Chapter Text
Chapter 4: What is Written in Prophecy
With Lan’s help, dressing should have been easy. It was not.
“What in the name of the Light is this?” Mat demanded, once he was sure he would not fall over, and could get a good look at the clothes Lan had brought him.
“A gift, farm boy.” Lan responded coldly. “Try not to be ungrateful.”
Which meant Moiraine’s doing, Mat supposed. He was tempted to throw the clothes out a window and demand a good wool coat be brought to replace them, but time was running short. Mat could feel Rand moving towards the Women’s Apartments already.
I will not let him face this alone. Mat thought fiercely. Besides, just because it was a gift from an Aes Sedai didn’t mean it was power-touched or evil, the way the stories warned. And if it was…. well, he’d just have Rand remove whatever it was later.
Sometimes he wondered how his dislike of Aes Sedai and his distrust of the Power- the image of the Tarren ferry crushed to splinters surfaced in his mind briefly- squared with his enduring affection for Rand. If anything he should be more inclined to trust an Aes Sedai over a man who could channel, except…Rand was Rand. And he’d only ever used the power to help Mat, and others. The same was most certainly not true for Moiraine.
Moiraine, it seemed, had decided to dress him like a Shienaran too, but rather than fancy, she had gone for austere. A sleeveless leather long coat that fell almost to his ankles, with its length divided for riding, was the worst of it. Beneath that went a simple shirt of green linen, trousers of sturdy wool, and knee high boots that fit in an eerily perfect way that made Mat’s skin itch. That was not all of it, however: supple gloves of a soft black leather went over his hands, and steel bracers went over his wrists, and with Lan’s rough hand snapping down the straps, a single steel pauldron to match over his right shoulder.
The last thing was a cord of gold, roughly tied over his left bicep, and pressed with a golden eagle pin.
“Caldazar.” Mat muttered as Lan finished the knot. “That’s the symbol of-“
“Manetheren.” Lan finished for him, with a nod of approval. “I gave Rand one like it as well, before I left him. It may do nothing, but a symbol of where you come from can’t hurt. Symbols can give men strength when they’re sure all of their strength is spent.”
Mat stared at the knotted cord on his shoulder, reaching out a hesitant hand to touch the eagle pin. Well. If anyone had a right, he supposed he did. Everyone kept telling him about the Old Blood after all.
“And for something more practical than a symbol,” Mat gave a start and spun, well honed instincts allowing him to catch what Lan tossed at him, instead of letting it slap into his side. Mat blinked, his jaw working at the quarterstaff he now held, almost exactly as tall as he was. It was plain, black wood capped at either end with a foot of blunted steel, but sturdy in his grip. A leather strap tied along its length would fit perfectly over his chest, allowing him to carry it on his back.
“Do you expect me to hit the Amyrlin with a stick?” Mat said wryly. “Light, man, she'd tie me up into knots with the Power if I even tried.” Not that he wouldn’t try, if it came down to it.
“I expect you to make a good showing of yourself,” Lan said tightly, then shook his head. “Likely so much wasted effort in truth. The Amyrlin will do with Rand as she must- with all of you as she must, and you can’t change that, not now. But you can face your fate with steel in your backbone and the ground beneath your feet. That is all a man can do in the end. Now hurry up, we’re wasting time.”
And with that, Lan turned on his heel and marched out of the infirmary, shoulders set.
For a moment, Mat considered throwing the quarterstaff after him- but it was a nice piece and work and Mat didn’t want to seem ungrateful. So instead he slipped the strap over his chest, fixing the staff to his back, and followed Lan out.
He was right, after all. Time was short.
<X>
With Mat to guide them, they intercepted Rand well before he could reach the Women’s Apartments. He was in a fresh coat, and looked the spitting image of a young Borderlander lord- except of course for his height and hair, and as Lan had said, a golden cord was knotted around his left bicep, a pin pressed into it identical to Mat’s.
Rand didn’t look surprised when Mat and Lan rounded the corner and moved to fall in on either side of him- he had felt Mat coming, of course- but his mouth was set in determination.
“Mat, you should-“ he began, but Mat waved him off, shaking his head.
“I’m fit enough for a Bel Tine dance, Rand. Certainly fit enough for a chat with a few old-“ Lan’s sour grunt made Mat moderate his tone. “-a few Aes Sedai.”
Rand opened his mouth to argue, but Lan stepped firmly on him. “We don’t have time for this. Both of you listen closely.” And then Lan began a rolling list of instructions, from how they were to introduce themselves, to how they were to act in the presence of the Amyrlin. Specific phrasings he made them both repeat back, and actions to be taken, when to kneel and when not, and the like. Mat goggled at the man, wondering at his sanity, while Rand stared with incredulity but also a measure of focus, as if he really was trying to retain the litany.
“We pour out water?” Mat said in disbelief at one point.
“You sprinkle three drops.” Lan corrected coldly. “And only if you're offered water. Lightly sprinkle three drops and say ‘the land thirsts,’ farmboy.”
“Lan, why-“ Mat tried to ask, but Lan cut him off.
“When you can’t win a big victory, focus on winning small ones, and when you’re backed into a corner….” Lan trailed off, staring into Mat's eyes as if to hammer the words home.
You make a good showing of yourself, and face your fate on your feet, Mat’s mind finished. He exhaled. “Fine, fine. So we sprinkle three drops-“
The Warder kept up the flood all the way to the entrance to the Women’s apartments, where Nisura, one of Amalisa’s ladies in waiting, sat on a stool beside the archway. A embroidery hoop rested on her lap, and beside her stool, a morning star with slightly curved spikes leaned against one leg, its handle pointed up where it would be easy for her to snatch up should the need arise. The steel glinted with a fresh cleaning, but not a thorough one: hints of blood remained between the spikes from its use during the night before.
Still, from Nisura’s expression, you would never know that Fal Dara had been violated, and that the Women’s Apartments had been threatened directly. In fact, she seemed to find nothing so interesting as her hoop, and made the trio wait for a full two minutes before she looked up. Her mouth tightened over the sight of Rand and Lan’s swords and Mat’s quarterstaff- unless the keep was actively under attack, no man was permitted to go armed in the Women’s Apartments- but she let it pass, instead locking her eyes on Rand.
“….Why do you come?” She asked calmly.
“I have been summoned by the Amyrlin Seat.” Rand responded, forcing his back straight, and his neck up.
“Then I shall take you to her.” Having clearly expected this Nisura stood and gestured to Rand. “Lan Gaidin and your friend will remain-“
“I am going with him.” Mat cut across her, and when her eyes narrowed onto him, he gulped.
“By what right?” She asked coolly.
For a terrible moment, Mat felt Lan’s instructions vanish from his brain, but abruptly it came back to him, not in Lan’s voice but….in an older one. From somewhere deep in his memories. “I am his Heartsworn, pledged blood for blood, soul for soul. Where he goes I go.”
The woman stared at him in disbelief, jaw dropped open. Only then did Mat realize what he had actually said.
Cue'vin ye misain d'din, o'vin shar ni shar, cuendar ni cuenda. Doko sin jalou ye jalou.
The Old Tongue. Of course.
“Tai’shar Manetheren.” Lan murmured for Mat’s ears alone, then raising his voice, almost amused, he turned to the attendant. “An ancient form. But the demand has been made. Does Fal Dara honor it?”
Nisuna shifted and stood. “….Fal Dara honors it, Dai Shain. They shall go to the Amyrlin together. Lan Gaidin, however, will remain here.” This she added with a pointed look at his sword. It seemed there was a limit to the number of armed men that Nisura would tolerate in their domain. “Come.”
Sparing a glance for Rand, who was still struggling to keep his fear and anxiety hidden beneath an icy mask, Mat moved forward and so almost missed the harsh whisper from Lan.
“ Cat crosses the courtyard !”
Before Mat could gawk at this new nonsense, Rand moved to fall in beside him and his whole posture shifted. His whole body seemed to relax and his spine to go straight, his stride becoming an almost arrogant saunter. Somehow, without looking back, Mat knew that Lan was smirking proudly in that stoney way of his.
Well, whatever works . Mat thought, bewildered.
That didn’t stop his hand from somehow finding its way into Rand’s as they walked.
Everywhere women halted mid-stride to stare at them, some coming out of their rooms or stopping in crossing corridors to watch their progression with an intense gaze. Not gawking, not exactly, just with that weighing, measuring look the Women’s Circle always seemed to have back home, as if trying to decide something with no way for a man to know what until the scales had already fallen. Children also halted their play, some looking up with wide, awed eyes at Mat and Rand’s clothes or weapons, and even servants paused to mark their passing, temporarily looking up from their labors and duties. With so many eyes on them, Mat couldn’t help but feel his pulse quicken. What would they say tomorrow? That the young secret prince and his hanger-on had been led to the Amyrlin to be presented like heroes? That they had seen a man who could channel and the fool bound to him walk to their own doom freely?
Mat found himself humming I’m Down At the Bottom of the Well and made himself stop.
The worst by far were the Aes Sedai. Others stopped what they were doing to stare intently at Rand and Mat. But the Aes Sedai were all still as statues whenever one came into view, as if they had sensed Rand and Mat’s approach somehow and paused in advance to observe it. Plump or skinny, pale or dark, gray haired or not, each and every one watched with those smooth ageless features, and cold eyes, the ones that seemed to know secrets beyond mere mortal understanding. Some wore shawls, or dresses in the color of their Ajah, including at least one Red with a nasty looking pout on her mouth and long golden hair in a series of thin braids, but for most it was impossible to tell one Ajah from another. Or, if there were signs that would have given it away, they were beyond Mat.
Something else to figure out. If we somehow survive this, knowing one Ajah from another will probably be useful for a life on the run, he thought, a tad hysterically.
At last Nisuna brought them directly before a set of wide double doors in front of which stood an Aes Sedai that Mat did think he vaguely recalled. A tall handsome woman with a brisk, no nonsense air. Leane. Had she been part of healing him? He thought he could recall her through the sweat and the fear and the pain of having the Power spun into his flesh.
Oddly, she seemed to eye them both not with the implacable knowing of her sisters, but with amusement.
“I have brought Rand al’Thor as the Mother requested, Leane Sedai.” Nisura siad, curtseying more deeply than she would have for Lord Aglemar or Lady Amalisa. “And one who has claimed the ancient right of being heart-sworn to him.”
“So you have.” The Aes Sedai said, eyes sparkling as she took them in. “You seem more confident than you did last night, sheepherder” she directed at Rand. “Did I not tell you that your man would be well?”
Rather than answering, Rand bowed as Lan had shown him, twisting his sword sheath so that it was behind him, one hand gripping beneath the hilt, the other almost to the sheath, before bending to the Aea Sedai. “I am Rand al’Thor, son of Tam al’Thor in the Two Rivers, which once was Manetheren. As I have been summoned by the Amyrlin Seat, so have I come, Leane Sedai. I stand ready.”
Leane’s eyebrows climbed practically to her hairline as Rand spoke, but when he finished his recitation, the amusement was back. “Lan has been at you,” she surmised. “Best avoid the Green Sisters with us, or you might find yourself bonded before you know what is happening. Greens prefer Borderland men when they can get them, and like to bond them young."
It was an effort for Mat to control his features, and from the way Leane gave a start when she looked at him it wasn’t entirely a success. Something primal surged in Mat at the implication, something that felt not unlike the impulses the dagger brought out in him, dark and savage.
“They can not have him,” Mat heard himself say. “He is taken.” And if one tries, she’ll find herself with broken fingers. Leane’s chuckle was decidedly not amused and Mat stiffened his back and smiled in a way that showed his teeth, and held none of the warmth he would usually ensure was there.
Odd, he had never thought of using his quarterstaff on a woman that was not trying to kill him; Abell Cauthon had taught him the quarterstaff for the competitions at Bel Tine and to defend himself if the need arose. Yet there was no doubt in his mind that if it was for Rand's protection he would not hesitate to put Lan’s gift to the test. Besides, it wasn’t like Aes Sedai were any village woman. They wielded the Power- if he waited until one was threatening his life, or Rand’s, to strike, then he was a fool.
Abruptly the surrealness of that line of thought hit him. The chances of an Aes Sedai bonding Rand were almost zero. He had to keep in his mind the realities they faced, the here and the now.
Clearing his throat and making sure the next words were very pointedly not in the Old Tongue, Mat spoke. “I am Mat Cauthon, son of Abell Cauthon in the Two Rivers, which once was Manetheren. The True Blood sings in my veins-“ He only stumbled on that bit a little. Lan had insisted Mat make that point. To be Tain Shar, Lan had said, True Blooded, had meant something once, not just in Manetheren, but to the White Tower. What exactly he had not said, and maybe didn’t know, and Mat wasn’t really sure he could be counted as True Blooded, whatever that meant, but anything that put them off balance was worth leveraging. ``-and I am sworn heart and soul to Rand al’Thor. Where he walks I follow, in peace or conflict.”
Very pointedly, Mat did not bow. Lan had said he should, but Mat had noticed something: even when Moiraine curtsied, as rare as that was, Lan did not so much as bend his neck. Lan might have them acting as Borderland Lord and liegeman- or whatever Sworn Sword meant- but Mat was Rand’s Warder, even if none of these people knew it.
For a moment Leane just stared at them, and she was not alone. Mat could practically feel the eyes of every woman in sight digging into him. But finally Leane nodded curtly, and responded in a voice almost as formal. “We honor your pledge, Matrim. The Mother awaits.” Taking a staff topped with a white flame from where it leaned against one wall, she held it in both hands, before banging it twice upon the ground, sending out an almost thunderous echo that was likely heard down in the dungeons. Then with an inclination of her head, she opened one of the twin doors to allow the pair inside.
Eager to escape the eyes fixed on him, Mat moved first into the room- honor of the Gaidin, Mat thought wryly, first in, last out- striding as arrogant as if he was walking across the village green back home, having just played a joke that only he was yet aware of. But he froze when confronted with three familiar women all seated at a table in the center of the room, their chairs arranged like judges as they confronted him.
He had expected only the Amyrlin, not Moiraine who sat to the Amyrlin’s right, or the plump sparrow-like Aes Sedai who sat to her left. All three faced him with that cold serenity, and clear disapproval, The Amyrlin in her seven striped stole, Moiraine and the plump sister draped in their formal shawls. Absently, he noticed that the shawl on the plump sister was Brown. Not Red. That was good right? Except… If the Aes Sedai were arranged like judges, from their faces they were ready to pronounce a sentence of hanging.
Rand followed, and then Leane, sweeping past them to curtsey before the Amyrlin, and announced them in a clear, formal voice. That made the Amyrlin’s eyebrow twitch but she showed no other reaction.
“Thank you, Leane,” she said, when the recitation of their introduction was done. “You may leave us now.”
Straightening, and with one last sharp look at the pair as if to remind them to behave, Leane swept from the room, closing the door behind her. Mat couldn’t help but feel as if it had the sound of a cell slamming shut.
For a moment, no moved. No one so much as breathed. Mat was seized by the urge to shout boo, just to see what would happen.
Then the Amyrlin snorted, a rough surprising sound from such a regal woman, and slapped her hand on the table. Shock shot through the Bond, but both Mat and Rand managed to keep from jumping. Barely.
“Well? Are you two just going to gape like grunters on the jetty? Or are you going to get closer so I can have a look at you?”
Outrage flared through the bond, and Rand strode forward, kneeling fist to heart, hand on his sword hilt, same as he had to Queen Morgase. Oddly, that seemed to surprise the Amyrlin, at least insofar it made her blink.
“As you have summoned me, Mother, so I have come. I stand ready.” There was maybe a touch more bite in the words than was strictly appropriate.
Mat decided to stay the course and not kneel, though he did resist the urge to shove his hands in his pockets and slouch in the general direction of the Aes Sedai. They couldn’t ask for more than that.
They paid him no mind. He might as well not have existed, for all the women regarded him. Maybe he should shove his hands into his pockets.
Before he could, the Amyrlin snorted again, a sound like a tarp ripping, and turned to Moiraine. “Lan’s doing, I presume?”
Moiraine nodded. “He has taken a special interest in these two, as young Matrim showed skill in warfare, and young Rand skill in the blade.”
Annoyance flared through the Bond, and Mat privately agreed with it. ‘Young Matrim’ and ‘Young Rand’ indeed. Mat had killed one of the Forsaken, and Rand had killed….well, maybe not the Dark One, but not necessarily not the Dark One.
The Amyrlin shook her head. “Get up, boy. And sit, this will not be short. Your watchdog,” She added coolly, “Can sit as well, as long as he minds his manners.”
Mat put on his most insolent smile- watchdog, was he?- and remained pointedly standing. Rand did rise from his knees, but made the same bow he had to Leane, both hands gripping his sword behind him. “Thank you, Mother. But by your leave I shall stand, the watch is not done.”
“You have let Lan at him,” the Amyrlin muttered. “This will be hard enough without him picking up Borderlander ways.”
The Brown sister tapped her lip thoughtfully. “It is true that Borderlanders can be, ah, touch formal and overly disciplined, but that formality and discipline has served them well in their long war against the Blight. Resilience is also another good point, why, right here in Fal Dara they wasted no time on shock despite the events of last night. They accepted what was and set about what needed doing with nary any time wasted on fits or doubts. I’m not sure we could ask for a better trainer for this pair than al’Lan Mandragoran, in some respects at least, especially the Cauthon boy.”
Mat frowned. Why the Aes Sedai were talking about them like…like they weren't even there! He opened his mouth to cut in, but the Amyrlin had turned to Moiraine and was speaking already. “That blade- it is heron marked. How did he come by such a thing?”
“Tam al’Thor left the Two Rivers as a boy, Mother. He joined the army of Illian and served in the Whitecloak War and the last two wars with Tear. In time he rose to be a blademaster and the Second Captain of the Companions. After the Aiel War, Tam al’Thor returned to the Two Rivers with a wife from Caemlyn and an infant boy. It would have saved much, had I known this earlier, but I know it now.”
Shock lanced through the Bond as Moiraine went on, Rand’s eyes staring at her in disbelief, his mouth twisting and his knuckles turning white on his sword sheath. Disbelief, shock, and a touch of dread. Mat felt the urge to reach out and squeeze his shoulder, but he resisted it, instead keeping his eyes on the Aes Sedai, who were thoroughly ignoring them.
“Against Tear.” The Amyrlin frowned slightly. “Well there was enough blame on both sides in those wars. Fool men who would rather fight than talk. Can you tell if the blade is authentic, Verin?”
The plump Aes Sedai blinked and turned to regard the Amyrlin as well. “What? Oh yes, Mother. There are tests of course- a simple Delving should be sufficient, at least to see if it is Power-wrought.”
The Amyrlin clicked her tongue in exasperation. “Then take it and test it, Daughter.”
Shock and anxiety flared into anger, and Rand shifted the sheath so it rested as it normally did at his side, his hand twisting on the hilt. Mat would wager a copper to the Rose Crown that Rand had moved into one of the sword forms Lan had drilled into him.
The three women were not even looking at him to notice, and abruptly Mat had enough, he was moving before her could stop himself, unholstering his quarterstaff and bringing the one metal-capped end against the stone with a sharp clang.
“My father gave this sword to me,” Rand said coldly. His height was such that he could still stare at the women over Mat's shoulder. “And nobody is taking it from me.”
All three women turned to look at him, and it hit Mat that Verin had not moved in the slightest to obey the Amyrlin’s command. Their eyes had that look, like a merchant’s weighing and measuring and judging.
Bloody women. Mat thought. They were like the Women’s Circle.
“So,” the Amyrlin said. “You have some fire in you besides whatever Lan put in. Good. You will need it.”
“I am what I am, Mother,” Rand grated out. “I stand ready for what comes.”
The Amyrlin shook her head. “Bloody…Well, done is done. Listen closely, boy- both of you. Soon Lord Ingtar will ride to seek the Horn. You have a choice, go with him or not, though it’s not much of a choice.”
“And why is that?” Mat said slowly, though he had a sinking feeling he knew.
“Because, when you were assaulted last night, the dagger from Shadar Logoth was taken, and without it, you will surely die.” Shock slammed through the Bond so hard that Mat had to actually close his eyes from the sudden throb in his head. He had known, of course- he had woken up repeatedly in the night with fits and starts, a sense of pervasive wrongness filling him, the absence of the dagger like the absence of a limb. He remembered groping blindly in the dark, under his pillow, across the bed, even fleetingly knocking over water and an unlit candle as he moved his hand over the bedside table, but never finding it, before falling back into a fitful sleep. Since waking things had moved too quickly for him to dwell long on the matter, but he could still feel its absence, if not quite as sharply.
“Surely you can heal him!” Rand snapped. “Moiraine said that she only needed more of her sisters and here you are. Surely seventeen Aes Sedai is more than enough-“
Oddly, it was Verin that took up the explanation, raising her hands palms up. “Peace, young man, peace. We have done what we can for young Master Cauthon- all that we can under the circumstances. We intended fully to complete his healing here in Fal Dara, but the attack came before we had the chance, and Mordeth’s retaking of the dagger makes fully breaking its link impossible. Without the dagger itself to work on, we cannot sever the link and without that severing, he will not survive.”
Mat could see Rand turning each word over in his mind, searching for some equivocation, some place where truth might have been hidden, but there was no need. Mat could have told him they were telling his truth.
“He wants us to follow. He told me as much.” Every head, even Rand’s whipped around to stare at Mat. “Toman Head. He said….” Mat gulped. “He said that he was going to Toman Head and that if we didn’t follow he would-“ Mat had to inhale to finish, the words coming out in a rush. “Destroy anyone with a drop of our blood in them.”
The others were not just staring at him now, Rand was gaping openly, and Moiraine and the Amyrlin seemed intent on digging out his every secret, possibly with the Power. The Brown sister- Verin?- however was watching him with interest as if he were a bug she had never come across before and she was curious what he would do next. Maybe curious enough to start poking him with a stick.
Rand’s expression turned from stunned to agonized, and Mat felt….he almost recoiled at the sudden force of Rand’s emotions this time. Fear and worry….and that warm golden feeling, swelling like a beacon in the back of Mat's head. Abruptly determination overtook everything else and Rand turned to regard the trio of Aes Sedai.
“How long do we have?” Rand demanded, his voice full of forced calm. It was surface deep though at best: Mat could feel the steady boil of his emotions.
“A few months at best,” Moiraine responded. “The Old Blood offers some measure of protection, as does his connection to you. We have also buffered him against the corruption as best we can, and strengthened his body as far as we dare. Without the dagger I do not believe he will survive half a year. Even with it, if the link is not broken, he will surely not survive another year.”
Mat flinched at the mention of the bond, however oblique, but soaked in the rest with an odd sort of calm. He felt none of the doom Rand apparently did, rather…he felt the stake of the game, being laid out. And his life as the prize. Rand’s, too. It was said that a Warder who lost his Aes Sedai swallowed her death- somehow Mat didn’t doubt it would be nearly as bad in reverse, and with Rand’s already tenuous grasp on his own life…
Half a year, a full year if he could lay hands on the dagger, though both sounded like generous estimates. Best say half a year at most for safety's sake.
“We will ride with Ingtar Mother,” Rand said sharply, tearing his eyes away from Mat’s to regard the Aes Sedai again.
The Amyrlin nodded. “Good- Mat should be able to sense the dagger after a fashion, and you will both be assets to Lord Ingtar, so that is settled. Now for more important matters.” She leaned forward suddenly, staring at Rand with an intensity so heavy the air should have crackled. “I know you can channel, boy. What do you know?”
Mat felt the thin veneer of calm tear away from Rand, like a tarp ripped free by a sudden storm. Shock and fear and stunned disbelief replaced everything else as he stared open-mouthed at the Amyrlin, over Mat's shoulder. Mat, for his part, moved almost without thought to hold his quarterstaff in front of him, knees bending slightly, shoulders setting, ready to go diagonal to the women if it so much as looked like one was thinking of using the Power.
The Amyrlin regarded him with such an unimpressed look that Mat felt his ears heat. But it didn’t matter- he had known this might be walking into a deathtrap, Light, he should have dragged Rand out of here weeks ago! All of Fal Dara was a death trap as long as one Aes Sedai had been there!- but he would fight to the last, face whatever came, on the faintest chance it kept Rand safe.
“Put that club down before you brain yourself, boy.” The Amyrlin said sharply, and Mat felt his ears go even hotter. “We are not going to hurt him, or you for that matter.”
Mat wanted to respond, but Rand’s mouth was already running. “I can’t- Channel, I mean! That is…Not on purpose. Yes I….I bonded Mat, to save his life. And I used it to fight Aginor and Ba’alzamon, but only because I didn’t have any other choice. I can’t….I didn’t choose for it to happen. I’ll never do it again. Not for any reason.” A stab of guilt shot through the Bond quickly suppressed by the other emotions swirling in Rand, and Mat blinked. Rand was lying? Mat knew Rand would channel if he had to, to protect those he cared about or saw as his responsibility, it was just who Rand was, but Mat would have thought he would sooner roll around in stinging nettles then admit it. Yet…There was something Rand would use the Power for, intentionally and without regret if he had to- but what?
The Amyrlin’s annoyance faded into a sort of exhaustion that made Mat blink. Though she still seemed ageless, her eyes appeared to belong to a grandmother, or maybe an overworked Wisdom. “You don’t want to. Well, that’s wise of you. And foolish too. Some can be taught to channel: most cannot. A few though, have the seed in them at birth. Sooner or later they wield the One Power whether they want to or not, as surely as roe makes fish.” Rand tried to open his mouth but the Amyrlin cut him off with a sharp gesture, as if she were slicing a line of rope. “You will continue to channel, boy. You can’t help it. And you had better learn to channel, learn to control it, or you will not live long enough to go mad. The One Power kills those who can not control its flow.”
Each word seemed to sap a little of Rand’s fear and Mat understood why. He had learned the bitter truth himself first hand this last month, after a lifetime of rolling his eyes at women’s comments about the supposed stuborness of Two Rivers men. A month of loving Rand al’Thor had taught him just how true those complaints were, and Rand al'Thor was the most stubborn of the lot. ‘Must’, ‘cannot’ and ‘will’ were words Rand did not like hearing. Words that made him dig in his heels and square his shoulders. Mat would never call him muley. He would think it, though.
“How am I supposed to learn?” Rand demanded. “How? Moiraine claims she can’t teach me anything, and I don’t know how to learn, or what. I don’t want to, anyway. I want to stop. Can’t you understand? To stop!”
“I told you the truth, Rand.” Moraine said, utterly unruffled by his flare of temper, or the surrealty of Aes Sedai telling a man he needed to learn to channel. “Those who could teach you, the male Aes Sedai, are three thousand years dead. No Aes Sedai living can teach you to touch saidin, any more then you could learn to touch saidar. A bird cannot teach a fish to fly, nor a fish teach a bird to swim.”
“I have always thought that was a bad saying,” Verin said suddenly. She was not looking at Rand, or indeed anything, instead she was staring into nothing, head tilted slightly to the side in thought. “There are birds that dive and swim, and in the Sea of Storms are fish that fly, with long wings that stretch out as wide as your outstretched arms, and beaks like swords that can pierce…” Her words trailed off as she realized that the Amyrlin and Moiraine were staring at her. They had no more expression than before, but still they seemed to fluster the plump little woman.
Mat took the opportunity to move to leaning on his staff. A thought had occurred to him, and it was hard to have a civil conversation with someone when you were set to strike at a moment’s notice. “Why are you telling us this?” If she was going to treat them like cats she could herd, then he would not offer her even the basic respects. It worked, and the attention of all three turned to him, three sets of eyes, even Verin’s back to convey not a hint of her thoughts. Did all women learn that in some secret class? Or were they just born knowing how? “Aes Sedai hunt down men who can channel, have since the beginning of time, more or less. And we’re supposed to believe you're going to let Rand walk away unhurt, and me with him, out of….what? Gratitude for what we did at the Eye? The kindness of your hearts?”
Behind Mat, Rand steeled himself. Mat felt… not calm exactly, but a quietness appeared through the bond, like a bubble forming around his emotions, muting them. It was the same feeling Mat sensed sometimes, when Rand practiced the sword or the bow, a sudden focus and clarity that went beyond the normal.
“He is right, Mother. Why?” Rand asked, stepping up beside Mat, so they were shoulder to shoulder.
The Amyrlin’s gaze met Rand’s directly. “Because you are the Dragon Reborn.”
It was like Rand had been attacked, a sword driven into his gut. He staggered back, and the bond flared so brightly with emotion in Mat’s mind that he couldn’t pick one out from the other in the waves of fear and panic and horror and refusal that flowed to him. It was almost like a wound in the back of his skull.
Mat moved without thought, slipping his hand into Rand’s. This couldn’t- this couldn’t be real. Rand couldn’t be-
Rand’s voice came out breathless and harsh, as if he was horse from screaming. “No, Mother. I can channel, the Light help me, but I am not Logain, or Raolin Darksbane or Guaire Amalasan or Yurian Stonebow. You can gentle me or kill me or let me go, but I will not be a tame false Dragon on a Tar Valon leash.”
Verin gasped, hand flying to her mouth in shock, and even Moiraine- who had heard this particular accusation before- flinched slightly. And well she might, if Thom was to be believed, it might tear down the whole White Tower.
The Amyrlin’s already frigid eyes seemed to turn to ice. “Where did you hear those names?” She demanded. “Who told you Tar Valon pulls the lines on any false Dragon?”
“A friend, Mother,” Rand said, a touch tart, maybe emboldened by finally having scored a hit against the Aes Sedai. “A gleeman. His name was Thom Merrilin. He’s dead now.”
Mat had moved his body, angling it in front of Rand again even as he kept their hands intertwined, and he could only hope that between the slant of his stance and the Aes Sedai’s focus on Rand that they missed his grimace. He was less sure about that then Rand was- not Thom being dead, the man had gone up against a lone Fade back in Whitebridge in order to let Mat and Rand escape, and he owed the gleeman’s memory a debt he could never repay for that, but good feeling would not change the simple reality of what happened. No, Mat recalled the conversation he and Rand had had, back in Baerlon, with the Gleeman. It had not been Thom who had told them those names- it had been Ba'alzamon, though Thom had been the one to reveal they were all False Dragons, men who had shaken the pillars of heaven as he called it, and torn the world asunder. But Thom had expressed skepticism at the claim that the White Tower had been behind those men. The Amyrlin has enough plots going, but I can’t see her doing that, he had said.
Whether he was right or not, Mat couldn’t say. He had never even heard of Guiare Amalasan or Raolin Darksbane before Ba'alzamon had spoken their names. And Logain…Mat had seen Logain in Caemlyn, and he somehow doubted the men would let himself be a puppet.
Something in the back of Mat’s mind twitched at one of the names: Raolin Darksbane. He thought for a bare moment he could almost summon up….a face? Or maybe an expression? But it scattered like dust as soon as it occurred.
“You are not a false Dragon,” The Amyrlin said firmly, producing each word separately, like a decree. “You are the true Dragon Reborn.”
“I am not! I’m Rand al’Thor! I-” Rand snapped back, and suddenly he turned, looking down into Mat’s eyes, pleading. “I am Rand .”
Something twisted inside Mat’s gut, spikey and cruel like a Trolloc’s arrow. He wanted to shield Rand with his body, to cup his face, to drag him from these women, from this fate. But something traitorous burned in his chest, hot and shameful. Doubt.
It can’t be true. Mat thought fiercely. They’re just….what? What do they gain? What do they want?
“Daughter, tell them the story. A true story. Listen well.” The Amyrlin said coldly.
Moiraine’s voice rolled over them like a tide, serene and all-powerful, but Rand’s eyes strayed to Mat’s as if pleading with him.
"Nearly twenty years ago the Aiel crossed the Spine of the World, the Dragonwall, the only time they have ever done so. They ravaged through Cairhien, destroyed every army sent against them, burned the city of Cairhien itself, and fought all the way to Tar Valon. It was winter and snowing, but cold or heat meant little to an Aiel. The final battle, the last that counted, was fought outside the Shining Walls, in the shadow of Dragonmount. In three days and three nights of fighting, the Aiel were turned back. Or rather they turned back, for they had done what they came to do, which was to kill King Laman of Cairhien, for his sin against the Tree. It is then that my story begins. And yours.”
Mat could remember hearing about the Aiel War his entire childhood. From every merchant's guard and traveler and peddler, even though by the time he was old enough to remember, it was almost ten years gone. There had been no explanation, they had said, no rhyme or reason. They had just boiled out of the Waste in a seething black-eyed mass.
"I was one of the Accepted, then,” Moiraine said, “as was our Mother, the Amyrlin Seat. We were soon to be raised to sisterhood, and that night we stood attendance on the then Amyrlin. Her Keeper of the Chronicles, Gitara Moroso, was there. Every other full sister in Tar Valon was out Healing as many wounded as she could find, even the Reds. It was dawn. The fire on the hearth could not keep the cold out. The snow had finally stopped, and in the Amyrlin's chambers in the White Tower we could smell the smoke of outlying villages burned in the fighting.”
It had been Winternight, six, maybe seven years ago. Mat had been moving from house to house as custom dictated, with a basket of his mother’s apple cakes, and his last stop had been the Winespring. Rand and Egwene had been sequestered in a corner together, of course, so Mat had been unable to steal him away for even a little fun as he had wanted. Instead, as he stalked out of the kitchen, he had passed by the table where Master al’Thor had been deep in his cups.
I hear you like talk of battles, young Matrim. He had said, eyes glossy and dark and distant.
Yes, Mat had said. There had been an itch between his shoulder blades. An uncertainty he had never felt before.
Hot things, battles: even in the bitter cold. Blood is always hot, even when it paints snow. They don’t tell you about that. Or about the stench: the smoke carries for miles, but it’s the soil men make as they die, and the piss, that’s worse.
Mat didn’t remember what he said to escape the conversation, how he had extracted himself without being rude. But he did remember Tam’s parting words as he had fled.
Stay away from battles, son. Once they touch you, you're never clean again.
"It was all a fever-dream,” Rand said, his voice full of desperation. In the back of Mat’s mind, he could feel that bubble of focus drawing tighter, but also growing smaller, condensing down to a tiny brittle orb of emotion. "He was sick.”
Rand had told him that before, shouted it before, in the throes of his own fever dream. Shouted about how it was all just a nightmare, how Tam al’Thor was his father, how people said things they didn’t mean when they were fevered. Mat recalled the way that Rand had clung to the heron mark blade, pressed it to his chest when Mat had tried to gently pry it away and set it aside with his boots and cloak, pleading with Mat to understand that Tam was his father.
“My name is Rand al’Thor.” Rand was pleading with Mat again now, to believe him. Pleading with all his soul. “I am a shepherd. My father is Tam al’Thor, and my mother was—”
Moiraine’s cold and unforgiving voice cut through Rand’s frustration and fear like a fine razor. “The Karaethon Cycle, the Prophecies of the Dragon, say that the Dragon will be reborn on the slopes of Dragonmount, where he died during the Breaking of the World. Gitara Sedai had the Foretelling sometimes. She was old, her hair as white as the snow outside, but when she had the Foretelling, it was strong. The morning light through the windows was strengthening as I handed her a cup of tea. The Amyrlin Seat asked me what news there was from the field of battle. And Gitara Sedai started up out of her chair, her arms and legs rigid, trembling, her face as if she looked into the Pit of Doom at Shayol Ghul, and she cried out, 'He is born again! I feel him! The Dragon takes his first breath on the slope of Dragonmount! He is coming! He is coming! Light help us! Light help the world! He lies in the snow and cries like the thunder! He burns like the sun!' And she fell forward into my arms, dead.”
Rand had always been different. No one had height like his, or hair like his, or eyes like his, not in all the Two Rivers. But his mother had been an outlander, so only fools and troublemakers had ever paid it any mind. Mat had never cared, and repaid more than one of those troublemakers with clothes washed red, or mud in their shoes, growing up. But there was always that quiet, small part of him that had seen Rand standing beside his father, and had been thrown, if only for a moment.
“I was born in the Two Rivers,” Rand insisted, his grip on Mat’s hand turning painful, his other hand tight on the sword hilt, the bones and muscles of his knuckles visible over skin stretched taut by the force of his grip. “I am Rand al’Thor.” You have to believe me. “ I’m me .“ Rand began to tremble, his legs to bend, buckling under the weight of what was happening.
“And so we knew the Dragon was Reborn,” Moiraine went on inexorably. “The Amyrlin swore us to secrecy, we two, for she knew not all the sisters would see the Rebirth as it must be seen. She set us to searching, and for twenty years, we have searched, without respite or relent. There were many fatherless children after that battle. Too many. But we found a story, that one man had found an infant on the mountain. That was all. A man and an infant boy. So we searched on. We sought other clues, poured over rumors and whispers and stories, poured over the Prophecies. 'He will be of the ancient blood, and raised by the old blood.' That was one; there were others. But there are many places where some lingering trail of the Old Blood, Caisen'shar, what was once called Tain’shar, the True Blood, remains. Then, in the Two Rivers, where the old blood of Manetheren seethes still like a river in flood, in Emond's Field, I found three boys whose name-days were within weeks of the battle at Dragonmount. And one of them can channel. Did you think Trollocs came after you just because you are ta’veren? You are the Dragon Reborn.”
That knot of focus shattered like glass and Rand’s knees gave way. He would have fallen to them if not for Mat, who stepped forward, catching the collapsing weight of Rand’s body with his own. Rand’s face fell onto his shoulder, hot panicked tears and hiccuped breaths soaking into his new Borderlander coat. Absently, it occurred to Mat that for all their fancy dress, neither cut the image of nobility well at all.
“I am….” Rand whispered so low only Mat could hear it, only to break off into a hiccup. Mat wanted to speak, to say something, but he couldn’t make his jaw move, make words form. Instead he gently moved his hands to Rand’s shoulders, helping him back to his feet before reaching up to cup his cheeks, staring straight into his blue eyes.
It doesn't matter. Mat willed him to understand. Not to me. Not ever.
And yet there was something building in his chest, something sprouting from seeds driven deep, a fear he had taken in with his first breaths. Mat tried to smother it, to ignore it. But Light, he was-
Leaning forward Mat pressed their foreheads together.
I am right here. You are not alone.
The Dragon Reborn, who would save the world. The Dragon Reborn who would destroy it.
The Dragon Reborn, who was Lews Therin Kinslayer reborn. Who in his last life, had taken the lives of his wife, and his children, and his friends in bloody madness. Lews Therin Kinslayer, who had struck down everyone with even a drop of his blood, and laughed while doing it.
Rand flinched back at the surge of fear as if Mat had slapped him, pulling away and when Mat tried to follow, to keep his hands on Rand’s cheeks, Rand gently, but firmly took his wrists and pushed his hands away.
Guilt and shame shot through Mat, but… Light, The Dragon Reborn . It couldn’t be true, except…
When Rand spoke, turning to regard the three Aes Sedai, not one of which had so much as blinked out of turn at the display, it was with a cold, unforgiving voice. “I will not be used by you.”
“An anchor.” The Amyrlin said sharply, “Is not demanded by holding a ship. “You were made for a purpose, Rand al’Thor. When the winds of Tarmon Gai’don scour the earth, he will face the Shadow and bring forth Light again in the world. The Prophecies must be fulfilled, or the Dark One will break free and remake the world in his image. The Last Battle is coming, and you were born to unite mankind against the Dark One.”
“Ba'alzamon is dead,” Rand snapped, and the Amyrlin snorted like a stablehand.
“If you believe that, you are as much a fool as the Domani. Many of them believe he is dead, or say they do, but I notice they still won’t risk naming him. Nor will you. The Dark One lives, and he is breaking free. You will face him. It is your destiny.”
For a long moment Rand just stared at them, red-eyed and shaking and overwhelmed by emotion, and then, he did as he had before, left hand on the hilt of his sword , twisting it behind him, catching the scabbard in his right. The slap of the leather sheath seemed loud as thunder in that room as he bowed. “By your leave, Mother, may I depart this place?”
The Amyrlin nodded. “I give you leave to go, my son.”
Straightening, Rand regarded them with cold anger, already trying to force down his emotions, his fear and his doubt and his pain, to bury them beneath something he could control, understand. It was like a hot coal in the back of Mat’s mind, burning sharply in his brain. “I will not be used,” Rand said, and then turning on his heel, swept from the room.
Mat did not move to follow him at first, instead watching him go before turning back to the Aes Sedai. They made a wall before him, enough power to crush him like an ant. But he did not care. His own shame and fear made a fine fuel for anger too, and if that was not enough, there was always Rand’s to draw on.
“You know what I am.” He murmured.
“Yes.” Moiraine said calmly. “And you have a part yet to play in this as well, Matrim. Beyond simply recovering the horn and the dagger. He will need you to save the world.”
“Hang the world,” Mat spat at them, clenching his fist. “And hang your prophecies and your schemes. I will not let you hurt him- whatever he is, you will use him, and then cut his throat when you are done. I will not let you. I will protect him.”
“Matrim, he is-'' Moiraine began, but just once, just once he wanted to interrupt her, and so he did, not fighting the swell of memory that filled him, the way it flowed out onto his tongue into unfamiliar words.
“ Red on black, the Dragon’s blood stains the rock of Shayol Ghul, ” Mat said coldly. “In the Pit of Doom shall his blood free men from the Shadow. His blood on the rocks of Shayol Ghul, washing away the Shadow, sacrifice for man’s salvation. ”
The words came out in the Old Tongue, but he had heard them first in common long ago, from a merchant guard who had whispered that the Dragon was not mankind’s destruction, but its salvation, that he would give his life to protect humankind.
Moiraine stared at him as if she had never seen him before, and Verin looked very much like what a child looked like, before she pulled off an insect’s wings to examine it beneath a looking glass. Only the Amyrlin seemed unphased, and unperturbed.
“Beware of Prophecy, Matrim Cauthon. Men who have thought they were masters of it, even men who could speak the Old Tongue, often found out to their cost that they were no more in control of the vagaries of fate than the meanest crofter.” The Amyrlin said coolly. “Your loyalty to the young man is to be commended, but you can not protect him from his destiny.”
“To the Pit with that,” Mat snarled, and then, turning on his heel, followed Rand out.
<X>
Once Matrim had departed, it took a moment before Verin could breathe normally again.
Light, the Old Blood does not sing in that boy, it choruses, Verin thought, stunned, leaning back. She had never seen the like before. And after almost three hundred years wearing the shawl, that was no small feat in itself.
Any thought she had of still poisoning the boy had died when he began quoting the Prophecies of the Dragon in flawless Old Tongue, right down to the accent of a Heart Lord of Manetheren. There were all sorts of tales about the power of the Old Blood, and the strange strength, even abilities, it granted those that carried it. One of those was the memory carried within the Old Blood, a line stretching back all the way to the Age of Legends, and maybe older, the memories of all those who shared that blood dwelling just beneath the surface. In few did it run strong enough to do more than provide an occasional sense of deja vu, or maybe a snatch or two of the Old Tongue. But Matrim Cauthon seemed able to summon knowledge from within that blood at will. What else might he be capable of?
Killing Matrim Cauthon would be a crime against everything Verin believed as a Brown Sister. Now if only she could figure out a way to study him safely.
And as for the other…
The Amyrlin slumped in her chair, looking more haggard than she had after hours of channeling. “I can't make myself like what we just did,” She muttered. “It was necessary, but… Did it work, Daughters?”
Moiraine’s eyes were still trained on the door. Verin would wager there had been more than one surprise in that confrontation for her as well. She did not have nearly so tight a grip on either boy as it seemed….and she had not mentioned Ineria’s journal. Wise, that. “I do not know,” she finally admitted, running a hand through her hair. “But it was necessary, and is.”
“Necessary,” Verin agreed. She lowered her own hand, not having realized she had raised it to her forehead, and stared at the sweat there. Light, she was rattled, if she was letting herself sweat. “They are both strong. In their own ways, in themselves, and in each other. And stubborn. If only there was a way to part them, without endangering everything…”
Moiraine shook her head. “As well wish to part fire and kindling. No….their fates are bound now, and they must see this through together, or fail together. And the world can not afford failure.”
“Light forgive us for what we are loosing on the world,” the Amyrlin said. “You felt it, didn’t you? The way the world grew colder when he clenched his fist?” Verin had. It had been more than just a sudden chill. The fire had grown dimmer, paler somehow, as if the Light were being leached from the room.
The taint of Shadar Logoth. The madness of a male channeler. The strength of the Old Blood. The might of the Dragon’s destiny.
Light forgive them, indeed.