tongue. That had to come from what she had heard during his Healing.

  She sighed, and the sigh turned into another yawn. She and the others had gone to his room after breakfast to see how he was, but he had not been there.

  He is probably well enough to go dancing. Light, now I will probably dream about him dancing with Seanchan! No more dreams, she told herself firmly. Not now. I will think about them when I am not so tired. She thought of the kitchens, of the midday meal soon to come, and then supper, and breakfast again tomorrow, and pots and cleaning and scrubbing going on forever. If I am ever not tired again. Shifting her position on the bed, she looked at her friends again. Elayne still had her eyes on the list of names. Nynaeve’s steps had slowed. Any moment now, Nynaeve will say it again. Any moment.

  Nynaeve came to a halt, staring down at Elayne. “Put those away. We have been over them twenty times, and there isn’t a word that helps. Verin gave us rubbish. The question is, was it all she had, or did she give us rubbish on purpose?”

  As expected. Maybe half an hour till she says it again. Egwene frowned down at her hands, glad she could not see them clearly. The Great Serpent ring looked—out of place—on hands all wrinkled from long immersion in hot, soapy water.

  “Knowing their names helps,” Elayne said, still reading. “Knowing what they look like helps.”

  “You know very well what I mean,” Nynaeve snapped.

  Egwene sighed and folded her arms in front of her, rested her chin on them. When she had come out of Sheriam’s study that morning, with the sun still not even a glint on the horizon, Nynaeve had been waiting with a candle in the cold, dark hall. She had not been seeing very clearly, but she was sure Nynaeve had looked ready to chew stone. And knowing chewing stones would not change anything in the next few minutes. That was why she was so irritable. She’s as touchy about her pride as any man I ever met. But she should not take it out on Elayne and me. Light, if Elayne can stand it, she should be able to. She isn’t the Wisdom anymore.