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Chapter Text

Beneath the shadow the hunt begins,

Three hunters, three killers, three lost souls

For love and sorrow and lust they ride

To slay the fox, and turn the tide

The sword awaits the worthy hand, the raven shall break the faithless land

Sing of blood, sing of storm

The end begins where the waves are shorn

Only the oath among the mist sworn

Can bring salvation, and sound the Horn 

- From the Journal of Ineria Malathan, sometimes called Ineria the Wilder, or Ineria the Seer, believed written prior to the fall of Morenia, circa 800 FY, The 3rd Age

         She was surrounded by darkness. Absolute, complete, stretching for eternity, soundless, lightless, lifeless. An eternal choking nothingness.

         Mierin.

         A voice. A familiar voice, echoing through the ages. The darkness, the void trembled.

         Daughter of the Night.

         Lanfear.

         The darkness cracked, and consciousness began to return. She knew that name. Slowly, ever so infinitely slowly, it began to abate.

         Waken.

         The darkness did not go all at once. Instead it crept back as if glow bulbs all around her were having their illumination raised, one iota at a time. Centuries might have passed between each slight recession of the void, or maybe even whole ages, but bit by bit it did recede.

         Sensation came back to her fingertips first, then her toes. She twiched them the moment she had the strength to do so, flexing muscles long disused, desperate for motion, desperate to drive the last of the darkness back with the only action that was available to her. Hearing returned next: the roar of raging wind in the distance, the heavy almost cracking bubble of molten rock. Control over her jaw followed, and with it came taste, she forced her lips apart and let out a spluttering cough as her lungs filled, a now unfamiliar and strange sensation of air flowing in and out again. She felt dust pass her lips as she did, chalky and rough, her own dead skin from her centuries of sleep, calcified long since. Yet on her inhale…she could smell the rank sulfur of this place, this oh so familiar place, once more: the steam and the gas from centuries of churning molten rock, the ash that hung heavy in the air at the edge of the lake of fire, that petty scared men had named the Pit of Doom. 

         Sight came last, the image of a faint scarlet glow beyond her shut eyelids. Pain returned as well with sight, and it hurt to blink, she felt the scattering of chalky dust fall from her lashes and lids, scattering down her cheeks in a mockery of tears. She lay, her back against the wall of the grand cavern, not ten yards from the shore of the lake of fire. All along that shore, other bodies lay like hers, so covered in dust and ash, calcified by age, that you might mistake them for statues or carvings. A beautiful buxom woman lay across an outcropping rock as if it were a fainting couch, her hair falling down across a slumbering face. Another figure seemed to claw along the ground, his own sleeping face contorted with rage, robbing it of any hint of the beauty it might have otherwise.

         Demandred. And Graendal. She thought, inhaling and coughing out another plume of dust. Others lay scattered about as well: Sammael, down on his knees, clutching at his side where one of the Companions had struck him with a Lightning Shot, was frozen with his free hand clenched as if to punch like some kind of savage of old. He had been one of the first to be Buffered against the Source, but Sammael had always lacked the sense to know when he was beaten, or when to retreat. Messana was also against one of the walls, but she stood her arms thrown out to either side where she had been pinned by weaves of air so long ago, while Semirhage sat legs folded beneath her, in the middle of the shore, her expression and posture the picture of utter serenity, as if she were a statue carved to evoke the idea of calm under pressure.

         Those that were missing caught her attention as well. Moghedien, who she recalled crouching behind a boulder out of sight, desperately searching for a crack into which she could escape, was nowhere to be seen, nor was Ravhin or Be’lal or Asmodean- and that made her lip curl in contempt. Aginor and Balthamael, who had stood like twin pillars right at the mouth of the tunnel, were gone as well, as was Ishamael, who had lain bleeding upon the floor just beyond it.

         So they’re free. Or dead. She thought. Either way it made no difference. None of them were of true consequence, not beside the Daughter of the Night. Not beside Lanfear.       

         As her eyes cleared, Lanfear forced  herself to her feet, ignoring the screaming of her muscles, and the cloud of chalky dust that was scattered as she pulled free from the wall and used it to support herself.

         Free. Lanfear thought. Finally free. There was wonder and shock in those thoughts. She had not expected to still be alive, had been convinced that that endless dreamless sleep had been her punishment by the Great Lord of the Dark for failing, for dying to Lews Therin’s hand when his Companions had struck. But no, though excruciating, an eternity of nothingness was too….apathetic to be the displeasure of the Great Lord.

         But if she was alive….then what had happened? She remembered the wall exploding, the Companions spilling through the breach into the Pit of Doom, where the Chosen had been gathered to hear The Great Lord’s will. Lews had been as handsome as always, age having made him more dignified, more beautiful. He had held something….a disc…

         Pain. Pain flared through her memory, red and gold overtaking everything else, and then….

         Then the darkness.

         The deep dreamless sleep.

         It had been a long time since Lanfear had felt afraid, but there in that blistering heat of the Pit of Doom she shivered with her fear, and then, tossing her head and sending out a spray of dust, she crushed that same fear.

         Turning, shedding more and more dust with each step, she moved to the mouth of the tunnel and began the long climb to the surface.

         Each step sent a flare of pain through her body as muscles and tendons that had lain dormant for time unknown set to work again. Almost she reached out to the True Power, the fountain of ruination and destruction that she had discovered so long ago. The True Power could sustain and restore a body through almost anything, but to reach out to it here, where the Pattern was thinnest, where the Great Lord’s touch was heaviest, was a foolish gamble. So instead she climbed that rocky slope, feeling her feet cut on jagged rock in a numb distant sort of way, as stalactites brushed her head, their vicious points the reminder of the price of failure. As if she needed another. 

         When she emerged into the valley of Thakan’dar it was almost a surprise how much the same it was. The sprawling volcanic slope, littered with vents vomiting hissing steam, like knife wounds in the earth. Overhead the churning midnight sky with its striated colors still swirled, and down, lower the huge forge complex which lay at the foot of the mountain, where the Forgers made Myrddraal blades, still stood utterly unchanged from when she had last seen them….what? How long has it been? Decades? Maybe centuries?

         Only….the crowd of prisoners who stood outside the forges, chained to each other and rocks alike, were not dressed like anyone she had ever seen outside of a historical text. They wore rough woolens and fur cloaks, instead of polythread or biosilk, in strange and bizarre cuts, many ill fitting and hanging off starving bodies. Many were barefoot, and not from the disintegration of their shoes like Lanfear was, not with the easy unconcerned way they stood upon rough rock. Some even wore the remains of shirts of metal chain links, or steel bracers- ones lacking the slightly chrome glow of being power-wrought.

         “Only fifty.” A familiar voice said behind her, and Lanfear turned, to sneer at the man who was stepping out of the gateway beside the mouth of the cave. She felt nothing of course, whether it was the True Power or sadin, she would not be able to detect his weaving, but she did glimpse a red stone chamber before the silvery slash of light snapped shut.

         “Only fifty waiting to give their strength to the Great Lord of the Dark. The Myddraal are most unhappy.” Ishamael said as he moved up beside Lanfear, smiling at her.

         Ishamael had changed greatly during her long sleep. Gone was his old-fashioned black biosilk coat with lace at the throat and hands, giving him the eternal impression of being black and white. Instead he wore a cloak of….of velvet, the color of fresh blood and tied with black cord at the neck. The hood had been lowered so his dark glossy hair was fully visible, but he wore a half-moon mask of the same scarlet velvet as his cloak, with only one eye hole, a slit through which he gazed at her with that usual annoying thoughtfulness. The lower half of his jaw was recognizable to her, except for the scars that wrapped it and his neck like cracks in a boulder. Burn scars unless she missed her guess. The same covered his hands, which were almost hidden by the ends of his sleeves of black silk. Not biosilk. Primitive hand spun silk. His trousers were even simple wool, like what the prisoners wore, and his boots seemed to be….actual leather. Primitive tanned animal skin.

         She ignored the comment about the prisoners- she had no interest in captives unless they were related to something more important, which they certainly were not at present. She had less interest in Myrddraal- they could all choke for all she cared.

         “You look like you’ve walked off a cave painting, Ishamael.” Lanfear said. She was surprised at how scratchy and weak her voice sounded, if not at the pain that came with speaking.

         “Ba’alzamon.” Ishamael corrected absently, turning his gaze to her. For a moment, just a moment, that one eye hole flared with fire, hot and scarlet. The cracks on his face and hands began to glow as if they too were about to produce flames, and  embers slipped past his lips as he smiled.

         Lanfear felt her breath catch. She had seen this before, but rarely, among those few of the Chosen who had wielded the True Power recklessly, for too long. It began with the black flecks, the saa, floating across your eyes…and ended with flesh twisted by the Great Lord’s touch as surely as the Blight was twisted, until you were no longer truly human, no longer truly alive. She had known Ishmael indulged in the True Power more than the rest of the surviving Chosen, but she had thought him more prudent than this.

         She let none of that shock show however, instead forcing a smile to her lips, and speaking around puffs of dust. “Heart of the Dark? Are you a Myddraal now?” It sounded like one of the Fade's wretched names, always in the Trolloc tongue, and always with some haunting meaning.

         “I am what I am, Lanfear.” Ishamael responded, though the fire subsided. She did not think he had let go of the True Power, however. “Three thousand years have not shifted that, though they have shifted all else.”

         For the first time since she had opened the Bore, Lanfear was stunned into silence. Three thousand years? Three thousand? It was impossible. It was madness it was…

         “Lews Therin.” She exhaled the name, feeling that familiar contradiction she always did when she spoke it. Anger and affection and bitterness and regret. “Lews Therin Telamon. He-“

         “Sealed the Great Lord’s prison.” Ishamael said calmly. “I was caught on the edge of the patch, half way into the waking world, half way….” He shrugged. “Well, you know better than I do.”

         Again Lanfear shivered despite the heat. Yes, she knew.

         “He is gone then?” Another stab, this time of sadness. There had been times she wanted to strip away Lews’s soul from his body in strips, times she had wanted to give him to Semirhage to make suffer. Yet even in the depths of her anger she had wanted him to live. She did love him after all.

         Ishamael nodded, then oddly seemed to hesitate. “He was gone. He has returned. The Dragon has been reborn, twenty years ago now, and soon the Last Battle will be upon us. The true Last Battle this time. That is why you are waking, one by one. Your Master needs your service once again.”

         Lanfear started. Lews Therin was…reborn? That presented…interesting possibilities. Lews Therin, untouched once more, unsoiled and uncorrupted by that golden haired chit Ilyena. Lews Therin malleable and vulnerable again, able to be shaped, rid of his more…irritating habits and proclivities. Yes. Interesting possibilities indeed.

         Except…

         “Why are you here, Ishamael?” Again the cracks and his one visible eye flared with flame, his smile turning to a sneer and smoke slipping between his teeth. “Ba’alzamon, then,” she said, exasperated. Some allowances should be made for three thousand years, she supposed, and Ishamael had never been the most sane to begin with. But only some. “Why are you telling me this? What gain do you foresee in it for yourself?”

         For a moment Ishamael was quiet, and then he sat, lowering himself onto one of the rock outcroppings that were scattered about the entrance to the Pit. When he did he touched one hand to his chest as if in pain. “No gain to me, Lanfear. But gain to The Great Lord. And to you, if you desire it.” His smile was small and cruel. “Sometimes I wonder. How much of this all is to the design of the Great Lord? How much has he had in motion even beyond the sight of his Chosen? Yet there are some things, some twists in the Pattern that even he can not predict or foresee. Yet that is to our good. The unlikely turn snares the thread of fate, tangles the weave of destiny, and may yet tear apart the fabric of all that is, so we might have freedom at last. The pattern of fate twists, and then you are freed next. It can not be a coincidence.”

         Lanfear felt herself sneer. More mad ramblings, but then had she expected anything different from Ishamael?

         “What do you-“

         “He has another already.” Ishamael said, cutting across her. “Lews Therin. Another has claimed his heart.”

         Lanfear felt her fist clench, brittle fingernails digging into skin so dry and thin that it began to bleed the instant they pressed into flesh.

         “Another?” She felt herself hiss. Bloody faithless dog of a man- no doubt it was the first pretty wretch to smile at him. He always was too eager to please others, and to be pleasing. Well, whoever she was, she would be nothing more than a temporary caretaker. A keeper. Lews Therin belonged to her and her alone, and once she found him, she would make sure there was no room in his silly little heart for anyone else.

         Or she would tear it from his chest.

         “Another.” Ishamael repeated. “A dangerous other, with the power of an ancient terrible enemy.” Oddly he reached out, adjusting his half-moon mask on the side which lacked an eyehole. “And yet, that bond creates a vulnerability and provides a hook that might be exploited. You and I together can yet turn the Dragon to the Shadow, and ensure the Great Lord’s victory.”

         “You and I?” Lanfear repeated, snidely. “No thank you. There is only one man I would be willing to share power with and you are not him.”

         “Do you forsake your oaths once more Lanfear?” Ishamael asked in a quite dangerous voice. “You swore to serve The Shadow, and those oaths are not so easily cast aside as your oaths to the Light.”

         Lanfear tossed her head. It still hurt to speak, to move, but less than it had before, less dust clung to her, less fell with each movement. She could almost see the skin of her hands again, and faint black was visible in the strands of her hair that fell before her face.

         “I serve as well and faithfully as any, as faithfully as you.” For that promise, made in the Collam Dann all those decades- no, all those eons ago, she did. For the promise of power and her lover back, and revenge against those who had sought to deny her both. “But I work alone. I have heard no command from the Great Lord to give you my aid, and I will not without it.”

         Again that long quiet, the one that came when Ishamael was carefully considering moves in Sha’rah.

         “…It is a man this time.” Ishamael said finally. “A man named Mat Cauthon.”

         Lanfear stared at him, uncomprehending and then it clicked into place. “…So?” Lanfear responded by crossing her arms. “Is that supposed to be a revelation?” That Lews had had a taste for both men and women she had known of course, not that it had mattered much, and men had thrown their hearts and loyalty to his feet as often as women had. Only one serious male rival had ever existed for his affections, and Joar had always been too much of a coward, too afraid of rejection to ever act upon his feelings. Only one, man or woman, had ever succeeded in coming between her and Lews Therin.

         “You do not understand.” Ishamael continued patiently. Much too patiently. “Cauthon’s grip on the Dragon will not be so easily shaken, and as much as I want to kill the wretched little cretin,” His face broke into a snarl at that and again the cracks on his skin blazed. ``-that is easier said than done. He can not channel, but he has access to something more dangerous. An older ancient power. One thought extinguished in an Age long gone.If you lash out blindly, it may be you that dies, Lanfear, and even if it is not….you may put Lews Therin forever beyond your reach in killing his current lover.”

         “Why?” Lanfear demanded. This did not sound like Ishamael’s usual mad ramblings. There was…fear in his voice. The lightest shade of fear, but even that was shocking. They were Chosen, they had never feared anything, not even death.

         “They are connected with the Power. Bound by it.” His grimace became a smile, and the fire faded away. “…Much has changed in the world, Lanfear. Much more than you realize. I can help you regain Lews Therin again- but we must work together. If we do that, victory is assured.”

         Lanfear despised working with anyone, maybe Ishamael most of all. They two where strongest of the Chosen, had always held the most sway, the most power with the forces of the Shadow and the others. Yet…

         She glanced at the crowd of prisoners again. The crowd had grown smaller, men and women dragged into the forge to give their strength to the Great Lord.

         They are connected with the Power. Bound by it.

         The world had changed. Three thousand years of change.

         “….Together.” She agreed at last, and extended her hand. “Together we will destroy this…Mat Cauthon, and bring Lews to the Great Lord.”

         “Together.” Ishamael agreed with a cold smile.

         And then, Lanfear thought, you shall kneel to us.

<X>

         Adan was careful to keep the Aes Sedai in sight as he moved through the streets of Jakanda, while staying far enough back that no one could reasonably suspect that was his aim. The swirl of the crowd hid him for the most part, as the mix of merchants and laborers, hawkers and farmers in from the country to sell the first crop of new spring all made a tight throng around him. 

         His hands itched to pull his hood a little forward, just a touch to hide his face, but he knew better. Here in the Borderlands it would mark him out at the least, and more likely end with him receiving a stern lecture from a guard, if not cooling his heels in a cell. Here no Fade was allowed to sneak in among the populace of any town with the aid of well shaded cowl, and Jakanda was no exception to the law even if its place as a trade town on the border of Arafel and Shinear meant it hadn’t seen a proper Trolloc raid in generations.

         This was far from Adan’s first time hunting in the Borderlands: they were rich with the prey he sought, and he had been at this too long to make such a simple mistake. But still his hands itched. Caution was a part of him, had been since he had begun his mission nearly twenty years ago. Too many people could see his face, and could possibly point him out if someone came asking questions. They would have no reason to but still. Caution. He would leave the Borderlands for a time after this, maybe go south to Andor or Cairhien. The lands heavily beneath the White Tower’s influence were almost as rich in prey as the Borderlands, and there was always a circle or two of Friends in the larger cities who could benefit from a small culling in the population of Aes Sedai.

         Pretending to lift up a necklace to inspect against the sunlight, Adan checked the progress of the sun. At least a quarter of an hour since Aes Sedai had left the tavern. Not long now. He had picked up the location largely by accident: spotting the red ribbon tied three times around the branch of a fruit tree that indicated a Red Ajah agent had happened while he was searching out contacts among the Friends after arriving in Jakkanna. Going to the tavern each day while he waited for news or a request for his skills had seemed a decent way to pass time, just on the off chance a Red Sister passed through Jakanda on her way either west into Arafel or east into Shienar. A chance that had paid off. Oh the woman lacked the agelessness yet, still too young and too new to have developed it, and she was not wearing her Great Serpent ring. But Adan knew the proud walk, the air of serenity all too well, and combined with the fact that she had sat alone at a table, ordered a spiced wine from a vineyard that did not exist, and spoken in low voices with the tavern keeper for a solid ten minutes before departing without paying, made him certain.

         Setting the necklace back down, Adan turned and continued to move along the various stalls, always keeping the woman in the corner of his eye. She would be returning to her inn- she was too fresh and well washed to simply be passing through or newly arrived- but Aes Sedai never took lodging near one of their spies if they could help it. Too much risk, they thought, which was ironic considering.

         The first stumble came five minutes later, as Adan was pretending to inspect a stack of carrots. The second a minute after that, and there after the woman swayed unsteadily on her feet. A few guards moved as if to help her, but she waved them away, as Adan knew she would, and instead stumbled again as she disappeared down an alley mouth.

         The dignity of Aes Sedai would not suffer to accept the help of common guards- the second fatal mistake the woman had made. The first had been accepting a cup of wine from a smiling man in with a tray, under the assumption that he was simply an ignorant dupe who didn’t realize that ‘a gentle Amalc vintage’ was code. Slipping into the kitchen and retrieving a random wine goblet and tray had been easy given how busy the tavern had been and how unbalanced the owner had been with one of her legendary mistresses actually in her establishment. Slipping a few sprigs of Spidersbreath into the goblet unseen had been even easier, with his quick and well practiced hands.

         Waiting a slow count of five, Adan lowered the carrot and moved down the street, before turning causally down the same alley into which the Aes Sedai had gone. She stood, ten paces down, leaning against a wall, rubbing at her forehead. Spidersbreath, a Reader had told him once, would kill pain but too much made you queasy and made the world swim and float. It was tasteless however, and like most things made more potent by alcohol.

         The Aes Sedai was not a tall woman, but rather stalky and dark haired, with a severe look on her face, like most Reds. Adan waited as she approached, slowly crossing the first two fingers on either hand, and then pressing them together and holding them forward, clear as day. A sign- the woman’s chance to identify herself, and the last opportunity she would have to survive. If she gave the proper sign in response (thumbs forced between her first and second fingers held down at her sides) then they would laugh then he would walk away without question. It would gall, but he would do it.

         The woman didn't, however, instead frowning in confusion at his fingers, and then narrowing her eyes on his face. Recognition flicked in those eyes and Adan didn’t hesitate. Reaching into his pocket he produced a metal ball, three pounds of weight and tossed it through the air in the same moment the woman straightened, no doubt embracing The Source. Serenity was fractured by confusion and the ball froze half way in its arc to her and in so doing sealed her fate. With her flows wrapped around the weight and her head still swimming she had no chance of producing a second weave to stop the dagger that Adan flicked from his sleeve.

         The thunk as it embedded itself point first in the Aes Sedai’s eye was deeply satisfying. The metal weight dropped to the ground, cracking the pavement beneath with a dull slap as the woman crumpled into a lifeless heap.

         Inhaling sharply, Adan moved forward, picking the metal weight up and depositing it back in his pocket, then knelt beside the woman so he could pull his knife free from her eye socket, wiping it clean on the shoulder of her dress before returning it to his sleeve. He then fished out a golden sunburst clasp from his satchel and dropped it on the ground beside her- where it might have been pulled free in a desperate scratch or grab at a cloak. After a moment of thought he stepped on it as well, grinding into the dirt slightly, to where it would be easily missed on a hasty inspection, but certainly would be found by the guards when they examined the scene.

         Adan always carried a few items of the Children of the Light on him. They made convenient scapegoats, especially given that they might even claim credit themselves- if one happened to be in Jakanda when the guards began searching at any rate. Of course, given Arafel was one of the lands that had no problem hanging Children of the Light for murder, he might not be able to count on their pride and hatred that far this time.

         For a moment Adan just stared at the woman’s face, fixing it in his mind, her cap of dark curls, the slight twist of her shocked mouth. All of it. Cairhien he thought, or maybe an eastern Andoran with that hair. He would have to remember that since he did not have a name.

         Rising Adan stepped over the corpse and keeping his casual pace continued down the alley until he emerged on the other side and blended back into the crowd of the busy street.

         It was time to be gone. How long until the body was discovered would depend on luck, but at the most he had until night fell to be on his way to Fal Eisen. They would bar the gates when that happened, and while he could slip past any provincial town guards, better if the need was avoided altogether. Caution had been his rule for two decades, and made him a master of his craft.

         No one noticed him when he entered  the inn where had taken rooms for the last two weeks, beyond a glance and a grimace. Like anyone that spent any measure of time around him, they believed him to be a quiet reserved man with a somewhat sad temperament. Which was the truth Adan had to admit, if only part of it. That sadness made an effective buffer against those who wished to intrude on his life, and more it would mean that the only thing that would remark on his departure would be relief.

         He kept from seeming to rush as he climbed the stairs at the back of the inn and moved towards his room. Casual, in no hurry, not worth paying attention to. He would pack, settle his bill, and be beyond the east gate within another quarter-

         The door was not fully open before he knew something was wrong, but even as he began pulling a dagger from his sleeve in the same motion that finished opening his door, he felt the air harden around his limbs, turning to jelly. Flows of the Power binding him more tightly then any rope could.

         The woman who sat on his bed, wrapped in a dark blue cloak, her raised hood not hiding the ageless look of her face, should have been surprising, even horrifying. But she wasn’t. And neither was the fact that his strong box lay open on the bed beside her, or his journal was held in her dainty hands.

         Oddly, for the first time in a long time he felt a sense of peace. Twenty years since he had begun his one man war against the White Tower and he had always known it would end this way eventually. He felt neither shame, nor terror, nor regret. Only pride in what he had done, and a touch of frustration that he had not managed more before the ending.

         His head was still loose- only his lower body encased in the weave of air- so he felt no harm in asking the obvious question. “What gave me away?”

         The woman glanced up at him, her gaze cool and calculating, then returned her focus to his journal without answering. Instead she turned a page and shook her head, her expression odd.

         “Do you realize what a treasure this would be in the White Tower?” The woman demanded tapping a finger against the page. “How many of my Sisters would kill to attain it, without question or remorse?”

         Adan did know that as it happened. That journal held all the information he had gained over his long crusade. The weaknesses of both various Ajahs as well as individual sisters. Names of Tower agents he had uncovered, and the signs they used to communicate messages, the names of their various contacts, and even a rough sketch of the flow of that information across the world to the Tower. There were also his general notes about the One Power, its limitations and its strengths, the strategies that were effective for working around it, or else disabling the ability in his targets.

         And of course there was the list. That was what the woman was looking at, based on the page she was open to at least.

         “Thirty-two.'' The Aes Sedai said. “Thirty two in twenty years. An impressive number, more I think than all the Whitecloaks put together have managed.”

         “Thirty three.” Adan corrected absently. The list was his greatest treasure. Only fools kept trophies, which shone like beacons to pick you out. But he had his list: thirty two names and associated Ajahs, descriptions where names were not known. The only record of his life’s work. His legacy.

         “That would be Deiala, correct?” The woman asked, a touch curious. “Deiala Algona. Dark haired, stalky, looks as if she swallows thorns for breakfast?” Adan frowned and nodded slowly, then blinked in surprise as she produced a pen from her pocket and with a quick flourish added the name to his list. There was a dark humor in that, he supposed.

         “Evidence for my trial?” He asked, surprised again that not only did he feel steady, but that his voice showed no cracks of fear either. “Assuming I have one.” He smiled then, not in a friendly way. In a way that showed his teeth. “Will I be carried to Tar Valon like a prize? Or found with a slit throat by the innkeeper?”

         The Aes Sedai didn’t respond, instead reaching into her pocket and drawing out a coin which she held to him. To most it would just be a Tar Valon mark, worn slightly from time. To him, the tiny mark across the eye of the Amyrlin Seat, like someone had carelessly scratched it with the edge of a knife, announced the truth of who this woman was clear as day.

         “…I gave- Deiala was it? I gave Deiala the chance to identify herself.” Adan responded coolly. “She did not do so. Her death is her own fault.” It was a sound and logical argument, and one that he knew would utterly fail to persuade the woman not to kill him.

         The Black Ajah was not known for being reasonable. They had all the arrogance and pride of the Aes Sedai coupled with an even more fierce desire to exert control, the more because their oaths bound them to serve any Friend of the Dark who stood above them, be it a beggar or a king. Hard to maintain the vaunted dignity of Aes Sedai when groveling at the feet of filthy vagabonds. Adan had been lucky enough to see that happen once, in Ebou Dar, and it was one of his favorite memories.

         “I am not here about Deiala.” Aes Sedai responded calmly, closing Adan’s journal and setting it aside. “I have been given a task by the Great Lord himself and I require….aid to carry it out.”

         Adan frowned. He hated all Aes Sedai, down to the marrow of his bones, but his crusade had demanded compromise. To continue his mission he had swallowed back his hate and his bile when necessary, and the Black Ajah always had a few meddlesome Sisters that they needed removed quietly and discreetly. Yet there were channels that any Friend could use to reach him if the need arose. Why all this- the theatrics, the attempt to put fear of execution into him, the binding him with Air- if she was just going to ask him to do something had done thirty three times before?

         Still, if her orders came from the Dark One himself, then disobedience was suicide. “Tell me a name.” Adan said calmly. “And I will end whichever of your…disbelieving Sisters requires it.”

         For a moment the woman hesitated, and Adan felt a cold feeling on the back of his neck. For the first time in a long time, uncertainty.

         “It is not one of my Sisters that must die. It is a man.” She said finally.

         Adan’s laugh was cruel and bitter. Of course. Of course it would be this. Uncertainty vanished back into peace and contentment, the hope that he would continue his war dying as quickly as it had been born. Still it brought him no pain, or fear. He had made his accommodation with this fate long ago.

        The Aes Sedai’s mouth thinned angrily at the laughter. All Aes Sedai hated being laughed at. “I have been to Shayol Ghul, boy.” She snapped. “I have made the long trek to the shore beside the lack of fire. I have spoken with the Great Lord himself. You know the price of defiance and still-“

         “Do you know why I am called the Scarlet Groom?” Adan asked, cutting across her. That was the name used among the Friends. The names of men were doffed and donned like coats, at need or whim. But men and women who had never heard of Adan al’Savin, knew of the Scarlet Groom.

         The Aes Sedai surprised him. “…I have heard the tale.” She responded, staring off into the distance. “You were freshly wed- two months gone.”

         Adan felt his eyes slide shut. Yes. It had been two months after he and Micha had been wed, passing through the wicker arches which their families had woven through with frothy white flowers, while speaking their vows and promises. It had been bliss. For two months they had worked their tiny farm, really just an overgrown cottage attached to a field of wheat and a herd of goats. Two months of curling up beneath their ragged blankets, leaving the stove door open to heat them through the winter nights. Two months of sitting on the porch in the fading twilight, shaping handles for tools from branches, while Micha leaned against his knee, reading a book. Two months of pure joy, and simple contentment.

         And then the Red Ajah had come.

         “It was three Sisters.” The Aes Sedai continued calmly. “That came to Mistal Wood. Three Red Sisters.”

         Adan had not known that at the time, being ignorant of the signs, the warnings in the questions they had asked. They had given no names, worn their hoods the entire time of their brief two day stay in Mistal. He had seen them himself only twice, and that at a distance, before the end. Most of what he had learned had come third-hand from village gossip, but that should have been enough. He had just not known enough.

         “They came for your husband.” The Aes Sedai continued, and Adan felt his eyes twitch, old tears threatening to well up anew. “They led a mob to your home.”

         He still saw it every night in his dreams. The sky was golden with the falling sun. The three women, hooded specters at the head of a small crowd of his so-called neighbors and friends.  They had surged forward, full of hatred and fear and anger, and had dragged him and Micha from their home. He could still feel their hands digging into his arms, his waist as they pulled him away from Micha, hissing that it was for his own good, that he was bewitched, that he needed to be freed.

         Adan could remember the way his throat felt, raw and angry, as he screamed out his lungs while Micha was pulled partly by his arms, partly by his hair to kneel before the three Sisters.

         Micha al'Savin, you have sought to pervert the natural order of the world, to touch that which is forbidden men for the pride and the wickedness of men, for the sin of the Dragon, for the safety of the world. For this we bind you.

         Micha’s limbs had bent almost backwards, his arms snapping out behind him, his back bending double to force his forehead to the ground.

         Adan had tried to beg, to plead, but they had stuffed something in his mouth to choke his words. The sister in the lead had paid it no mind as the condementation rolled from her with a cold kind of glee, hateful ritual phrases that one by one had sealed Micha’s doom.

          Adan would never forget the scream that had torn from his husband’s throat when the Red sister had extended her hand. Nothing visible had happened, but that scream of agony had seemed to hold all of Micha’s soul. 

         “They Gentled him.” The Aes Seadi said. “And left him to the mercy of his community.”

         Mercy. What a funny word. The Sisters had turned and left with their work done, and the mob had closed in. Adan had thrashed with all his strength, trying his damndest to break free, but they had held him down on the ground, five of the people he had grown up with, that he had hunted in the woods with, that he had danced with at Bel Tine every year. His cheek pressed against the dirt meant that he could not take his eyes from Micha as the others dragged him to the nearest tree. Mistal Wood had not had a hanging in years, and so it had been a messy noose that had been wrapped around Micha’s neck, one that failed to do more than choke him as he was strung up on a sturdy tree branch.

         So the townsfolk had seized up tools. Someone had started a fire at some point, and metal ends were forced into it, till they burned with a golden white glow. 

         Micha’s sobs of pain were cut by the rope around his neck, but the tears had not stopped flowing until the end. They had continued for quite a while though, stabbing burning pitchforks and wheat scythes into his torn body long after Micha had stopped twitching.

         It felt like hours he was held there on the ground, watching his husband die. But in reality it couldn’t have been more than half of one, before the hands left his body, and the mob departed after the sisters to celebrate their grisly triumph over the monster in their midst. For hours Adan had laid there in the dirt, crying, staring up at Micha’s body, unable to find the strength to rise. The sunset had died, and the moon had risen, before Adan had finally managed to rise and cut Micha down.

         The first thing Adan had done was bury his husband in the tiny glade where they had first kissed, surrounded by sunburst and morning glory.                

         The second had been swearing his soul to the Dark One.

         “You joined our Master to seek your revenge.'' The Aes Sedai said, drawing Adan out of his memory. He forced his eyes open to stare at her, ignoring the tears that were trickling down his face. He had no shame for them. He welcomed the pain, the reminder of why he fought and killed. It was still as sharp today, almost twenty years later, as it had been that first night. “When you proved unable to channel yourself, you choose this instead.” She reached out to touch the throwing knife, still held by the tips of his fingers. “And have carried out your….hunt ever since. Though I must question the effectiveness of your methods.” She stood and walked over to him, looking him right in the eyes. She was shorter than he was, but not by much. “Afterall, you can hardly kill all Aes Sedai.”

         Adan made himself smile, feeling his hot tears shift their path down his cheeks. “I am under no such delusions. Even if The Dark One made good on his promise of immortality-“ Which Adan did not think he ever would, and that was just fine with him. He had no desire to live forever in a world without Micha. “I could not kill you all, not just because some of you serve the Shadow, but because it is too much work for one man. No. I know what I am: a worm gnawing away at the roots of an oak. I will not see it topple with my own two eyes, but I am weakening it, bit by painstaking bit. Splinter by splinter. Each dead Aes Sedai weakens the Tower a little bit more, punctures the myth of your supposed invulnerability, your otherworldly mystery a tiny bit more. More it weakens your numbers, thins the power you can safely exert, and spreads fear like a rot. No, I will not see the White Tower topple, but with luck I can make it weak enough that some day, when the blow comes, be it the Dragon or the Dark One or the Children of the Light, it will shatter.” He exhaled, feeling himself shake in his invisible bonds. It was not much, but it was all he could do. “Either way, I don’t aid in the killing of men. Not ever.”

         “Defiance to those set above you is about as wise as cutting your own throat.” The Aes Sedai reminded him, though her heart wasn't in the words as they had been earlier.

         Adan would have shrugged if he could move beneath his neck. “That is only an effective threat if I fear death. I don’t. I have been dead for two decades. All stopping my heart will do is catch my body up to the rest of me.” He forced his gaze to hers, held her eyes, to ensure she knew it was no bluff. He had needed to explain this before, when his superiors had tested his convictions, had demanded he kill a male Wilder who had been causing some measure of trouble in Haddan Murk. He had simply walked away, and his superiors had learned to their cost that then at least, the Shadow had valued his skills over theirs. It would not be that way this time of course, but then Adan had been ready to die from the moment the air had hardened around him. “You can kill me or you can let me go. I don’t care. But there is nothing that will make me kill a man.”

         The Aes Sedai stared back into his eyes and then smiled. “Not even.” She whispered. “The names of the three Sisters who killed your husband?”

         Adan felt his entire world shudder on its foundations, felt the pillars of his reality crack. No- it was not possible.

         “You are lying,” he snarled, spit flying from lips. “You have no way of knowing. The Tower buried the execution of my husband, of all the men they gentled outside of the Tower, and they buried it deep. It is impossible.” He had tried. Light, he had tried: to find those names. But it could not be done. Rather than admit their wrong doing to the world the Tower had closed ranks, hidden the culprits away in the mass of their Sisters, and expunged any record of their crimes. Witnesses had vanished, or sworn on their souls that they had not seen what they had, driven either by bribery or blackmail. Those three names, as much as he wanted them, were forever beyond his reach. He had accepted that long ago.

         Except…

         “The Tower has no secrets from the Black Ajah.” The woman said calmly, oh so pleased with herself. “It is true I could be lying. But can you take that chance?”

         The air around him suddenly turned soft again, and Adan’s foot landed on the floor at last. The Aes Sedai moved past him, closing the door with a soft thud. He could easily have killed her in that moment- the opening was perfect to plant his knife in the back of her neck, severing her spine’s connection with her body. But he could have easily done that as fly.

         She was right. She could be lying- the Black Ajah was sealed to different Oaths then the rest of the Aes Sedai. But she might not be. He had chosen this path, this revenge, because it was the only way to strike back at those who had taken everything from him. He didn’t care, not really, if the Dark One triumphed over the Dragon. He just wanted to make the Aes Sedai pay for what had happened, to make them feel the bite of his sorrow, his grief, his rage. The Dark One had been the most convenient path to that.

         But the three women who had done it themselves, who had torn Micha from him, torn everything from him…He saw them in every sister he killed, regardless of Ajah. For the women themselves, for the sure knowledge that Micha’s killers would not escape consequence for what had been done to him…

         Adan slipped his knife back up his sleeve.

         The Aes Sedai passed him again walking back towards the bed, where she retrieved something that had lain on the floor at her feet: a bundle of paper. “A good choice. But you will forgive me, given your reputation, if I require….additional assurances. We will have to work together, you and I, and trust each other, if we are to prevail, and the only one way I can trust you, is if my death will ensure yours.”

         Curious, Adan unraveled the cord of the package….to reveal a cloak. A cloak that seemed brown at first, then white like the walls of his room as he shook it out, and then blue like the blankets of his bed when he held it up.

         A Warder’s cloak.

         Adan felt the sudden urge to laugh at the absurdity of it and yet…for Micha, for justice for his murder…he would do far worse then allow himself to be bound.

         Kneeling, Adan allowed the woman to press her finger tips to his forehead. He felt the flash of warmth and cold, like his entire body was suddenly being heated, like bones had turned to burning coal, and when it faded he was….aware of the woman somehow, in a way like he was aware of himself.

         “…So. Who are we killing?” It would have to be someone important, for all this trouble. And someone strong in the Power, if she felt the need to recruit him. There was no reason beyond his principles that his skills could not be adapted to suit saidin as well as saidar. It was easier to think of it that way.

         “Someone who has grievously wounded one of the Chosen.'' Aes Sedai explained as she straightened. “Someone with access to power far beyond that of simple channeling.” Adan felt his eyebrows raise at that. A power other than The Power? It was preposterous. “Someone that must be silenced before it is too late.” Her eyes narrowed on him. “Mat Cauthon and anyone that stands between us and him.”

         Adan felt a flash of regret for this Mat Cauthon, but he crushed it ruthlessly. In twenty years, Adan had never failed on a hunt. Afterall, failure would surely mean death. No one was better than he was at killing those with Power, be it saidin, saidar, or something else.

         Mat Cauthon was a dead man walking.

<X>

         Alone, in the dark of his cell, Mordeth felt Padan Fain flee to the recesses of their shared mind, while Mordeth himself took roost at the prominence. Almost the pathetic peddler was overcome, almost his brief snatches at control were at an end. Soon. Soon.

         Popping the neck of his new body- he was not used to its unique quirks quite yet, and his movements were still clumsy and imprecise for the most part- Mordeth inhaled the must of his cell and poked at the corner of his mind that belonged to the three boys. He could feel them, but Matrim most sharply of all. Most clearly. A part of him wondered- would he be as fixed on the boy if he had simply succumbed to Mordeth’s power as he was supposed to? No. He knew himself well enough to understand that it was the challenge, the spice of his resistance, his strength, that Mordeth found….attractive. Always it was the most iron will that gave the most pleasure in bending, the hardiest spirit that was the most pleasing to shatter. He wanted to break Matrim free of the chains of his wilder master, and wanted to make him acknowledge the truth he was denying. That pathetic bond may have shielded him for a time, but it would only make his final submission all the more delicious.

         He wondered when the time came: would he kill Rand Al’thor himself, or make Matrim do it?

         It was good that he was alone in the dark of his cell because any eye that beheld his smile in that moment would have known fear that had not been seen by this land since the fall of Aridhol.

         Staring up at the ceiling, at where his bond told him Matrim was several stories up and to the west, Mordeth popped his neck again and whispered.

         “Soon.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Ties and Bonds

        Mat could feel the wind pebbling the skin on his back even as he panted and sweated from exertion. Even now, in the flush of new spring, the Borderlands were frigid, and high up on one of the Towers of Fal Dara, they were far colder than elsewhere. He wanted to curse Lan for dragging him up here for practice, but the truth was Mat had asked for more training, so it wouldn’t be fair.

         I’ll curse bloody Rand al’Thor instead. Mat thought wryly. He’s the reason I asked.

         Stripped down to just his trousers and shirt sleeves, Mat and Lan moved in a rough circle, a blade of bundled lathes in Lan’s grip, a quarterstaff of lashed together sticks in Mat’s, rigid enough to be almost as steady as a true quarterstaff, but flexible enough that it was unlikely to do too much damage with each strike, especially with leather wrapped around each end, instead of the steel caps that would be found on a true quarterstaff. Still both the Warder- the other Warder, Mat reluctantly corrected in his mind- and Mat were dotted with bruises where one or another had scored a hit, not to mention soaked with sweat from the nearly two hours they had been at this without break. 

         All at once Lan rushed in, blade whirling through the air, two sharp slashes which Mat turned with his staff, and then a third from the opposite direction. Without thinking Mat rolled the staff’s length over his shoulders to block and kicked sharply for Lan’s now vulnerable arm. It brought more pain to Mat, however, than Lan, as it felt as if he had kicked a stone wall, and sent a shooting pain through his leg, while not staggering Lan in the least.

         They sprang apart for a breath and this time it was Mat who closed the distance, staff whirling, three sharp cracks of his own, all for Lan’s legs which the other Warder blocked in turn, blade snapping to one side, then the other in quick sharp motions. Try as Mat might- and he had tried hard- he could not quite manage to get the end of his quarterstaff behind Lan’s bundle so that he could knock it from the other’s hands, though with each attempt he did drive Lan a little further back towards the half wall which wrapped around the tower’s rim.

         Just as it seemed that Mat had cornered him at last, Lan dropped, curling into a ball and diving to thrust the point of his bundled lathe blade against Mat's ribs, just in the same moment that the end of Mat’s staff pivoted to slap against the side of his neck.

         “Draw?” Mat said, the word coming out a little raw because of his panting for breath.

         Lan grunted in acknowledgement and stood, letting his lathe blade fall point first. Swinging his staff onto his shoulders, Mat walked over to where his coat and other possessions lay. The ruby capped hilt of the dagger was just barely visible in that bundle, but Mat ignored it for now, instead picking up one of the leather water bottles that sat beside his coat. The water was warm despite the chill and tasted boiled somehow, but it still quenched the burning in his throat.

         When he had breath again, Mat spoke without turning around. “So? Your judgment, Goodman Mandragoran?”

         “I would say you're competent.” Lan said as he joined Mat, picking up his own leather water bottle. “To protect a shepherd who is lacking in much sense, at least.” The words were gruff but they did make Mat smirk. He didn’t think that Lan was capable of giving a compliment without at least a little bit of bite to it.

         Lan continued after swallowing down a mouthful of water. “You were already fair with that stick of yours.” He nodded to the quarterstaff. “But I would say you’re more than ready to face anything that might come hurtling for you and Rand.”

         “And Rand?” Mat asked gently. “I know he trains with you in the evenings.”

         Lan hesitated for a moment. The rough arrangement that the three of them had worked out: that Mat and Lan would spar in the mornings, and Rand would train with the sword in the evenings had been working well enough, though it clearly vexed Lan a great deal, as he would have rather trained them both together. But ever since….

         Mat felt his lips tingle suddenly with memory, and knew his face was flushed for a reason that had nothing to do with sparring.

         Ever since that day a few weeks ago, Rand had returned to stubbornly avoiding him. Every time Mat cornered him he devolved quickly into stuttering and excuses until he could take the first chance to flee, and Mat had not been working hard to corner him. He thought, or maybe, hoped that he had disabused Rand of the notion that he would just run off and leave Mat behind, but the rest….the rest he knew had to give Rand time to sort out. The storm of emotions that Mat could sense anytime he drew near Rand was more than enough evidence of that. Joy and fear and uncertainty and hope, all tangled together into a knot that Mat knew Rand needed time to untangle.

         Not everyone could adapt as well as Mat Cauthon, after all.

         “Well enough. He won't stab himself in the foot trying to draw his sword, if that’s what you're worried about.” Lan said, turning to regard Mat thoughtfully. “…He can probably handle any village bully boys or street toughs that come his way, assuming you don’t brain them first.” Lan paused for a moment before continuing. “…I take it the pair of you still have that fool plan then? To disappear into the wilderness instead of going to Tar Valon?”

         Mat thrust his chin into the air pointedly. They had had this discussion before, and one near exact like it with Nynaeve every few days since Mat started procuring supplies and means. He was sure that Nynaeve had put the Warder up to question him, trying to badger him into giving up. Nynaeve should have known it wouldn’t work though.

         “It’s not foolish.” Mat said stoutly, lowering himself to sit beside the bundle of his cloak, setting his training staff down on the ground beside him. “Rand can’t go to Tar Valon and I don’t want to be anywhere near a city full of Aes Sedai.”

         “Ignoring the advice of an Aes Sedai is foolish,” Lan replied calmly. “And given what you carry, it might be dangerous as well. Not just for you. For others too. For Rand.” Mat could hear the emphasis on that last, the one that no one else but the two of them, Rand, and Moiraine would understand. Really understand.

         “It’s my life.” Mat snapped. Light, he was tired of having to say that. Abruptly, he realized that his free hand had moved to touch the hilt of the dagger where it stuck out of the bundle and made himself pull it away. “I will figure something out about the dagger. If Moiraine has an objection she can tell me to my face.”

         Lan did not like that. His expression hardened into a tight coldness, but Mat had come a long way from the easily cowed village boy that Lan and Moiraine had first dragged out of the Two Rivers by his ear. In many ways he no longer viewed the other Warder as his superior at all, but rather as a peer. An older peer maybe, but not so much more than him as to command too much of Mat’s respect.

         It helped that the first time Lan had accepted his suggestion they spar, he had managed to catch the other Warder off guard with his skill at the quarterstaff and disarm him. It had not taken Lan long to adapt, and the next bout had been a draw, and the five after sound trouncings and not in Mat’s favor. But that first victory had cracked something in Lan’s aura of mystery and command, and Mat was the sort of person that once he saw a crack, he never forgot it.

         Staring at Mat over the rim of his bottle- glaring really, but it always looked like Lan was glaring at something- Lan’s mouth tightened. “You and Rand seem determined to push Moiraine’s forbearance to its limits.”

         Mat glared right back. “Moiraine’s forbearance mostly seems to amount to her ignoring us- when she happens to be in Fal Dara at all.” Mat wasn’t sure anyone had realized it besides him, but Moiraine had taken to departing Fal Dara in the month since her recovery, sometimes for days at a time. No one challenged the comings and goings of an Aes Sedai- not here- but a little careful questioning in dark corners between kisses painted a picture well enough for Mat. Servants saw everything.

         “Do you want that to change?” Lan asked, his voice very, very pointed.

         Mat grimaced. “No. Not really.” He knew he sounded petulant and he hated it. It was Rand’s fault: Mat was just echoing his frustrations. If Moiraine forgot all about the existence of Mat Cauthon he would be happy, though there was little chance of that now. Less chance for Rand, worse luck.

         Rand. A man who could channel. And Mat, the man bound to him as his Warder.

         There was still a little in awe and disbelief when Mat thought those words. Yet disbelief would do him no good. Pretending there wasn’t water in his boots wouldn’t empty them, and pretending he wasn’t bound to Rand wouldn’t make it so. Two Rivers folk accepted what was and made the best of it and whatever else he had become, Mat was still from the Two Rivers.

         Mat had tried disbelief, tried to ignore it, just like he had tried to ignore the fact that he loved Rand. Neither Bond nor love had gone away. So the only thing to do was to accept the reality and move on. He loved Rand, and he was Rand’s Warder. Those two facts added up to a very simple reality: he had to protect Rand from whatever tried to harm him, be it Aes Sedai or Trollocs or bandits. Even the Fal Darans if it came to that- which it would if the truth got out.

         Even Lan, if the need arose.

         Yes, better for him and Rand to be days gone already. It was just hard to plan an escape with someone who wouldn’t sit still. If only he could make Rand talk to him somehow.

         “You can’t force your bonded to divulge their secrets to you.” Lan said and Mat gave a start, having not realized that he had spoken the last aloud. Lan’s anger had faded away into something closer to commiseration. He knew the score as well as Mat did, and in some ways maybe understood it better.

         “I know that. But how I am supposed to protect him when he’s….” Mat gestured in a way he hoped encompassed the enormity of how stubborn and unreasonable Rand al’Thor could be. Ever since beginning a relationship with a man, Mat had discovered nothing but sympathy for the women he had always dismissed for their endless complaints about how hard it was to make a man see sense, or even what was plain in front of his face.

         Lan surprised Mat by sitting as well, resting his own training blade beside him on the stone. “….That is the burden of being a Warder.” Lan said, his voice quiet. “It is a frustrating, sometimes thankless job. To give your life to another, to walk the road beside them. But we do it anyways.”

         A frustrating, thankless job, Mat thought bitterly. A punishment from fate more like. And yet….and yet he would do it anyways. Because he loved Rand bloody al’Thor.

         But there was no need for Lan to know that Mat agreed with him. “If you give me that Borderlander saying about mountains and feathers,” Mat said, forcing himself to his feet. “I will push you off this tower.”

         Lan’s snort was decidedly unimpressed, but he rose as well. “Come, two more matches and then we can work on your balance a bit. I wish I could convince you to take up the sword as well. Your wrists are more than quick enough for it.”

         “An honest man’s weapon is good enough for me,” Mat responded coolly, hooking his boot toe under his training staff and snapping it up, then snatching the staff out of mid air. “And besides, Rand’s got swords covered. A Warder should compliment his ward right? Compensate for his weaknesses?”

         Mat expected another snort, but instead Lan nodded in thoughtful agreement, picking up his own training weapon and beginning to move towards the center of the tower. “On three we-“

         Lan was cut off, however, by the sudden thundering of trumpets, which echoed out through the city. Frowning, Mat turned, gazing over the battlement across the plain which surrounded Fal Dara, towards the source of that noise.

         Two columns of soldiers in snow-white armor marched in the distance, marching side by side, behind a line of tumpeters and drummers, who were playing for all they were worth. For a moment Mat was filled with a stab of  dread. But no, it was no Whitecloak army. Ahead of them a rider carried a banner: a white teardrop on a swirled field of seven colors, and behind them women on horseback, surrounding a glittering palanquin. A ring surrounded that collection of women, of men on horseback, each and everyone draped in a cloak which even as it swirled around them seemed to shift color and design.

         “Aes Sedai.” Mat whispered. Many Aes Sedai, surrounded by Warders. At least a dozen, probably more.

         “Not just Aes Sedai.” Lan said moving up beside Mat on the battlement. “The Amyrlin Seat herself.”

         Mat felt his breath hiss past his teeth into his lungs. The Amyrlin Seat. The leader of all Aes Sedai, some said the leader of all the world, and certainly the most powerful woman within it. And the most dangerous.

         Mat was moving before he knew it, snatching up his coat and tossing his practice staff to Lan, who snatched it out of the air easily. “Can you put that back for me? I have to-“

         Lan just nodded in quiet understanding. “Go.” He paused. “Peace favor you, Matrim Cauthon.”

         Mat paused with his coat half way on, the sheathe for the dagger clutched in one hand. “…I hope….” Mat said slowly, but Lan forestalled him with a raised hand.

         “Go. What will be will be, farmboy. Neither of us can not change that now. Only play our parts.”

         Not the most comforting thing Mat had ever heard, but…it was the truth. Mat really really hoped he wouldn’t have to fight in the Lan in the next few hours. Both the idea of killing him, and being killed by him were very unappealing. 

         Slipping the sheath into its holster around his chest, so that the dagger would rest hidden beneath his shirt, Mat turned down the stairs and set off to find Rand.

<X>

         Mat had gotten used to the Bond in the last few weeks, or rather had learned its ins and outs as best he could. The closer he and Rand were to one another, the sharper and more clear their sense of each other: that knot of emotions in the back of Mat’s mind that was Rand became more and more distinct. On opposite sides of the keep, Mat could tell little more than Rand’s mood. A few floors apart he could sense a more clear picture and shifts in that mood, flashes of anger or frustration. Standing in the same room, even the most minute twist in Rand’s feelings was easy to tell, the tiniest annoyance or amusement registering. The same held true for physical sensation. Far apart Mat could feel the flashes of pain from Rand’s daily sparring, close together he could sense every lingering bruise and ache, not to mention the cut on his left thumb he had been ignoring since he had made it whittling two days ago.

         And then there was the sense of direction: that never changed no matter how far apart they were. Mat had ridden out from the city a few days ago and even out in the hills, with Fal Dara little more than a shape in the distance, Mat was sure that if he had spun around eyes closed, he would have stopped facing Fal Dara, and Rand, able to lift his finger and point straight at him.

         All things considered it wasn’t so bad. Oh, Mat knew it flowed the other way too- Rand had proved as much the few times Mat had been able to corner him- but if there was going to be someone living in his head it might as well be Rand al’Thor. He could have gotten a far worse bargain, with a block of stone in his skull from Perrin, or worse a constant wildfire from Nynaeve and the raging tempers she denied having. Light, if the bloody woman did become Aes Sedai her Warder would need to be made of ice to balance her out.

         All this together, meant that Mat knew exactly where Rand was and how he was doing at all times, which in moments like this was very useful. Oh, it ignored things like walls and floors and architecture, which could be a pain, but Mat had been in Fal Dara long enough to map out a straight path more or less to Rand, who at the moment was a ball of panic and fear, which grew only sharper the closer Mat got. Which was natural enough, all things given.

         Mat didn’t race for Rand- running through the halls was a good way to get remarked on, and he and Rand might soon need as little remarkability as possible- but he did stride with purpose, making an effort to keep close to the walls and out of the way of bustling servants. The trumpets were still sounding, and were soon joined by ringing bells, to alert all the city that someone was coming to Fal Dara. Servants chatted breathlessly about the Amyrlin Seat the Aes Sedai, a few even trying to stop Mat briefly to ask if he knew anything. Mat put them off gently, even the ones whom he had shared a few kisses with in a dark corner (of which he ran into four, two scullions and a maid and one of the noble’s personal manservants), and maybe seeing something in his face, they let him go without a fight. He really didn’t know more than they did either: the Amyrlin Seat was coming, and she would be here soon.

         Even as Mat made it to the north side of the keep, however, the Bond still pulled him downwards, along spiraling staircases until…

         Up ahead, the door to the library swung open and Mat froze as first a disgusted looking Perrin and then a frowning Loial appeared, striding away. Both were thunderheads, and more importantly not people Mat wanted to talk to at that moment, but without any escape there was only one thing to do. Stepping aside to stand against the wall, Mat reached into his coat to touch the hilt of the dagger and focused.

         He had gone out into the hills a few ago to test more than the Bond. The reality of his and Rand’s situation was that they were outnumbered and at pretty much every possible disadvantage, so Mat had decided to see what other advantages he could drag up. Moiraine had warned him of course, about the dagger’s dangerous influence and he believed her. But there was also something she had not warned him about: its power.

         It wasn’t like The Power, not exactly. Mat couldn't channel or sense channeling, but he had discovered that he could…do things. Tricks. Some dangerous, some bizzare, most useful.

         You don’t want to see me. Mat thought, chanting it in his head like a mantra. You're clearly upset. Just focus on that. I’m just a part of the wall, not worth noticing at all.

         At the edge of his fingertips, Mat felt the dagger heat, as if had been thrust suddenly into a forge fire, yet his fingertips did not burn. In his ears he heard a sudden sharp ringing sound, growing louder and louder the closer that Perrin and Loial got, and then as they passed him disappearing up the hall, it faded again, finally winking out when they were out of sight.

         That didn’t always happen: the ringing, and it wasn’t always the same intensity. Mat had used this trick a few times to slip into the servant’s quarters, and once to escape a conversation with Lord Ingtar about Mat becoming an officer in Fal Dara’s army, and there had been no ringing then. It was only when he used his tricks around his friends that the ringing occurred. He didn’t know if it would be there with Lan or Moiraine, and had not been inclined to test it.        

         Mat frowned after Loial and Perrin. Through the Bond he could feel Rand up ahead, likely in the very library the other two had just vacated. And yet…in his mind Rand was a mess of pain and regret. And something else…determination.

         That added up to nothing good and so, letting his hand fall, and feeling the dagger cool as he did, Mat strode forward with even greater purpose, throwing open the doors of the library as he did so.

         The library of Fal Dara was not vast as Mat had always imagined libraries in castles. Instead it was a long rectangular stone room with the same arrow slits for windows and gray stone wall as the rest of the keep. In fact the only thing that made it different from any other hall in the keep was the stacks of book shelves that made neat rows down its length, at the center of which sat a long writing desk which, as with the few times Mat had been here before, housed a withered old woman who looked as if she had personally told Artur Hawkwing to be quiet. She was glaring at Mat now, clearly displeased with having had him barge in.

         Mat ignored her, feeling himself focus in on a Rand who stood near one of the reading tables that broke up the lines of shelves. Surprise rolled through the Bond- Rand had a habit of ignoring it in moments of reflection, which had been the only way Mat had been able to manage cornering him these last few weeks- and a glowing golden feeling that made Mat feel warm inside in turn. But something overtook both, steely determination.

         Surprisingly, the librarian's look as Mat marched over and seized Rand by the shoulder was actually approving, her sniff of disdain pointed as Mat dragged Rand into the stacks and towards one of the arrow slits in the walls.

         “I just saw Perrin and Loial storming out of here.” Mat said, trying to whisper, but not really succeeding, “Looking torn between snarling and crying. Care to explain what you have to do with that? And what on earth are you wearing?”

         Rand flushed and pulled his arm out from Mat’s grip, taking a step back. His plain wool coat and good linen shirt were gone, replaced by a one of midnight black that looked freshly brushed, with golden embroidery at the cuffs, neck, and hem. Thorns, Mat thought, braided into an intricate spiral pattern. Mat could see the edges of a white silk shirt flash occasionally at the cuffs, and as well as snatches of fine wool trousers which were almost entirely hidden by the coat’s length, as it fell almost to to the tops of Rand’s knee high boots, themselves shiny and new, made of a fine black leather.

         Most oddly the whole thing was done in the Shineran fashion, with that odd asymmetrical cut in the front and sharp shoulders. If not for his hair, Rand would have looked right at home in Aglemar’s court.

          “Has Lady Amalisa finally fixed you up with one of her ladies in waiting?” Mat asked, trying to keep from snickering. “Or has Aglemar decided that since you insist you aren’t a Lord in Andor, that he might as well make you one here?”

         Rand flushed even harder at that, and the Bond flared with embarrassment. Most of Fal Dara had believed Rand to be a prince in disguise, maybe even the son of the Queen of Andor herself, due to an odd coincidence. In the Two Rivers, the name al’Thor was a fairly unremarkable one, just as common as al’Seen and al’Thame, or a dozen others. Here it was shockingly close to the naming convention of Malkier Kings, who appended an ‘al’ to their name as a mark of royalty. Such as al’Lan Mandragoran. This far north, even most nobles knew little more of Queen Morgase than that she had a legendary temper, one daughter, and two sons. Mat had met both Prince Gawyn and Prince Galad and was decidedly unimpressed with both, so he supposed he could see how the nobility of Fal Dara not being acquainted with that unimpressiveness, would take the, in Mat’s opinion, very impressive Rand for being a prince. All Rand's arguing to the contrary had only managed to degrade him to the level of Lord, and even then not all of the court was convinced. The whole thing annoyed and embarrassed Rand endlessly, which meant it amused Mat endlessly, who since he rarely managed to corner Rand alone, took every public opportunity to use his unearned title and treat him with elaborate respect and deference.

         “No,” Rand said defensively, rubbing at his arm even though Mat and Rand both knew very well that it did not hurt. “Elansu ambushed me in our room after the trumpets sounded. Moiraine ordered all our old clothes burned and replaced. I thought she was going to strip me bare on the bed, or order her maids to do it. Everything’s gone- yours too. She’ll be coming for what you’re wearing, so look out.”

         Mat felt himself shiver. Elansu, the shatayan, was in the head of servants in Fal Dara, and fierce as any warrior, not to mention death on ‘pretty young vagabonds who distracted her people from their work’. In Mat’s opinion they should have sent her to Tarwin’s Gap. She was fully capable of having her maids ambush men in the halls, especially on orders from an Aes Sedai.

         “Moiraine ordered our stuff burned?” Mat said incredulously. He had no great fondness for his traveling coat, it was true, and he wouldn’t mind a nicer one, but why on earth would she do that?

         “So we’ll be presentable when the Amyrlin summons us.” Rand said bitterly. Abruptly his face hardened and that determination spiked again. “Not that I intended to let her. I mean to find a way out, even if I have to crawl through it.”

         “I can see that.” Mat added wryly. Propped up against the table Mat had pulled Rnad away from was Rand’s unstrung bow- freshly carved black yew, twin to the one Mat also had sitting in their room a few floors above them. Beside it sat two bulging saddlebags.

         “Mat-“ Rand began but Mat cut him off.

         “Did you take the provisions out of my hiding spot yet?” Mat asked. That would be the stove under Mat's bed back in their room, where a fire could be banked to keep a bed warm through the night. “Doesn't matter I suppose, I have to head back anyways to change. I take it you had no leads with Loial then?” That would have been Rand’s reason for coming here: to see if the Ogier could lead to a secret way out of Fal Dara. The Ogier knew everything, or near enough anyways. But if Rand had found something, he wouldn’t have sent Loial out in a huff like that.

         “Mat-“ Rand tried again, and Mat again cut across him.

         “We can’t scale the walls, and I take it you’ve already tried the dog gate- so we might have to improvise.” Moiraine would have those being watched and guarded by now he was sure. “Hiding is the best answer, but the question is where?”

         “Mat!” Rand snapped, loudly enough that the wizened librarian looked up from her ledger again. Rand regulated his voice before continuing. “There is no we. I am going alone.”

         For a long moment Mat just stared Rand in the eyes, feeling his mouth compress. Determination was now stronger than any other emotion in Rand, except maybe pain underneath.

         “I thought.” Mat said calmly. He would not shout. He would not shake Rand bloody al’Thor till he saw sense, or drag him to Nynaeve to be switched. He knew from personal experience that none of that made either him or Rand more sensible or obedient. “That we had gotten past this.”

         “Have you considered-” Rand said, forcing his voice to be cold, trying to replicate the arrogance of one of the Lords at their haughtiest. “That I don’t want you clinging to my heels, slowing me down? That maybe I’ve had my fill of you dragging me into trouble, and making life miserable?”

         There was really only one response to that.

         Hooking his heel around Rand’s Mat pulled his leg forward, causing Rand to stumble, and in the same moment pushed hard against his chest.

         They went tumbling to the ground together in a tangle of limbs, scratting, grabbing and pulling at each other, each trying to get on top. But Mat had always been the better wrestler, and he had more strength now then he once had- another benefit of the Bond. It wasn’t long before he was sitting on Rand’s back, one of Rand’s ankles locked in his armpit, and a hand pressing Rand’s cheek to the stones beneath.

         Mat half expected the old librarian to come over and beat them with her cane, but instead she merely sniffed in disgust again, stood, and disappeared into the stacks.

         “Get off!” Rand snarled, trying, and failing, to jerk free. “You get off this instant or…or…” He lowered his voice again no more than a whisper. “Or I’ll channel at you.”

         “No, you won't.” Mat whispered back. “We both know you can’t do it whenever you want, and you're too scared to practice. Now, I will let you up when you give over this nonsense, and start talking reason.”

         Rand glared up at him, jerked again, and failed to break Mat’s hold.

         “I know what you're doing. I know you're trying to drive me off to protect me, trying to hurt my feelings so bad I’ll just storm away like Perrin and Loial.” Mat said tightly. “But it won’t work.”

         “You don’t understand, Mat,” Rand pleaded. “I’m dangerous. I’m not safe to be around. I…” Mat could hear his voice crack, but more, he could feel the sharp sadness, breaking through the determination, overcoming all else for just a moment before Rand shoved it down.

         “You're wrong. I do understand,” Mat replied, feeling a stab of sympathy. Light, how could one man live with that kind of pain? “Better than anyone else, and not just because I’m bonded to you, or because I’ve known you since we were both still crawling to get around.”

         “You can’t possibly-“ Rand began but Mat would not hear it.

         “Right, because what would I know about being dangerous to those around you? About carrying something, a weight so heavy, so massive, that is slowly turning you evil inside, twisting you up, changing, and never being able to be rid of it?” Mat shook his head. “I get it, Rand. I do. Only mine was worse because it was my fault.” Light, that hurt to admit, but it was true. “I took the dagger from Mordeth. I made excuses. I almost became a monster. I’m not, because of you. So if you think I am going to abandon you, or leave- think again. I am just as much of a good person as you are, Rand al’Thor. Do you think I don’t have as much of a right to do the right thing? That only you get to decide you're good enough to take a risk?”

         Rand’s mouth worked soundlessly, clearly stunned. When he finally spoke, it was barely audible. “….I don’t want you to do this because you feel like you owe me.”

         “I’m not.” Mat said simply. “I’m doing it because I love you.” He paused and then added for the sake of honesty, “And because if you're gentled it means nothing good for me. Now…have you seen reason or do I need to put you in a headlock?”

         Closing his eyes, Rand nodded grudgingly and Mat released him, then extended.

         “…I love you too.” Rand said as he stood and Mat smiled. Those words still filled him with such warmth.

         “Good, because I don’t plan on letting anything happen to you. Now- like I was saying we need a place to hide until the guard slackens enough for us to sneak out. The Amyrlin will be here soon, so we don’t have long. I have an idea, but we need to find Egwene for it to work.”

         Rand was, as always, incredulous as Mat unfolded his idea, but also as always, ready to follow along with it, no matter how insane.

         No, nothing would happen to Rand, Mat thought as he touched the dagger hidden as it was beneath his cloak. Not while Mat Cauthon drew breath. If the Amyrlin wanted Rand al’thor, she would get him over Mat’s dead body, and against the strength of a warder….and the power of Mashadar. 

         Afterall, making people ignore him was the least of the tricks he had worked out with the dagger.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: The Flames of Conflict

         Sitting at the desk within her chambers, Moiraine leaned back in her chair, gazing down at the leather journal that lay open before her. Lord Agelmar had generously provided her with his finest apartments, as befit the etiquette between a visiting Aes Sedai to a high ranking nobleman. There were only a handful finer in Fal Dara. Elsewhere she might have been asked to accommodate her newly arrived Sisters, but luckily the rules of hospitality meant that Agelmar could not, in good manners, ask her to share when she had already been a long-standing guest. While the Amyrlin would stay in the chambers normally reserved for a visiting Queen, most of the Sisters who had accompanied her would be sleeping double if not tripled throughout the Women’s Apartments, while she kept her own chambers to herself.

         A good thing. Moiraine had too many secrets to risk another Sister discovering them.

         Her eyes again fell on the journal before her. It was not a large book, small enough for her to fit one hand if the need arose, but the design on the cover, tooled into the leather itself, was eye-catching. A scaled serpent-like figure, with a lion’s mane and four curling legs which ended in sharp hooked claws. A Dragon, she suspected, seeming to ride the winds, flying among clouds. Another smaller figure was present as well, seeming to leap from cloud to cloud beside the dragon: a fox who at first glance seemed normal, and at second seemed to have three distinct tails.

         Ineria Malathain’s journal. It had not been easy to acquire, for her or the Tower. Ineria the Seer was still recorded as one of the most dire threats to the Tower’s power in its long history, a Wilder blessed with the Talent of Foretelling who had gathered crowds in Morenia to hear her speak, including the High Governer of the Stone of Tear, whom she became adviser to, displacing his Aes Sedai. Despite a lack of formal training, in either the Power or politics, she had deftly maneuvered the court of Tear to her will for years, and when Morenia had broken apart, it was she who managed to convince the Governor at the time to declare himself King.

         Some Brown Sisters said that all of today’s troubles between the Tower and Tear went back to those days, and the Tower’s failure to exert enough control over the Governor. And yet, though Morenia and Ineria both were long dust, her prophecies and foretellings remained- though disputed by some as heresy or even blasphemy. It was chance, and a touch of desperation that had led to Moiraine acquiring the book, picking it out of a mass of different supposed prophecies and foretellings about the Dragon that had all come long after the Karaethon Cycle had been codified. She had not expected to have proof of its truth and yet…

         She ran a hand down the cover, feeling the leather, preserved by the careful skill of Brown Sisters. 

         So much had happened that she had not expected, the bond between the two boys most of all. That Rand al’Thor should have a Warder. That the Warder in question should be Mat Cauthon, of all people. It was troubling, and yet Ineria’s prophecies more than implied that the key to victory now lay in that Bond. Or maybe the key to damnation. Ineria’s writings offered little more hope than the Karaethon Cycle had, and a great many dangers that Cycle did not warn of.

         Beware the shadow of the moon, for it stretches across the world again, beware the hand of scarlet for it shall rend flesh and tear asunder hearts, beware the man of mist for he carries death on his breath and at his fingertips, beware for each shall scourge the heart of fire.

         Yes, very little hope, and a great deal of danger.

         The sharp knock at her door stirried Moiraine from her reflections, and standing she returned the journal to its place inside the drawer, quickly embracing the Source and weaving a small Ward around the lock, a hidden blade of air ready to strike. Too small to be sensed before the trap sprung, hopefully taking the hand of whichever fool thought to go rummaging through her effects.

         Releasing the Source Moiraine straightened her dress and checked herself in the mirror: she had donned her best the moment she had heard whispers of convoy from Tar Valon: a dark blue dress slashed with paler sky blue in the skirt and sleeves, her vine-covered shawl which left the Flame of Tar Valon proud on her back, and or course the gemstone dangling from a golden chain upon her forehead, the chain woven into her hair. Every inch the Blue Sister, and the noblewoman. It would have to do.

         Moving to the door, Moiraine put on a minimal smile, quiet and mysterious, braced herself, then opened it.

         The two women that had been sent for her could not have been more different. Bluff faced and tall, with her long dark hair held back by a simple ribbon, Anaiya almost seemed to loom a little beside the more slender Liandrin, whose honey-gold hair hung in braids down to her shoulders, her own doll like face and pouting mouth managed to make her seem both pretty and preputally displeased

         Anaiya’s face broke into a smile the moment she saw Moiraine, a smile that gave Aniya the only beauty she would ever have, motherly and sweet. Moiraine could not recall a time, even after she had taken the shawl, when Anaiya’s smile had not made her feel comforted, warm, and safe. Taking Moiraine’s hands in hers, Anaiya kissed them. “Light shine on you Moiraine, it is good to see you again. Are you well? It has been ever so long.”

         “I am well Anaiya. My heart is lighter for your presence,” Moiraine responded. That was certainly true. It was good to know she had at least one friend among the Aes Sedai who had come to Fal Dara. “The Light shine on you.”

         Liandrin’s mouth tightened sharply, her hands jerking her shawl around her shoulders. “The Amyrlin Seat, she requires your presence, Sister.” That displeasure was in her voice as well as her face- as was typical. She made as if to stride into Moiraine’s room, then stopped seeming to glare into the air over Moiraine’s shoulder, no doubt seeing the threads of spirits Moiraine had woven her first night in these chambers. “Your rooms- they are Warded. We can not enter. Why do you Ward against your sisters, Moiraine?”

         “Against all.” Moiraine corrected smoothly, gliding out of the chambers and closing the doors behind her. “Many of the serving maids are curious about Aes Sedai and I do not want them pawing through my things when I am not here. There was no need to make a distinction until now. Shall we go? It is best not to keep the Amyrlin waiting.”

         Without waiting for Liandrin to respond, Moiraine began striding down the hallway, Anaiya by her side. The wretched child was left with no choice but to follow or be left behind, though she did even that a touch petulantly.

         Together they three swept through the halls of Fal Dara, noble women and servants alike moving to get out of their way, staring with awe at three Aes Sedai among them. All the wonder and fear they had held towards Moiraine in the beginning, and that had faded away over these last two months of her residence in the keep, had returned, renewed in force.  Even high ranking ladies of Amalissa’s entourage dropped deep curtsies of respect, some even falling to their knees until the trio passed. Moiraine did her best to pay them no mind. She had long ago learned to suppress her annoyance at the deference with which she was treated: people would do as they would, and she would accept that reality, but she would not encourage it.

         Anaiya seemed not to notice of course, save for ruffling the hair of the occasional awestruck child. Aniya always had time for children. Her focus, however, was on Moiraine. “This time, Moiraine,'' Aniya said, folding one arm into Moiraine’s, “You have been gone too long. Two years with nary a word to your Sisters! The White Tower misses you, Moiraine. Your home misses you. And you are needed in the White Tower.”

         “Some of us must work in the world.” Moiraine responded, widening her smile a touch, to take the sting out. “The Hall of the Tower I leave to you. Yet in Tar Valon you often hear more of what occurs in the world than I do. Too often I outrun what happens where I was yesterday. Tell me, will you share the news?”

         Anaiya sighed, shaking her head in quiet acceptance. “Oh very well, though I can not tell you much more than you’ve heard here, I suspect. Three false Dragons have proclaimed themselves since Logain's capture. One in Saldea, one in Tear, and another in Murandy.”

         “Three.” Liandrin spat. “Three more wretched men ravage the land, and all the while you Blues talk of nothing and try to hold onto the past.”

         Anaiya’s raised eyebrow cut Liandrin off and made her jerk her shawl again, but Moiraine barely noticed. “Three.” She murmured. She had no fear for False Dragons. “Three in the last two years and now three at once.”

         “As the others where, these shall be defeated also.” Liandrin said, tossing her head. “They and any male rabble who follow them.”

         Moiraine was almost amused by the certainty in Liandrain’s voice. Almost. She was too aware of the possibilities however, and the realities. “Have you already forgotten, Sister? Logain nearly tore Ghealdan asunder before his army, rag-tag or not, was defeated. Sisters died to bring him down. Maybe these three will not be so dangerous as that, but how much of Tear, or Murandy, or Saldea will they destroy in the meantime? How many will bleed?”

         Liandrin’s glare was not for Moiraine, she knew, it was for all men who could channel, maybe all men, yet it should have turned the stones to slag.

         “Things are not so dire as that,” Anaiya put in gently, patting Moiraine’s arm. “The fellow in Tear is already dead, and the Murandians were so afraid that Andor or Amadacia would use the pretext to invade that they had their False Dragon in chains almost as soon as he opened his mouth to proclaim himself.”

         Liandrin frowned again, though this time it was odd, almost frustrated. “No one knows what killed the Tarien one. He led his army into Haddon Murk to escape the High Lords and did not return. Scouts found his body strung up in that fetid swamp, dead without a mark on him. The Power was used, but whether by a wilder, Sister, or just the man himself being struck dead by something rebounding we do not know. I dislike not knowing.” There was special venom in that. “And the one in Saldea we can be sure can channel. One of your Blue Sisters brought us word of him.”

         Moiraine blinked and Anaiya nodded. “Adelaid brought a great deal of news from the west. Ships are disappearing off the coast without word, strangling trade between Arad Doman and Tarabon, such as it is. Maigan left to investigate it.”

         Moiraine felt her mind cast back to Ineria’s journal. Yes, that would be a piece with everything else. And nothing to be done about it until she knew more.

         They three continued on, Anaiya talking of the news of the world with occasional interjections from Liandrin. The Hunt of the Horn had been called in Illian without warning or explanation. The Sea Folk were stirring, agitated, and none of the Atha'an Miere Sisters would say more than that ‘the hour of the Coramoor approached’. Aiel had been spotted this side of the Spine, and King Galldrian, desperate to hold onto his unstable throne, was harshly suppressing the news. He had apparently written, all but begging the Amyrlin Seat to help him conceal it, and the Hall had agreed. Privately, Moiraine agreed with that, though it made her worried. The last thing the world needed now was another Aiel War.

         Pedron Naill had sent a Whitecloak army to stalk the Daughter-Heir to Tar Valon, and they were camped even now within sight of the Shining Walls- Moiraine thought that Liandrin might actually spit for a moment- but they were keeping to their camp and not harassing the city folk so it seemed unlikely anything would come of it. For now. Morgase’s throne in turn was less secure than it had been a year ago, but more secure then when Moiraine had left Andor. Riots fueled by anti-Tar Valon sentiment had erupted in the streets and the Queen’s Guard had been needed to put them down, which they had done quite effectively. For now Morgase was safe, but Elenia and Neain had been exchanging secret letters with Pedron Nail, promising nothing, suggesting everything, in hopes of gaining what they still felt was rightfully theirs and denied to them in the Succession.

         “Elaida must be quite irritated with those silly girls.” Moiraine said. Anaiya and Liandrin’s twin nods of almost identical grim amusement were confirmation enough. Moiraine could almost pity Elenia and Naein- an angry Elaida was nothing to sneeze at.

         “Elaida is not happy with you either,” Liandrian muttered. “She says that you interfered in Andoran affairs. That you spirited away two young men she believes to be ta’veren.”

         Moiraine shrugged. “I have three ta’veren with me here in Fal Dara and I spirited no one away. Circumstances merely mandated a change in location. I do not think she would have thanked us to stay.” Certainly not, when keeping it the boys in Camelyn would mean letting a Trolloc army fall on them. Whether Morgase would still hold her throne or not after that was anyone’s guess. Not that Elaida had any way of knowing that.

         Liandrain shook her head, braids clacking. If she had more to say, however, time had run out. They had arrived before the doors to the Amyrlins chambers. Aes Sedai were scattered in the anteroom of course: two Brown Sisters, each admiring a different tapestry on the walls while scribbling frantically in journals, and a yellow Moiraine did not recognize, eyeing her suspiciously.

         But it was the woman before the door that commanded Moiraine’s attention. Leane was an even dearer friend then Anaiya in some ways, yet there was no warmth in her eyes now, only cold judgment as she leaned on the flame-topped staff. That was her symbol of office, as Keeper of the Chronicles, second to the Amyrlin Seat.

         “I am here to see the Amyrlin.”

         “Yes. You are at that.” Leane said in that clipped, brisk way of hers. It was always the same no matter what she was feeling at the time: business and duty before all else, in all things. “Well, come forth then.”

         Leaving Aniya and Liandrin behind, Moiraine followed Leane into the Amyrlin's chamber, the door swinging shut behind her. It was a beautiful room of course, though like everything in the keep of Fal Dara, purpose-built for killing and death. Curtains hung over the arrow slits to make them seem more like windows, and the blocky furnishings, though fine and well-carved, could easily withstand a great deal of damage before they would break, and would not wear out soon or easily.

         Siuan Sanche, The Watcher of the Seals, the Flame of Tar Valon, the Amyrlin Seat, stood with her back to Moiraine in front of those pieces of blocky furniture, including a long table which bore a familiar golden cube on its surface, covered in laid leaves and vines. The cube was large enough that two men would be required to lift it with any ease, and heavy enough to ensure they would need to be strong men at that. It’s presence did not worry Moiraine exactly, but she had not expected it to be here. The last she had heard the chest holding the Horn of Valere had been in Lord Aglemar’s strongroom.

         The Amyrlin herself wore her heavy stole, striped in the seven colors of the Ajahs, over a dress of snow white. She cut an imposing figure, even with her back turned, every inch the most powerful woman in the world, the most dangerous, and when Moiraine entered, she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes finding Moiraine’s, and the intensity of that gaze almost made her step backwards.

         Instead Moiraine knelt gracefully, as the Amyrlin turned and approached, offering her great serpent ring, which Moiraine kissed, gently. 

         “As you have summoned me, Mother, so I have come,” Moiraine said curtly. However, the Amyrlin didn’t gesture for her to rise, instead turning back to the cube on the table.

         “We called the winds to speed our vessels up the Erinin, daughter, and even turned the currents to our aid.” The Amyrlin's voice was deep and sad. “I have seen the flooding we caused in villages along the river, and the Light only knows what we have done to the weather. All to reach here, as quickly as possible. Do you know why, daughter?”

         “I can not say, Mother.” Moiraine replied. It was true after all, but the Amyrlin did not seem to appreciate the answer, not from the way her fist tightened on the edge of the chest.

         “You are not popular in Tar Valon at the moment.” The Amyrlin continued, still not turning around. “Elaida spoke before the hall, as I am sure you are aware by now, of how you are meddling with at least two young men who are ta’veren, the strongest since Artur Hawkwing, so Elaida claims.”

         “I have three ta'veren with me, Mother, not two, and none of them are Artur Hawkwing reborn, I assure you. I doubt any dreams of uniting the lands beneath one ruler, or even of crowns or thrones at all. I would be very surprised, in fact, to learn if any have a thought beyond seeing more of the world.” Moiraine could feel Leane’s eyes on her back. Few spoke to the Amyrlin with such cool certainty. This was a woman who made thrones tremble when she frowned. No one, not even a Sister, was ever easy in her presence.

         “Is that so?'' The Amyrlin said, turning at last to face Moiraine. “….And this?” She gestured behind her. At the chest. The horn. “Lord Aglemar was almost falling over himself to thrust it into my hands once the welcome was done. He could not live with the temptation, he said. He feared going into his own strong room. It called to him, of glory. That he said was how he knew it would not be him to sound it.” She shook her head. “He shall have to take it back into his strong room. I do not think I could sleep with it separated from me by only a wall.”

         Let the one who sounds to me think not of glory, only of salvation. That was the prophecy or the horn. One of the prophecies of it, anyways. She had given almost as much thought to that in these last few weeks as she had Ineria’s journal, or the Karaethon Cycle.

         “We found it in the Blight.” Moiraine said simply. “It seemed most prudent to entrust it into Lord Aglemar’s care until it could be arranged to be taken to Illian.”

         “The Blight.” The Amyrlin repeated, coldly. “And is this what you were doing these last two years? Hunting the Horn of Valere, without a word sent to tell you had a suspicion of where it was?”

         “No, Mother.” Moiraine responded. Her knees were beginning to ache. That, Moiriane knew, strayed perilously close to defiance. Almost a refusal to answer a direct question. Moiraine felt a bead of sweat trickle down her back. 

         For a moment the Amyrlin simply stared down at her, clearly expecting more. Moiraine remained kneeling, offering nothing. It took all her strength to remain steady, even as the tension in the room approached unbearability. Finally the Amyrlin turned to Leane. “Leave us, Daughter. I wish to….speak to my daughter Moiraine alone.”

         Leane frowned- the Amyrlin took few audiences without the Keeper present- but obeyed, exiting with a curtsy and a look that might have been pity directed at Moiraine. In the same moment, the silvery nimbus surrounded the Amylin, and threads of air and spirit spun out, enclosing the room in a ward.

         Walking over to stand directly before Moiraine, the Amyrlin extended her hand, and taking it, Moiriane pulled herself up, then pressed her lips to Siuan’s.

         It was like being folded in the Power almost, the warmth she felt as Siuan’s arms wrapped around, as the world locked into place. Here, in this moment, with her skin against Siuan’s skin, nothing could threaten her, nothing could hurt her.

         When they finally broke the kiss, Siuan gently took Moiraine’s face in her hands, keeping their foreheads pressed together. 

         Moiraine felt an ease she had not in a very long time. “…Light, you almost had to me worried for a moment, Siuan.”

         Siuan shook her head. “Don’t think you shouldn’t be. I still might skin and salt you.” She stepped back, sighing. “….You have found him then? It is one of the boys with you?”

         “Yes.” Moiriane responded. “But there has been…a complication. Several, but the most important is this. He has bonded a Warder.”

         Siuan’s face was hard as she sat in one of the chairs before the fireplace, and it grew no softer as Moiraine sat beside her, and began to explain.

<X>

         Rand knew he was dreaming. The day was too perfect, too serene for it to be anything else.

         He was in the Waterwood, back in his plain Two Rivers woolens, with the sun shining through the tree branches brightly. His feet were bare and the mossy undergrowth was soft underfoot without a thorn or briar in sight.

         “Mat!” Rand called, unsure why his voice was breathy and on the edge of laughter. “Mat!”

         Mat’s answering laugh, free and mischievous, was always just up ahead, just out of reach. The most Rand saw of Mat was the snatchof a green shirt, or the edge of a heel disappearing around another tree or a bend in the forest.

         Into the forest the view opened up, spreading before him abruptly to reveal a familiar glittering pond.

         “Mat!” Rand called out, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Where are you? We-“

         “Here.” A voice whispered behind him and Rand tried to spin in the same moment Mat tackled him from behind, knocking them both into the water below. For a moment the world was a blur of liquid and light, until Rand’s head broke the surface and he got his feet kicking under him again. Mat moved around him in the water, unconcerned with his now soaking shirt as he moved to float in front of Rand, grinning broad and wild like he hadn’t in months. Maybe years.

         “Gotcha.” Mat said with a wink.

         Rand responded by reaching up, seizing Mat's head, and shoving it beneath the water. Just for a short count of three, but enough to get his point across.

         When Mat’s head broke the surface, his gulps were interspersed with laughter, he kicked himself a little closer to Rand, his grin unbroken as their faces drew together. Slowly that laughter tapered off, leaving only bird song in its place.

         “You're so handsome.” Rand murmured. “Why did I never see that before?”

         Slowly, Mat’s fingers slipped into the folds of Rand’s soaking shirt and Rand couldn’t tell if he wanted Mat to start pulling it off, or pull him closer.

         “Because.” Mat murmured. “You're too thick to see what’s right in front of you.”

         “Not anymore.” Rand responded, and this time, he brought their faces together, their lips so close that Mat’s breath made Rand’s skin tingle. “I can see you, Mat. I can.”

         Mat's body went stiff abruptly, his shoulders going rigid, his eyes going wide. All around them the crystal clear water suddenly seemed to fill with scarlet, billowing out in plumes. Panic shot through Rand, and he scrambled, desperately trying to find the wound, the cut, but there was too much blood, flowing out of Mat, all at once.  Too much blood, and Mat's head was rolling back, glassy eyes staring at the sky above.

         “MAT!” Rand screamed. “NO!”

         A chill went through Rand and his head snapped around to stare at the shore, where two figures stood, one clad in a blue cloak, the other in one that seemed to shift and change, matching itself to the color of the forest behind him. The figure in blue let her hand fall, and Rand caught the glint of gold, of a great serpent ring.

         Rage filled Rand, swelling in his chest like a flood of lava, of pure light and as he screamed, that rage flowed out of him, becoming an inferno, a conflagration. The water boiled, and the earth began to char. He would destroy them, he would make them burn for this, he would-

<X>

         “Burn you!” Rand snarled, sitting bolt upright. Sweat ran down his face. “I’ll, I’ll-“

         The weight of a cloth hitting him in the head, obscuring his vision completely briefly, brought Rand back to reality. Pulling it away he turned to frown at Nynaeve, who was standing beside the washstand, clearly having just finished drying her hands.

         “You watch your language, Rand al’Thor. You are not too big for me to spank yet.” She warned, shaking a finger at him.

         Rand sighed, and tossed the towel back to her, only for Nynaeve to sniff and return it to its neatly folded place beside the wash basin. When she spoke again, Rand could hear the concern in his voice. “…Troubled days lead to troubled dreams. I have some sleepwell root if you require it, Rand.”

         Rand inhaled, the memory of smoke was so vivid that he could almost still smell it, and stubbornly he rubbed at his nose to rid himself of it. “It’s….it’s fine Nynaeve. I’m fine.”

         For a moment he thought she was going to challenge him on it, but instead she simply sniffed and glided over in that way all women did to sit down in a rocking chair in the corner of the room.

         “You were murmuring in your sleep,” another voice said, and Rand’s head snapped around. They were in Nynaeve’s chambers: she had been more willing to hide them in her rooms when she had been told their predicament, as had Egwene, whom she shared with.

         Rand was lying on Nynaeve’s bed, Egwene seated on a bench beside one of the arrow slits, which was hungover with a drape to disguise the fact that it was an arrow slit. An embroidery hoop rested in her lap, half finished swallows decorating the surface of whatever it was she was stitching onto. Rand felt the urge to fidget under her look- they had spoken even less then he and Mat since returning from the Eye, but not because of an effort on either part. Rather…a distance had opened up between them. One Rand didn’t know how to bridge. One he feared he never would be able to bridge.

         “I heard Mat’s name,” Egwene continued. “You sounded…scared.”

         “I’m fine,” Rand lied, sitting up the rest of the way and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed so that he was sitting, his back to Egwene. “It was just….just a nightmare.” Rand frowned suddenly, looking around the room again, then glancing out to the main chamber: also like his and Mat's room, Nynaeve and Egwene were in a trio of three sleeping chambers all spreading out from a central living space with a brazier in the center. Yet Rand saw no sign of Mat. “Where is-“

         “Gone to gather supplies.” Nynaeve said curtly, moving to touch Rand’s forehead. He tried to recoil, but Nynaeve seized him by the shoulders and held him steady so she could press her palm to his forehead. “And search for a way out.”

         “…You’ve changed your mind then?” Rand said slowly as he allowed Nynaeve to peer into his eyes, and check his temperature, relenting only when it was clear he had no fever. “About us leaving being a bad idea?”

         Nynaeve sighed and stepped back gazing down at him with all the concern and warmth of a Wisdom, gazing at a child she had helped raise. “…I don’t know,” She said finally, tugging on her braid. “All I know is that Fal Dara is not safe for you, either of you, any longer. Not with those women here.”

         “You're wrong,” Egwene said stoutly, but when Rand and Nynaeve turned to look at her, her cheeks colored and she folded in herself slightly. More at Nynaeve’s look then Rand’s, he was sure. “You are,” She insisted. “As long as Rand doesn't do what he shouldn’t, and no one tells anyone things they have no business knowing, Rand and Mat have nothing to fear from the Aes Sedai.”

         Rand shook his head. She did believe that, he thought, but that didn’t make it true. As much as Rand wished it did. Moiraine already knew what he would rather no one did, including himself, and there was no telling what her goals or desires were not really, and for whatever reason she had let him walk around ungentled, he doubted the other Aes Sedai would show such restraint or mercy.        

         But bringing that up would get him nowhere.

         “There were Reds with the Amyrlin's entourage,” Rand said tightly.

         Egwene didn’t have a response to that immediately, so instead she picked up her hoop, glared at it, then let it drop again. “….Mat needs their help, Rand. He needs to go to Tar Valon or that dagger will eat him alive. Nynaeve, talk sense into him!”

         “…Maybe.” Nynaeve admitted. “Or maybe not. We know that is one way for him to be broken from the dagger, but Moiraine never said it was the only way.” She hesitated for a moment. “…Moiraine keeps saying how much potential we have, how strong we’ll be in the One Power. Maybe the two of us or…” Her eyes flicked to Rand. “Or the three together would be enough to break the connection, once we know more.”

         Light, she’s as bad as Mat, Rand thought wonderingly. He would never have expected it of the Wisdom. But then, when those she saw as hers were threatened, were there any lengths to which the Wisdom would not go?

         “Nynaeve!” Egwene said, nothing short of aghast. “You can’t be suggesting-“

         Nynaeve raised her hand in silence, and Egwene cut off. “I suggest nothing. At least not yet. All of us are fumbling blind with the Power and would be as likely to kill Mat as help him. When we know more, then we can discuss it. But until then the reality of our situation is simple: Rand is not safe around Aes Sedai, so he will hide here until after the feast, then when Mat says the guard has been lifted, we move him out into the city where he will be safe until the Amyrlin and her entourage depart.” Her voice left no room for argument and Egwene gave none, though it seemed as if she badly wished she could from the way her shoulders squared and her jaw set.

         Rand sighed. He knew better than to voice a complaint about them talking like he wasn’t there, as it would only bring sniffs and placations as if he were a sulky child.

         The truth was that Nynaeve was right, insofar that Rand was not safe where Aes Sedai were. But Mat needed the aid of the Aes Sedai or that dagger would kill him. Maybe the Bond was offering some measure of protection, and whatever Moiraine had done back to the Queen’s Blessing besides, but it couldn’t last. Not really. Yet the only way to get Mat to Tar Valon would be to go himself.

         Almost he thought he could do it. It might be a relief, to simply walk up to a Red Sister, tell her the truth and allow himself to be gentled. It would be over, and he wouldn’t have to be afraid of going mad. Except that his gentling would be as bad for Mat as his death, and Warders never survived their Aes Sedai’s dying. That part was clear in all the stories.

         A nice trap, with no way out.

         “…Maybe….If Mat and I can find an abandoned stedding to stay in.” Rand said slowly. “Maybe that will do something. Protect him from the dagger. And once you two know enough maybe….” He let the sentence dangle and fade. He didn’t even know if that would really work, or if Mat could wait that long.

         “We will discuss it.” Nynaeve said simply. “When Egwene and I return from the feast. Mat should be back by then, and we will know more.” Nynaeve hesitated. “Rand, are you sure you don’t want us to tell Perrin? He is the only one of those of us who began this that doesn't know, and-“

         “No.” Rand said sharply. HE didn’t think he could stand it if he had seen fear and disgust on Perrin’s face, the shock and revulsion that had been, however briefly, plain on Nynaeve and Egwene alike. “He doesn't need to be anymore involved in this. He can still go home, Nynaeve, and he should.”

         Nynaeve sighed and smoothing her skirt. For the first time Rand realized that both she and Egwene were dressed in dresses far more elegant and beautiful than any Rand had seen them in before, also in the Borderland style. Gifts probably, from Lady Amalisa- somehow Rand doubted that Moiraine had commanded their clothes burned.

         Egwene rose as well and moved over to Rand, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Rand, I…”

         She trailed off and for a moment Rand felt a stab of regret. What he regretted, he wasn’t really sure- hurting her maybe? Leaving her? Except she had left him too. They had left each other behind.

         Rand opened his mouth to apologize and then closed it again, his back going rigid. There was something suddenly in the air, a sense of danger, of evil. Like filth, gritty and rough, rolling over his bones. For a moment he thought nothing more than a fancy, but Egwene and Nynaeve straighed as well, also going stiff.

         He had sensed this before, Rand realized. Felt them.

         “Shadowspawn.” He breathed out.

         And then the alarm bells began to crash.

<X>

         The sound of the alarm bells going off was deafening, and caught Mat completely off guard. 

         There was no warning or in between: one moment he was trotting along the corridor, carrying his saddle bag of supplies and trying to figure out a way out of the keep, and the next booming metallic thunder seemed to simply fill up all the air around him, making him stumble and drop his bag.

         Cursing, Mat stooped over to pick it up. It was weeks of carefully collected food stuffs, maps, books about various lands, and a few other odds and ends that he found himself wishing for during their long trek to the Eye, and he very much hoped none of the jars were broken. He had taken a huge risk going back for it, and had to use the dagger’s vanishing trick a few more times to avoid Elansu and her maids, who had been waiting in ambush just as Rand had warned. If it was ruined-

         Over the clang of the bells, Mat couldn’t hear anything, but he felt it something brush the top of his head as it wooshed through the air, and his neck snapped up as he watched a knife strike the stone wall in front of him, the metallic blade flexing and snapping in two as it failed to embed itself in the stone.

         Mat wasted no time: dropping the strap of the saddle bag, he curled into a ball and rolled behind one of the columns that lined the hallway. He had been creeping around a quiet part of the keep, near the ground floor on the west side, mostly servant quarters and living spaces, which with everyone scrambling to prepare for the feast had been left largely empty, so there was no hope of someone simply stumbling on him, or this being an accident. Someone was trying to kill him.

         If I hadn’t been bending over at just that moment, if I hadn’t dropped the saddle bag- Mat shoved that thought out of mind. There was no time for it, no space.

         The moment Mat was hidden behind the column he was pulling the ruby-capped dagger free from its sheath, gripping the hilt hard in his hand, and reaching for another hidden knife in his boot. Light, he wished he had his quarterstaff, he needed-

         The sound of a crash cut off his thoughts, as something struck the floor beside him, sending shards of glass and a brown, almost amber liquid rolling over the ground. A bottle, a bottle of-

         Mat moved just in time, leaping over the pool of oil in the same moment that the torch, pulled from one of the sconces on the wall, landed in it, creating a blaze that would have trapped him back against the wall. This unfortunately, left him clear in the open and only another quick roll kept a second dagger from embedding itself in his stomach.

         Mat’s attacker stood a few paces down the hallway and Mat felt incredulity and confusion as he realized who it was: a man, in a color shifting cloak. The hood was drawn up, and a scarlet scarf twined around the lover half of his face, hiding his features. His shirt, which was also scarlet and his trousers of dark brown were nondescript, the bracers on his arms and the metal poulderon over one shoulder were worn with an ease of comfort that could not be faked.

         Fear hit Mat’s belly. They knew. They knew they had sent a Warder to capture him. Were the Red Sisters already falling on Rand? Was he already captured? Was the alarm bell for that? But no, all the alarm did was give them warning. The Aes Sedai would want to carry out their arrest in as near secrecy as could be managed.

         No time to think. The man was coming for Mat, having clearly not expected him to escape being penned by the fire, he was dashing down the corridor, another knife appearing in his hand, the blade flashing.

         Mat dodged the side again, bringing him almost to shoulder with the opposite column, barely moving out of the way of the slice from the Warder. This time though he struck back, the ruby dagger flashing at his enemy. But instead of stepping back, the man merely leaned away, and the dagger’s blade sailed through empty air.

         Mat tried again, swapping from the other direction, moving closer, and again the man leaned back, farther this time, but instead of waiting for the third strike his arm shot out like a snake, his open palm slamming into Man's wrist. Pain shot through Mat’s arm, and spots danced in front of his vision as his finger sprang open and the dagger went sliding across the stone floor. Into his hesitation, the attacker stepped forward, slamming his open palm against Mat’s lower chest, knocking the wind from his lungs and-

         Pain. Pain almost overwhelming all else as something snapped. A rib, Mat realized. A broken rib. He couldn’t breathe, it was like his throat was packed tight with wool. He-

         Mat threw himself gracelessly down the hall, not caring when his chest struck the stone. He dropped the knife in his other hand, his still good one, and desperately snatched up the Shadar Logoth dagger.

         The moment his fingers were around the hilt again, it began to glow, to heat.

         Beside him, the pool of fire seemed to dim, as did the torches on the wall. Everything seemed to grow…fainter. Less real. That was the price of the dagger, but it was one in that moment he was eager to pay, because Mat could also feel his pain grow duller, less overwhelming. His throat opened up and harsh breaths filled his lungs again, as he could bear, in short splutters, to breathe. With it his shock faded, his anger, his fear, all waning in him until he could think again. In the same moment, the mist began to roll in, out of the cracks in the walls, and the gaps in the stones, moving like a living thing. Mat felt it almost like another limb, but one without any circulation, all scratchy and twitching.

         Heartbeats since Mat's rib had been broken, since he had snatched back the dagger. Heartbeats only, yet he managed to summon the strength to rise, to turn.

         The attacker had not kept after him, to try and stab him in the back. Instead he had taken a step backwards, and so was out of the range of Mashadar, even as it grew thicker, heavier, the fire dying, the torches winking out, leaving Mat’s dagger as the only source of illumination beyond the light of the rising moon outside.

         Mat frowned. Why hadn’t he thrown his knife at Mat's back while he lay flat on the ground? That would have ended it. That would have- No, no time for thought. Gesturing with the dagger, Mat sent the mist rolling at his attacker, slow and sluggish yet inexorable, tendrils reaching like tentacles to try and close around the Warder.

         Again the man stepped back, almost casually, out of reach. Mat hissed and flicked the dagger again, sending another wave out. The pain was almost gone, leaving only that crackling anxiety that had not left him since he had first fled the Two Rivers, and the anger at those had uprooted his life. Those the dagger never touched.

         Any more than they touched the knot of sensation in the back of Mat's mind, which was his bond to Rand. Those emotions- confusion and worry and shock- shined bright and untouched by the deadening effect of the dagger.

         Again, unafraid, the man simply stepped further back, now almost to where the hall intersected with another.

         “…There is always a balance.” The man said suddenly. His voice was deep and rich, with a note of melancholy in it. “People forget that. The Wheel is made of balance, good against evil. Power against weakness. Gain against cost. There is always a price. Tell me- how much more can you afford to pay?”

         Mat’s mouth tightened and he tried to step forward, only for pain to shoot through him: like a hot poker being shoved into his chest where the man had struck, so sharp it made his eyes water, and his vision blink in and out for a moment. His attacker nodded. “It lets you ignore it, but it does not heal you. That is good to know.”

         Mat snarled. “Who are you?” He snapped, having to force the words out around choked gasps.

         “I am the Scarlet Groom.” The man said, with a level of seriousness that would be ridiculous if not for the fact that Mat was struggling to breathe. “And I am sorry. I do not want to kill you.” Oddly, the regret in his voice seemed real to Mat. “But there is always a balance, always a price. I am sorry.”

         Mat frowned, not sure what the bloody man was saying, but before he could get out a question, something was hurtling for him. Mat flicked the dagger again without thought, and Mashadar swirled, the mist catching whatever it was in mid air- an orb, Mat realized. A metal weight that Mashadar soaked into, sending cracks along its surface, shattering it. What-

         Suddenly Mat was on his back staring up at the ceiling, his good arm dangling uselessly at his side. More pain, sharp, this time in his shoulder where….

         Where Mat could see the hilt of a knife, sticking out from his flesh, just out of the corner of his eye, where the blade had embedded itself in his skin.

         I am going to die, Mat realized. Desperately he tried to call on Mashdar, but the dagger had fallen from his grip, and the mist was already dispersing, allowing emotion to creep back in, if only faintly. That much of the dagger’s power would leave him dull for hours, he knew. He had tested it out in the hills, trying to get a sense of what he was capable of. Oddly he almost regretted that more than the pain, the fact that he would die without really feeling anything about it, die washed out and gray and dull, except for that corner of his mind that belonged always now to Rand.

         Mat could feel Rand’s panic, shock and fear, more sharply than his own. It shone in the back of his mind like a beacon, and yet all it could stir in Mat was guilt and regret. He was coming closer, likely racing for Mat, but he would never reach him in time.

         A failure as a Warder, just like you were a failure as a son, an adventurer. A friend. A voice whispered in the back of his mind. Just as useless as they always said you were. Mat Cauthon, nothing more than a waste of Two Rivers grain.

         As the Scarlet Groom appeared in his vision, Mat tried to summon the strength to stand to but he couldn’t manage it. This close Mat could see up into the man’s hood, see his dark face and bright green eyes. He looked…tired. Not old- he looked a little younger than Lan- but…exhausted. Beaten down. It was empty there too, like a Light had gone out, and left behind only regret.

         Mat heard the skitter of metal as the Scarlet Groom kicked the dagger away back down the hall the way he had come, away from them both. For a moment he hesitated, his knife held in his hand, inches from slashing Man's throat. If he could muster any breath, Mat might have begged, but he couldn’t. There was only pain choking gasps now, and his vision slowly seemed to tunnel.

         “Step away from him.” A oily voice said, and the Scarlet Groom snapped turning and cursed, hurling his knife at something beyond’s Mat’s vision, there was another clang of metal, a blade snapping and then the man was gone, leaping over Mat and racing up the hall, the way Mat had been headed- towards the stairs that spiraled down into the servant’s courtyard below.

         Mat gaped, unsure what was happening…until he felt Mashadar filling the air again, growing thick and heavy, a blanket of mist that choked out everything. Craning his neck desperately, he managed to peer down the hall. It was what he expected. Padan Fain was strolling lazily towards Mat. He held the dagger, flicking it back and forth casually, as if testing its weight in his grip.

         Mat felt his vision flicker out again for a moment, and when it returned, instead of the peddlar, a handsome bald man with a sneering mouth was walking towards him. Again it flickered, and the peddler was back. Again and it was the bald man. Mordeth.

         “Hello, Matrim.” Mordeth cooed as he reached Mat. Standing straight, he seemed to tower over Mat, gazing at him with amusement, and something else….a hunger that made Mat’s skin crawl. “Tell me, where is your handler?” Mordeth’s sneer depended. “He doesn’t seem to be doing a very good job of keeping you in a decent state.”

         Unable to speak, barely holding on to consciousness, Mat did the only thing he could in that moment. He spat. It fell far short of Mordeth’s boots.

         Mordeth’s laugh was cruel as he knelt beside Mat, reaching out a soft hand to stroke Mat’s cheek. “Oh, you will be fun to break. Very fun. Should I take you now?” He frowned. “No….you would not survive the journey.” He chuckled. “It will take one of those witches, or your beloved master to save you now. I will wait for you and him though, on Toman Head.” His smile became cruel. “There, the fate of this wretched land will be decided. Tell him that- tell him to come to Toman Head. If you two do not….then I will scourge all you hold dear.”

         Mat twisted his head, and with the last of his strength bit as hard he could at Mordeth’s finger. Rather than hissing in pain, Mordeth simply pulled his hand back, unconcerned at the skin tearing, at the blood left smeared on Mat’s lips and teeth.

         “Yes…a vicious little creature. You shall make a fine tool. Remember that, pet: Tomon Head. Or I shall destroy all those with a drop of your love or blood in them.”

         Mordeth stood, and the mist grew so heavy around him that Mat could see little else, could feel nothing but the pulsing of the bond in his mind, not even pain.

         Mat saw the blade of the dagger flash, and then darkness took everything.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Wounds

            Knuckling her back, Verin stood, trying to ignore the ache in her knees and side from the almost hour spent kneeling on the cold stone floor, drawing on saidar . It had been some time since she had channeled for such a prolonged period of time, and no sooner had the Amyrlin broken the link then she had released The Source herself, simply for the sure knowledge that if she held on any longer, she would spend most of the next day in bed.

         And Light knows I don’t have the time for that, Verin thought wryly.

         Leane had risen as well, looking equally as haggard, but while Verin moved to one of the armchairs beside the Amyrlin’s fire, Leane moved to the door to wave in the anxious pair of laborers, so that they could take up the ends of the litter on which Matrim Cauthon lay in the middle of the chamber, and carry him to the infirmary. Leane followed them out, hiding her exhaustion behind a mask of brisk serenity, likely intending to stay near for when the boy woke: both because of her business-like refusal to see a job done poorly, and to be on hand to ask him some very pointed questions.

         The Amyrlin and Moiraine rose as well, both slightly shaky on their feet, Moiraine moving to take the other chair, while the Amyrlin moved to the table at the back, stubbornly refusing to admit she too needed rest. The Amyrlin never showed weakness, could not afford to, not even to women who shared in it.

         The healing had not been a small matter. Even with the four of them, and that curious angreal of Moiraine’s, it had taxed all their strength to keep Matrim alive. His physical wounds had been no small part of that, but the greater part had been the strange corruption that had taken root in his body and soul.

         What an odd course for the infection of Shadar Logoth to take, Verin found herself musing, while reaching forward to pour herself a cup of tea from the silver set that sat on the low table before her. Though it had long since gone cold, she couldn’t find it in herself to embrace saidar even for the simple task of heating tea. From all the records he should be little more than a husk by now, a hollowed-out vessel for the evil that killed Airdhol. And yet…

         Oh, the evil of Shadar Logoth had fought them, and fought them hard as they had driven it out of Matrim’s bones, healing what damage they could, but his own well of strength was far from tapped. Not overflowing by any means, but far greater than it should have been given the circumstances. Could it be the Old Blood? That seemed terribly unlikely, no matter how heavily it ran still in the Two Rivers. That left two possibilities, both fascinating, though in radically different ways.

         Absently, she wondered if she should poison Matrim now and be done with the matter. It would upset a great many plans, but it might be necessary. There was no telling what chaos might be stirred up by that tricksome young man, and what evil unleashed if he truly did succumb to the corruption of Shadar Logoth.  And yet…if she killed him, she would never be able to figure out where his strength to fight the evil came from, nor if it would be able to sustain him even in the dagger’s absence. The answer to a two thousand year old problem lay in that mystery, but even if it didn’t, so little was known of Shadar Logoth, and the power that had been wielded by Mordeth, that any knowledge that might be gained from studying Mat Cauthon might be worth letting him live, risks and all.

         If I wanted to play matters safely Verin thought dryly, I very much chose the wrong path in life.

         Yes, best to let Matrim live, for now at least. She would have to contrive a reason to stay near him, but then, given he and young al’Thor were attached at the hip, that was not so very different from what she had planned already.

         “I wish we could be certain that was not all so much wasted effort,” The Amyrlin muttered, leaning with both hands on the table before her. Verin knew she was staring at the various items that covered that table, and if Verin was a woman to make guesses, she would guess that Amyrlin's attention was focused on the knife that had been found at the scene of Matrim’s near assassination. It weighed heavily on the mind of every Sister who knew of its existence, which was luckily few enough.

         “The boy’s physical wounds no longer will trouble him. Why, I imagine after some sleep he will be back to dancing about the hallways,” Verin said. “But the wounds to his soul are another matter. I have never heard of someone who carried a tainted piece of Shadar Logoth beyond its walls surviving being parted from it again, let alone a piece of Mordeth’s own cursed treasure horde. We have done all we can of course, and he may yet survive for weeks, maybe months before the absence of the dagger kills him, but without the dagger itself to work on…” Verin spread her hands. “We can not properly sever the link, and unless it is severed, it will not matter how strong he is.”

         “We must recover that dagger.” Moiraine murmured, steepling her fingers. “It must be done regardless: such a thing can not be allowed to float about in the world, poisoning Light only knows how many innocents. But also so that Matrim can be properly healed.”

         “Fish guts,” The Amyrlin spat, picking up the hilt of the broken knife. “And what of this?” She demanded, turning to stare at them. “The evil of Shadar Logoth is well and good, but what of this? It must have been the work of the Shadow. But why?”

         The knife was distressing, Verin had to agree, though she found it so for different reasons then the other two did. Sturdy leather and a pale crossguard emphasized the carving on the pommel: the flame of Tar Valon. Very few people had access to knives like that- only the Tower Guard and a few Warders, in truth. And this had been found not two spans from where Matrim Cauthon had lay bleeding to death, the night before.

         The Shadow wanted to frame the Tower for the murder of Matrim Cauthon. That was not surprising. That they had failed was, on the other hand, extremely surprising. Chance had played a role in that: chance for Mat to be found before bleeding out, chance that the Sisters needed to heal him of his wounds where all already gathered together here, chance that they had not been exhausted by fighting the Trollocs and the Fades that had made it into the keep already. A very lucky man, Mat Cauthon. But could that last? Another thing to keep track of in her study of him.

         “The plots of the Shadow are murky, even to us.” Moiraine said tiredly, running a hand through her hair. “Who can say why the Shadow wishes Matrim dead, or why it would go to such lengths to see it carried out?” Her voice was ice, but her fingers twitched, ever so slightly, as she spoke.

         She must be very shaken, to show even that level of weakness. All Aes Sedai practiced the masking of their thoughts, but Moiraine had taken it far beyond a simple practice, into a way of life. Idely, Verin wondered if she could use this chance to shake some of Moiraine’s secrets loose at last- but no. Best not to pull that thread with the Amyrlin here. There were other matters that needed seeing to.

         Moiraine’s comment was revealing enough on its own in any event. Clearly Moiraine felt that Matrim had been the primary target, even though most would rate his assault as the least important thing that had happened last night.

         “The Horn stolen. Mordeth escaped.” The Amyrlin snarled, gesturing with the dagger’s hilt as if it were a scepter. “Trollocs and Fades raging through Fal Dara. And this boy nearly assassinated.” She gestured again with the hil. Her knuckles were white on it, as if it were the neck of the assassin and she intended to strangle answers from it.

         “Mordeth is the most worrying.” Verin said. “Given the history of Shadar Logoth, I can not help but be worried at the Shadow going to such lengths to free him. They would not do that without great cause. With a piece of his cursed treasure hoard as well-“ Neither woman tried to deny that that was what the mysterious dagger Matrim had been in possession of was: they truly must be tired. “-Who can guess what chaos he might wreak? Though we have done all we can to buffer Matrim against the corruption, there is a real risk that Mordeth might spread it further. I wonder, how many impressionable minds might Mordeth influence in say, a year? Or two? It should be possible to calculate a rough estimation based on-“

         The slap of Amyrlin’s hand on the table brought Verin out of her reflection and she blinked. The Aymrlin had turned to glare at her, hands planted on her hips.

         “Ah yes. Well,” Verin sighed. “I suppose it does not truly matter. What matters is that the evil that destroyed Shadar Logoth, the hate and suspicion and fear, is loose upon the world once again. But that evil is as hostile to the Shadow as we are, in its own way. I suppose the Fades could think that any rise in chaos serves their ends, and it might, but it seems a risk unlike the Shadow to take.”

         Moiraine was staring into the middle distance, her brow wrinkled with frustration. “….Is it possible that the Trollocs and Fades were sent to kill Mordeth rather than aid him? Or mayhaps they believe that enough of Padan Fain remains in Mordeth for them to gain a measure of control over him.”

         Even the Aymrlin shuddered at that, and Verin did not blame her. The evil of Shadar Logoth working for the ends of the Dark One was terrible to consider. But unlikely, given what Verin had learned of Padan Fain in her brief stay in Fal Dara.

         “We simply do not know enough.” Moiraine said, crossing her arms. “That the Shadow would attempt to take the Horn is expected. That they might seek to slay ta’veren is easy enough to grasp. But freeing Mordeth, targeting Mat specifically, exposing Darkfriends in Fal Dara and risking everything- these are the pieces that we must fit together.”

         Verin decided it was time. The audience was drawing to a close and soon the Amyrlin would dismiss Verin so that she could speak to Moiraine in private: but Verin was not done asking questions yet, and more, there were certain matters it would behoove the pair to be made aware of now.

         Setting down her teacup and leaning back in her chair, Verin made her voice casual. “Perhaps it is not Matrim that is the target but Rand al’Thor. I saw the boy during the attack, racing to reach Matrim’s side, calling out for him. I may be old, but not so old that I have forgotten the look of a man who has thrown sense to the wind, and is riding his heart at a gallop.” Moiriane and Siuan exchanged looks then, unreadable for most. But not for her: she had been one of their teachers when they had been Novices. She knew them too well, a fact they had forgotten. Casually she tapped her bottom lip in thought. “It would serve the Shadow’s ends very nicely after all, for the Dragon to turn against the Tower over the death of his lover.”

         For a moment no one so much as breathed, and then the glow of saidar appeared around Siuan and Moiraine almost at once. Faint- they were tired after all- but bright enough to light up the room to Verin’s eyes.

         Absently she nodded. “Yes. I thought it must be so. Moiriane could not do this alone, and who better to help her than her dear lover- the one that used to lead her to sneak down to the kitchens and snatch honey cakes when you were Novices.” Verin blinked, suddenly realizing how rude that must sound. “Forgive me, Mother, I should not have said that.”

         “Verin. Verin.'' The Amyrlin shook her head wonderingly. “You accuse your Sister and me of- I won't even say it, and then worry you’ve spoken too familiarly to the Amyrlin Seat? You bore a hole in the boat and then worry that it is raining.” She made a casting gesture, her voice gaining an edge of patient indulgence entering her voice. “Think of what you are suggesting.”

         There was no patience on Moiraine’s face, only grim acceptance. She knew that it was too late, and had been too late the moment they both embraced the Source together. “Why are you telling us this, Verin? If you believe what you say, you should be telling the other sisters, the Reds in particular.”

         “Yes I should, shouldn’t I?” Verin tapped her lip in thought. “But then, you would be stilled Moiraine, and you, Mother, and young al’Thor gentled. No one has ever recorded the exact progress of madness in a man who can wield the Power.” Well, not in any useful or meaningful way at least. There were a few Red accounts, from early after the founding of the White Tower, though so biased and colored by their context as to be useless. “When does the madness come exactly, and how does it take him? How quickly does it grow? Can he still function with his body rotting around him? For how long? What's more- I am not sure that a man who can channel has ever before bonded a Warder.” Moiraine’s mouth actually spread into a small ‘o’ at that, as much as jaw drop from another woman, more confirmation, not that she had needed much on that score. The servants were all a buzz of the young Matrim’s training with Lan, and the way Rand had been able to locate Matrim as if pointed by an arrow, had told the rest. Quite odd. 

         “How will that affect the madness? Will Matrim also be subject to it? Or will the connection serve to buffer against the Dark One’s taint in some fashion? Is it even the same Bond as the one we use, or does saidin make it different in some fundamental way? Unless he is gentled, what is going to happen to Rand al’Thor will happen to him regardless of whether or not I am there to put down the answers to these questions. And of course there is the Karaethon Cycle,” She added, almost as an afterthought. “Why, he can hardly face the Dark One without the aid of the One Power.”

         Moiraine and Siuan exchanged a look with each other, then both narrowed their eyes onto Verin.

         Siuan’s face hardened and she stepped forward, not releasing the Source. “Who else knows of this? And how long have you known?”

         “No one, Mother, and as for how long, well- that is a bit of a longer story I’m afraid.” She licked her lips- they were already dry, and she suspected likely to get dryer soon. ”If I move to warm up the tea, will you take it amiss, Mother, and strike me down? I promise I have no ill intentions.”

         Instead of answering Siuan simply eyed the pitcher on the low table, sending out threads of fire which soon made steam rise from the spout.

         “Oh, thank you, Mother.” Verin said smiling, refilling her cup, and adding a generous dollop of honey to account for the bitterness of re-heating. “If it is any consolation, you two have been very circumspect. No one who was not already intimately familiar with both of you, and certain events regarding the Aiel War would have any idea. That was when I had my first clue- the Aiel War, twenty years ago now, isn’t it? You had just been raised to full Sisterhood, and I noticed that Sisters close to Tamra Ospeyna, who was  Amyrlin at the time as I’m sure you remember, were acting very strangely…”

         As she went on, Verin saw Moiraine release saidar out of the corner of her eye, though Moiraine’s expression never softened as she kept her eyes on Verin. No doubt she was ready to kill Verin if the wrong thing came out of her mouth, which was a strong incentive to make sure it did not. Absently, she decided to keep the writings she had recorded in the dungeon- translated from Trolloc script and written in the blood of the guards- to herself.  It was mostly obscenities and blasphemies, boasting and taunts, which is what she would say if anyone asked what they had been. No one else needed to know about the few lines of dark prophecy, hastily scrawled by a Myddraal’s hand. They would only agitate things now.

<X>

         Rand moved as quietly as he could manage. Outside it was approaching mid morning, a reminder that aside from his brief nap in Nynaeve’s room he hadn’t properly slept in over a day. His whole body ached with exhaustion, and he wanted badly to find a bed, any bed, and collapse into it. But he wanted something else more. 

         After he and the other two had sensed Shadowspawn in the keep- at the same moment, it turned out,as every Aes Sedai and Warder- Rand had gone running for Mat, wanting to make sure he was okay, and so that they could watch each other’s backs. His sword drawn, he had raced first through the Women’s Apartments, and then the keep proper, clashing against Trollocs who had somehow flooded the hallways, and at one point, even a Fade in his effort to reach Mat. Two Trollocs were dead, though Rand had been forced to leave the Fade to Lord Ingtar.

         All the while, pain and shock had rolled through the bond. Rand had felt phantoms of Mat’s injuries with each surge of pain, felt his bones break, his flesh be torn open, and each time he had pushed his legs harder, desperate to reach Mat before it was too late.

         For a moment, standing there in the servant’s corridor, seeing Mat laying in a pool of his own blood, Rand had been certain he was too late. With numb hands he had fumbled for Mat, desperately reaching out to saidin, all thought of madness or risk driven from his mind.

         And he caught nothing but smoke. Every time it had seemed like that light had appeared on the edge of his mind, he had stretched out to try and embrace it, and it had skittered away, refusing. After three failed tries to call on saidin, he had no choice but to fold Mat in his arms, try and staunch the bleeding, and then go to find Moiraine.

         For the best, probably, Rand thought ruefully. I probably would have killed him by accident trying to heal him. Rand wasn’t sure there was anything he had touched, with the power or otherwise, since leaving the Two Rivers that he had not hurt somehow.

         Posing behind a pillar, Rand held his breath. A little way down the hall the door to the infirmary opened, and an Aes Sedai, almost as tall as Rand himself, walked from the room. Rand recognized her from when he had been racing through the women’s apartments: she had stepped between him and the Amyrlin, the flame topped staff she carried held like a quarterstaff, as if she intended to beat him with it. That would be the Keeper of the Chronicles, Leane Sharif.

         Rand barely waited for her to disappear down the hall before coming out from behind the pillar and moving down to the infirmary door. There was no telling how long he had before Leane came back: somehow he did not doubt that she was capable of beating him around the head with that staff if she truly wanted to, so he had to move quickly.

         He had to see Mat.

         Inside the infirmary was almost empty: only a handful of the beds which lined the walls' carefully spaced intervals had curtains drawn around them marking the presence of a patient. The Aes Sedai had healed the worst wounded the night before, leaving only a handful for Agelmar’s court physician to handle, and only those not badly wounded enough to need Healing but too badly wounded to be seen to in their own chambers would be present. The long walls were lined with torches which burned low, casting a weak light through the room and making the shadows twitch oddly.

         Rand ignored most of those beds, following the beacon in the front of his mind, straight for one near the back, almost right beside the door to the physician's private chambers. For a moment Rand hesitated, hand hovering just on the verge of pulling the curtain back. Taking a deep breath, Rand made his hand fasten down and move, then stepped forward.

         Mat was almost as pale as he had been during the trek to Caemlyn, his cheeks sunken and dark circles around his eyes. His chest rose and fell fitfully, and Rand was sure that if he pressed his ear to it, he would hear that familiar almost clogged sound, like a web had been spun around his organs. Through the Bond Rand could feel the faint ache in his shoulder, the exhaustion and the restlessness, though everything was…muted by Mat’s sleep. Dulled by his own lack of awareness somehow. It was like the strange way the bond had gone almost colorless, becoming washed out during his fight with his attacker. More like a shade dropped over a lamp.

         Forcing his hands to be steady, Rand reached forward, slipping them under the gauzy shirt they had put Mat in (Mat’s Two Rivers clothes were, of course, nowhere in sight), searching for the wounds that he had seen when he had found Mat in that hallway. Rand felt his skin tingle and prick at being so close, a sense of guilt and shame washing through him, as he imagined for a moment what Egwene would say if he did the same to her.

         It was a paradox, one he hadn't worked out exactly. Rand had never realized all the rituals and rules that governed the way men behave towards women, and women to men, especially when courting, and the complete lack of the same between men, or for all he knew between women. Not that there weren't farms run by two women, or men who shared their lives. But maybe because Rand had never shown interest in a man before, there were no rules, no guideposts for him to use. Checking Mat’s wounds, even while Mat slept, hadn't been inappropriate back when they had just been friends. But was it now that they were….whatever they were? Was he crossing a boundary?

         He wanted to ask Nynaeve- if anyone knew such things it would be her- but the thought made his cheeks flare with heat. Bad enough the first time he had needed to have certain things about life explained to him by the Wisdom (one of her duties since he had no mother to explain it to him), he was not sure he would survive a second lesson. Some things were just not meant to be talked about in a brisk business-like manner, such as how children came to be, and the responsibilities of a husband to a wife.

         Rand’s fingertips found the seam in Mat’s shoulder where the scar was and Rand felt himself trace it. A narrow cut, all things considered, from a slim blade, but it had been deep. It was a mark of how bad he had been that there was a scar at all: usually Aes Sedai avoided leaving such things when they could. Did that mean something? Had they failed? His mind raced with questions, and with possibilities. Should he-

         “His rib and wrist were was broken as well,” A voice said behind Rand, and he felt himself jump nearly out of his skin, his hands flying from Mat’s chest as if the other man’s skin had caught fire. Behind him stood Leane Sharif, her fists planted firmly on her hips, but instead of cool Aes Sedai serenity, her face held an edge of sympathy to it. “We could not push his body too far. Only part of the strength for Healing comes from the Power. Much of it comes from the patient as well.”

         “I-“ Rand stammered. “I- Thank you. I-“

         “I know you care for him.” Leane said gently, taking Rand by the shoulders. “I could see it in your eyes when you brought him to us. He is lucky to have you- why, if I had a boy as pretty and tall as you around when I was sixteen, I would have thanked the wheel for my blessings, as that boy surely does.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she began to turn him, walking him back, and Rand, still unable to form a complete sentence, could only splutter. “But the best thing you can do for him now is to leave him to sleep and regain his strength. The best thing for you too, as it happens.” She added wryly.

         But Rand would not be so easily dissuaded. Digging his heels in to avoid being gently, but firmly, pushed through the door, Rand turned his head to her. “Will he be alright? Is it over?”

         The Aes Sedai hesitated, and it was as plain as day that she was weighing her words as closely as any Baerlon merchant ever had. “I imagine the boy will feel right as rain when he wakes. Why, if not for the scar, the boy himself might not be able to tell he was wounded.”

         That, Rand knew, as Leane finished leading him out the room, and shutting the door behind him, was all the answer he would get, and he knew too, that it was no answer at all.

         Rand’s temper was foul as he headed back to his own sleeping chambers. He and Mat had not been sharing a bed since that day in the tower they had kissed- again that lack of rules, that lack of any idea how to behave cropped up- yet Rand had so badly wanted to hold Mat’s hand while he slept, to rest his head and sleep beside him again. He wanted Mat not to feel alone, to feel the presence of someone close by who cared for him, and more, it….steadied Rand to have Mat near, made the fear and the panic a little more bearable. He needed that right now, desperately.

         He was a fool to think that he could simply leave Mat behind. Not just because Mat was now his Warder, though that was part of it. By some mercy of the wheel, Rand had found someone who didn’t hate him for what he was, that wasn’t afraid of him. Was for whatever idiotic reason willing to stand by Rand even knowing all he did. He couldn’t spurn that. In an unsafe world, turning away a person who still made him feel safe would be madness.

         So you’ll let him stay by you, and repay him by destroying him instead, as surely as Lews Theirn Kinslayer destroyed all those he loved.

         Except, if the Shadow wanted Mat dead still, he would be destroyed anyways, beside Rand or not. Just knowing of him, being connected to him, was poison.

         None of which even began to account for the Bond.

         So if it was already too late to save Mat….all he could do was stick together, and hope for the best, while living with the knowledge of his doom and Mat’s both.

         Oh yes, he was in a foul temper as he stomped back to his rooms. So foul, that it was until he was slamming the door shut with all his might that he paused to realize that he was shaking with anger.

         A grunt behind him brought Rand spinning around. In his current mood, he was ready to seize the next servant to call him ‘my lord’ by the shoulders and shake them until they saw sense, but he froze when he saw who it was: Perrin, sitting up from where had been laying on of the couches that was arrayed in a square around the brazier at the room’s center. His golden eyes were blurry with sleep, and there was fuzz on his cheeks from a lack of shaving, but otherwise he looked unharmed, which relieved a weight Rand hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying around.

         “Perrin-“ Rand began, but Perrin cut him off.

         “How is he?”

         Rand grimaced and looked into the flames, which were burning low this early into the morning. “Fine. Maybe. I don’t know. The Aes Sedai are hiding something about his Healing. His wounds are gone, but…” Rand shook his head. “I just don’t know Perrin. They say he’ll be up after a good night’s sleep, but what aren’t they saying? Augh!”

         “If they said it…” Perrin responded slowly, then shrugged. “It must be true. What more could be wrong?”

         But something was wrong. Something was wrong about the whole thing. Rand could feel it. But he couldn’t explain that to Perrin, not without…

         Well, he couldn’t and that was that.

         “Listen Perrin I-….What I said to you and Loial in the library, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” He flinched just remembering that whole debacle.

         Perrin stared at him for a long moment then leaned back. “…You didn’t mean it.” He repeated. “All that stuff about me weighing you down, about liking being a Lord? Me being too slow witted to have around, and Loial’s wanting to see the groves being stupid, you didn’t mean any of it?” Rand nodded, and Perrin’s voice grew sharp. “Then why in the name of the Light did you say it?” he snapped.

         Rand opened his mouth to answer, but…the words would not come out. Not the truth, or a lie, or anything in between. There was no justification for what he had done, none that Perrin would accept anyways, and so there was nothing to say.

         Perrin shook his head disgustedly. “What is going on with you, Rand? You and Mat? You're skulking around, and plotting in secret and- Bah! What’s happening, Rand? Please tell me, I have a right to know.”

         “Go home, Perrin.” Rand heard himself say. “Before it’s too late, go home.” Before I destroy your life too. “This….this doesn't have to involve you anymore. I can’t escape, and neither can Mat. Egwene doesn't want to, and Nynaeve….” He shook his head. “You can still go home.”

         “This is about all of us Rand- all five of us.” Perrin shot back, standing. “And it affects all of us, maybe you’ve forgotten that, my lord .” He spat the words and Rand flinched. “But the Shadow was after me too. The Trollocs came for me too. All of us need to stand together, to figure this out together, or we won't figure it out at all. You think I don’t want to go home? I do. But I want- I need- the truth more. When you're ready to tell me, I’ll be there. But until then-“ Perrin turned his back like a stone wall, and stomped over to his own sleeping chamber. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

         Which left Rand standing there in the low light of the fire, feeling more wretched and trapped then he ever had before in his life.

         When he finally crawled into bed, it was with the thought that, at least tomorrow couldn’t be worse.

         He was wrong.

<X>

         The feel of warmth was so great, so heavenly, that it made Mat’s body sing: like being folded in summer, wrapped in peace.

         They were in a grove- where exactly did not really seem apparent or to matter- laid out on a blanket, with warm sunlight pouring down from between the branches overhead. Rand was stretched out beneath him, his arms hooked around Mat’s neck, one leg hooked over Mat’s hip. Mat, laying atop him, was held up by his arms which were planted to either side of Rand’s head, so that periodically, he could break their kiss and pull back to admire the man beneath him, the way his hair fell around his flushed face, the way the light caught his gray eyes, even the tiny freckle on the lobe of one ear that was only visible in light like this.

         He never looked for very long however, because drinking in the sight of him inevitably led to Mat leaning back down and starting to kiss him all over again.

         This, Mat knew, was perfection. This was peace. This place, this man, the moment. Free of any troubles, free to enjoy the simple bliss of Rand’s presence. All it needed was a dice game and maybe some fine wine- and somehow Mat thought that they could scrounge that up if they ever parted long enough for it.

         Rand was the sun, and as long as Mat had him, he would thrive.

         Mat felt his arms slide down, his hands tracing circles on Mat’s neck as he moved them down, down to Mat’s chest to-

         Cold. Mat blinked. A rush of sudden cold.

         Leaning in, trying to get more of Rand’s mouth with his own to banish it, Mat realized something else: Rand had frozen still beneath him. Pulling back Mat looked down in shock at Rand, pale and wan, eyes staring up at nothing, glassy. Mat opened his mouth, maybe to scream, maybe to cry, he did not know and….a crack appeared on Rand’s cheek. As if Rand were a statue cracking from a blow.

         Another appeared, on his forehead, pieces of his skin flaking away like shards of stone and dust, revealing….something beneath. Something black and glistening, something that began to spread out from those cracks, which appeared on his neck, and ear, his entire body, a web of darkness spreading out over his skin.

         “No!” Mat shouted. “NO!”

         All around him, the trees were suddenly bare and lifeless, leaves simply gone. A wind blew through those bare branches, making them creak and groan.

         Under Mat, the last of Rand’s visible skin vanished beneath the cocoon of blackness and the body itself broke away into dust.

         Mat tried to scream, but something closed around his neck, soft gentle hands which abruptly were holding his jaw shut, keeping him from speaking. Mat knew whose they were.

         “You are mine.” Mordeth whispered. “Now and always.”

         Staring down at his own hands, Mat watched them begin to crack. Watched flecks of skin break away to reveal black webbing underneath.

         “Mine.”

<X>

         Sitting bolt upright, Mat didn’t try to fight the scream that left his throat, anger and fear and revulsion ripping it from his lungs. His heart pounded in his chest with such force it made the veins in his neck and forehead hurt. Mordeth was- And Rand was- And-

         The sound of the curtain being pulled back made Mat snatch under his pillow where always put the Shadar Logoth dagger before sleeping, but as it closed around nothing, fear seemed to freeze his muscles.

         “You planning to wake the entire city, farm boy? Or just the keep?” Lan snapped as he stepped forward, tossing something onto the foot of the bed.

         Clicking his mouth shut, Mat fixed the other Warder with a glare. When he spoke, his mouth was dry as a snake nest. “What do you want, Lan?”

         “From you?” Lan said, pulling back the blankets that had been pushed to Mat’s chin. Cold hit Mat like his whole body had been slapped and he tried, and failed, to snatch the blankets back. “To get up and get dressed. We’ve got places to be.”

         “I am sick.” Mat said stoutly, sticking his chin up. He knew the look of a sick room when he saw it, and based on the blurry memories he had of Rand carrying him, and Aes Sedai hands sending shockwaves of cold through his body- not to mention the fact that no one should have survived what first the Scarlet Groom and then Mordeth had done to him, he could take a fair guess at what had happened. “I don’t have to go anywhere.”

         “If you want to stay abed, and leave al’Thor to face the Amyrlin alone.” Lan said casually, crossing his arms. “You are welcome to it. But I had thought more of you then that.”

         Mat stared at him in disbelief. “What do you mean- has he…” Mat licked his lips, unable to say it.

         Lan shook his head. “Not that. He’s been summoned to the Amyrlin Seat. He’s on his way already. Now, are you going to leave him to face this alone, or are you a man?”

         Exhaling, and throwing a pointed glare at Lan, Mat swung himself out of bed…and nearly fell right on his face when his legs refused to support his weight. A quick grab to one of the poles that held up the curtain kept him standing, but barely.

         Lan almost smiled, and working to wrestle his annoyance under control, Mat forced himself to smile back.

         “…I need some help.” Mat said, through gritted teeth. But he said it.

         Taking Lan’s offered shoulder, Mat steeled himself. He would take whatever help he needed to keep Rand from facing this alone. It might make no difference, but he would do it anyway.

         No one should be left to the mercy of Aes Sedai alone, but Mat would never leave Rand to that fate.

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.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Knowledge and Ignorance

         Mat knew better than to follow Rand right at that moment, but even if he had wanted to, even if he had the faintest idea of what to say if he caught up, Rand’s long-legged stride was not one he could match without running after him, and as surreal as it was to think, they still had need of caution. Attention was dangerous, and chasing after Rand right after emerging from an audience with the Amyrlin Seat would do more than draw every eye: it would fix Mat and Rand in the mind of every woman who saw.

         Besides, Rand needed time to come to grips with this, and maybe Mat did too.

         Rather than return to the infirmary, Mat forced his feet to carry him back to the room he shared with Perrin and Rand. It was empty of course: Perrin would either be out in the courtyard forges getting some smithy work in, or else spending time talking and playing dice with laborers. Mat suspected that Perrin would be summoned before the Amyrlin as well, to avoid marking him out, likely on some flimsy excuse like Ta’veren, but that might be hours off yet. It was still early afternoon, all in all his and Rand’s own meeting with the Amyrlin couldn’t have taken more than half an hour if that.

         For a minute Mat stared at his own bed, cold and well made from the lack of him having slept in it the night before, and abruptly he could think of nothing less inviting. Instead, unbinding the coil from around his bicep, and shucking off his coat, he moved to the small sleeping chamber that belonged to Rand.

         They hadn’t slept side by side since returning from the Eye of the World- more Mat giving Rand space, trying to be accommodating. He was tired of being accommodating, he was tired of….everything.

         So kicking off his boots he buried himself among Rand’s blankets, breathing in the smell of him, soaking in the faint warmth still retained by the heavy furs.

         Is Rand really the Dragon? It seemed to beggar belief but….it also fit. Like a missing piece of a blacksmith’s puzzle making odd and strange things click into place. It answered too many questions, made too much sense.

         Think it through, Mat’s father would have said. If you think it through, from all angles, others will be hard pressed to get the better of you.

         But…..The Dragon. The Dragon Reborn. Since Mat had been a child, his parents had told him stories of the Forsaken in the vain hope of keeping him in line. Of how Aginor would steal the skin of little boys who didn’t do their chores on time, of how Messana would steal him if he wasn’t respectful and make him one of her children instead, joining her classes of small monsters and making them do her bidding. But the Dragon… No one told tales like that of the Dragon. Too many men who had named themselves the Dragon had caused too much pain over the years for anyone to turn that name into a bedtime story.

         Could Ba’alzamon have been telling the truth? Were the Aes Sedai trying to use Rand as a puppet? To what? Scare the nations into uniting behind them? Raise the prestige of the White Tower by bringing down a false Dragon? But they had said it outright- that he was the true Dragon Reborn, and Aes Sedai couldn’t lie. Or could they? Were the Children of the Light right, that their oaths were just fictions to further their schemes?

         No point in worrying about that knot. He just didn’t know enough.

         Aginor had been real: Mat had driven the dagger into his neck. That thought still mystified him sometimes. The tale used to frighten him as a child, in the end had died at Mat’s hand, died like any other man, spluttering and choking on blood and shocked. Not with some terrible flash of light or storm of shadow. Just a body, crumpling to the ground. Aginor and Balthamel had come for Rand, had said that this time, Rand would serve them, and had acted almost like they knew him. Or rather, as if Rand should have known them.

         Ba’alzamon had pursued Rand, not Mat, and not Perrin- at least not in the end. Ba’alzamon had tried his damndest to turn Rand to the Shadow, to force him to that path, unaware that trying to force a Two Rivers man to do anything was like trying to uproot a house with your bare hands. But Rand was a man who could channel. Surely the Shadow had to be desperate to recruit those? But desperate enough to send Trollocs into the Two Rivers, to send Forsaken to try and capture one?

         That was another point. The Forsaken were breaking free. If that was happening, then how long till the Dark One really was free? Surely, the Dragon, the real Dragon had to have already been born.

         That merchant guard, the one that had been willing to drunkenly spill out some of the Prophecies of the Dragon, to whisper about how the Dragon would save them all, had said that the catechism taught in every village from the Spine to the Sea of Storms was wrong. The Forsaken were not bound in Shayol Ghul by the Creator, at the moment of Creation. They had been sealed by the Dragon, at the end of the last age, sealed up with the Dark One, and one day he would come back to finish them off, and kill the Dark One.

         His blood on the rocks of Shayol Ghul, washing away the Shadow, sacrifice for man’s salvation.

         Mat pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. His eyes hurt and he felt as if he had run ten miles, rather than just gone for a short walk to the Women’s Apartments. Nestled in the safety of Rand’s bed, he could feel sleep dragging him down- after-effects of the healing probably.

         Those couplets were about the extent of his knowledge of the Prophecies. The Merchant guard might have been willing to give more, except Nynaeve had overheard, and sent the man off with a flea in his ear for spouting such ‘dangerous nonsense’. More, she had spoken to the merchant, and the woman had agreed that the man would be dismissed from her service once their current circuit was complete.

         Too much he didn’t know. He needed to focus on what he did.  On realities.

         There were two possibilities. If Rand was a false Dragon, then the Tower would use him and throw him away, just as they had Logain and maybe all the others. Mat could not, would not let that happen. But if was the true Dragon Reborn, then he had a destiny to fulfill, one that might kill him, and Mat couldn’t let that happen either. HE wouldn’t.

         Mat didn’t know when it had happened exactly, when his world had rearranged itself to center on Rand. It wasn’t when Rand had bonded with him: it had been before that, maybe Whitebridge, when they had separated from Thom, had only had each other to rely on. Maybe it had been before that, back in the Two Rivers when he and Rand had first started to whisper dangerously, subversively, about leaving home to have adventures together, to see the world. Or maybe it had been years earlier, when he had found Rand, the first person for whom Mat wasn’t too loud and too odd.

         But whenever it had been, becoming Rand’s Warder had only set in stone what was already the truth. That Rand was a part of Mat’s life. Without that bonding…maybe things would have been different. Maybe Mat would be running for the hills, or trying to shift his world away from Rand. But….he knew too bitterly, too clearly, just what this was doing to his friend, and that knowledge made flight impossible.

         Besides, Mat had promised Rand to be his Gaidin, to protect him, and Matrim Cauthon might be a scoundrel and a trickster, but he kept his promises.

         Mat could feel his eyes sliding shut, feel sleep rushing in, the smell of Rand wrapping tight around him, soothing his exhausted bones. He didn’t fight it. He let it wash over him.

         He would keep his promise. He would find a way.

         For once, he did not dream. 

<X>

         Mat woke up groggy but warm, having pulled what seemed to be a particularly firm pillow under him in the night to lay across. His mouth was dry as dust, while he had expected to be sweaty and uncomfortable from having fallen asleep in his trousers and shirt, instead he felt soft loose wool from sleep pants and the brush of fur against his bare chest. Someone had undressed him. 

         Blinking away, Mat frowned. The light was low in the room, coming from the stone brazier at the center of their shared living space, which burned low with almost dead coals. The sky beyond the arrow slits a dark gray, ticking towards pale, though it would still be hours till it could properly be called morning. He had slept through the rest of the afternoon and most of the night besides. His heart leapt into his throat and he tries to move, to stand, Ingtar was leaving today, and they would be going with him, and wasted an entire night he might have spent on better things sleeping-

         Mat froze when something curled around his shoulders, keeping him from finishing his rise, the firm pillow beneath him revealing itself to be nothing of the sort. It hit him abruptly then, that his sense of Rand was no longer distant, as it had been when he’d drifted up, but closer and sharp, muted slightly by sleep, yet almost overwhelming in his abrupt awareness of Rand’s body beneath his.

         He had been laying, tucked against Rand’s chest, his head cradled under Rand’s chin and face pressed into his neck. Rand’s hands now rested on either shoulder, warm skin against warm skin, sending a tiny thrill through Mat. He could feel Rand just as groggy as he was, still half asleep but clinging to him, trying to hold him, to keep him from leaving.

         In the low light there really was something breathtaking about Rand, sprawled out beneath Mat. He was wearing a sleep shirt, the slit just barely showing the ridge of his collarbone, his red hair unkempt almost falling into his eyes. The fact that it needed cutting was exactly the kind of odd, disjointed thought that penetrated Mat’s mind in that moment.

         Moving his hands slowly, Mat reached up to take Rand’s wrists and move them from his shoulders, and Rand’s eyes flickered open, not all the way, but to twin slits that stared up at him underneath his eyelashes, blurry but still pleading.

         “Don’ go.” Rand murmured, barely audible. “Don' leave me.”

         Mat swallowed a sudden dryness in his throat. Fear bubbled through the Bond, and also….acceptance. A man who was pleading for something he thought was impossible, had already accepted he would not get. And something else: guilt, Mat thought.

         Leaning forward, letting himself sink back into Rand’s embrace, Mat pressed his lips to the corner of Rand’s mouth, whispering into his skin. “Already told you. Not going anywhere. You can’t get rid of me, Rand. Too late for that.”

         Rand let out a hot breath, and the Bond flared with that golden warm feeling again, almost overwhelming. Mat felt the grip on his shoulders loosen, but instead of falling away, Rand’s finger tips traced down his sides, brushing feather light over his skin until they reached his hips, right above where the sleep pants rested loosely. Abruptly his grip turned hard again, his palms pressing into the flesh of Mat’s side, his fingers digging into skin hard enough to bruise. Another light had entered Rand’s blurry eyes, something…intense Mat had never seen before.

         Mat felt his heart speed up against his chest, going from slow steady beat to hummingbird quick in seconds. Blood pounded in his ears, so hard that he felt veins in his neck throb with pain.

         “Rand-“ Mat started without knowing if  the next word was going to be ‘stop’ or ‘more’, but as shifting he cut off as something pressed against the back of his thigh. Something-

         It hit Mat like a lightning bolt that he was wearing Rand’s sleep pants, not his own, which is why they fell so loosely on him. 

         Rand, on the other hand, was sleeping in his small clothes.

         “Mine.” Rand murmured, still half asleep, tucking his chin over Mat’s head again, folding him tightly in his arms. “Mine. Always.”

         And then, Rand turned them over and fell back into slumber.

         Mat lay there for a while, waiting for his heart to slow down again (which took a fair bit longer than he thought it should have) and to be sure Rand had sunk back into sleep that Mat moving would not disturb him. It took some contorting, but finally he managed to slip out from beneath Rand and the blankets, and out into the open air.

         And regretted immediately when the frigid spring air hit his whole body like a slap, making him shiver from toes to ears. He tried to quash both the quiet voice that told him that surely he would be more comfortable, and warmer in Rand’s arms, not to mention that it would give him the chance to sleep till a at least semi-reasonable hour, but he couldn’t quite succeeded, so instead he forced himself to dress quickly and slip out from the room before he could succumb to that wish.

         Or listen to the even more dangerous one, suggesting that there were other activities, which could get them both much warmer.

         It was early hours of the morning still, the sky still dark in the arrow slits down the hall. Only a few servants were still laboring, mostly working to erase any evidence of the battle now two days gone. In another two days likely no one who had not fought that night would believe that Trollocs had succeeded in breaching the keep.

         Those servants were content to give Mat a wide berth, focusing on removing damaged wall hangings and scrubbing blood from the floors, and Mat was content to give them the same courtesy, pulling up the collar of his leather coat to hide his face.

         It wasn’t like Mat was innocent in these things. There wasn’t a girl in the Two Rivers who did not know that if you wanted a tickle and kiss and no questions asked or strings attached, then Mat Cauthon was your man. He enjoyed making women smile and laugh, both because he was a generous sort of person and because of the…thrill of it, a thrill he could never quite explain, but that made him feel larger than his skin somehow.

         Oh, their was scorn of course, but there was plenty of scorn for Mat Cauthon regardless, and there was nothing quite like the heady feeling of having a woman who sniffed at you the day before, come to you for a tumble in a barn to make her sweetheart jealous, or just to explore what she did and didn’t like.

          The problem was that it had just been women.

         Before Rand, Mat had never really considered pursuing men. Oh, he knew when men were attractive of course, but everyone noticed that sort of thing, or had their mind wander to the fact in an absent moment. Only a blind man could fail to notice the strength and power of Perrin’s shoulders, or the way that Davin al’Harn’s rear was well shaped, Light, Mat could even admit that Wil al’Seen, pretty as a girl with his narrow waist and soft curls might be fun for a kiss or two himself, even though that illusion shattered everytime the man opened his mouth and made his personality obvious. None of that meant that Mat was attracted to men, not that there was anything wrong with that either.

         And it wasn’t like you could like both, or at least, Mat had never heard of the like back in the Two Rivers. The way the Women’s Circle saw things, everything was best sorted into neat boxes for easier management. A man could like men, but it meant he got a different talk from either his mother or the Wisdom when he came of age, had a different set of rules governing how he was supposed to act, and a different set of expectations for marriage and life, the same again for a woman that liked other women. Someone who liked both did not fit into those neat boxes and traditions, whatever they were, and would likely get a stern lecture on being indecisive and childish from the Wisdom. The Women’s Circle was very big on keeping harmony in the village, and ambiguity, Nynaeve had told him often about other things, was the enemy of harmony.

         So, Mat kept his affections focused on women, like most men did. The way he did the sums, if you were going to be a man attracted to other men it made your life so much more complicated, made things so much messier- he had always just assumed that if you were going to pick that it must be an overwhelming sort of attraction, the kind of thing that just couldn’t be ignored or pushed to the side, the way Mat pushed his own thoughts of men to the side.

         That, or you must have truly fallen in love with another man beyond all sense and reason. Like Mat had with Rand bloody al’Thor.

         It was odd though that falling in love didn't somehow turn off the part of his brain that was capable of recognizing the attractiveness of others, men or women, the way he had always assumed it was supposed to. Oh it had sharpened his awareness of Rand’s attractiveness to be almost overwhelming, with sometimes awkward results, like now.

         But he still liked looking at women, and was starting to let himself enjoy looking at men too, and if that made him indecisive then well, it was far from the worst thing that would be said about him as things were going currently.

         In any event it was not like them both being men really complicated things that much more than they already were. Light, with everything else it seemed maybe the least complicated thing about their relationship. Not that it solved the core problem, which was Mat's complete lack of mechanical knowledge. He knew the broad strokes of what went where, but Mat's reputation as an excellent lover was not built on broad strokes, and Rand deserved better than some fumbling in the dark.

         My problems all seem to come back to a lack of information, Mat thought wryly. At least lack of knowledge on how to pleasure other men wouldn’t risk the world getting broken all over again. Still, it was something else to work on expanding his understanding about, and quickly.

         Well, his mother had always said that he read too little, and that it would get him in a tight spot one day. Unfortunately there was only one place in the Keep that he could solve that problem.

         Sighing, he turned his feet towards the library and tried not to let them drag.

<X>

         To Mat’s disappointment, he elderly hawkish woman that served as the Keep’s librarian was present when he arrived in the library. By ancient custom, even servants could go armed in Fal Dara, though in practice only the younger and more fit did so regularly. Yet after recent events, Mat had not seen a single servant without at least a dagger at their hip, from gray haired pensioners to wet nurses. The Librarian wore a pair of slightly curved twin swords on her back with a confidence that said she knew how to use them, and an ease that said that they might be used on noisy troublemakers as much as invading Trollocs.

         Mat smiled at her- with no visible effect, and politely excused himself to pursue the stacks. Even if the woman didn’t hate him for some reason, he couldn’t ask her to help him find what he was looking for. One was too embarrassing, the other too dangerous.

         Ironically finding a copy of the Karetheon Cycle proved easier than finding erotica. Given Shineran baths and everyone’s fear of the Dragon, he would have expected the reverse. But while it proved simple enough to locate the hulking leather tome covered in the script of the Old Tongue, an hour of searching turned up nothing in the way of instructional material for relations between men.

         Well, matters between him and Rand could stay as they were for now, Mat supposed. Rand seemed in no rush to press and Mat was not in the habit of pressuring anyone to do anything.

         Unfortunately, while he had found a copy of the Karaethon Cycle, he had failed to consider another point which only dawned on him when he sat to open it: staring down at the flowing script, he realized that it was incomprehensible to him.

         Mat frowned down at the yellowed pages, rubbing at his temples, trying to will that swell of memory to the surface, to no avail. He tried flipping to random pages and passages hoping to spark some shard of memory to no avail. He tried squinting and turning the book upside down then on its side, and in a particularly desperate moment, setting it down on the ground and laying on his belly in the chair, body tilted to try and get blood to rush to his head. Yet the script remained stubbornly incomprehensible.

         He was rising from that position, the open book balanced on his palms, the settling of his blood making him slightly nauseous, when a soft chuckle made him spin around.

         Moiraine stood framed between two shelves, looking as elegant as she had the day before, the gemstone dangling on her forehead seemed to catch the light in odd and unnatural ways, and her normally cool expression was tinged with obvious amusement, so obvious Mat felt blood rush to his ears, which of course, made him nauseous all over again. She was also carrying something: a tightly worked bundle of canvas bound with cord.

         “So, you believe.” Moiraine observed, gliding across the floor. Mat took an instinctive step back, and she halted halfway to him, with a sigh of exasperation, though it did not disturb her look of amusement. Mat for his part, had no intention of letting her within distance to touch him anytime soon.

         “Maybe.” Mat said carefully. “Maybe not. I could just as easily be casually interested after all that nonsense yesterday, or even looking for something that proves you were lying.” A contradiction in the Prophecies would be enough for that. If Mat could manage to read them anyways.

         Moiriane shook her head however. “I will believe you came to that book by chance when I see Whitecloaks kneel to Aes Sedai.” Moiraine responded dryly. “And I also do not think you would expend the effort to disprove something unless you suspected it might be true. Not that you can with that-'' She nodded at the tome. “The Old Blood might run strongly in you Matrim, but not that strongly.”

         Mat sniffed indignantly, but decided not to rise to the bait, instead snapping the book shut and shoving it into the leather script he had brought for that purpose. He would tie the belt of the script around his waist, so that the length of his divided coat would hide it from the eyes of the librarian. Very likely if he ever returned to Fal Dara, the librarian would chase him down and skin him alive, but Mat had no intention of returning in any event. Besides, surely Aglemar owed them some repayment for nearly dying under his roof?  

         “….What do you want, Moiraine?” He asked tightly. “I’m busy and time is short, if the Hunt is going to leave today.”

         That quelled Moiraine’s amusement, and she sighed. She reached out, offering him the bundle, and Mat took it, careful not to let her touch him. Aes Sedai didn’t need to always touch you to work the Power on you, but he knew it helped, made their victims more vulnerable. “…What is this?”

         “The banner of Lews Therin Telamon.” Moiraine said coolly, and Mat nearly threw it to the side to get it away from him on pure instinct. Instead he simply dropped it on the table as if it were a red adder and took a step back.

         “Why on earth-“ He spluttered, turning to stare at Moiraine.

         “Whether you believe Rand is the true Dragon Reborn or not-“ Her voice made it painfully clear of what she thought of him if he still doubted. “The Shadow believes it, and will pursue him to the ends of the earth. What happened at the Eye, what you two did, earned you a respite, but it can not last. This-“ She nodded at the bundle. “May yet save his life and serve as a shield against the Shadow.”

         “A shield?” Mat snapped skeptically. “How?”

         “Rand was correct.” Moiraine said calmly, staring Mat right in the eye as if trying to drive each word home with the force of her gaze. “The Eye was made for the Dragon, made to prepare him for his destiny. More than a hundred Aes Sedai gave their lives to protect The Horn, the seal, and this banner because they knew that the Dragon would have need of them, and that the Eye would be the only way to keep them safe until the time came. The Banner has a role in his destiny as surely as the Horn of Valere, and without it he will surely die.”

         Mat laid a hand on the bundle, and stared right back. “If he is really the Dragon.”

         Moiraine didn’t so much as flicker an eyebrow at his stubbornness. “…As his Gaidin, I can think of no one better to safeguard this against his need. When -“ She invested that word with so much venom Mat actually flinched back. “-he has need of it you will know. Be ready to present it to him.”

         Mat felt his teeth grind. “And if he isn’t the Dragon, having that might get him killed if anyone recognizes it.” Letting anyone see it, when they might recognize it as Moiraine had, would be as good as declaration of being the Dragon, and end with Rand in a cage like Logain had, or simply ripped apart by a mob.

         Moiraine raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you willing to wager Rand’s safety on him not being the Dragon?” She said pleasantly, and Mat could practically feel the trap closing in on him. “They tell me you enjoy dice, Matrim. Myself- I prefer cards. Dicing is purest luck, but in cards you must be wiser to succeed. You must know how to total up risk, how to read your opponents, and most of all, how to weigh your risks. We both know what the greater risk would be to Rand’s safety.”

         Mat felt his jaw spasm from the force of his teeth grinding, muscles locking up. Burn her if she wasn’t right, though. If Rand was the Dragon, then he would need that bloody banner to hand probably, but if he wasn’t then it was only a threat if someone saw, and that someone happened to have the knowledge of what it meant. Easy sums boiled down, but burn him if he would admit to her.

         Putting on his most insolent smile, Mat shrugged. “I’ll think about it. We don’t have any fancy decks of cards in the Two Rivers- that’s the sort of thing for nobles and merchants. Honest dice are good enough for us.” Well, for those that liked to gamble anyways, which was not many. Dice were another source of disharmony that the Women’s Circle disliked.

         His mother had been working to find and throw out his set as long as he had them, and had succeeded a few times forcing him to replace them. Nynaeve, on the other hand, had just taken a switch to his back anytime she had caught him, and no one but Rand had ever had any sympathy for him. His father had told him to bear the punishment  and treat it as a lesson to not get caught. But then his father had punished him only once in Mat’s entire life, strapping him from shoulders to knees when he had bet more silver then he had possessed, lost, and his father had to pay the difference. It had not been over the coin; the Cauthons were more than well off enough to afford it, but rather for the idiocy of taking a bet he had not had the coin for. Abell Cauthon believed that you paid your debts, kept your promises, and took your lumps when you failed, and had ensured Mat believed it too. 

         Keep your eyes peeled and wits about you and you can get the better of most people including some that think they can get the better of you , his da had said, but break your word and you were no better than scum.

         Except now Mat was hedged with promises, and tangled with debts besides, and he had no intention of paying the price of failure. So he had to win the game, no matter what.

         Moiraine just shrugged casually at his acceptance, clearly knowing he would keep the bloody banner safe as surely as if he had announced the fact. But she was not done.

         “As soon as you recover the dagger, you must make for Tar Valon.” Moiraine said calmly. “I do not need to tell you that our estimations were optimistic at best. You must be broken from the Dagger and that can only be done at The White Tower. Do not think Rand will be equal to the task: even if he could draw enough of saidin to attempt it- which he cannot, as it will take a Circle of Sisters working in concert to manage that feat- he would more likely kill you in ignorance then succeed in snapping the connection with the dagger.”

         “I am aware that rain falls from the sky.” Mat responded dryly. Internally though he felt the urge to curse. So Rand wouldn’t be strong enough on his own? Maybe if Nynaeve and Egwene helped, after some training in the Tower…if he could still trust them after they had been in the Tower.

         “The more you use the Dagger’s strength, the more time you will lose, as it exacts its price from your body and soul.” Moiraine continued and Mat froze, his lungs seeming to turn to stone. Moiraine’s expression did not change, nor did her tone of voice, but Mat no longer felt caught in a trap, he felt as if the hangman’s noose was being snug around his neck. “We do not understand the power that killed Airdhol and birthed Mashadar, the power that Mordeth holds and that has touched you. But it is corrupt and foul- not in the way that saidin is fouled, for saidin remains pure beneath the Dark One’s taint, for all that it destroys those who must reach through that taint to channel it. The core of Shadar Logoth’s power however is corrupt, and the more you feed on it, the more it feeds on you. It is a thing of fear and suspicion, hatred and cruelty, and nothing can be done with it or by it that is good. If you lean too heavily on it, by the time you reach Tar Valon and our aid, there may be nothing left of you to Heal.”

         Mat forced himself to breathe, and it hurt. His lungs did not want to open again, to take in air. “If you knew- then why….” He trailed off, unable to find the words. He knew very well why she had not simply had Lan kill him.

         The Bond. She could not be rid of him, without risking Rand, and False Dragon or true, the Tower wanted to use him as surely as birds flew.

         Moiraine did not deny it, simply nodding at what he left unspoken, and continued. “I will not tell you to avoid using Mashadar’s strength all together- not least because I know you pay me no heed, but also because the Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, and it may be that there will be need for it in the future. But use it only at need. Great need, Matrim, or you may do more to Break the World anew then Rand al’Thor could ever fear.”

         And with that, she turned on her heel and swept away. Anger surged in Mat, a fog which cleared away his fear and made him furious. Snatching up the bundle, he threw it after her, but Moiraine had already turned and disappeared into the stacks, and so it slammed uselessly against the wall and fell to the floor in a lump.

         For a moment he stood there shaking with rage. How dare she-! Just spilling out his secrets like that, all the things he thought he had so painstakingly hidden and then implying that-

         Reaching behind himself to snatch up his scrip, Mat froze again. The librarian was standing a short distance away- too far to have heard anything, but still put ice in his belly. She held one of her swords in hand, seeming to examine a bare few inches of steel, then Mat, then the steel again.

         Putting a smile on his face hurt, but he did it, and after a moment’s consideration Mat knuckled his forehead at her and picked up the scrip, to fasten to his waist. She bared a few more inches of steel, examining so closely you might have thought she was trying to memorize the grain in the metal. Sighing, Mat dug out the copy of the Karaethon Cycle that he had slipped into the script, set it down on the table, and made his best leg before turning to go as well. Aglemgar could pay him back some other way.

         A fine job you're doing not being noticed, Mat thought dryly. A fine job not leaving hints and trails for people to follow. And all for nothing in the end, but a lecture from Moiraine and a banner that might get Rand killed.

         He really should have just stayed in bed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: The Hunt Begins

         By the time he had finished in the library, Fal Dara was buzzing with activity. News had spread of Ingtar’s intent to pursue, preparations having been made through the night, and everyone was rushing about for the departure. Despite still being the early hours of the morning- the sky barely pale enough to see by- everyone moved with full alertness and purpose. Mat had felt Rand awaken- or rather been woken, likely by servants, given how groggy and frustrated he already was- and move towards the Women’s Apartments again. That would be to say his goodbyes to Egwene and Nynaeve, maybe for the last time.

         Part of Mat wanted to join him. Underneath it all, Egwene was a friend, whatever had happened between them, and Nynaeve was….well, Nynaeve. Not saying goodbye to the Wisdom would be like not saying goodbye to his own mother. 

         But then, he hadn’t said goodbye to his mother when he’d fled the Two Rivers, what seemed like a lifetime ago now. There hadn't been time.

         And now…

         Well, Rand could say goodbye to them both. Mat had other things that needed seeing too.

         The stables were more or less as Mat expected them to be. Northwind, his leggy and dark-coated gelding, and Red the chestnut brown bay stallion, were already saddled and laden with his and Rand’s effects, including Mat’s new quarterstaff, quiver, and bow, strung and hanging beside the quiver in a tooled leather saddle case. Somehow, Mat had not doubted that Moiraine had seen to the details. She might prate about the Wheel weaving as it willed, but Moiraine spun the lives of those around her to her designs with an almost insulting ease.

         Seized by a sudden fit of stubborness, Mat shooed the grooms and rechecked everything with his own two hands. Unsurprisingly, an empty saddle bag to Northwind’s right fit the bundle he carried perfectly. Maybe it was unnecessary to shove it in with quite so much force, but Mat didn’t care. Instead he focused on taking stock of the supplies, trying savagely to find something Moiraine had missed, some small proof of her fallibility. Unfortunately, he found none. Four spare good shirts for traveling, and a spare pair of britches, as well as two more sets of wool stockings, were folded neatly into a bundle behind the saddle, beside the sleeping roll. The cord Lan had given him was there too, coiled carefully, and with the golden eagle pin stabbed into the knot.

         The remaining saddle bag held rations of flatbread and dried meat, and a small tin cup with fork, spoon, and knife snapped into the lid were in the other saddle bag, as was his tinderbox, sewing kit, a plain sheathed carving knife, and a few other travelers’ necessities. So was his leather dice cup, which held both his set of six spotted dice, and six emblem dice, carved from pale bone.

         Mat stared into that cup for a long moment. That had been hidden well, by habit more than actual thought someone would throw it away. If Moiraine had weaseled out that, she had missed nothing.

         One day you’ll slip, Aes Sedai, and if luck is with me I’ll be there to see it.

         Mat checked over Rand’s packs too, more for the form of it then anything else, though aside from a truly impressive number of fancy coats packed into the free saddle bag- it seemed Moiraine expected them to attend more then one ball on their hunt, for some reason- it was much the same. So he checked over the horses, to the horror of the grooms who were all huddled into a knot on the other side of the stable. After he had looked under every hoof, peered into both creature’s eyes, and even checked the teeth, which he already been done back in Caemlyn, he felt calm enough to mount without spooking Northwind, which he did, and taking Red’s reins, trotted out into the courtyard.

         The courtyard was also largely what he expected. The battlements were packed with archers, and a square of soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder making a rough wall meant to hold back the crowd of townsfolk, servants, and lesser nobles who had gathered to see Ingtar and the Aymrlin off. That wall parted for Mat, to allow him into the center where the group was still gathering in the courtyard, or rather, where the two groups were still gathering.

         The Amyrlin’s huge palanquin sat empty at the center at the center, the curtains drawn back, surrounded by Warders in their color shifting cloaks, which gathered all together and blown by the wind, werequeasy-making to look at. The Aes Sedai’s horses were present as well, including Moiraine’s dainty white mare, but none of the Aes Sedai were in evidence.

         Just far enough away to be clearly a different party, Lord Ingtar was inspecting his soldiers: twenty bulky lancers with man and horse alike clad in heavy steel armor, all standing in neat, well-disciplined rows as Ingtar rode between them. The only thing that marked him out as a Lord among commoners was his helmet, which had the emblem of his house, the upturned moon, graven on the brow, but Mat was familiar enough the man to wish that another of Aglemar’s bannerman had been chosen to lead the hunt. Mat did not understand how Rand could like the man, he was too tall for starters- and never mind that he was still shorter than Rand himself- and whatever his strong jaw and merry laugh might gain him, was lost by his off-putting intensity and pride.

         Not wanting to be subject to Ingtar’s inspection, Mat moved towards the back of the group, where he spotted Loial and Perrin milling awkwardly, clearly part of the Shienaran’s group, but not standing in the same neat lines as everyone else. Both were atop huge Dhurran stallions, though Loial’s looked like a squat pony underneath his hulking size, and both turned to regard him wearily as he approached.

         “Light, it’s good to see you both. I was worried it would be nothing but stone-faced soldiers for me and Rand from here on in,” Mat said with a grin, which Loial returned gently.

         “Of course we are coming Mat- you are our friend, and we can not leave you in your hour of need. Besides, I would very much like to keep traveling with Ta’veren, at least for a little while longer.” Mat decided that he would be magnanimous and let that slide. It wouldn’t do to bonk someone on the head when they were volunteering to help save your life.

         Mat turned his grin to Perrin, but it faltered when Perrin sniffed and turned to look away. “Perrin?” Mat asked quietly, in confusion.

         “You really think I would leave you in the lurch?” Perrin said quietly. “After everything the three of us have been through? You really think I would just walk away, and let fate have you?” He snapped the reins and sighed. “You would know better if you had bothered to talk to me yesterday.”

         “I was resting.” Mat said defensively, shifting his shoulders, and Perrin did turn to glare at him then.

         “I checked the infirmary. They said you didn’t come back. And I checked your chamber in our room. You weren't there either- so unless you were sleeping in a tree somewhere, I know you and Rand were sneaking around on your own. Again.” Mat opened his mouth to protest and Perrin cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Rand’s been bad enough lately, putting on airs like he has. He doesn't need you feeding into this fantasy he’s got in his head of being a Lord.”

         Mat gaped at Perrin, stunned. He was used to people doubting his word, but not about sleeping the whole day away. Of course it wasn’t like he could explain where had been sleeping. Perrin was….proper sometimes. Painfully proper.

         Mat still thought he would have married Laila Dearn if Rand and Mat had not chanced to stumble upon them before they had more than their shirts off. A good thing too: Perrin had been starry eyed for weeks beforehand, unused to being infatuated, but it had faded in a few more weeks, and the two had parted on friendly if not warm terms. 

         Still, Perrin would have married her if they hadn’t been interrupted, and he was more then capable of fetching Nynaeve if he thought Mat was crossing a line. The Wisdom wasn’t out of Fal Dara yet, and she may not have a switch to hand, but she could probably work something out with the Power, especially if she got herself into a fine enough temper about Mat ‘despoiling’ Rand. No one would believe it had been any other way, if it came out that Mat had slept last night in Rand’s bed.

         “Perrin.” Mat said patiently. “I was not skulking around last night, I promise.” Perrin’s shoulders slacked a bit. He knew how Mat felt about promises. “And I am not feeding into Rand’s airs- he didn’t even mean- Perrin!”

         But Perrin had already turned his horse around, refusing to even look at Mat. Mat was about ready to ride over to shake the other man, but Loial laid one huge hand on Mat’s shoulder before he could, holding him steady.

         “Perrin is still hurt about before.” Loial said gently. “Rand said some things that were not very nice to us about how-“

         “How all of Loial’s groves could burn for all they mattered.” Perrin spat. “And how I am too slow witted and ox-like to keep around. But please, don’t allow me to disparage the honor of your Lordship, Sir.”

         If Mat was stunned before, he was astonished now. “What on earth are you talking about, Perrin? Light, if you have a problem with Rand, you have a problem with Rand- I think what he said is lousy too, for the record, and I don’t think he meant any of it. But I had no part of that. And who are you calling Sir?”

         “Your manner of dress.” Loial said gently. “It may not be helping with Rand’s….overconfidence. Or Perrin’s frustration.”

         Mat blinked. His what? And then it hit him that he was still in the clothes from before- a fresh shirt to be sure, but the same sleeveless leather duster, metal bracers, and single pauldron, all  had him looking like the picture of a Borderland armsman. Heartsworn, Lan had called it, whatever that meant. But something also hit Mat, something which wasn’t different: Perrin was dressed largely the same. Oh, his clothes were all new and well made, and a fair bit finer than he could have gotten back in the Two Rivers. But they were still an unadorned wool shirt and britches, simple travelers boots, and a plain green cloak. Perrin still cut the same image he had when they had arrived in Fal Dara. It appeared Moiraine only thought Mat and Rand had come up in the world, for good or ill.

         “Perrin-“ Mat began then changed what he was going to say. “…You don’t have to do this. Not for me. I know…I know I’ve caused you nothing but trouble, and that you and Rand aren’t getting on right now. Don’t feel like you have to do this for me. Please. I’ll be fine and…you can still go home. You can still get free. The Aes Sedai have their hooks too deeply into me and Rand maybe, but not you. Not yet.”

         That seemed to crack through Perrin’s wall, at least a little, and he turned to regard Mat with those strange golden eyes, the ones he had gained after their separation at Shadar Logoth. Mat wasn’t foolish enough to think any of them were untouched, or that things could ever be the way they were, and in some ways- the image of Rand sprawled under him popped into his head unbidden, but he didn’t try and shove it away- in some way he didn’t want them to go back to the way they were. But Perrin deserved to be free. At least one of them should be free.

         “What hooks?” Perrin asked, his voice low.

         Mat couldn’t answer that, and in his silence, Perrin turned away in disgust again. Before Mat could try to fix it, however, there was a rustle in the gathered crowd and the wall of soldiers parted again, allowing the Aes Sedai to pass through and make their way to their mounts, Moiraine was among them, gliding across the stones, as at home as a swan among her flock. No sign of Lan however, which could mean only one thing.

         Standing in his stirrups, Mat gazed out over the crowd, not caring about the odd looks he got from the Sisters. He could feel Rand close by, and sure enough, he stood in one of the arches, talking quietly with Lan, though about what Mat could not have said. Whatever it was, confusion radiated strongest, and then sudden understanding, as the Warder swept away. Following him, Rand entered the open space at the center of the courtyard as well, making his way over to Mat and Red. Lowering himself back to his saddle, Mat held the reins steady so that Rand could mount without issue, which earned him a smile, warm and kind, and a flood of affection through the Bond.

         Light, someone should tell Rand not to do that. It wasn’t good for Mat’s heart.

         Mine. Always mine . The memory of that throaty whisper in the small hours came back unbidden and Mat couldn’t stop himself from blushing, which brought another spike of confusion to the Bond, which irritated Mat no end. The thing was bloody inconvenient, especially this close.

         Turning to Perrin, Rand opened his mouth, and cut off as Perrin sniffed in disgust and kicking his Dhurran in the ribs, rode to the other side of the party, before Rand could speak. Mat sighed, glancing at Rand’s coat- crimson with gold embroidery on the breast and the cuffs, but either way, too fancy for traveling.

         Instead, Rand turned to Loial. “Loial, before I- I said things to you I should not have, and I hope you’ll forgive me. You have every right to hold them against me, but I hope you won’t.”

         Loial smiled, his tufted ears twitching and lifting, if only a little. “I say things I should not all the time. The Elders always said I spoke an hour before I thought. Do not worry Rand, all is forgiven and forgotten.”

         Rand smiled, and relief washed through the Bond, which made Mat smile in turn. Rand al’Thor was exactly the kind of fool to think driving off his friends for their own safety was best, and exactly the kind of good person who would feel awful about doing it. Perrin would be a harder nut to crack, but if Mat had to bonk him to make him see sense, he would. Everything would come right, it had to.

         An idea occurred to Mat- or rather a question, but before he could ask it, the crowd fell silent as Aglemar and The Amyrlin appeared. The silence was less, Mat thought, from awe, and more because they were arguing. Loudly.

         “But Mother,-“ Aglemar was protesting, a touch frantic. “You’ve had no time to rest from the journey here! Stay at least a few days more. I promise you a feast tonight such as you could hardly get in Tar Valon.”

         The Amyrlin did not even break her stride, more imperious than Queen Morgase. “I cannot, Agelmar. You know I would if I could. I had never planned to remain long, and matters urgently require my presence in the White Tower. I should be there now.”

         “Mother, it is a shame that you come one day and leave again so soon. I swear to you, there will be no repetition of the breach. I have tripled the guard on the city gates as well as the Keep. I have tumblers coming in from the town, and a bard coming from Mos Shirare. Why, King Easar will be on his way from Fal Moran! I sent word as soon as…”

         The Amyrlin cut him off with a sharp gesture as she moved before the twenty Shienarans. Ingtar was almost out of his saddle before she stopped him with a flick of her fingers. Aglemar might as well have been a boy of ten for all the mind she paid him. A sullen boy of ten.

         “Peace favor your sword and House Shinowa.” The Amyrlin said. Despite him being mounted and towering over her, all the command seemed to be hers. She turned to gesture Loial, forward, and without thinking, Mat followed, along with Rand as he moved up beside the Shinearan. There was a sound of disgust which was almost certainly Perrin, and Rand blushed, but the Amyrlin paid him no mind. “Glory to the builders, Loial Kiseran.”

         “You honor us, Mother. May peace favor Tar Valon.” Ingatr bowed from his saddle, and the Shienaran followed suit.

         “All honor to Tar Valon.” Loial intoned formally and followed suit with his own bow, though his horse whined at the discomfort. Not wanting to seem rude- she was the Amyrlin afterall- Mat bowed as well, and Rand a moment after.

         “You ride to find the Horn of Valere.” The Amyrlin said, her voice swelling to fill the entire courtyard. “And the hope of the world rides with you. The Horn cannot be left in the wrong hands, especially in Darkfriends’ hands. Those who come to answer its call will come to whoever blows it, and they are bound to the Horn, not to the Light.”

         That certainly caused a stir, fear and panicked murmurs broke out among the crowd, and even some of the guards shifted uncomfortably.

         “In Illian, the Hunters called to the King and the Council of Nine are still drinking and toasting with the Feast of Tevan, but the true hunt belongs to you. The true trust of fate belongs to you. The true hope of the world rests in you. Men and women seeking glory have hunted the Horn of Valere for thousands years, yet it is not glory that calls you to this, but duty. The duty that has safe guarded the world since before there was an Illian, since the world was first breaking, and your ancestors refused- even as the land flowed like a molten ocean, and the sky rained the dread fires upon the earth- to turn and run, to leave the Blight unwatched and uncontained. You have been the bulwark of humanity through wars and upheaval and ruin. And now-“          

         Mat frowned, not hearing the next words. He could feel….something, a prickle on the back of his neck. Faint, like a bad smell in the air, and not really there, but…it nagged at something in him. Listening to the Amyrlin with only half an ear, he moved his hand to the bowcase hanging from his saddle, looking about as best he could, going so far as to twist in his his saddle to look behind him, not caring about the censorious looks he got from the Shinearians.

         Something was wrong. There was the crowd, held back by the line of soldiers. Aglemar, standing behind the Amyrlin, his servants behind him, the Warders and their Aes Sedai beyond them, archer up on the walls, a faint shadow creeping behind them, guards at every entrance to the wall towers, and the stairs leading upwards from the bailey-

         Mat blinked. A shadow? That made no sense.

         He looked back, turning his head, and nearly passed the man over again. It was a man, Mat thought, moving behind the line of archers, not creepy, not skulking, simply walking casually as if it were an open street. The archers didn’t so much as glance at him. Could he be one of them? But no, he had no bow. And he couldn’t be an officer, or any Shienaran Soldier, they all stood stock still with respect and deference, hanging on the Amyrlin’s every word. And there was something else about him, even at this distance Mat should have been able to make out something of the man in some detail, yet his eyes seemed to slide around him unseeing. Somehow, Mat knew if he looked away, he would not be able to name a hair, skin color, anything. Somehow, Mat knew, if he looked away, he would not be able to find the man again, even if he stood stock still. His mind…resisted seeing him.

         Mat’s grip tightened on the shaft of his own bow, the reins dropping from his hand entirely as he moved to gesture for Rand to fall behind him, and hang Shineran politeness.  

         The man paused between two of the archers, seemed to realize Mat had spotted him, then everything seemed to happen at once. He raised something: a crossbow, the string already drawn, quarrel loaded, and Mat urged Northwind to spin. The gelding was no warhorse, but Mat was one of the best riders in the Two Rivers, and the horse knew him well by now, having been through battles in the Blight, fighting Shadowspawn under Mat’s careful direction and care. Northwind kicked, but he spun too, allowing Mat to face his target. The crossbow finished coming up, and the man- the assassin- seemed to focus, leveling the point it seemed, straight for Rand. Mat snapped his wrist, fitting an arrow to bowstring, and pulling fletching to cheek in one smooth motion, but he was not quick enough. The crossbow string gave a snap that echoed around the courtyard, someone shouted- in anger or alarm, Mat didn’t know- and just at the right moment, Rand turned his head to look at Mat’s movement.

         Mat loosed, and his own arrow sailed true, striking the assassin in the throat. The quarrel sailed past Rand’s head, a faint stinging shooting through the bond, and someone screamed, only to be caught off with a wet choking sound.

         The entire courtyard erupted into chaos. Every sword in the area seemed to leave its sheath at once, creating a great sound of scraping metal and leather that was painful to Mat’s ears. Horses whinnied and danced, women and men cried out and screamed, children wailed, and all around guards gaped, trying to find the source of the chaos. Mat knew, Mat watched the assassin stagger, swaying as their life’s blood was leached away, falling over the edge of the wall and down the two stories to strike the ground with full crack, chest first.

         Oddly, Mat felt….cold inside. He had killed Trollocs before, and other Shadowspawn in the Blight, and Aginor too, though Mat still found that hard to believe sometimes. But never just…a person. Even if it was a Darkfriend. Light, was it a Darkfriend? It had to be.

         “That.” The Amyrlin said and Mat snapped around to look at her. There was rent in her sleeve, blood running down the gold and white cloth to her fingertips. Yet she looked not the least bit perturbed. “Was some excellent shooting, Master Cauthon.”

         The Shienarans were staring at him in stunned amazement, even as an Aes Sedai in nearly solid white rushed passed to try and reach the man that Mat had killed. And they were not alone: Ingtar was gaping at Mat, and most of the soldiers and no small number of the Warders were looking at him with….respect? Several Aes Sedai were staring at him too, but instead of the judgment of yesterday it was…considering. Considering in a way that Mat did not like at all. Rand did not seem to like it either, if the bond was any indication; a surge of protectiveness and fierce affection shown bright in the back of his mind, burying that faint stinging pain almost completely.

         I already have an Aes Sedai, Light help me. Mat thought, a little hysterically. Again that morning surfaced in his mind. Mine. Always. Light, and I thought I would need to be the one to keep them away from him.

         “It was nothing.” Mat said gruffly, hunching his shoulders, and turning Northwind back around again. Rand was looking at him, breath held, and Mat felt the urge to curse. The quarrel had just barely nicked his cheek, leaving a tiny gash which leaked red down to his chin. Rand was lifting a shaking hand to touch the cut, and without thinking, Mat pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and shoved it at Rand, who smiled and pressed it over the wound. Everyone was still staring at him, at least everyone that wasn’t quieting a horse or a panicked onlooker. “Any boy in the Two Rivers could have made that shot.” He said defensively.

         “But not many could have noticed a Gray Man,” A cool female voice announced, and the crowd parted, to allow the Aes Sedai who had rushed to the assassin to pass back through, behind her, two soldiers were stooping over the corpse. A slender little man, Mat realized. With brown hair. He could remember that now.

         “A Gray Man in Fal Dara!” Ingtar said, his voice full of as much horror as a man announcing his own damnation. “One of the Soulless made it inside the walls of the Keep?!”

         Mat exchanged confused looks with Rand. What on earth was a Gray Man? Loial must have caught their confusion, because he said, his voice low- for an Ogier anyways- “Assassins for the Shadow. They give up their Souls at Shayol Guhl itself in order to be granted….imperceptibility, you could say. The ability to move unseen, unnoticed. They are rare, and dangerous. Few Darkfriends are willing to sacrifice what remains of their humanity, even for what it gains them.”

         Mat shivered, recalling how his eyes had tried to slide away from the man. Luck had been with him. Or had it been something else? Had that sense of…wrongness come from the Warder Bond? Mashadar? Or the Old Blood? Light, what was he turning into?

         Gray Men may give up their humanity, Mat thought bleakley. But I am watching mine be stripped away.

         “…Are you certain, Alviarin?” The Amyrlin asked- she had waved off Leane’s offer of Healing, sending her instead to one of Lord Aglemar’s servants. The one, Mat realized ruefully, that had taken the Crossbow bolt meant for Rand. If it had been luck, it seemed that his had come at the cost of another. He shivered…but could not make himself wish it had been any different, even so.

         Alviarin nodded curtly. “I am certain, Mother. No soul has dwelt in that flesh for a very long time.” She was a pretty woman with dark hair and a swan-like neck, but icy instead of just serene. “It seems the Shadow does not give up easily, not the chance to slay an Amyrlin.” There was something very like censure in those words, and for a moment Mat watched the two women stare at each other, blank faces conveying nothing, before Alviarin, coolly curtsied, and murmured, “Forgive me Mother, I spoke out of turn.”

         “You did, Daughter. You will report for penance upon our return to the Tower.” The Amylrin responded. “Return to the others.”

         Alviarin curtsied again and obeyed, but before the Amyrlin could turn, Aglemar had thrown himself at her feet. “Forgive me Mother, I have failed your safety beyond all honor. Trollocs yesterday, and a Gray Man today! I feel the same in bones, shame beyond knowing. I offer my life to the White Tower in my shame, little recompense that it is.”

         “Nonsense, Agelmar, I’ve had worse cuts cleaning fish,” The Amyrlin said curtly. “I want neither your death nor your shame. Neither serves your people or your duty. Up I said! Stand, Lord of Fal Dara!” she snapped, and Aglemar rose. Her voice softened. Marginally. “You have not failed me, and you have no reason for shame. Last year in the White Tower itself, with my own guards at every gate and Warders all around me, a man with a knife came within five steps of me. A Whitecloak no doubt, though I’ve no proof.” She shook her head looking down at her sleeve. “…A poor shot, our Gray Man. If it was at me he aimed.” She seemed to just muse the last, as if saying it without really believing it, but Mat knew it was meant for him and Rand. It was not her that the shot had been aimed for.

         Whether you believe it or not, Moiraine’s voice whispered in his memory. The Shadow does.

         “Mother-“ Aglemar began, moving close, pleading. “-if there are Gray Men after you, you must allow me to send some of my  soldiers to guard your party, as far as the river at least. I could not live if any more harm came to you in Shienar. Please, return to the Women’s Apartments, I will guard them with my life until you are ready to travel.” Mat did not doubt somehow that Aglemar would sit right beside Nisura on a stool, sword across his knees, doing cross stitch himself, if it would get the Amyrlin to remain.

         “Be at ease,” The Amyrlin said absently. “This scratch will not delay me a moment. Yes, yes, I will gladly accept your men as far as the river, if you insist, but I will not allow this to delay Lord Ingtar a moment longer. Every heartbeat counts, until the Horn is found again, and this attack may have served no other purpose than delaying or halting pursuit. Your leave, Lord Aglemar, to order your oath men?”

         Aglemar bowed his head in assent. At that moment, Mat suspected he would have given her Fal Dara if she had asked.

         The Amyrlin turned back to the gathered Shienarans under Ingtar, who had settled their mounts and fallen back into line at his direction. She did not look at Mat or Rand again.

         “I wager Illian does not give its Great Hunt of the Horn so rousing a send-off,'' the Amyrlin said with a smile. Somehow, even with blood running down her arm and a ripped sleeve, she still seemed a queen above queens. “But yours is the true Great Hunt. You are few so you may travel quickly, yet enough to do what you must. I charge you, Lord Ingtar of House Shinowa. I charge all of you, find the Horn of Valere, and let nothing bar your way.”

         Ingtar whipped his sword from his back and kissed the blade. “By my life and soul, by my house and honor, I swear it, Mother,” he intoned formally.

         “Then ride,'' the Amyrlin said, and turning his mount, Ingtar rode, the others falling into a neat double column behind him.

         Rand, digging his heels into Red’s flanks, followed suit, but Mat remained, just long enough to fix Moiraine with a final look. She stood utterly unruffled in the midst of all that chaos, giving no sign she had ever been disturbed in her life. For a moment, just a moment, her eyes meet Mat’s….and she inclined her head.

         Kicking Northwind into motion, and not putting the bow away, Mat followed after the others.

         Their respite, it seemed, was over, if it had ever really been. The shadow stalked them once more. Hunted them, once more. But Mat was stronger then he had been fleeing Shadar Logoth. He was more than had been. This time, he hunted too, and not for the Horn, or even the dagger.

         I will find the truth, Aes Sedai, whatever it takes, and I will protect him. 

         Whatever it takes.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: What Blood Holds  

         The Hunt rode in silence for the most part, passing out through the gates of the Keep and into the city of Fal Dara. The masses, assembled to watch the departure of the Amyrlin and her entourage, gave no more than a scattered cheer to the familiar sight of Lord Ingtar, leading a group of soldiers that could easily have been a countryside patrol. Their eyes passed right over Rand, Perrin and Mat, who rode at the rear of the column: likely seeing a young Lord, his retainers and no more, Mat thought ruefully.

         Loial excited comment of course, and a few cries of ‘glory to the builders!’, but for the most part, over the month since Loial’s arrival the people had grown so used to the sight of the Ogier that he really could not compare. Not with the prospect of the Amyrlin Seat.

         Halfway through the city, the crowds thinned and dwindled. That would change, Mat knew from having watched Logain being paraded through Caemlyn, the crowd swelling and moving, the largest clump always following the Amyrlin’s procession once it began, but for now Mat couldn’t feel anything but relief as the number of eyes following them fell off, though he did feel a quiet spark of concern when someone rode out of that crowd of onlookers to join Ingtar at the head of the column. An older man, Mat thought, in plain clothes and lacking the warrior’s topknot of Shienaran soldiers, though he carried a short-bladed sword on one side of his hip, and a notched sword breaker on the other; but all they did was ride together and speak softly.

         Still that knot of anxiety in Mat's chest would not loosen until the gates came into sight. Nor would the memory of Logain in his cage fade completely. It could all still go wrong yet.

         The knot did loosen at the sight of the gates, however, and relief washed through him. A touch of guilt, too- Agelmar had been nothing but generous, and his people warm and welcoming. In truth Mat hadn’t minded most of his time in Fal Dara but that couldn’t change the fact that he felt like a ferret who had slipped free of a snare.

         After a time, Rand turned to Perrin, opening his mouth, and Perrin, before he could even start, kicked his Dhurrin in the ribs and rode ahead towards Ingtar and the front of the column. Rand’s mouth set with a determined line, and abruptly he seemed to decide that he wanted to ride at the front as well, and kicking Red’s flanks, followed.

         “Stubborn.” Mat murmured, but he knew it held more affection than censure. Still, he felt a stab of embarrassment through the Bond that told him that Rand had heard him- and more saw his ears turn a touch pink as he rode up the column. Mat made no move to follow: when Perrin became muley, he could not be moved, not until he’d calmed down at least. But if Rand wanted to bang his head against a stone wall, Mat wouldn’t stop him.

         Two Rivers women often spoke of managing their husbands and sweethearts; certain that without someone to look out for him, a man could not find which hole in his pants to stick his feet through. Mat did not want that to be his relationship with Rand- he wanted to protect Rand, to do his duty as a Gaidin, but that meant trusting Rand too, and letting him screw up sometimes. 

         That was what Lan had said anyways, during their lessons: you could not protect your Aes Sedai from everything, especially not herself. Or himself. And some things you shouldn’t protect them from: the only way they would learn and grow would be to fail and move on. Perrin would forgive Rand and all would come right eventually, Mat hoped anyways, but Rand hated it when people were mad at him, and it would do him no harm to have to learn to live with someone not liking him for a little while and him being unable to change that.

         A niggling thought at the corner of his mind pointed out that, if Rand was the Dragon, he would have to learn to live with a great many people not liking him, even hating him, making this a lesson worth learning, but Mat shoved it away.

         “I wanted to congratulate you, Mat.” Loial spoke up abruptly, pulling him out of his glum thoughts.

         Frowning, Mat turned to regard Loial. “On what?” Mat asked slowly. “Surviving being stabbed?”

         “Well, yes, on that.” Loial responded, ears twitching in embarrassment. “Why, you look remarkable, given how recently you almost died!” His ears fell and a blush appeared on his cheeks. “Forgive me, I know how humans hate to be reminded of the turning of the wheel, given how short your-“

         “What are you congratulating me for, then?” Mat cut in. If he did not redirect the Ogier quickly, that could lead to a whole list of human faults being accidentally listed, and Loial quickly apologizing for them.

         “You and Rand of course- your relationship.” Loial said, smiling, probably glad to have been rescued.

         Mat meanwhile felt as if Loial had punched him in the gut. “You know?”

         They had been so careful! Well. Perrin clearly suspected, but he was Perrin. And Egwene and Nyaeve knew of course, but they also knew about Rand’s channeling so it wasn’t like there were any secrets from them. And Moiraine and Lan probably knew as well, which meant the Amyrlin and that Brown Sister did too.

         Really, the list of those who knew things about Mat Cauthon and Rand al’Thor that really were none of their business was far too long for Mat’s liking. Though, he admitted grudgingly, it was Egwene’s business given her and Rand’s history, and Nynaeve too, as she was the Wisdom, and everyone’s business was her business. But that was beside the point.

         Loial just blinked in confusion. “Of course I know. You two practically announced it to the world. Or rather the Women’s Apartments, but that was good as, things being as they are in Mafal Dadaranell.”

         “What in the name of the Light are you talking about?” Mat snapped so loud that the soldiers ahead of them turned, but Mat did not care, twisting in his saddle to stare up at Loial.

         Look shifted uncomfortably atop his Dhurran, ears twitching. “…You claimed the right of being Rand’s Heartsworn. Cue’vin.”

         Mat nodded slowly. That was the word Lan had told him to use: Heartsworn, along with the formal phrasing he had given. He had assumed it had been some sort of statement that he was Rand’s armsman or bodyguard or some such. But hearing it spoken back to him in the Old Tongue made his stomach sink. That part of him capable of understanding these things, that quiet swell of memory in the back of his mind, told him Cue’vin was stronger than that. Implied more. But how much more?

         Loail kept right on. “I know the tradition is not really recognized much in the south anymore, and has not been since oh, the War of the Hundred Years? But the Borderlands keep many of the old ways that others have forgotten or lost, and it makes sense of course, that you still retain it- it was Manetheren that began the tradition after all. After the Breaking of the World, when it really seemed like humankind might be driven to extinction, there was a great pressure in many of the burgeoning groups of survivors for people to continue their family lines, for the good of the species, even at the cost of individuals who…ah….could not love partners with whom traditional reproduction was possible.”

         Loial’s ears were twitching wildly now, and his eyebrows had drawn down in embarrassment. Mat just stared at him, and he kept going. “It was Manetheren that first formally recognized the bond between two persons of the same gender as worthy of recognition, and distinct from that between a man and woman. Or rather, recognized the bond between Prince Akiaean al Pelen, who was the greatest warrior of his time, famous for his speed and skill with the spear, and Paedrig al Minias, his wise advisor and companion.” Mat blinked and again he felt that sense of…deja vu, almost. A face, stern and pretty as a girl’s with curly gold hair but intense black eyes. And another face, softer but darker, with dark hair in ringlets, and wise gray eyes.

         Mat shook his head to dispel the images, mouth dry, but Loial did not stop. He had the bit in his teeth now, and he was gesturing broadly as spoke, as if giving a lecture.

         “Within two hundered years almost all of the Ten Nations acknowledged the bond between two persons of the same gender, to the point that when Queen Amaresu of Almoren refused to marry as it would betray her oaths of devotion to her own Cue’vin, the maiden and dancer Elmarin, the nobility of Almoren were forced to accept her decision. By the time of the Trolloc Wars, Devotion of the Spear and the Dawn, a collection of stories detailing relationships between Cue’vin, was so popular that they had gained something of a mythology around them, and were widely culturally recognized, or at least respected and honored. Few copies remain of it however: I did manage to find one at the Royal Library at Cairhien, which of course makes sense as Almoren would one day become Cairhien. Though few remember Amaresu as more than a legend there, and none realize how much Tova, and now Cairhien, owe to her and Almoren, from which they descend. The Trolloc Wars are to blame, I am afraid: so much was destroyed during the ravages of the Shadow, and afterwards there was a shift away from viewing a life commitment between two persons of the same gender as distinct from marriage as it existed between men and women, so the stories lost much of their importance, especially in the South, though in the Borderlands-“

         “Loial.” Mat interrupted, voice he knew, deceptively calm. “Are you telling me that everyone thinks that Rand and are….Married?” 

         Loail blinked at him. “Well. No. Not exactly. But…not exactly not that, either.”

         Mat shook with rage. All that effort into sneaking around and hiding and keeping their relationship private and Light- everyone knew! And thought-

         Mat felt the profound urge to scream. And to strangle Lan Mandragoran with his bare hands.

         A part of him, a small part of him, understood that Lan had been doing them a favor: this explanation would disguise certain facts that might otherwise might draw attention to him and Rand. Afterall, people who had been in a relationship less then a month, as Rand and Mat had (and even that might be a generous estimate considering how much time Rand had avoided him) were not so attuned to each other’s emotions and needs, nor so willing to draw weapons to defend their partner. But if they were….Cue’vin no one would think think it out of the ordinary: they would just assume Mat was picking up on signs of Rand’s emotions that they missed, or that he was standing between Rand and danger out of love, rather then the fact that Rand’s death would surely mean his own.

         It was a good lie. But that didn’t change Mat’s desire to bite something.

         Mat exhaled sharply, and Loial, though clearly confused, offered him a comforting pat to his shoulder. Of course, Loial being an Ogier, that almost threw Mat from his horse.

         “I….am sorry. Did I say something upsetting? I know I can let my tongue run away from me, Elder Haman always says-“

         “No.” Mat replied curtly. “No, you didn’t say anything wrong, it's just….silly human things.” Light! Would his relationship with Rand be allowed any semblance of normalcy? Unlikely, as long as there were Aes Sedai and Warders and fate to meddle. Was Rand the Dragon? What would that mean for them? Mat shoved that thought away. It was hard- but he could do nothing about it right now, so he made himself think of other things. Like what he could do.

         “Loial, you know a lot, right?” Mat said quietly. “About the past I mean. Manetheren and all that?”

         Loial’s eyes brightened. The Ogier loved nothing quite so much as learning, but expounding upon the things he had learned was a close second. “Oh yes! Stedding Shangtai has the largest library of all the stedding, though Stedding Shoolon might argue the point that theirs is better because it has more original texts and manuscripts, but I’ve also been to the royal library in Cairhein, and the one in Camelyn too, though it’s not quite as good. Still, both are better than any library in any of the stedding, and the one in Cairhien in particular-“

         “What is the Old Blood, Loial?” Mat said. He felt bad cutting across Loial, but the man really did make it necessary if you wanted to avoid running off in a direction you never expected. “I mean….I know what it is- the blood descended from Manetheren, but….why does it let me understand the Old Tongue?”

         Loial chuckled, grinning. “Ah well….I’m afraid that I don’t actually know. Or rather, I don’t know for certain: no one does.” Mat felt his shoulders sink and frustration spike in his belly. If Loial didn’t know….but before he could even finish the thought Loial was continuing. “What we call the Old Blood, or Caisen’shar, was once called Tai’shar, the True Blood, and those who manifested its ability, Tain'shar, which would roughly translate to The True Blooded. There are places all over the world where lines of that blood could be found, but for almost fifteen hundred years after the Breaking Manetheren was the largest and most powerful- legend said that they had been founded by nine Tain’shar who had gathered together a horde of refugees after the Breaking of the World, the first Heartlords, Cordashan, who chose out one of their number to be sovereign. Many books from the time, at least, what we have that survives, do mention the Tain’shar with incredible frequency, but almost all are written as if the writer expects the reader to already understand what they are talking about, and why it matters.”

         Mat frowned. “Why would they do that?” He demanded. That sounded ridiculous. Wasn’t the point of reading to find out things you didn’t know? That’s what he had heard anyways.

         Loial shrugged before answering. He had produced a pipe from inside his coat and was gesturing with it, continuously forgetting to actually put tabac in the bowl and light it as he spoke. “Part of it is just human nature. You do have the habit of assuming that others share knowledge you consider common, even when it isn’t common at all, or assuming that what you know to be common knowledge will always be common knowledge. It makes being a scholar very hard sometimes.” His ears twitched, maybe realizing that was another criticism of humanity, not that Mat disagreed, really. Either way Loial pressed forward, voice picking up speed the way a boulder picked up speed rolling down hill. “Another part is that those that would have written more extensively about the True Blood left nothing behind but memories. Not even stone in the end.”

         Mat grimace. “Manetheren.”

         Loial nodded, sounding sad suddenly, as if he could still keenly feel the pain of that loss two thousand years gone. As if he had been there for it himself. “Manetheren.” Loial agreed. “When Eldrene took her revenge, her fires spread across the land, devastating everything in their path. Nothing remained of their cities, not one scrap of paper, or one stone standing atop another. Of every other of the ten nations, at least some shard survived the Trolloc’s ruination, but Manetheren was struck from the earth as if had never been. The price for the salvation of Eldrene’s people, and her vengeance for the murder of her husband. If any treatise on the True Blood did exist, it died with Eldrene.”

         Mat blew out a breath. Great. “I suppose that’s it, then?” He muttered. But he had questions that needed answers.

         Loial shrugged. “It’s possible some copy remains in a dusty corner of the library of Tar Valon, but I do not think the Aes Sedai would share it if it does. You could ask, though.”

         “Sooner ask a badger to give up a pie.” Mat muttered, rubbing at his eyes. “…So no one had any idea what the Old Blood is, or why it lets me speak the Old Tongue?” And not read it. He didn’t say.

         Loial shrugged. “There are theories of course, some based on what scraps remain from the Trolloc Wars: some theorize that the first Heart Lords, that is the Cordashan, were soldiers that had been enhanced by the One Power for fighting against the shadow, though why they the Aes Sedai of old would confer their blood with memory I don’t really-“

        Mat turned to stare at Loial again. “What did you just say?” He says slowly. “About blood and memory?” 

         Loial blinked. “That is what the only remaining gift of the Old Blood is, Mat, and how you can understand a little of the Old Tongue. ‘Blood holds memory’, or at least, the Old Blood does. The memories of all of your ancestors, maybe going back to one of those first Cordashan, maybe even farther, to whatever they were in the Age of Legends. Their memories endure in your veins, but as the blood has grown thin after three thousand years- even in the years before Manetheren’s fall that was a dire concern, enough that several of their neighbors wrote about it, afraid that the failure of the Old Blood would mean failure of Manetheren’s armies, who were a keystone in the Trolloc Wars-“

         “Blood holds memory.” Mat prompted, trying to hold back his irritation.

         “Ah yes. Well. Um…” Loial rubbed at his nose with one great finger. “The Old Blood supposedly conferred many abilities, some too fantastical to be more than rumor or speculation, some that seem likely: greater strength, speed, healing, and endurance for example. But the one ability everyone agrees on is for those with the Old Blood in their veins, the memories of their ancestors could be accessed as memories of their own. That more than anything is what gave Manetheren its strength, the ability to draw on the wisdom of all who had come before, directly and without fail.” 

         Mat thought of the deja vu he’d felt so frequently lately, and was suddenly certain that if he asked Loial about the war against Raolin Darksbane, he would learn that Manetheren had played a role in defeating him.

         “But how does that relate to the Old Tongue?” Mat asked slowly.

         “Because that was what was spoken in almost all the courts of the land then. What we call Common now, and was then called the vulgar tongue, was seen as the tongue of peasants and commoners. The courts of every kingdom in the land were trying to keep the Old Tongue alive in those days, maybe in the hopes that it would keep some shard of the Age of Legends alive- so almost all of the nobility of Manetheren would have spoken it as their first language, though all would have also known the Vulgar Tongue too. That’s why the most common manifestation of the Old Blood these days is the Old Tongue, leaping out of people's mouths. A flash of memory from a long dead ancestor. To flow so strongly in you that you can understand more than the occasional phrase….the Old Blood must truly sing strongly in you. Very likely you are descended from one of the Cordashan. Maybe more than one.”

         Mat rode in silence for a while. Ingtar was leading them unerringly south, the man from earlier following must have been some kind of tracker, since he was the one pointing the way, at least when he wasn’t pausing to speak with Rand and Ingtar. Perrin, realizing he was caught between the front and the back, rode a grumpy parallel beside some of the soldiers, refusing to either fall back to join the Mat, or pull ahead and speak with Rand.

         Sometimes, you just had to roll the dice and hope for the best.

         “Is there…” Mat licked his lips. “Is there any way to strengthen the Old Blood? Like say, becoming a Warder?”

         Loial blinked. “I….don’t know.” He admitted. “I have never heard of the like. But I suppose it is possible. Are you thinking of becoming a Warder, Mat?” He sounded surprised, incredulous and worried all at once. Probably thinking it was a sign of the dagger sickening his mind. Which would be fair, he supposed.

         “No, I just…am curious.” Mat shrugged. “I’d make a terrible Warder.” He had, after all, so far failed to stop Rand from being trapped by Aes Sedai, and himself from being stabbed. “But I do have some interest in the Old Tongue.”

         Loial smiled suddenly, grinning. “Oh! I can help with that. I speak it fluently.” Mat could only guess at his own expression from the way that Loial’s eyebrows dropped, and his face turned scarlet. “Not to- '' He cleared his throat. “Not that I am bragging you see! I was just well….it was an area of interest of mine, since I wanted to read so many of the older books in their original language, so much is lost in translation you see! And also, I wanted to study the Ways and the Guidings are all in the Old Tongue and-“

         “I thought those were in Ogier tongue?” Mat cut in, less because he was curious and more because new possibilities had been opened up that he had not considered. Interesting possibilities.

         “Ogier script.” Loial corrected. “But that is merely a slightly altered version of the alphabet used for the Old Tongue, meant to suit our bigger hands.” He explained gesturing. “You humans do have the smallest and strangest letters, that all really look alike unless you're holding them to your nose, or have glasses like mine. I’d probably have to teach you in Ogier script as well, at least at first, since that’s how I learned. If that’s alright?”

         Mat chuckled. Always a catch, still, it shouldn’t be too hard to find versions of what he was looking for in Ogier script. And, there was always the chance that…if it was true, if he really had access to the memories of all his ancestors, just hidden somewhere in his blood, that learning the Old Tongue might awaken some of that. That was hope anyways, it might be cheating a tiny bit, but Mat did not have the time to avoid shortcuts if they presented themselves. “That….that will be fine, Loial." 

         Loial grinned broadly. “Oh, I’ve always wanted to teach, but Mother wants me to be a tree singer still, and Elder Hamana always said he didn’t think I had the temperament for it, too hasty he said, and likely to leave details out- but I will do him proud.” Loial blinked. “If….if it’s not rude to ask, why do you want to learn?”

         Mat forced a smile to his lips. “There are a few books I’d like to read in the original Old Tongue too.” Mat said calmly. “The Great Hunt of the Horn. The Kingdom of the Sun.” He risked a glance at Loial out of the corner of his eye. “The Karaethon Cycle.”

         Loial grinned, utterly open and without suspicion, and Mat felt himself breathing again. “Ah, I have most of those in my bags!” Loial said. “We can start you learning on them straight away!”

         The things I do for you, Mat thought, glancing up at where Rand and Ingtar rode. But there was no heat in it, not even in his own mind.

<X>  

         Ingtar set a hard pace in the beginning, maybe intending to overtake Trollocs and Darkfriends in the first day, but it was the man with the swordbreaker and the plain coat who pointed the way. Southwards. Not along the Fal Moran road though- sharply south, through rolling hills, and clumps of trees, almost arrow straight. Mat would have doubted the plain coated man, except no sooner than they were in full wilderness then signs as plain as day emerged that he was right: tracks both human and animal, snapped twigs and broken branches, distrubed plantlife, all pointing to a hard, almost killing march south. Mat would have feared for their horses, if he didn’t know that the hoof prints were from Trollocs, who might not be able to match horses for speed, but who could outlast them in the long haul.

         The source of that knowledge was something Mat decided he would rather not examine too closely.

          The man’s name, it turned out, once Loial finally ran down enough for Mat to slip up to the head of the column and join Rand, turned out to be Hurin, Ingtar’s thief-taker and ‘sniffer’. Out of respect, and no other reason- certainly not the warning look Rand gave him over his shoulder- Mat decided to keep the cluster of jokes that leapt into his head when he was told the name to himself. 

         Hurin’s ability did fascinate Mat, once Ingtar and Hurin finished convincing him that it had nothing to do with the Power anyways. Being able to smell violence? Sounded bloody useful if you wanted to avoid violence, at least, assuming it didn’t drive you crazy. Hurin must be at least a little, Mat decided, since he couldn’t figure another reason the man would put his skills in service to a Lord of all foolish things, though it was good for them that he had. Hurin claimed he would be able to follow the trail of the Darkfriends to the other side of the world, with how it stank of violence and killing and death. 

         Which, Mat thought bitterly, he might have to.

         I will wait for you on Tomon Head.

         “You must be Lord Rand’s Cue’vin.” Hurin said brightly when they were introduced, properly. “Honor to serve you and your Lord, Sir.”

         Which of course, killed any hope that the entire party didn’t know about this Cue’vin buisness, and meant a confused look for Rand that Mat could only answer with an ‘I’ll explain later’ gesture. Preferably, he would be able to deflect and keep later from ever coming, at least with Rand. Whatever was between them was still too….new and fragile to risk that kind of hammer blow.

         That night, when they bedded down though, Rand pointedly put his bedroll beside Mat’s own with a blush, ignoring the looks of the others, which ranged from amused to exasperated, to judgemental, in the case of one boney soldier named Masema, but Masema’s default expression was judgmental, so Mat didn’t pay him any mind. No one seemed to think it out of the ordinary or strange when they sat beside each other for the meal and curled up side by side for sleep, so Mat took it as a win. There was an….acceptance and warmth that made Mat a touch heady even, as he laughed and joked with the soldiers, ribbing Rand lightly over his bundle of fancy coats, and talking of battles. Rand sat quietly, for the most part- except for his fierce insistence that the coats were not his doing- watching Mat, putting in the occasional comment or thought, but letting Mat direct the flow of the conversation. The quiet bundle of sensation in the back of Mat’s mind was his reassurance that Rand’s quiet wasn’t out of annoyance or frustration but rather…simple contentment.  

         That bundle of sensation….and a hand pressed to his own, when the coals burned low. They slept that night, shoulder to shoulder, but with their fingers laced together. Part of Mat wanted to abandon shame and properity and curl up into Rand’s side, or atop his broad chest, but again that sense that…things were too fragile. Too soft yet between them.

         And also the surety that they would wake and be subject to no end of mockery from the rest of the party, not to mention embarrassing Hurin, who was remarkably modest despite apparently being married with two children and a third in the offing, and giving Perrin even more reason to keep his nose stuck in the air. So they remained stubbornly shoulder to shoulder, so chaste that his own mother could not have found fault. 

         The next day they continued south for another ten miles, until they reached what had been the Trolloc camp.

         Mat knew what they would find, and again, did his best not to examine the source of that knowledge too deeply. 

         Blood holds memory. Loial’s voice boomed softly in the back of his mind.

         How many Trolloc camps had his ancestors seen? How many times had they watched the aftermath of the Dark One’s forces, after they had swept through a place like locusts? After they had swept through the Two Rivers? Eldrene’s fires may have destroyed the Trolloc host, but they would not have cleansed the land of what the Trollocs had done to it. That would have taken hard, backbreaking, determined work.

         Mat got a taste of that, when they dug the mass grave for the remains of the Trolloc's midden heap. There was no saying for certain what had belonged to who at that point, and no way of sorting out unlucky Darkfriend from innocent carried off in the night, even if there had been much identifiable left in the mass of body parts. Ingtar gnashed his teeth at the delay, and likely would not have stopped to make the effort, except for Ragan, one the soldiers, having regnozied a scar on the back of one severed hand as belonging to Changu. Changu and Naido had been the soldiers on guard at the dungeons in Fal Dara, where Mordeth had been, and had fought tooth and nail to keep Mordeth from escaping, before they had been overcome. They were among those who had been killed and taken from Fal Dara as….stock for the Trollocs. Mat hadn’t seen the dungeons, but it had been ugly apparently, all that remained being smears of blood, some dangling gray matter, and the men’s armor and clothes, left on the ground like the hide of skinned animals. 

         “They were like you and Lord Rand.” Ragan explained when the last of the dirt had been piled atop the butcher’s offal. “Changu and Naido. Proud fools- if they had retreated and gotten help instead of standing their ground back to back, they probably would have survived that night. But one would have turned to the Shadow before he left behind the other.” Ragan shook his head. “Bloody fools. I hope they're both down there. They deserve to be buried together.” 

         For all his impatience, Ingtar said the blessing solemnly -The last embrace of the mother welcomed you home as the others watched on silently. Mat’s hand found its way into Rand’s somehow, and Mat didn’t so much as raise a complaint as Rand squeezed hard enough to bruise. 

         That was all there was, before Ingtar was mounting again, turning to Hurin with a face of carved stone and demanding a direction.

         That direction turned out to be east and north- it seemed the Trollocs intended to sweep wide around Fal Dara rather than making straight around the Blight, though a niggling part of Mat pointed out that made no sense with a sharp arrow straight ride north. It ended up not mattering, because halfway through the day they found a corpse- a man in silk, with a garnet earring, whom no one recognized- with a split skull laying beside a hill.

          And the trail going sharply south again. 

         The pattern repeated the next day, and the day after that. Each time, they came upon the Trolloc camp, each time the trail turned north there, and each time halfway through their daily ride, they would find a dead body- man or woman, Shienaran or outlander, it did not matter. The way they died varied, too: some had slit throats, some bashed-in skulls, one unfortunate man appeared to have had his tongue ripped out and been left to bleed to death. But always, the corpse was followed by another sharp turn south. 

         Ingtar’s agitation became palpable, first because it became clear that they could not keep the horses at the pace they had been, and second because he continually considered and rejected the idea of simply cutting straight across, to either slice their lead off further, or catch them on their northern turn. Just as soon as he seemed to have talked himself into it, he would snap what a terrible idea it was in case this time the Darkfriends hadn’t turned north, and that would be that until the next day when, after they had kept the pattern, he had the argument with himself all over again.

         Each night’s camp grew less warm, less friendly- not with hostility but the growing mounting tension. Each night after a quiet supper Mat and Loial would go aside for a little while so Loial could continue his fumbling efforts to teach Mat more of the Old Tongue, and Mat would return to lay down beside Rand, a little more tense then he had been the night before. Like a spring slowly compressing a little more each day.

         They were closing the lead, if not by enough to suit Ingtar, then far more than Mat had expected they would. The Trolloc party was moving slow, and their head start did not appear to have availed them much: their feedstock was also depleting, the pile of offal they had to bury grew smaller and smaller each time they found a camp. More and more, the question became less, could the Hunt catch them, and….what would they do when they did?

         And then they came to the village, on the River Erinin.

<X>  

         Mordeth sat, cross legged, admiring the sheen of the fire on his dagger. The way it made the wickedly curved metal seem to glow golden and bright in the darkness. He was faced north at the moment, feeling the pressure in his head loosen, the part of his mind that had been touched by the Shadow- or rather the part of Padan Fain’s mind that had been touched by the Shadow- reacting as the three ta’veren drew ever closer. It disgusted him to know that the Dark One had been inside his mind, and had gripped a part of his very being. But it was small. Growing smaller, now that he had the dagger. Now that his old strength was returning. Soon, soon he would be rid of the Darkfriend peddler. 

         Soon he would have better, stronger flesh to inhabit.

         The fact that the Dark One had touched some part of him almost disgusted him as much as the creatures that followed him did. They were creations of the Shadow, more deeply mired in it then any Darkfriend could ever be. But what was that old saw? Ah yes. No man was so deep in the Shadow that he could not be brought back again to the Light. The Trollocs had been men once, maybe even had some shard of men’s souls in their twisted flesh. And he had made them understand, finally, that their dark master was nothing beside Mordeth. Nothing beside the Light. 

         The victory of the Light is everything, was the cry he had given Aridhol, so long ago. It was true. Mordeth, born into the Trolloc Wars, had known the bitter reality of how fragile and weak humankind was from his earliest days. But then Mordeth had found the Light, and the truth had become apparent. The flesh was weak, the flesh was nothing, the souls of men were nothing, not compared with the Light. And the Light, and its power, were Mordeth’s. He had found them, in the Tower Chenjei, when he had asked for Foxes to give him an untainted power, something by which the One Power would pale. 

         And they had given him the Light, and then he had given Aridhol the Light in turn.  

         Thought is the Arrow of the Time, a memory never fades.

          The Foxes had not called it the Light of course, and they had warned that while pure, what he did with it would change him, change the world based on what he did. Untainted they gave it to him, warning that he could taint it in turn. Of course they were liars and tricksters, those foxes, he knew that. How could a man taint the Light? How could someone as pure, as true, who saw as clearly as he did, ever misuse the Light? Would it even allow itself to be misused?          

         No, Mordeth knew the truth, what the Foxes had feared he would discover: that Mordeth was chosen, chosen to save the world from the Shadow, chosen to bring the true Light to men. Then and now.

         Mordeth giggled, and he felt every eye of the Darkfriends arrayed behind him spin to stare. They had learned to fear his giggles. The least of what he had taught them. He had more yet, to bring them out of the Shadow and to the Light. His Light. That they had been able to be pulled back to the Fade was proof of that, not that there was any more doubt or question about who commanded. He lifted the dagger and ran his tongue along the edge, enjoying the taste of the steel. Yes, no more questions.

         Standing, Mordeth squinted. The Erinin was miles off yet. He hoped Matrim enjoyed his gift. It had struggled. It was beautiful. He hoped it made Matrim’s stomach churn with fear, hoped it would make Matrim realize the futility of resisting him.

         Mordeth turned, paying no mind to the prisoners, the men, women and children that he had let the Trollocs carry off from the village. Dozens, some crying, some maimed, some bound head and foot. Most alive. Trollocs preferred fresh meat when they could get it, and Mordeth was feeling generous. Very generous.

         Smiling at one of the Trollocs, a boar-snouted creature with curled horns, Mordeth pressed the point of his dagger to its chin and lifted it, staring into those eyes. Human eyes. Always human eyes, no matter how beastly they were otherwise. Those human eyes were full of a very gratifying fear. Trollocs feared death a great deal, but they feared Myrddraal more, and their Great Lord of the Dark above all else. Until now. Now these creatures feared him most of all.

         A bit of blood ran down the dagger’s edge. For a moment he thought he had cut the Trolloc without meaning too, until he realized it was his own blood, from the cut he had made unwittingly on his tongue. That made him giggle again.

         “Feast tonight.” He told the Trolloc, before letting the dagger point fall and sheathing it. “Anything you do not eat, we leave behind in the morning.”

         He no longer heard the screams of the humans, as he heard the sudden rush of pleading from the Darkfriends, falling to their knees, begging him to clarify, to make clear that he meant the peasants, the villagers, not them. Mordeth ignored them all as he walked towards his bedroll, beside the golden chest that held the horn. His mind was all for Mat Cauthon, for supple strong flesh, and the warm taste of blood in his mouth. How would Matrim’s blood taste, he wondered? Warm and fresh no doubt, and heady with the taste of Manetheren. He hated the Eagle, but he had loved the taste of their blood, rich with a power like his own, ancient and pure.

         Yes, Mordeth hoped Matrim enjoyed his gift very much.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Fractures

            No one knew the village’s name: it was too small and too far out of the way of the Fal Moran road to appear on any map according to Ingtar, even though as the group rode through its palisaded walls Mat couldn’t help but note that it was bigger than Emond’s Field had been. Much bigger.

         Which made its complete absence of people eerie. Buildings of wood with roofs of shingle and thatch towered and made blocky shadows in the night, but not one lantern or candle was lit in any window near as Mat could tell. There were no broken windows either, no shattered doors, or splatters of blood: no sign of violence whatsoever. If the village hadn’t been abandoned when the Trollocs had come then they had been neat. Clean. Which wasn’t like them at all.

         No one spoke as they rode at a slow walk. There was a tension in the air like a drawn bow string: every hand was on the hilt of a weapon except for Loial’s, and he looked as if he was sorely beginning to regret his lack. Mat felt the need to pull his quarterstaff from beneath the saddle girth and ride with it resting across his lap, just in case. He doubted anyone could have said what the source of the tension was, the fear, what everyone thought was going to happen, but everyone wanted to be ready when it did.

         Not that anything could have made them ready for what they found.

         Riding onto the village green- which fronted the Erinin, a stone dock built into the bank where ropes ran the length of the river to the other side, where another set of stone docks held the ferry that the town would have used to cross- everyone seemed to spot the tarp at once. Two wooden poles had been driven into the ground almost a span apart and a tarp draped between them, almost like a small clothes line covered by a sheet. Except…Pale pasty hands where visible bound to either pole, near the top, and pale feet with slightly covered toes, ending in hooked black nails where bound near the bottom.

           There was no command to halt that Mat could detect: every horse simply stopped together arrayed before the tarp, and Ingtar dismounted, drew his sword, and advanced. Mat saw his hesitation as he gripped the edge of the cavanas, and saw him bury it beneath determination as he ripped it free and sprang back into a sword form, ready to strike.

          He needn’t have bothered.

          The Fade was long dead. Whatever power from The Dark One sustained the creatures had not been able to keep it going through having it having its skin removed.

          Mat heard more then saw several of the Shienarans turn to empty their stomachs onto the ground, and a surge nausea through the bond said Rand almost did the same, but oddly, despite the smell- unleashed in full by the unveiling like all the rot of all the world spewing forth at once- Mat didn’t feel sick. He could only stare with a cool kind of detachment, taking in details. The whole skin hadn't been removed and not all at once, the way Mat imagined when folks said stuff like ‘peel your skin and make you dance in your bones’. That made it sound like peeling a potato, or a fruit, like you could get the whole thing off in one clean curling slice if you had skill. This was different, rough patches had been carved out of the Fade’s hide, jagged and uneven which spoke of struggling and resistance, and had left behind a thin criss cross of slug white flesh stretched over purple muscle, like the leftovers from paper that had shapes cut out of it. There was surprisingly little blood, rather, a white pus-like substance trailed down the creature’s chest and thighs to make a damp, foul-smelling pool on the ground- and also a patch on the green where the grass had started to yellow and die. Somehow, Mat thought that when the last blades were gone, that patch would stay dead no matter what anyone tried to do with it. 

          Ingtar also stared at the creature with a cold detachment, leaning closer to look at the poles between which the Fade had been strung like so much laundry. Mat gave a start, realizing that they were carved with what looked like rough letters.

          “Razor’s edge, the kiss of my affection.” Ingtar said in a slow monotone. “Our shared steel connection.” He moved to the other pole and spoke in that same, passionless voice. “The shadow lifted from our sweet game, no more to dampen or threaten our flame.” Ingtar blinked in surprise and stepped back frowning. “…I’ll wait for you and your master on Tomon Head.”

          Mat felt cold inside. Mordeth. Mordeth had done this for him. He had-

          A sense of warmth shot through Mat and he turned, to see Rand having leaned over in his saddle to reach out between them, and press a steadying hand to his shoulder. He still looked queasy from the sight of the Fade, but also…determined. He knew too.

          Mine. Always mine. Rand’s husky whisper sounded in his memory. Light protect him, caught between the man who had killed Aridhol and the one who had broken the world, caught between Mordeth and the Dragon, like a washcloth caught between two dogs. Was there any worse pair to be caught between?

          As soon as the thought emerged Mat crushed it ruthlessly. Rand might not be the Dragon: it all might still be Aes Sedai game. And if he was? Well….they would deal with that when the time came.

          It may be possible for Rand to release the Bond if he can puzzle out how. Another memory, another voice- Moiraine’s this time, spoken outside of the Eye of the World, in the aftermath of the death of Ba’alzamon. Mat crushed it just as ruthlessly as he did the other.

         Clearing his throat, Mat turned to regard Ingtar. “It looks like we know who was trying to drag them north, and it looks like Mordeth finally got sick of it. Could the Trollocs be dead as well?”

         Ingtar didn’t answer, instead staring up at the Fade as if he saw himself drawn between those two posts instead. “….I do not know, Sir Cauthon. Something happened here- something dark, and we do not know enough.” He turned. “Uno, Ragan!” He snapped. “Get that ferry back on this side of the Erinin. Everyone else, spread out, I want to know what happened here if we can manage it- leave no stone unturned, no sight unseen. But stay together in groups of two, no one out of anyone’s sight for too long, and shout if you see so much as a curtain twitch. This could still be a trap.”

         As one the part began dismounting, swords and lances leaving their sheaths as everyone broke off in pairs of two to obey.

         Every eye did its best to ignore the Fade, which, without its covering, was already beginning to be swarmed by flies.

<X>

         The silence held, even as Rand and Mat split off together to walk through the empty streets: no one spoke, even their breathing seemed hushed low enough for the creak of signs, or the slap of a loose door being thrown back and forth in the wind, to disguise. Mat moved like this was the Waterwood, and he was stalking a rabbit, crouching low to the ground, his quarterstaff slung over his back, his quiver at his waist, and his bow in hand. Rand followed behind him, similarly tense, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

         The light was dying fast, the sky already turning orange, so there was no time to waste. One by one Mat poked his head into storefronts and homes, going slowly from room to room, arrow nocked and ready to draw fletching to cheek at the slightest notice. Some part of Mat had expected blood splatters and carnage hidden in the buildings, but there was no sign, not even of damage to doors and windows. In one home he found a stove with cooling coals inside- not cold yet, but clearly abandoned hours ago if not longer. Some tables even seemed to have been in the process of being set, for breakfast or some other meal. Though many were too thick with flies to be able to tell. Fires had been doused as well: fresh sand and water still lingering on hearths, and Mat realized after the third house with an empty set of pegs or closet without much in it, cloaks and coats had been removed too. In the back of one house, clothes lines still held linens hung out to dry, long since covered in dust and grit from the day, and in another a wash tub still held soaking dishes, the cloth draped over the edge of the tub as if dropped there in a moment of distraction.

         “It’s like they all just….got up and walked away.” Rand muttered while kneeling in one family home to pick up a doll that had been carelessly tossed aside: ragged and clearly well used. He shook his head. “….But why? Why not fight?”

         Mat shrugged. He couldn’t say. Touching the string of his bow, he knew that he at least would not have gone quietly: when the Shadow had come into the Two Rivers, he had fought. Everyone had. Surely these people would as well? Unless…

         Razor’s edge, the kiss of my affection.

         Could Mordeth have simply….willed the people into submission? Made them come along? Even the thought made something deep in Mat wiggle with fear, a worm eating at his insides.

         “What is it?” Rand asked gently, and Mat gave a start: Rand had turned to face him, staring at him with concern. “You’re afraid,” he clarified. “Which means you’ve thought of something.”

         Mat took a deep calming breath. Sometimes he forgot the bond was a two way thing, that awareness of his emotions flowed back the other way too. Rand could always tell when he was hiding things now, when he was concealing something, if not what he was concealing. That still scared Mat a little bit. Maybe it scared him a lot. He was so used to being able to influence what people thought of him, so used to being able to hide his uncertainty under smiles, and his regrets under a laugh. Even with Rand, there was still that need to try and put the best leg forward. But how was he supposed to do that without secrets?

         Useless thought, and one he pushed away for now.

         “I have an idea.” Mat said quietly, shouldering his bow. “Stay here.”

         Alarm flared through the bond and Rand’s eyebrows shot nearly up to this hairline. “Ingtar said-“

         “Lord Ingtar doesn't know everything,” Mat responded, imbuing the title with all the contempt it deserved. “If we were going to be ambushed we would have already: the Trollocs are clearly gone, and they took the people with them. The only danger left in this village is flies and bad memories.”

         Rand’s chin drew down in annoyance. “Maybe. And maybe not. Who knows what surprises Mordeth might have left behind, what traps he might have laid? That Fade- it was a message. For you. We need to stick to Ingtar’s plan until-“

         “So, a fool in silk smallclothes asks for your opinion a few times, looks at you like an equal, and suddenly you're willing to do everything he asks?” Mat said crisply, sticking his hands in his pocket. “Well you're welcome to it- but me? I’m not so easily won over.”

         For a moment hurt flickered across Rand’s face and through the bond, but Rand quickly and obviously suppressed it.  That bundle of sensation that was Rand’s presence in Mat's mind turned pale and hard again: like a knot of sap in the back of his brain.

         “Your jealousy is not a reason to take stupid risks, Mat.” Rand said. The words were harsh, and Mat recoiled, shame twanging his belly like a struck bow string. So. That was how it was going to be.

         “I am going upstairs.” Mat declared to the air beside Rand’s head. “Don’t follow.” And turning on his heel he walked away before Rand could say anything else, stomping up the stairs at the back of the room to the house’s second floor.

         Each step farther from Rand, when could feel Rand wanting him to stay, seemed to hurt somehow. Like a string dug into his skin while pulling him back, trying to force him to remain. He felt his muscles clench, his feet cramping as he the room below disappeared. Halfway to the landing he felt sweat appear on his brow….and then all at once the resistance vanished, the strings going slack at the same time that knot of cold anger in the back of his mind loosened.

         Mat seized the wall, nearly falling the moment his boots hit the second floor landing. Anger and frustration and shame and indignation raged through him, making his eyes blurry and his face hot.

         Stupid bloody idiot man! How dare he- how dare he! How- Mat cut the stream of thoughts off, made himself stop stomping and take a deep breath. He didn’t know if his string of angry thoughts were meant for Rand or himself.

         Steady . He made himself mutter. You have work to do. There is no time to waste on stupid trifles like- like-

         Like what Rand thought of him. Like the raw rubbed-up feeling inside of his chest. And the ache in his muscles, the consequence of disobedience.

         It was stupid. The whole thing was stupid and ridiculous. Mat Cauthon didn’t get jealous . Jealous implied an attachment that Mat didn’t subscribe to. Jealous implied-

         Well, being in love. Which Mat was. And the Bond did mean a degree of attachment that was maybe a bit more than typical, far more than just a causal relationship. And the whole party did believe that they were….sworn to one another. He supposed. Still, Mat wasn’t jealous. Rand was free to do what he wanted- Mat wouldn’t hold him by the collar the way so many women did with their husbands and sweethearts back home. If he wanted…

         Mat cut that thought right off and forced his spine ramrod straight, walking forward. This wasn’t the time for that kind of thinking. He was not some moonstruck boy, walking around with his head in the clouds over his first sweetheart. He was Mat Cauthon, and there was something only he could do, something that needed doing.

         Walking from room to room, Mat kept his eyes peeled, looking for some sign of habitation. He thought….he thought if he could find a spot where it had happened- he might be able to….sense the traces of whatever Mordeth had done. Surely that wouldn’t put too great a strain on his soul: just…sensing. And even Moiraine had said that might need Mashadar’s strength if he was to see the other side of this.

         He found what he was looking for in a large bedroom. The window was open and grit had blown in over the quilt that covered the rough-carved bed. Nothing was quite as sturdy as Master Adair, the carpenter back home, would have had it, but it wasn’t shoddy either, and more importantly, the wardrobe door stood open and draw was pulled out, clothes clearly removed in some haste or carelessness.

         Taking a deep breath, Mat sat. He had never tried drawing on his tie to Mashadar without the presence of the dagger, but according to the Aes Sedai, he was still linked to it, so it should be possible. He cleared his mind, his hand unconsciously going to the empty sheath still strapped to his chest, where he had kept the dagger. Clear his mind, let everything fall away.

         Show me. Show me. Show me. Mat chanted in his mind, willing himself to….feel what had happened here, feel for some trace.

         But thoughts kept popping up, disrupting his attempts to focus.

         He hadn't meant to sound tart before, but the man and Rand had been growing irritatingly close over the last few days of the chase, talking more, riding together, even sharing occasional shoulder punches or taps. It was unseemly behavior was what it was, especially given what Ingtar believed about his and Rand’s relationship. That was all, the impropriety of it was the only reason Mat felt the urge to snap his staff down on the man’s palm. And the dagger’s lingering influence. Nothing more.

         Any man who touched another’s wife so casually back in Emond’s Field would be howling before the Women’s Circle within the hour. The thought was savage and vengeful, but also true: Nynaeve’s strong arm, and her talent for cutting switches, might teach Lord Ingtar to keep his hands to himself.

         Mat forced that thought down, focusing on the chant in his mind, just like when he used the vanishing trick. The lingering ‘scent’ of those tricks had lasted for days back at Fal Dara, like an impression in the air. If he could just call it up again...

         He could have just said he was angry, he didn’t have to try and use the bloody power on me. Is that what it’s going to be like? We have a fight and he uses the Power to make me listen? Maybe he is-

         No. Focus. We need to know how strong Mordeth is if I am going to get the dagger back. 

         He thought he could feel…something in the air. Faint, like the wisps of smoke. If he could just reach out and grab-

         Flicker.

         A man was rising from bed, clearly bleary eyed and tired from a hard day’s work. Mat could taste his exhaustion like his own, taste the way that long hours had beaten themselves onto his skin and bones. And yet the man moved like a puppet without strings, rising from the bed chest first as if a cord had been braided into his ribs, and moving in unsteady jerks and spasms towards first the drawers, then the wardrobe. Mat watched the man doff his nightgown and don mismatched stockings and smalls, shirt and trousers, then head for the door while outside… 

         Outside a loud powerful baritone drew closer, singing something, snatches in the old tongue that were all the more haunting for the lack of accompanying music. It was like nothing Mat had ever heard: this was a voice and a song for grand palaces and echoing halls, for drums and trumpets and harps. This was-

         Mordeth’s voice.

         Flicker.

         Mat blinked away grit from his eyes. So Mordeth had ensnared the people somehow. Made them walk right out of- 

         The force of the blow sent Mat to the ground almost before he registered he had been hit: his cheek slamming into the wood floor and rattling his teeth. Mat tried to blink, to get his bearings, but he got no farther than a cold wet sensation running down the side of his head, onto his cheek, before something was pressing into the small of his back, forcing his chest flat against the ground. Mat scrambled, trying to get one of his hidden knives out, but something had wrapped around his wrists, he realized, was holding them twisted against his back, right above where that force was holding him down.

         Mat tried to lift his head, but the pain was starting to crash home, awareness flooding into him. What was happening? What-

         An edge of cloak slipped into Mat’s vision. Color-shifting cloak thrown aside, and the edge of a hand holding a knife.

         The man from Fal Dara. The Warder who had dressed in red. But how? Why? Mat had assumed he was an assassin of the Shadow, who had killed a Warder and taken his cloak. Unless…no, no time to think. He had to-

         “GET OFF OF HIM!” Rand screamed. There was a sense of force, or maybe an explosion: like thunder without sound, then the echo of shattering glass, and abruptly the force pinning Mat to the ground was gone, his wrists released. Mat heard the clink of a knife hitting the floor beside him, and desperate, Mat rolled, snatching it up and stumbling to his feet, blade point leveled for his attacker.

         The man- The Scarlet Groom- was rising from where he had been thrown against the window with a manner Mat might have called casual if he didn’t know better. It was a deadly sort of ease, the ease of a mountain lion who had missed his leap and was getting ready for another.

         And yet…the Scarlet Groom’s eyes were trained on Rand, not Mat, and Mat would have sworn that they were full of….pain, and regret.

         “Don’t.” Rand spat stepping in front of Mat and to Mat’s shock fire bloomed in both of Rand's palms, scarlet and roiling and angry. Rand seemed just as surprised, but steeled himself, leveling his palms as if he held stones ready for throwing. “Don’t you come near him!”

         The Scarlet Groom just stared at Rand, unmoving. Almost statuelike.

         “I don’t want to hurt you.” He said finally, and Mat was sure of it now. There was pain, mortal pain, in the man’s eyes. “But I have to kill him.”

         “You aren’t going to kill him without killing me.” Rand spat. “In fact, you aren’t going to kill him at all. I’ll…..I’ll channel this whole house to flinders first!”

         “And tell your friends outside what you are?” The man said, and it seemed almost…kind. Doubtful and chiding, but kind.

         Rand nodded without hesitation. “To protect him? Without hesitation.”

         The Scarlet Groom closed his eyes, and took a deep shuddering breath….and then turned and jumped through the remains of the broken window before either of them could react.

         For a moment he and Rand just started there, no sound but the crackle of the fire in Rand’s hands, and the billowing of the wind. Then Rand gave a start as he realized he was still holding handfuls of fire. Staring down at his palms uncertainly, he finally, hesitantly, snapped his fists shut, and thankfully, the fire winked out as if it had never been.

         “I don’t want to-“ Mat began but Rand cut him off.

         “Are you okay? Your head is hurt again. I- I really need to figure out healing, don’t I? Light, you’re bleeding. I should-” Rand reached out a hand and Mat automatically took a step back, out of his reach. Rand’s lips thinned again but he let his hand fall.

         “You shouldn’t have done that.” Mat said quietly. “What if someone saw? What about him-“ He nodded at the window. “He did see. How could he tell? Light, are you trying to bring the Red Ajah down on our heads, Rand? How am I supposed to protect you if-“

         Rand cut him off, temper flaring white hot through both his words and the bond. “Protect me, Mat? Or do you mean die for me? Light, I was right, you shouldn’t have wandered off! There was a trap! And you just…don’t care! Not about your own safety or any of it! You’re so stubborn and-“

         “I’m stubborn?!” Mat shouted back, and to the Pit if it came out as more of a squawk. “Me? When you’re the one who won't pause to think about his own-“

         The sound of the house’s front door opening and closing cut through both their anger like a knife, and Mat snapped his mouth shut immediately.

         “Hello?” Came Perrin’s deep booming voice. “Rand? Mat? Are you here?”

         “Up here.” Rand called out. The strength of restraining his anger made his voice terse, but it was restrained.

         They waited unmoving as Perrin thudded up the stairs and burst into the room. For a moment he just stood there, taking in the broken glass and the signs of an obvious struggle. Mat realized abruptly that he was still holding the knife that Scarlet Groom had dropped and without thinking, slipped it up his sleeve.

         “Is everything-“ Perrin began.

         “Everything is fine.” Rand snapped, then cringed when Perrin fixed him with a look.

         “We found it like this. So maybe there was a struggle after all- or maybe a bird slammed into the window,” Mat lied smoothly, Perrin just shrugged, accepting without question. At least there was someone who Mat still could manage to keep secrets from.

         “Doesn't matter, I suppose.” Perrin muttered, shaking his head. “The ferry’s back across the river, Ingtar has ordered everyone back to the square- we’re crossing the Erinin.”

         Mat felt something in his chest loosen. Good, they would be out of this place. Closer to the Horn, but out of this place at least. “We’ll be right along,” Rand said, and Perrin sniffed in annoyance and then, pointedly, bowed his head with a glare, a mocking sign of respect. Rand flushed, but Perrin was already out of the door before Rand could say anything.

         Instead he turned to Mat, face turning from red-faced embarrassment and anger, to apology. “Mat, I-“

         But Mat was done talking, at least for now. “Save it. We’ve got to get across the river.” And brushing past Rand, he followed Perrin out.

         Mat felt Rand stand stunned and lonely and hurting for several long minutes, before he finally followed them.

<X>

         That night they made camp on the other side of the Erinin, in a dug-out hollow.

         Dinner had been a tense, somber affair, any last lingering sign of levity banished by the memory of the Fade, and the haunting emptiness of the town that sat just over the water.

         When people began to roll out bed rolls and choose out sleeping spots, Mat rose, determined to sleep on the opposite side of camp from Rand, and yet when Rand rolled out his own beside some kind of felled boulder or broken statue- Mat couldn’t really tell- he turned to look at Mat. Not expectantly, not guilty. Just a look. 

         Mat stared back. He needed more than just a look.

         “…Come to bed, please.” Rand murmured, almost too low to be heard. A short distance away, Loial was already snoring so loud it sounded like a two-person saw going through an oak. A knotty oak.

         Mat sighed and walked over, rolling out his own bedroll besides Rand’s just as they had every night so far. But instead of clapping hands or leaning into one another, Mat turned onto his side his back to Rand, and after a moment and a vexed sound, Rand did the same.

         Sleep was a long time coming.

<X>

         Lanfear stood on the banks of the Erinin, the town that the Mordeth creature had emptied out to her back. She had no fear from it- she had seen far more unnerving sights then a single skinned Myrrdraal. All her attention was to the south, where in the distance, a few miles off, she could just see the light of the Shienaran’s campfires. That had not had the daylight to go far. What an odd thing, being bound to the cycles of the sun and the moon, day and night. They had no glow-bulbs to light their way, no vehicles that could keep up the pace of pursuit untiringly. They just had flawed animal flesh, animals that would be useless at the first broken leg or twisted ankle. 

         Barbaric and primitive. Not for the first time she was thankful for her strength in the Power, more than enough to Travel without aid. Though she supposed she would have to acquire one of the wretched horses before long.

         “Great Mistress, I- '' The woman kneeling behind her began, and Lanfear cut her off with a flicked finger, and a thread of air constricting razor fine around her neck. A little tighter and it would slice clean through flesh and bone. A few minutes with it there, and she would suffocate to death. Did these children who now called themselves Aes Sedai even know enough to cut through webs? She didn’t know, though of course, cutting the web of the Chosen was a great deal like cutting your own throat.

         “It is my fault.” The man’s voice echoed. He was kneeling beside her on the bank, right where she had gestured for them to go. “Not hers.”

         The man had been a surprise. The Aes Sedai child had been dispatched merely as a feint, a way to shift blame, but unaware of that fact: that she was a pawn to be sacrificed for a greater plan. No one had expected her to go to the boy, this….Scarlet Groom, and seek his aid. No one had expected her to come so close to succeeding. Very likely both thought themselves about to die for their failure.

         And yet…

         Lanfear turned to regard the pair. The woman, clad in blue, knelt on the bank in her fine riding dress, managing to keep serenity even as her face was turning purple from lack of oxygen. Her eyes were unyielding, the blue head scarf she wore twined in loops around her head, in the Amadician fashion, sat undisturbed by the slightest bit of trashing. She was unafraid.

         The man looked as if he had never known fear in his life. Or maybe, like had faced the worst fear he could, and nothing would ever scare him again. Dead eyes stared up at her. He didn’t use her title, didn’t show deference to one of the Chosen. And yet…there was no fear of dying in him. No eagerness, but no fear either.

         Lanfear was not easy to impress. And she was also in need of minions.

         Releasing the thread of air, Lanfear regarded them coolly, a mistress regarding hounds. “You did not fail.” They hadn’t, in truth- they couldn’t fail at something they were never intended to succeed at. “But I will take matters from here. You will await us in the south, closer to the city- I will rejoin you there in time. With my prize.” With Lews Therin. She only needed a little time to tangle herself as deeply in his thoughts as she once had. Deeper this time, to leave no room for anyone else.

         The Aes Sedai blinked in confusion, licking her lips. She wanted to ask a question, but questions were dangerous with the Chosen. Still, this one was obvious, so inclined her head to allow it. “But…how, Great Mistress? How are we to get around the Shienarans? The traitor?”

         “Watch, child- and remember, await me in the south, near Kinslayer’s Dagger.” If she was right- and she believed she was- there should be a stone there that would suit her plans. One she had not seen in a very long time, since she and Joar and Lews had been children.

         Turning back to the Erinin, Lanfear spun out a web. She didn’t need to face that way in truth, but that was the way she had learned this. Spinning slowly, to ensure the child caught it, Lanfear laid the threads for Traveling and, once the gateway had opened, she stepped through it without another word, letting herself smirk in amusement at the child’s gasp, then released the web, and let the Gateway snap shut.

         She had come out less than twenty meters from the Shienaran camp. It was child’s play from there, to spin bended light around herself, and walk past the unseeing guards, past the huddles of sweaty, stinking soldiers….right towards her destination.

         She blinked in surprise. It was almost too perfect. The Tree Brother, the man they called Thief Taker, and Lews Therin slept right at the base of the toppled Portal Stone. Her mouth curled with disgust; Lews’s new catamite slept beside him, their backs pressed together.

         For a moment she considered simply laying a web on him to stop his heart, and then dismissed the idea. She would follow Ishamael’s plan, for now. A pity he was too close to leave behind, though. Still, what was some filthy peasant boy beside her? Beside the Daughter of the Night?

         Reaching out with saidar, she found the symbol on the stone she sought, not the same world she Joar and Lews had once explored on one of their youthful misadventures, but one very like it, to suit her purposes, and then she spun a web to warp them away.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Elsewhere  

            For a moment when Mat opened his eyes he had to wonder if he was still dreaming. At first he could not have said why, beyond a pervasive sense of things being…wrong. The sun still hung overhead, clouds still rolled over a blue sky, and trees still surrounded the hollow, branches spread and holding a stale breeze.

            Mat blinked. Stale?

            He rose slowly, feeling for the knife hidden in his boot top, and the one up his sleeve like Thom had shown him, blinking away sleep from his eyes. Stale was definitely the right word. Like…like a breath of musty air rolling around him. Other details leapt out, making Mat’s stomach twist. The clouds were wrong, wispy trails that rolled around the sky as if they had been painted by a careless brush, and the branches were gnarled strangely, twisting in braids and all seeming to sweep upwards, pointing sharply to the heavens.

            But most of all what was wrong was the hollow. And the complete lack of the Shienarans.

            Mat’s quarterstaff was up in his hands almost before he finished blinking, his knees bent slightly, one steel-capped end ready to flick at the first sign of movement. But there was none. There was nothing. No horse lines, no cook fires, no banners planted in the earth. Nothing. It was as if the rest of the company had never even been.

            Mat turned and felt himself breathing a little more easily when saw Rand still laid out on his bedroll, curled up in the rough green blanket they had been sharing. Mat had still been able to feel Rand, or rather had failed to feel Rand’s absence, and so had known the other man was still with him, but it was still a relief to see him, as well as the other few that had been bedded down around them: Loial curled up, looking like a small hill of blankets and Hurin on his other side, a tiny mound of the same. Their horses: Northwind, Red, Loial’s huge Dhurran, and Hurin’s plump and plain mare, were tied up beside their sleeping area just as they had been before bed. Mat was suddenly very grateful he had declined to let Northwind be tied up with the horselines, and decided to care for the animal himself.

            Mat blinked, realizing another difference. When they had gone to sleep in what Mat still thought was the same hollow, they had arranged their blankets around some kind of broken stonework, with a snapped column laying on its side. But now that column stood upright, a piece of intricate stonework covered in some kind of engravings, standing atop a small dias of concentric circular steps, each step colored differently.

            Mat blinked. Blue, green, yellow, red, white, gray, and brown. The colors of the Ajahs, of the Tar Valon banner. Of…

            “The Amyrlin’s stole.” Mat murmured, rubbing at his forehead. “It’s Aes Sedai work.”

            “Aes Sedai?” Loial’s deep booming voice spoke, a little scratchy and faint from sleep, but more than loud enough to make Mat jump and both Hurin and Rand jerk, Rand upright and Hurin rolling out of his blankets, scrambling for his swordbreaker. “What is this about Aes Sedai?” Loial continued, sitting up and rubbing at his plate-sized eyes.

            Instead of answering Mat gestured to the column and Loial stood, jaw dropping as he took in what Mat already had. Rand was a heartbeat behind, drawing his sword in a single clean motion, before moving to his feet in a second equally clean motion. Apparently Lan’s training had been no joke.

            “Where….where is everyone?” Hurin said, looking around the hollow dumbfounded. “Did….did they leave us behind?”

            Mat shook his head. “Not unless twenty soldiers can pull up camp and disappear without making any noise,” Mat said dryly, and felt bad when Hurin’s eyes, full of uncertainty, turned on him. He shifted from foot to foot but refused to feel guilty. It was obvious.

            Rand shook his head as he moved around the hollow, sword still ready to strike. “…They would have to have erased any sign they had been here too. There aren’t any tracks, or prints. Not even flattened grass. How is that possible?”

            “I am afraid.” Loial said, voice low and afraid as he circled the dias. “That it is we who have been moved, not the soldiers.” Every eye seemed to turn to him at once and Loial blushed, ears flattening as he coughed. “I think this is the same Stone we bedded down beside. I recognize it now. Or rather, I think I do. There was an old book-“

            Mat couldn’t help the sound of exasperation that popped out of his throat, but Rand’s hand on his shoulder made Mat subside. Understanding and sympathy flowed through the Bond, but so did weariness.

            “Go ahead, Loial.” Rand said gently, stepping up beside Mat. He did not sheathe his sword however, and Mat did not return his quarterstaff to his back. There was something about this place, wherever it was, that seemed to rule out the notion. “How can it be the same stone if we’re….somewhere else?”

            “There was a piece of an old book I read once in Stedding Shangtai.” Loial said slowly. He had never sounded so unhappy recounting a book that Mat could recall. “Just a few pages, really. But one of them had a drawing of this Stone. Or one very much like it. And underneath it said, ‘From Stone to Stone run the lines of if, between the worlds that might be’.”

            Rand blinked, and looked at Mat, who shrugged. Rand was the one always reading, after all. If he didn’t understand, how was Mat supposed to?

            Finally Rand turned back and said, voice tight. “What does that mean, Loial?"

            The Ogier shrugged sadly, looking down at his boot tops. “I don’t know, Rand. It was only a few pages. Another part said that Aes Sedai in the Age of Legends, some of those who could Travel, the most powerful of them, could use these Stones. It did not say how, but I think, from what I could puzzle out, that perhaps those Aes Sedai used the Stones somehow to journey to other worlds. ’The worlds that might be’, so to speak.” He glanced at the twisted trees that surrounded the hollow, then pulled his eyes away as if he didn’t want to think too hard about that.

            “But-“ Hurin burst out. “That can not be! Forgive me, Builder, but it can not be!” He had managed to get his sword breaker into one hand, and his short sword into the other, and was now looking around a little frantically. “Aes Sedai would not do this to us! They wouldn’t! I walk in the Light!”

            Mat felt the profound urge to point out that Aes Sedai very much could do something like this- provided it suited their ends, but he held his tongue even before Rand squeezed his shoulder warningly. The truth Mat didn’t see how this suited the Aes Sedai’s ends, not that it meant it didn’t necessarily, but…

             Light, Moiraine couldn’t have known we’d camp in this hollow once we crossed the Erinin. There has to be some limit to what they can do. Surely she wouldn’t have set a trap on the off chance that they would pass by this spot. And if she could reach out for Tar Valon somehow to touch them with the Power, watch them with it from that distance- no. There had to be limits. There had to be.

            But if not Moiraine, that meant….

            Mat felt his eyes slide to Rand, who was staring expressionless at the Stone. In the back of Mat’s mind, the bond had turned cold as a stone with dread. For all the bond gave him insight into Rand’s feelings and emotions, it still didn’t let him read Rand’s mind. Yet Mat could guess easily the thoughts that were running through Rand’s head. Had he done this? Moved them across worlds without meaning too? Was he going to start channeling without even meaning to? Or had he meant to, and just forgotten.

            Was he already losing his grip on sanity?

            Part of Mat wanted badly to try and reassure Rand, to tell him everything was fine, that there was nothing to worry about. But Mat knew it was pointless. After all, Rand could always tell when he was lying now.

            Still, he had to do something. “What do you mean by ‘worlds that might be’?” Mat asked Loial. There was nothing quite like the Ogier in one of his explanations to draw attention and distract from more pressing matters.

            “I don’t really know. It was only a fragment.” Loial repeated, shifting uneasily. “And most of them sounded like this: ‘If a woman goes left or right, does Time’s flow divide? Does the Wheel then weave two Patterns? A thousand for each of her turns? As many as the stars? Is one real, the others merely shadows and reflections?’ You see, it was not very clear. Mainly questions, most of which seemed to contradict each other. And there just wasn't much of it.” Loial moved slowly, walking along the column's perimeter. “There are supposed to be many Stones scattered all over the world, or there were once. But I never heard of anyone finding one. I never heard of anything quite like this at all.”

            “My Lord Rand?” Hurin said, approaching the pair. He seemed more composed then he had been, but his knuckles were white on his sword breaker. “My Lord, you’ll get us back, won't you? Back where we belong? I’ve a wife, my Lord, and children. Melia’d take it bad enough me dying, but if she doesn't even have my body to give it the mother’s embrace she’ll grieve to the end of her days. You understand, my Lord. I can’t leave her, not knowing. You’ll get us back. And if I die, if you can’t take my body, you’ll let her know, so she has that at least.” As he went on, his voice picked up speed and confidence, shifting from pleading to an almost certain proclamation of fact.

            Rand stood there for a moment just gaping at the man, and Mat waited quietly for the proclamation that Rand was in fact not a Lord, and Hurin should stand on his own two feet. But it never came, the shock in the bond hardened again this time into guilt, and then, determination.

            “I will do my best, Hurin.” Rand said finally, sheathing his sword. “By my House and honor. A shepherd’s House and a shepherd’s honor,” Rand added hastily. “But I’ll make them do as well as a Lord’s.”

            Mat rather suspected that Hurin had not heard that last part because his face lit up with relief, the confidence in him solidifying. He quickly bowed as deeply as he would have to Ingtar himself and said with a conviction that Mat couldn’t fathom. “Honor to serve, my Lord.”

            Mat felt the guilt slice at Rand through the Bond, but before he could more than get his jaw open, Mat reached out to touch his elbow and shook his head. The denial subsided and he let his shoulders fall. All that was holding Hurin together now was his belief in Rand, in a Lord. The idea that someone wiser and better had the situation well in hand. If Rand undermined that, the Sniffer might shatter, and nevermind that all his faith was going to a shepherd who had once tripped so hard while running on the village Green that he had rolled three spans, straight into the Winespring.

            Mat had no sympathy, not in this situation: not for Hurin or Rand. The Shienarans were all crazy as loons, yammering endlessly about honor and duty, and Rand should have known that if he gave an inch that the man would take the whole coil. Moiraine might have fitted them both for this bloody snare, with Lan’s help, back in Fal Dara, but Rand yanking it tighter wasn’t helping. As for Hurin, well if the fool man wanted to put his faith in a fool Lord, he could for all Mat cared. Mat could never decide who was the greater fool: Lords who thought themselves better because some distant ancestor had maybe done something important, or the people who followed them with wide-eyed and blind determination as if they really were better. 

            At least Hurin could do worse than following Rand al’Thor. He had yet to lead Mat astray after all, current situation possibly notwithstanding.

            Rand grimaced after a moment, and gave a nod before turning back to Hurin. “None of that, Hurin. There will be no bowing, I-“ He cut off, taking a deep breath. “That’s…not how we do it where I’m from.”

            Hurin straightened, shrugging sheepishly. “As you say, Lord Rand,” the Sniffer said, grinning almost as wide as he had when they’d first met.

            Mat sighed. “All of this is well and good, but none of it helps us.” Hurin turned to regard him as did Loial. Rand meanwhile kept his eyes fixed to the Stone. Mat didn’t need the bond to know what he was thinking. “We were brought here by the Power, so we’ll need to find an Aes Sedai to take us back.” Those words were bitter, and hurt a little. But they came out. Rand turned to regard him without expression but Mat refused to back down. Too many people already knew Rand’s secret for comfort. “If this really is some….shadow world or something, there should be Aes Sedai here too, right? We just need to find one and..” At that last second Mat decided saying ‘make’ might be a bad idea. “-ask her to take us back.”

            The other three mulled over this for a time, Rand’s eyes not leaving the stone. He would try, Mat knew, if he was given the chance. But Mat wouldn’t give him the chance.

            Finally Loial spoke. “That might work.” He said slowly. “But there’s no telling if this world even has a White Tower, let alone Aes Sedai. And if it doesn't…”

            “Then we will cross that bridge when we come to it.” Mat said stubbornly.

            “Pardon, Master Cauthon, Builder- I don’t mean to disagree with you or doubt you but…” Hurin said frowning, trailing off as Loial and Mat turned to him. He shifted from foot to foot sighing. “But what about the Darkfriends? I mean, they got to this place, and I don’t think any Aes Sedai would help them. So there must be another way, and if we can find the Darkfriends maybe we can make them tell us-'' He cut off as Rand finally ripped his eyes from the Stone, and turned to stare at the Sniffer instead.

            “What do you mean Hurin?” Rand demanded. “What do you mean the Darkfriends are here?”

            “The trail, Lord Rand.” Hurin replied, lifting his hands palms out, expression pleading. “I can still smell it- still runs right through the hollow, going that way-“ He pointed south. “Still smells something awful it does, but if it’s here…..that means the Darkfriends must have a way to crossover right?"

            Rand’s expression as he stared at Hurin was intent and focused. Mat, meanwhile, was just stunned. The Darkfriends had come to this world? But how was that possible? Could Mordeth’s power work the stones?

            A thought suddenly sliced at Mat. What if it hadn’t been Rand? What if it had been him? Or worse, Mordeth? It might be beyond reason for the Aes Sedai to have lain a trap on this spot on the off chance the hunt would stop here, but Mordeth was another matter.

            You are mine. The man’s slimy, soft voice whispered in Mat’s memory. Mat shivered.

            Rand was quiet for a long time, staring at Hurin so long the man became a touch uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot. Finally Rand spoke. “….We have to pursue the Darkfriends if they're here. I would go back for Ingtar and the others if I could, but-“ He glanced at the Stone again and shook his head. “…It’s not worth the risk, not when we don’t know how to work the Stone, or how we got here. And we need that dagger back, and the Horn.” He added that last more as an afterthought. The urgency was all for the Dagger, all for Mat’s life. Guilt and affection shot through Mat at the same time.

            Hurin blinked, surprised, and ducked his head. “As you say, my Lord.” Mat frowned at him before he realized that Hurin was confused: Lords did not explain themselves to commoners. They commanded and the common folk trusted in their judgment and obeyed. Mat would have rolled his eyes and made a comment, but he knew that provoking the man would only serve to annoy Rand and get them off track. Right now anyways.

            Rand had to unclench his jaw before he spoke. “Right. Hurin, take up the trail. Everyone…mount up.” The orders were shaky, but with a forced air of calmness that Mat realized was an attempt to imitate Tam al’Thor when speaking for the village council. Mat kept his snicker to himself, but as everyone began to saddle and pull up their meager belongings, he couldn’t help himself. 

            He had to lean in and whisper. “Try scowling next time. Maybe barking orders.” Rand blinked, no doubt wondering why Mat would suggest such a thing when Tam al’Thor never did more than frown occasionally or slightly raise his voice to be heard. “You should grow your hair, that way you can pull on it when people annoy you. Maybe start carrying around a big stick to whack people with.”

            A myriad of expressions flickered across Rand’s face, shock, recrimination, and finally amusement as he let out a harsh snort. Mat and Nynaeve were the only people in the world who knew that Rand, when he was ten and still ignorant of how things worked in the world, had asked to learn to be a Wisdom and been gently but quite firmly set down. They had laughed about it later, a touch awkwardly in the Waterwood, at the preposterous idea that a man could be Wisdom. But there had been an edge of secrecy to it, or trust. And Mat had known it was just between them, a bit of shame that Rand could trust to no one else.

            “I don’t think Nynaeve would want to be Lady of the Two Rivers if we were going to have one.” Rand said dryly. “And I don’t think her example is the one to follow. Nobles don’t go shouting at folks for being fools or getting their legs broken after all.”

            Mat snickered at the idea of the Two Rivers having any noble of any kind. He wasn’t sure who would be more up in arms about it: The Women’s Circle or the Village Council. Still, “Better her than the mayor. I think if you try and offer Hurin a mug of ale and ask what’s on his mind, he might swallow his tongue.”

            Rand shook his head, smile disappearing. “It’s all foolishness. But…it’s foolishness I have to put up with now.” He sighed. “And better my father then either. He always knew how to make people feel like…everything was going to be okay.” Rand sounded wistful, and as always, touched his sword when he spoke of Tam. At least Mat knew why now.

            “It will be okay.” Mat said firmly, and Rand’s curt nod told Mat that he had been right not to try lying to Rand earlier. It really did no good anymore. “It will.” He insisted, swinging his leg up over the saddle and mounting.

            For a moment, Mat thought that Rand was going to reach up to pull his head down for a kiss. He was tall enough that, even with Mat mounted, he could manage it with no more than going onto tiptoes. But as always these last few weeks something seemed to stop him just as he was on the verge of action, and instead Rand mounted as well, turned Red south and in a sharp voice, gave the command for Hurin to take the trail.

            His voice still shook, but maybe it had a little bit of Tam al’Thor in it that time. A touch anyways.

<X>

            Hurin had no problem taking up the trail again, and the path led them sharply south, just as it had before. But that was the only way in which things remained the same.

            Everything felt….wrong as they journeyed through the morning. At first, aside from the strange angular clouds and the twisted trees, the land seemed almost normal, or at the least no more strange then the land they had left behind. But a growing sense of wrongness tightened in Mat's belly, and it took him almost an hour to realize why. Animals would avoid travelers going cross country, but Mat, who had grown up on the edge of wilderness, knew the signs of them well, and felt their absence equally well. The lack of droppings or visible prints, or disturbed underbrush, shouted at a lack of life that once Mat recognized it became impossible to ignore. Mat didn’t see a single leaf nibbled by insects in the hours after they departed the hollow: They passed no anthills, spotted no hives hanging from branches, not even spiderwebs stretched out in the shade.

            What they did spot was the evidence of wildfire, but that too was wrong.

            Just as the sun was beginning to near its peak they came across a stretch of forest that was sear and burned. Every tree a blacked husk, every blade of grass brittle and charred. But it was more precise than the remains of any wildfire Mat had ever seen. It was as if someone had painted the devastation with a brush: the line between destroyed and perfectly healthy was perfect, and exact, even slicing down one whole tree which was half healthy, half devastated. But it also seemed to curve and flow in odd ways, sometimes straight, sometimes almost a swirl.

            The group stared at that for a while, before finally by unspoken agreement, Rand led them away and back to the trail, further south.

            A half hour later, Loial called a halt, and dismounted, moving to one of the trees by the side of the road with a murmur: “I will be just a moment, forgive me.”

            Rand opened his mouth, probably to ask what the Ogier was doing but he cut off as Loial laid both hands against the bole of the tree, and began to sing.

            It was like nothing Mat had ever heard before. There were no words that he could make out, just pure sound, deep and echoing, a baritone which rolled through Mat the way the sound of a cracking boulder would, striking a chord of something deep in him, something animal, and fundamental. It wasn’t fear…but…awe.

            The tree’s branches exploded with blossoms, deep and luscious green. Instead of their twisted upwards motion they seemed to come untangled and spread downwards, making Mat realize that they were in fact, Giant’s Broom that had been malformed somehow. As the spry branches began to droop with the weight of their greenery, the Bole itself…quivered and then split. Mat watched dumbstruck as Loail reached within and pulled free a rod of solid wood, the grains swirled and knotted to make it a perfect sturdy quarterstaff….sized for Loial. It should have been misshapen and raw, needing a human hand and a knife’s to shape it, but both ends were rounded already as Loial pulled it free and rested it across his knees, his song tapering off. It was as if the staff had simply grown into the perfect shape to be used.

            “Forgive me.” Loial said, turning back to the others. “I…” he frowned, glancing back to the Giant’s Broom. “Forgive me. I may be putting a long handle on my ax but this place, it…”

            Rand shook his head. “No, it’s a smart idea, Loial. We all should be armed.”

            Loial frowned down at the staff, as if unhappy with it. “There is a time for all things again, in the turning of the Wheel. Maybe it is time that an Ogier carried a weapon once more. But I do not like it. Especially not a weapon made here, in this place.” He shivered. “The land was glad, Rand. Glad to have a weapon made from it.”

            Rand said nothing, staring into the distance for a moment, and then nodded as if he understood. He was getting better, Mat realized, at hiding the truth of his emotions. Loial might suspect from his furrowed brown and tight mouth that he was anxious and afraid, but Hurin who didn’t know Rand that well would have no idea, and only Mat who could feel Rand’s fear and worry in the back of his mind, could really know the depth of what was going on. Yet what could he do? If he tried to offer comfort, Rand would reject it surely. Lords, after all, could not be seen taking comfort, even from their lovers.

            If that’s what we even are. Mat thought bitterly.

            All he could do, all any of them could do, was follow and hope for the best.

            As they rode further south, passing more stretches of too-perfect destruction, some a few paces wide, some miles across, Mat thought he began to understand what Loial meant. Or at least a part of it. It was like the feeling he had gotten when he’d first gone into Baerlon, as if he didn’t belong, didn’t understand. But Baerlon, with its calling merchants and pressing crowds, and endless noise had been…indifferent to Mat. And Caemlyn had been the same.

            This place felt hostile. Not like the Blight, where it had felt like it hated him specifically, but like this place did not want him there, could not stand him being there, and wanted him gone and no longer intruding on its silence.

            Just one of his flights of fancy, his strange imaginings that he too often let run away with him, and yet…

            As they rode Mat kept one hand on where his bow hung from the neck of Northwind in its leather case, ready to draw and string at a moment’s notice, letting his eyes rake over the landscape for any sign of hostility. None ever came.

            When the sun finally began to sink and Rand called them to make camp for the day, the fire Mat ended up lighting caught too quickly, and gave no scent or smoke. The water Hurin gathered tasted boiled and sterile. No one spoke much as they sat around the fire, told stories or jokes, or tried to lighten the mood. No one had it in them to try. They ate their flatbread in quiet silence, and then rolled out their bedrolls for the night.

            “I’ll take first watch.” Mat declared softly as he rose, but Rand shook his head.

            “No. I’ll do it.” Rand said softly, staring up at the moon overhead. It was shining bright and cold. “I…I won't be able to sleep. And I need time to think.”

            About saidin Mat was sure, and fate, and Aes Sedai and other worlds, and things that neither of them wanted to think about, and couldn’t talk about in front of Loial and Hurin. For a moment Mat considered offering to stay up with him, but there was no sense in them both losing sleep.

            “I’ll take the second watch.” Mat said softly. “Wake me in a few hours.”

            Rand nodded curtly, and drew something out of his coat before turning to sit on a boulder, facing the edge of camp. A silver-chased flute, Mat realized. Thom’s flute.

            As Mat lowered himself to the bedroll, Rand began to play, a gentle soft sound which seemed to fold around Mat, to drain some of the tension at least from the air and his bones. It wasn’t the grand beauty of Ogier's song, but….to Mat at least, it made him feel safer, more at ease.

            Enough that, when he closed his eyes, sleep came swiftly, and he didn’t dream.

<X> 

            Rand waited for the coals to burn low, and for Loial’s snoring to start, before he finally stopped playing the flute, lowering it from his lips with a breath. A foolish thing to do, probably. He had almost certainly just made it harder for everyone to sleep, but the need to do something , to satisfy his own obligations to these people, had become overwhelming. Rand couldn’t help but wonder if it was that need to act, even knowing that action might do no good or might even hurt your own cause, which drove so much of the conflict in the world.

            A useless, tired thought, yet it would not leave him alone.

            Sighing, Rand stuck the flute back in its case and slipped that into one of the pockets sewn on the inside of his fancy new coat. He still needed to find a way to get rid of the bloody things, but it had sunk low on his list of priorities. For now, he simply shed the thing and stripped down, until he was in his trousers and shirt sleeves, even kicking off his boots and slipping his stalkings into them. Lan had told him that when he needed to focus, it was better to practice barefoot. Something about how it heightened the challenge of working the forms.

            Drawing his sword, and suppressing the pang that he now always felt looking at it, Rand took a deep breath and tried to assume the void. It had not come easily these last few days. In his mind he formed the flame and fed everything into his: his fear, his anxiety, his anger at the Aes Sedai, his doubt about their situation about whether or not he had caused it somehow, even the mess of tangled feelings that reared up in him anytime he thought of Mat now. He wanted to shake the other man, and he wanted to hold him close and never let go. He wanted to kiss his stupid smirking mouth until it was red and panting, and he wanted to chase Mat away to a place beyond where Rand could hurt him, or let him down.

            All of it fed into the flame, but no matter how large it grew, it never winked out into the emptiness as it was supposed to. It always wavered, flicking just on the edge.

            Finally Rand gave up and shifted into Heron Waiting in the Rushes, began to work the sword.

            It had been like this for weeks, ever since Rand had tried and failed to heal Mat back in Fal Dara. Maybe it was fear, a fear so strong that the Flame could not burn it: fear of the Light that waited in the void: golden and warm but filtered through something sickly and green, like a dyed paper stretched in front of a candle. Saidin had come to him almost before he had realized what he was doing, back in the village. Mat had been in danger, and he had needed to protect him. Without thinking he had formed the Void and reached out to saidin , letting it flood into him, a tidal wave of molten rock, a collapsing mountain of ice….but he had to reach through smoke, sickness and vomit inducing to get to it. Had to let it inside. Let the Shadow inside of him.

            Rand shifted, feeling the grass, which was too brittle and stiff, crunching beneath his feet almost with the sound of paper. He brought his sword across into a sharp slash: Cherry Blossoms on the Wind. Rand had asked why that soft and gentle name for a sharp blow meant to behead an enemy, and Lan had simply shrugged and said that’s what it was called.

            He had forgotten all his weeks of training with Lan at that moment, all the time spent on the sword, specifically so he would not need the Power to protect himself, and he had forgotten it completely at the first sign of real danger.  All his protests that he wouldn’t touch saidin ever again, that he wouldn't succumb to the temptation, to the Power….all had vanished in that moment. It hadn’t mattered, not when it had come down to it.

            What a fool he was, a blind stupid fool. One responsible for three lives when he couldn’t even properly take care of his own.

            Rand shifted again, to Lion on The Hill and then again, to The Courtier Taps His Fan, feeling the air shift as his blade whistled through it. He longed for a target or a practice dummy to slash at instead, to feel his blade bite into something tangible. The resistanceless air seemed only to fuel his frustration, not banish it.

            Rand knew the risks, had agonized over them: If he got into the habit of just reaching out to saidin first, if he let himself grow used to it, too injured to the dangers, then he was only accelerating the inevitable. Madness. Decay. Death. He knew and yet….

            And yet it was always there, a light just out of the corner of his eye, waiting for him, calling to him. As easy to reach out to as extending his arm. And when he did… When felt that light inside of him, he felt….truly alive. Bigger than his own skin. Like he was more storm than man.

            And that was dangerous and foolish, and there was nothing he could do about it. Except…

            Except turn himself over to the Red Ajah, and doom both himself and Mat.

            Not that the Amyrlin would let it get that far. No, he would only be captured by the Red Ajah after the Aes Sedai had drained him of use, their pet False Dragon. Just as they had done with Logain.

            “I will not be used.” Rand snarled, slashing at the air again. “I will not!”

            “It may be too late for that, Lews Therin.” A silky soft voice spoke, and Rand spun, bringing up his sword sharply to point at the source. “Now now,” said Ba’alzamon, utterly ignoring the edge of the blade now angled for his chest. “You don’t want to hurt yourself with that now, do you?”

            The Dark One stood there, across the clearing, impossibly. He was…different then when Rand had last seen him. A cloak of crimson was wrapped around his shoulders, the hood lowered so that his inky dark hair was visibly in the moonlight. He also wore a crimson half-moon mask, but with only one eyehole, and carried a walking staff gnarled and black on which he leaned for support. Rand almost would have doubted it truly was Ba’alzamon, except for the way fire spilled from that one eyehole, and crackled in the cracks of the skin of his chin and mouth, and across his hands. That spiderweb of cracks, almost like scars, constantly seemed to spill forth sparks of flame, like the coals in a forge, yet somehow gave no illumination in the night. If anything the darkness seemed to fold tightly around Ba’alzamon, following him as he moved, like smoke following a fire.

            He did move, stepping forward and Rand felt his feet snap into place, shifting into the stance called Black Lance Rearing, meant for holding off an opponent. He held his sword out parallel to the ground, one foot back ready to spring forward into a sharp jab or slice.

            Ba’azlamon’s mouth curled in contempt and he chuckled, sending a spray of sparks past his lips. “Still playing with toys, eh Lews Therin? You always did favor Swords for your exercise, before. And you always did have an unconscionable fondness for the barbarism of eras like this one.” He swept his hand out in an arc and Rand shook with the urge to slice at it, to cut, but restrained himself. The void suddenly felt like it was trying to form around him, the light of saidin beckoning to him. The last time he had faced Ba’alzamon he had used the Power, almost without thought, if he did so again…the thought dried his mouth.

            “I am not- '' Rand began, hating how his voice sounded haggard and hunted. He steeled. “I am not what you said. I am Rand al’Thor. I will not be used! I deny you!”

            Ba’alzamon tsked and shook his head, but rather than advancing he moved to the right, beginning a slow steady circle of Rand. He still had every chance to strike, before Ba'alzamon struck at him. Except a sword would do no good against the Dark One. Not on its own. He needed-

            No. He shoved that thought away. Protecting Mat was one thing. But he could not begin to depend on the Power.

            “Still prating that same old line?” Ba'alzamon murmured in amusement. “I thought you had learned better. Denying me does nothing to banish me, Lews Therin. Anymore then you can deny the wind, or the sun, or the night itself. And you less the most- for you are marked as mine. You have been marked since before you took your first breaths on the slopes of Dragonmount.”

            “Lair!” Rand snarled, slashing at the air with his sword. “Father of Lies! I walk in the Light and I am no false Dragon, not for you or for Tar Valon! You can not touch me!”

            Ba’alzamon smiled, like an indulgent father listening to nonsense from an unruly child, and completed his circuit, leaving him standing by three mounds, almost hidden by the mist and the night. “I see that you have not lost your habit for collecting strange followers either.” Ba'alzamon mused. “You and your pack of strays.” He said with a slight mocking laugh, and slowly began to reach out a hand to one of the mounds.

            The void formed before Rand could stop it, enveloping him whole and leaving everything outside detached and distant, beyond that nothing. Except for the light of saidin. Rand reached out before he could stop himself, before he could realize that he didn’t want to stop himself. The Power flooded into him, a river of liquid light hotter than any fire, colder than any glacier, and with it, almost rolling to atop it, a tidal wave of sickness and shadow, like all the rot of the world flowing into his soul. He wanted to gag and he wanted to sing all at once. The power ripped through him, making him feel every twitch in veins, every twist of his organs. He had to do something with it, had to put it somewhere-

            Rand leveled his sword at Ba’alzamon again and watched the blade begin to glow a bright molent golden. Not as if it was melting, but as if it had been infused with the light. The darkness that surrounded Ba’alzamon seemed to recoil slightly, and the regular shadow of night was banished, revealing the mounds of blankets that Ba'alzamon had been stopping over. Loial, and Hurin, and Mat, directly at Ba'alzamon feet.

            “Step away from them.” Rand commanded, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. “Or we’ll see if you can survive a second blade of light to your chest, Shai’tan.” The moment the name was out of Rand’s mouth he knew it had been a mistake. The shadows seemed to lurch around Ba’alzamon, to stretch from him again, and overhead the moon grew dimmer, and in Rand’s hand, the blade of light grew a touch more faded, less radiant.

            Ba'alzamon smiled, reaching up to touch his chest where Rand had run him through back in….wherever it was they had clashed. For all Rand knew it might be this strange otherworld they now found themselves in. But he did not seem disconcerted in the least, or afraid.

            “What makes you think that would kill me now if it could not before?” Ba’alzamon asked softly. Rand didn’t have an answer, and his smile grew. “I am not here to trifle with you, Lews Therin, or to play petty games. I am just here to talk.”

            “I am not-“ Rand began but Ba’alzamon shook his head, cutting him off with a sharp gesture.

            “You are the Dragon, but deny it as much as you deny me, if you wish. It will not change the strings Tar Valon seeks to tie to your wrists and ankles, or the chain they shall fit around your neck, given the chance.” Ba'alzamon turned, leaning on his staff again.

            “And what of your strings, Ba'alzamon?” Rand spat back. Though Ba'alzamon seemed to disregard the glowing sword, Rand also noticed through the clarity of the Void that he drew no closer.

            “I will use you as well.” Ba'alzamon agreed calmly. “But I will not use you till there is nothing left. The Great Lord of the Dark rewards those who serve, and punishes only failure and disloyalty. You are not known for either, once you bend your stubborn neck. And the Great Lord will not strike at those you love, as the Aes Sedai will.”

            Rand sneered and took a step forward, bringing the point of his glowing sword closer to Ba'alzamon chest. “A Darkfriend in a Warder’s cloak is meant to convince me of that, Father of Lies? Why would the Amyrlin help heal Mat only to send a Warder to kill him?” He said coldly.

            Ba'alzamon shook his head and extended a hand, not to Rand, but to the air over Mat. Something rose, with a soft whisk of metal against leather, a knife, the knife which Mat had taken from the attack yesterday. It was a plain blade…but with the Flame of Tar Valon grave onto the hilt. Rand’s memory sparked suddenly, remembering an identical one, that he had pulled out of Mat’s shoulder before his feeble attempt at Healing.  He had overlooked it at the time but…He had seen the likes from a few Warders in Fal Dara, and in the hands of no one else.

            Doubt swirled on the edge of the void, but Rand ignored it. “A man who can kill a warder and take his cloak, can also take his dagger.”

            “You are quick to defend women you believe mean to use you as a False Dragon.” Ba’alzamon noted with a measure of bemusement. “Especially given how they manipulate the truth and hide secrets from you. As to the question of why- you know why. They regard Matrim as a threat because of his association with….” Ba'alzamon mouthed twisted in distaste. “Mashadar.” He turned, one single burning eye staring at Rand suddenly intensely. “They fear his influence on you, his distrust and suspicion of them, and his absolute loyalty only to you and your cause, not to their plans. They believe that killing him will render you more pliable, in your grief and pain at his passing. Maybe they even think to replace him with a more suitable Warder, of their choosing. They have done it before.” He adds dryly, again amused.

            “They could have let him die.” Rand spat and Ba'alzamon shrugged.

            “And then they would have had all the blame for his death, and your trust lost forever.” Ba'alzamon replied simply. “No, they wish to avoid that, and so they will hide behind their smokescreens, maybe even offer up this mysterious Warder and Sister as Black Ajah to satiate your need for vengeance, once he has done the deed. I’m sure they will be overflowing with remorse and promises of justice…while they cackle in glee at having rid you of your only true ally.”

            “You lie!” Rand spat. But doubt had grown stronger at the edges of the void, a dark cloud swirling around him. Could Moiraine do that? The thought of the Tarran Ferry, broken to flinders, appeared in Rand’s mind. Of a horse’s death cry as its neck was casually snapped. Moiraine could, he knew, do it. But would she? “I will protect him.” Rand said. “I will keep him safe from them- I-!”

            “And how…” Ba’alzamon said softly. “Will you do that, when you can not even protect yourself?” He turned his hand, and slowly the knife began to lower, straight for Mat’s temple. Rand swung, lashing out with his blade blade and was thrown back, his whole body shaking like a struck bell, the world turning liquid and blurred. When vision returned he was lying on his back, watching as the knife continued to lower, slowly, steadily, and inexorably. Rand screamed, and snatched at his blade, but as his hand tightened around the steel just below the hilt, the golden light turned scarlet, and Rand screamed as pain shattered the void, saidin fleeing from him. Yet the light of the blade did not dull.

            “Mat!” Rand shouted. “Wake up! MAT!”

            “You are nothing without my help, Lews Therin. Without my help, you will lose everything again.” Ba’alzamon still held the quiet, amused calm, unshakeable and unchanged. Rand wanted to hurl himself at the man, but he found it impossible to stand, or to let go of the sword, like his hand had turned to a ball of tight agony. All he could do was scream.

            “MAT!” Rand screamed desperately, as the blade began to sink into Mat’s temple.

<X> 

            Rand’s eyes snapped open and he leapt to his feet, ignoring the hammer of his heart in his chest and the dryness of his mouth. Desperately he tried to orient himself, to form the void, to draw his sword, all at once, but another pressing need had overcome all else, and his body moved only towards that.

            “Mat?” He gasped, scrambling on bare feet for the doused fire.

            Everything was as he had left it to go practice the sword. The dead fire, the three lumps almost invisible in the night. And the moon is shining overhead. Looking down and realizing he was covered in bits of brittle grass, Rand felt relief. He had fallen asleep while practicing the sword. That was all. He had….

            He couldn’t open his hand.

            Rand stared down at it, at the fist that had been burned in the dream, stiff and red, and tried to pull his fingers apart, to spread his palm. His knuckles twitched but no more. With his other hand he reached over, digging his thumb into the space between his pinky and palm. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, and with the pain of flesh being peeled, his hand was forced open to reveal….the brand of a heron, clear against his flesh. Rand felt his lungs go cold, lifting it up to the moonlight to be sure.

            The heron. The same as was on his sword blade.

            “What is that?” Mat’s groggy voice game. He was rising, bleary-eyed and confused, trying to make Rand out in the moonlight. Another stab of fear shot through Rand and he shoved his hand behind his back.

            “Nothing.” Rand said. “Go back to bed, Mat.” The moment he heard his own words, harsh and curt, he knew they were a mistake, and the shot of anger and frustration through the bond only confirmed that.

            Inclining his head, Mat whispered. “As you command, my Lord.” His voice was tight and angry. And then he turned over, yanked his blankets around himself and was still.

            Rand stood in the silence of the otherworldly night, stewing in his own regrets, till he could take it no longer. Getting dressed in quick, uncareful motions, and sheathing his sword- which was cool to the touch with no lingering sign of heat- Rand took his place back at the rock, and waited for dawn to come.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Selene

             “You should not have done it, Lord Rand!” Hurin admonished the next morning, as they struck camp and set out. “Myself or Master Mat could have taken the second watch with ease, but what will we do if you collapse from exhaustion and are not there to lead us?!”  

             Rand took a deep breath. The truth was that his hand had hurt too much for him to sleep, even if Mat had been willing to take a second watch after their…exchange last night. And even if his hand hadn’t been hurt, his dream had left him rattled and afraid to sleep in any event.

            But the thought of explaining that was deeply unappealing, so he simply shook his head and said “It’s fine Hurin. It gave me time to think.” Which was…true. Just not the whole truth. 

            Light, he was becoming an Aes Sedai.

            Hurin was not satisfied by this, but there was nothing he could do about it, so he resigned himself to riding in sullen silence at Rand’s left for the morning. Loial, also oddly despondent, took the other side, though he rode with his quarterstaff held in one hand, occasionally running his fingers over the grain of the wood absently. Mat took the rear, and though he did not ride with his quarter staff in hand, his bow was shifted in its case to always be in reach.

            There was something even more oppressive about the silence and the absence of life than the day before, but the trail continued unerringly south as near as Hurin could tell, though neither Mat nor Rand could find any sign of passage. Not even the offal piles they had back in the real world.

            “The Darkfriends might simply have run down their reserves of prisoners.” Loial suggested. “Or let them go south of the Erinin to avoid being slowed down.”

            “Maybe.” Rand conceded. Except that wouldn’t explain the lack of any sign at all: not a single hoofprint, or dropping? It made no sense. Yet Hurin was adamant: southwards, so southwards they continued.

            The silence stretched until it was almost painful. Rand and Loial made a few weak attempts to break it, but there was nothing to speak of at length and so conversation quickly lapsed again. Hurin remained sullen, shoulders hunched, looking more despondent by the hour, while Mat…

            Rand could feel the storm brewing there, even if Mat was trying to hide it. It wasn't anger, or frustration exactly, but something else: a great slowly building tension like a rope slowly fraying from too large a load. Rand had no idea when it would snap, or what would happen when it did, but the snap was sure to come.

            Which it did, but in a way Rand never would have expected.

            At midday they called a halt to pass out travel rations. They hadn’t so much as spotted a squirrel, but even if they had Rand wasn’t sure he would trust anything he caught in this place. Yet that did little to make the flatbread and cheese passed out and eaten in the saddle a more palatable lunch, or to soothe the mood. Trying to take his mind off of it, Rand looked about, desperate for something, anything to break up the shadow hanging over the group. That was why he noticed it.

            “Loial- what is that?” Rand asked, leaning forward in his saddle. There was something in the distance. The land sloped slightly downwards, and he could see a bit of the forest ahead…and something that broke through the trees.

            Loial leaned forward in his saddle, squinting. “I….I am not sure. It seems to be some kind of monolith, but I can’t imagine what-“

            There was no warning. Northwind whinnied a loud cry and sprang around the small party. Rand’s head snapped around and the Void formed around him almost before he could think, the light of saidin flaring, beckoning to him, but Rand shoved it away, instead pulling his sword free in a hasty draw that would have had Lan snarling in disgust.

            “What is happening? Did you spot- Mat!” Rand cut off in shock as Mat dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and Northwind sprang forward at a gallop, hooves eating earth in long strides: within heartbeats he was shrinking into the distance, southwards, towards the monolith.

            Shoving his sword in its sheath and snapping his jaw shut, Rand dug his own heels into Red’s sides. Mat’s eye for horseflesh was good, and he was a skilled rider besides, but Red was far from a bad mount and must have felt some part of Rand’s determination, because he went galloping after Northwind with a turn of speed that would have made any racer proud. Still, Mat kept the gap from closing completely, if not narrowing, coaxing Northwind to leap over logs and cut tight corners around trees that Rand, who was more used to Bela than anything else, had to slow down in order to take.

            As they moved, the land seemed to blur around them in a sickly whorl of colors and shapes, that couldn’t help but remind Rand the strange otherworld where he had fought Ba'alzamon. Nothing flickered out of reality, or bent to accommodate him, yet some part of Rand couldn’t help but be convinced that trees changed shape from one glance to the next or the land bent in odd eye-wrenching ways.

            Just a trick of motion. Keep focused on Mat.

            Cloak streaking behind him, hair flying in the wind, Mat moved Northwind with a grace that if Rand’s mouth weren't already dry with panic, would have dried it for sure with another emotion. It added another obstacle to Rand keeping up the pursuit, trying desperately not to get distracted and let Red break a leg while still keeping Mat in sight.

            Rand could not have said how long the chase went on, except that it was long enough for Red to begin to lather and flag. Just as Rand became afraid he would have to dismount and walk the horse- leaving Mat to disappear into this strange otherworld- the treeline broke and the pair of them came galloping into a clearing, at a perfect angle for the shadow of the monolith to fall over them, the bird at its top blocking out the sun.

            Rand pulled Red’s reins sharply, and the horse danced backwards for a few moments, forcing Rand to hold on tight in order to avoid being thrown from its back. The moment he had Red settled he turned, looking for Mat only to find Mat right beside him, sitting calmly astride Northwind, neither horse nor rider seeming even slightly winded from their gallop.

            “Mat! What on earth do you think you were doing! You could have-'' Rand's combination of relief and fury was cut off abruptly as Mat seized him by the front of the shirt and brought their lips crashing together.

            The shock of it shot through Rand, like a wave of shuddering rolling out from where their lips touched, over his skin, out to tips of his ears and the ends of his toes. It shattered the Void, completely and yet Rand couldn’t find it in himself to care. He felt his hands shoot up to wrap around Mat’s neck with the same reflexive ease that he might seize saidin , and the same relief too. The same rush of joy he felt every time he touched the Source after trying so hard to deny it, to avoid it. He hadn’t realized how much he had craved being close with Mat until he was close to him again, and now he never wanted to be apart. He wanted to drink Mat in, to hold onto him until-

            The kiss broke as suddenly as it had begun, Mat pulling back, and Rand trying to lean forward, to chase Mat’s mouth with his own, his breath coming out in a shallow pants, yet he was too overwhelmed to put up any resistance when Mat gently took Rand’s hands from his neck with one hand, and pressed back on his shoulder with the other.

            For a long moment they just stared at each other, Mat calm, Rand panting for breath like a lunatic, and then Mat spoke, shifting both his hands to one of Rand’s. “You need to stop hiding things from me.”

            Rand gulped, managing to get enough air into his lungs to speak. “Mat I- '' But he cut off as Mat gently pried his fingers open, revealing the heron branded into his palm. The one he had been hiding all morning, ignoring the pain that came with it.

            He expected Mat to recoil, or demand answers, or look at him with the fear and the surety of madness. Instead Mat sighed, and reached into his saddle bags to produce a small phial of cream. With surprisingly gentle hands he dabbed it to his fingers and began to rub it into the angry red flesh. The cream was cool, and though it stung a little, Mat’s hands were steady in how he applied it, careful to avoid unnecessary pain.

            “It’s not fair.” Mat continued calmly, his focus all on the burn. “I can’t hide anything from you. The Bond makes sure of that, but you keep hiding things from me. That can’t be how this works. We have to be in this together.”

            Rand gulped, feeling his heart begin to beat fast again, for an entirely different reason. “Or?” He asked softly.

            Mat’s rubbing paused, and for a moment Rand thought he was going to throw up his hands in exasperation. “Or nothing Rand. There isn’t another thing. We are in this together no matter what, and we have to find a way to make that work. There isn’t an alternative.”

            There were a lot of things Rand could say to that: that he didn’t want to trap Mat or worse hurt him by going mad, that he wanted Mat to be safe and leave, that there had to be an alternative of some kind. But all of it felt hollow in his own head. They had been over all of that already, and none of it had made Mat come to his senses and leave.

            Finally Rand shook his head, as Mat finished, taking his hand back to stare at the brand. It hurt less, felt less stiff. But it still made fear spike in his belly. “….You don’t understand.” He said. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

            “How can I?” Mat responded. “When will you tell me?”

            Rand didn’t have anything to say to that. There wasn’t anything to say.

            Slowly Mat brought Northwind closer- so close that he actually nipped at Red’s ear and Rand had to rein his own horse to keep him from retaliating, and turned to stare up at the monolith. It was an impressive sight, forty spans of black stone shooting straight up to the heavens, covered in some rough script that Rand didn’t recognize, and topped with some kind of bird. A raven maybe, at the very top.

            “…There is nothing you could tell me that would drive me away, Rand.” Mat murmured softly, reaching over to put his hand on Rand’s. “No evil you could reveal, no terrible truth you could share, that would make me wake up and think I should leave. But not telling me anything at all? Not giving me a choice or a chance? All that will do is make us both miserable.”

            They stood in silence for a while yet, Rand trying to control his breathing, to control the fear that had bubbled up inside of him. Finally, he found words again. “I’ll try, Mat. I really will. But it’s not easy, I-'' He took a breath, swallowing back bile. “I feel so doomed and guilty and ashamed, all at once. Like…like there's no hope, no matter what I do. Like I’m trapped. And I don’t….I don’t want anyone to be trapped with me.”

            Mat nodded slowly, stroking a thumb over Rand’s knuckle. “We’ll figure something out. And we’ll figure it out together, I promise.”

            Rand smiled. He wanted to believe that he truly did, and he opened his mouth to say as much, but cut off as Hurin and Loial appeared, emerging from the treeline at a gallop, both winded and gasping for breath.

            “Mat!” Loial scolded as he came abreast of them. “That was not a very funny joke. I don’t see the point of it!”

            Mat’s smile was back to its usual sly mischief, with no hint of the turmoil and worry that Rand still felt through the Bond, as he turned to regard Loial. “I just thought we all could use a bit of fun, and a race seemed like it would do the trick. It’s not my fault you all are slow as sap.”

            Loial gave out an exasperated huff, but seemed to accept the explanation. “Next time, you might try telling us what you intend.” He frowned suddenly, glancing up at the monument. “….And picking a better finish line.”

            Hurin was also frowning. “….Do you know what this is, Builder? I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve come this way before searching for thieves who fled Shienar for Cairhien.”

            Loial shook his head. “….It….it looks like the descriptions of Hawkwing’s monument, except….” He shifted leaning forward. “….Except the spot where it stood should still be days south, at best.”

            Mat frowned. “Hawkwing? Why would they build a monument to him out here in the middle of nowhere?”

            “It wasn’t to him.” Loial corrected. “It was to those who died in the Battle of Talidar, when the Shadow rode out of the Blight against Hawkwing. Six days and six nights it lasted, yet when it was done the Shadow’s forces were broken. They fled back to the Blight and never again attempted to challenge the reign of Hawkwing or his Empire. He raised a monument on the spot, to those that gave their lives so that his Empire might know the Light. But it was pulled down during the War of the Hundred Years, by those who could not stand any reminder of a victory of the Great Hawkwing, even if it did not mention his name.”

            Mat shook his head, disgust welling up in the Bond. Rand agreed. Could men truly be so petty as that? Yet… “But this….This isn’t human script, or Ogier.” Rand said. “And it’s the wrong place. So this has to be something else, right? Something of this world.”

            Loial shook his head. “Something of this world maybe.” Loial agreed. “But I think….I think this is Talidar field, or rather once was.” He pointed to the south, where mountains were rising in the distance. “Those mountains, Rand. Those have to be Kinslayer’s Dagger. There's no other mountains they could be, unless this world is completely different from our own. But…”

            It was Mat who spoke. “Kinslayer’s Dagger is more than a hundred leagues south of the Erinin. We did not cross that distance in two days. We just didn’t.”

            Rand turned, gazing southwards, and realizing Mat and Loial were right. The mountains could not be more than a day’s ride away. They might reach them before nightfall at this rate, even without another gallop. “….It’s like the Ways,” he realized, saying the words as soon as they came to him, and immediately regretting it as both Loial and Mat flinched. Out of the corner of his eye, Rand saw Mat’s hand go to the empty holster under his chest, where he usually kept the Shadar Logoth dagger. None of them had pleasant memories of the Ways.

            “Lord Rand…” Hurin said slowly, moving his horse up. “I…” He trailed off as Rand turned to him, gulping. Rand’s expression must have been grim, and Rand forced himself to soften it, to smile.

             “Go ahead Hurin.” Rand said gently. “What is it?”  

             “I don’t know about all this talk of Ways and or monuments to Hawkwing, but that-'' He jabbed a finger at the monument. “…That is Trolloc script.”  

             Rand shivered, a stab of fear going through him, but before he could open his mouth to ask if Hurin was sure, a loud grunting cough echoed through the clearing, harsh and sharp, followed by a sharp, panicked scream.  

             Rand’s sword was in his hand, and Red leaping for the source of the scream almost before it could fade. Without any need for words or command, Mat was right behind him, Northwind galloping beside Red.  

             They galloped south, plunging back into the thicket of trees, searching for the source of the scream, searching until- there.  

             Rand pulled the reins on Red, sending up a cloud of gravel and dust as he narrowed his eyes to focus on a small stream flowing lethargically, maybe two hundred paces away. On the far side of the bank, almost ankle deep within the stream, stood a woman. A beautiful woman, dressed in solid white, with long flowing dark hair nearly to her waist. In one hand she grasped the reins of a silvery mare, and in the other a snapped tree branch which she was using to fend off….  

             Rand’s mind skittered as he stared at the creature, unsure of what to make of it. It was vaguely bear shaped, but larger and with longer double jointed legs that ended in webbed toes. Instead of fur its skin was a gray-green hide that glistened with a sheen of something slimy and wet. But worst of all, was its wedge shaped head, from which three eyes stared out hatefully, over a beaked mouth.  

             “What on earth is that thing?” Mat muttered. He had already strung his bow and notched an arrow, but he seemed unsure of where to aim, where to strike.  

             “Shadowspawn.” Rand muttered. “It has to be-“ He cut off, and brought his hands to his mouth. “MY LADY!” He roared and the woman, rather than jumping in surprise, turned slowly, not lowering her branch, to stare across the stream at them. She was oddly calm given all things. Rand took another deep breath. “TO US, MY LADY!”  

             Without waiting to see if she would comply, Rand sheathed his sword and pulled out his own bow, with less grace than Mat had. Still he managed to get the string into the notches, while kicking Red slightly forward, just a touch closer.  

             “The eye!” The woman called out, her voice smooth and lyrical, despite having to raise it to his ears. She hadn’t moved to fjord the stream and join them, indeed she hadn’t moved at all, and didn’t seem the least bit distressed. How in the name of the Light could she be so calm? “You must hit the eye!”  

             Letting his reins drop Rand drew an arrow, pulled fletching to cheek….and then froze. He could make the shot easily he knew, if….if he was willing to enter the Void. Without it….  

             Mat’s hand on his shoulder was a steadying presence, an anchor in a storm holding him in place. “It’s okay.” Mat murmured. “You can do this. Trust in yourself.”  

             That was the problem. The person he trusted least in all the world these days was himself. And yet….he formed the flame, and fed that distrust into it, that anger, that frustration. He fed his doubt, and his affection for Mat, and the lingering passion from their brief kiss, each growing the flame until it grew larger than everything else….and winked out, leaving behind emptiness in his head, and quiet, and the light of saidin , beckoning to him.

            And beside it…The Bond. The knot of emotion that was Mat. The tunnel that connected their souls.

             Rand focused on that, on Mat's hand on his shoulder, on the bow in his grip, on the arrow fletching ticking his cheek. He was one with it all, one with the creature, with the sand thrown up by its webbed feet as it approached the woman, snapping its beak at her with spluttering harsh coughs.

             Rand loosed and knew before the string even snapped that he had shot true. The arrow streaked through the air, and the broadhead point slammed into the eye directly on the center of its wedge shaped head. Cough turned to strident cry, and the creature reared back, yellow blood flowing from the wound as it kicked the air once, twice….and fell over dead.

             Rand breathed a sigh of relief and let the Void go hastily, Mat’s grin and punch to his shoulder sent another shock through him, and Rand felt the urge to seize him by the neck and kiss him again. The presence of the woman, as well as Loial and Hurin bursting through the trees to join them, kept Rand in check however.

             “What on earth is that?” Hurin spluttered, staring at the creature’s corpse.

             “A grolm .” The woman responded and Rand gave a start, he had been so wrapped up staring at Mat’s smile that he had not noticed her mount and ride, crossing the stream to join them. “Well shot, and bravely, my lord,” She said as she came abreast of them. “Not many would retain their courage in the face of a grolm .”

             Rand opened his mouth to say something in response, and then closed it again realizing he couldn’t summon any words. At a distance, he had known she was beautiful. Up close it was more than that. She was stunning. Her long dark hair was glossy in the afternoonlight, hung about with silver stars and moons, and her white dress seemed to flow around her pale strong limbs without ever clinging or ruffling. Her dark eyes were pools of mystery, and her porcelain skin had not a single blemish he could remark.

             But it was her air of confidence and strength, more than anything else, that made her radiant. On horseback and with mud clinging to her silver boots, she seemed more a woman of command then Morgase on the Lion Throne, or even the Amyrlin Seat atop her palanquin. It felt wrong to talk to her, like a rat trying to talk to the sun, and he could not make his tongue do what it was supposed to.

             When Rand didn’t speak, her lips quirked in an amused smile and she raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me my lord, I hope I did not transgress.”

             “No!” Rand said quickly.  “No you haven't….That is to say…” He cleared his throat. “I am….it was my honor to save you- I mean. Not that you couldn’t have saved yourself. That is-“

             Mat’s elbow to his gut cut off Rand’s flow of words, for which Rand was profusely grateful. Oddly, though Mat was smiling and offering a polite bow to the woman, the Bond carried…wariness and apprehension.

             “Forgive him, my lady. This is Rand al’Thor. Are you alright?” Mat said with one of his most disarming grins.

             The woman inclined her head to him politely in turn. “There is nothing to forgive Lord Rand for, he did after all save my life.” A touch of breathiness entered her voice on the last, and Rand felt his cheeks turn bright scarlet. “Are you his retainers then?” She asked calmly, nodding at Mat, Loial and Hurin, the latter of whom were also drawn up beside Rand and staring like gape-mouthed fools.

             “My friends,” Rand corrected quickly. “This is Matrim Cauthon, Loial son of Arent, and Hurin of Shienar.”

             “Forgive me.” Loial said abruptly. “I have never thought of it before, but if there is such a thing as perfect human beauty, in face and form then you-“

             “Loial!” Rand shouted in shock, and the Ogier’s ears instantly stiffened in embarrassment. If possible Rand felt his face flush even harder. Just at Loial’s crassness of course, not because he had been thinking of anything of the sort himself. Mat’s snickering beside him was completely unwarranted.

             The woman seemed to take no offense, instead laughing musically. “I take no offense at the alantin’s words, Lord Rand.” Abruptly she donned regal formality again. “I am called Selene, and you have risked your life and saved mine. There is debt between us.” And then, to Rand’s complete horror, she dismounted, and moved to kneel before him, gracefully lowering herself to the ground and bowing her head. “I am yours, Lord Rand al’Thor to do with as you wish.”

             Feeling the burn of Hurin and Loial’s eyes on his back, and the raw glee of Mat’s amusement having briefly submerged anything else in the Bond, Rand quickly dismounted as well, and moved to pull Selene to her feet. “A man who would not die to save a woman is no man.” He said, before he could stop himself, then flinched. A Shienaran saying. And beyond that, one that made it sound as if saving her life was nothing, and spat on her gesture. “That is to say…I mean…” He took a deep breath, biting his tongue to keep it from running away again. “It was my honor.” He gulped. Best to just…move on, before the snickers turned into outright laughter. “Ah, where are you from, Selene? We have not seen another living thing since we came here. Is your town nearby?”

             For a moment she just stared at him, making Rand shift uncomfortably under the intensity of her gaze. Then she shook her head, dark hair flowing around her like water.

             “I am not from this world, my lord.” She said at last, blinking up at him, with her large dark eyes. “There are no people here. Nothing truly living except the grolm , and a few other creatures like them. I am a scholar from Cairhien. And as to how I came here….” She spread her hands. “I don’t know exactly. I was out riding, studying ancient ruins in Kingslayer’s Dagger and I stopped to nap, and when I woke, my horse and I were here. I can only hope, my Lord, that you can save me again, and help me go home.”

             Rand gulped. “Selene, I am not…That is. Please just call me Rand.” Exasperation flooded through the Bond, but Rand ignored it. It was practical, that was all: if belief in Rand’s nobility was all that was keeping Hurin afloat, then he couldn’t go around countermanding it to strangers now could he?

             Selene’s mouth quivered into a gentle smile again. “As you say….Rand.” The way she spoke his name sent a shiver through Rand, as if she had caressed his cheek. “Will you help me then?”

             “Of course I will.” Rand said automatically. Burn me, but she’s beautiful. And looking at me like I’m a hero in a story. He shook his head to clear it of foolishness. “But first we have to find the men we are following. I’ll try to keep you out of danger but we must find them. Coming with us will be better than staying here alone.” At the least it could not be worse.

             For a moment she stared at him, then nodded. “A man of duty. I like that. Tell me, who are these miscreants you follow?”

             Before Rand could come up with a convincing cover story, Hurin burst out. “Darkfriends and Trollocs my lady. They did murder in Fal Dara keep and stole the Horn of Valere, but Lord Rand will fetch it back.”

             Rand heard Mat groan softly, and privately agreed, staring at the sniffer ruefully, as Selene cocked her head to one side. “Selene.” He said, turning to her. “You must not say anything of the Horn to anyone. If we get out we’ll have a hundred people on our heels trying to get the Horn for themselves.”

             “No….That would never do.” Selene agreed softly. “For the horn to fall into the wrong hands. The Horn of Valere…” She reached out, laying at hand against Rand’s shoulder, and all amusement and ruefulness vanished from the Bond like a pricked bubble, Mat’s shoulders shifting as if he were ready to snap his quarterstaff up and strike with it. Rand waved him off quickly, but Selene seemed to notice nothing, her eyes all for Rand. “I could not tell you how often I have dreamed of touching the Horn. Of holding it in my hands. You must promise when you have it, that you will let me touch it.”  

             Rand opened his mouth ready to promise whatever she wanted, but Mat cut across him. “I’m afraid we can’t make promises for something we haven't done yet.” Mat said cooly, which unsurprisingly, brought an eyebrow up from Selene. “We have to find it first.”

             Selene tilted her head to Mat, in the same way Morgase had when she was obviously being patient and indulgent with the unclean farm boys in her presence, but her words were directed at Rand. “You give your servants much leeway, Lord Rand.”

             Indignation and anger flared in Bond, consuming whatever remained of amusement, and Rand shifted. “Not my servant. My Cue’vin.” He expected to stumble over the word. He did not. “And he is right besides. I can hardly make a promise to let you hold the Horn before I have it, can I?” He smiled, to take the sting out of the words, but Selene didn’t soften at it. In fact, she didn’t react at all, instead staring at him without any kind of expression or emotion. She held that lack of expression so long that Rand began to think that he must have offended her in some fashion, but finally she nodded.

             “Of course.” She said, but all the warmth had gone from her voice, making Rand flinch. Before he could think of something to soothe her wounded temper, Selene had turned back to her horse and before Rand could even offer to hold her stirrup, she mounted with a grace that somehow made him feel that much more ungainly and clumsy.

             Clearing his throat, Rand turned and remounted as well, stringing his bow and slipping it in the saddle case. “There might be danger, I’m afraid, but we will protect you of course.” Again Selene did not respond beyond a cool nod and Rand sighed, turning to Hurin. “Hurin, can you find the trail again? Hurin? Hurin!”

             The sniffer gave a start and tore his eyes away from Selene, coughing to cover his slip. “Yes. Yes Lord Rand ah…the trail!” He took a deep breath, turning his mare. “South my Lord, still south!”

             “Then let’s ride.” Rand threw one glance back at the gray-green corpse of the groom, laying dead on the far bank. It had been easier thinking that the world had been empty of living things. “Take the trail Hurin.”

<X>

             They rode in quite for a time and in a new arrangement: Rand in the lead, Hurin by his side to tell him every so often that the trail veered slightly or was remaining the same, Mat on his other side, still tense and ready to strike, and Loial behind them with their new mysterious companion. Part of Rand expected Selene to press up beside him and talk so that they could learn more of one another, but though Rand was sure he could feel her eyes on the back of his neck, she never moved to close the distance between them. Instead, a little more than a quarter of an hour later Rand looked back to realize she had lagged slightly- not far to be worrisome, but enough to hide her words as she spoke with Loial. She seemed utterly engaged with whatever it was they were speaking of, and Loial more so, gesturing animatedly. Yet Rand would have wagered his hand that the moment before he turned around her eyes had been fixed to the back of his head.

             “Now there is a Lady worth honoring.” Hurin murmured, following Rand’s gaze, then jerked quickly. “Not that she’s a patch on Lady Amalisa of course!” Hurin said with a loyalty that would have made Agelmar proud, and a lack of truth that would have made Nynaeve dose him with Cat's Fern. “And she is a southlander too, so that takes something from it….but still….A Lord would be lucky to have her to run his House and rule by his side.”

             “I wasn’t aware you were considering looking to trade your wife for a title.” Mat said breezily, and Hurin jerked as if Mat had goosed him. “Still, you might try your hand. Maybe the Lady Selene would be interested in a scruffy thief taker from Shienar, but I doubt it.”

            Hurin’s face turned red at that, and he opened his mouth, likely to snarl some choice words of his own, but Rand cut him off with a gesture. Normally he would have cautioned Mat to rein in his tongue, but for once Rand didn’t mind his cutting comments. He was right afterall, Hurin was married, and his behavior was…unsightly.

             Eventually, Loial rode up again to rejoin them, leaving Selene to trail, examining the sky and trees as if they were gifts to her that she was uncertain she would accept or not.

             “A fascinating woman.” Loial said when Rand asked what they had been discussing. “Well read and with a brilliant mind. I think she knows more of history than the Elders do, especially the Age of Legends. She says you were right Rand- that this place is like the Ways. That the Aes Sedai who made the Ways studied worlds like this one to make them. Distorted reflections of our world, loose threads in the Pattern she called them, pale and weak because they were never very likely, barely able to hold together under their own will. That’s why distance is strange here. She says that in some unstable worlds, it is time rather than distance that is wrong, flowing faster or slower than it does in our world, but that in more stable worlds- more likely ones- you could even find people! The same people! Wouldn’t that be something Rand, Mat? You could go to one and meet yourself.”

             “I think.” Mat said dryly. “I am comfortable with the one version of me.”

             Rand frowned, considering it. Things were complicated enough with just one of him. No need to further complicate them. There was also something else bothering him. “But that doesn't make any sense. If our world is the original-“

             “It isn’t.” Selene’s smooth voice cut in as she rode up, catching them. There was no sign she had done more than conclude that, in fact, she did not care for the gift of the landscape and had decided to rejoin them. Yet she also slipped into the conversation as if she had heard the whole thing. “Or rather, it has no better claim to being the original than any other equally stable world. All worlds are born of branching points in the Pattern, which themselves were once born from branching points in turn, the more likely the more ‘real’ as you say. Only a few constants remain true to all stable worlds: The One Power, the World of Dreams, The Dark One, Prophecy-“      

             Rand grinned, sure he had caught her out now. “But if that’s the case, how can this world exist? There are no people here, so no one is reborn. There will never be a Dragon spun out to fight the Dark One, so the prophecies won't come true.”

             Selene smiled darkly, gesturing imperiously. “I said, stable worlds, Rand. Prophecy represents fixed points in the Pattern, things that will be no matter what in any version of reality woven after their inception. How those things can come to pass, and their surrounding context, can vary wildly however. Yet they must be- in all versions of the world in which the Prophecies of the Dragon exist they must come to pass. If a woman Foretells the flip of a coin to be heads, even if the pattern divides a dozen times between her Foretelling and the flip, it will be heads in all of those worlds. What makes this world unstable is that it is impossible for those Prophecies to come to pass now. The removal of any other constant would do the same.” She gestured. “This world is barely holding together, a flickering reflection no more real than a malformed daydream. It will extinguish soon, and vanish.”

             Rand inhaled, sudden fear lancing through him. He knew this place was strange of course but….if it could just disappear at any moment ? He remembered the Ways, and the fear that bridges and islands might be crumbling soundlessly behind them. “How long do we have?”

             Selene shook her head. “Oh a while yet. Worlds are held together by the living things that walk their surface: until the last grolm is slain by the last torm , and the last torm starves from lack of food. Only then this world will wink out. But it will take some time, probably centuries yet to reach that point. That is the scale on which these things happen.” She added casually, as if centuries were of no consequence.

             “You said the Dark One is a constant.” Mat said suddenly, and every head snapped to him. He was staring south. “Is there a Dark One in this world? There has to have been. That monument- it had Trolloc script on it. That means there has to have been Shadowspawn in this world once.”

             Selene blinked at Mat, clearly surprised by the question, but she answered easily. “There is only one Dark One. Though he touches all worlds to a greater or lesser extent. His prison, which lies outside of time itself, or perhaps is time itself, is breached in some worlds, such as ours, allowing him to interact with and warp it directly. Though this world was made from a reflection of a choice that came after that breaching, it has no Bore. It might have at the beginning, when the world was more stable, but as it frayed the Bore would have frayed and tangled as well, this world becoming less and less likely, following faint paths of almost and maybe to its unraveling.” She said all this in the same detached and imperious voice, leaving no room for doubt, but also no room for emotion. She might have been discussing arithmetic rather than the fate of worlds, by her tone.

             “The Bore?” Mat asked, wrinkling his nose. Loial took it up then.

             “The hole men drilled into the prison of the Dark One in the Age of Legends. No one knows why exactly, or how. But that hole is the gap in reality through which the Dark One reaches to touch our world, and influence it. It was attempting to seal the Bore, that tainted saidin , and drove Lews Therin and his hundred companions mad.”

             Selene nodded. “The alantin speaks true. Without the Bore, or rather a Bore in the Dark One’s prison, he can no more touch this world then we can touch the moon. But such a Bore can only be made and maintained in a stable world, where the Pattern is firm enough to cut through.”

             Mat shook his head. “Who would ever make something like that? Why?”

             Selene was no longer looking at Mat, instead she looked southwards, towards Kinslayer’s Dagger. “…Maybe they did not know what they would unleash. Maybe they thought it would bring about some good, or restore something that was long lost. It doesn't really matter anymore, does it?”

             Mat shrugged ruefully. But Rand frowned. He didn’t like any of this. Or what it implied. About the Dark One, and prophecy, and the fate of a world were prophecies, didn’t, or couldn't come to pass.

            Another question had occurred to him. A safer one to speak aloud. “Selene, you know so much- more than Loial, even about things that no one else knows about. How? Are you Aes Sedai?”

            Rand regretted the question the moment he asked it. She turned to stare at him with that same expressionless look as before, the one that managed to convey anger and offense without showing any sign of them.

             “No.” Selene said at last. “I am not Aes Sedai. I am….a scholar and researcher. Aes Sedai are but children playing at power instead of truly seizing it. I would ask you not to compare me to them again.”

             “But-“ Rand began and cut off as his mouth actually tightened. Quickly he changed what he was going to say. “…Still, you have all this knowledge, about these other worlds, and the Dark One and the Stones. You must have worked one to come here somehow, even if you don’t remember what it is you did.”

             Selene shook her head. “I only know of the Stones themselves. Not the way to work them. Still, if you wish to see for yourself.” She turned, pointing south. “The one I awoke by is there, in the foothills of the Dagger. I can show you.”

             Rand hesitated, then turned to Hurin. “….The trail?”

             Hurin, who had looked mystified and confused at all the talk of other worlds and chance, shook himself at being directly addressed.  “Ah, still south my lord, fainter than ever now though, and angling westwards- probably towards one of the passes in the mountains there.”

             Rand sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Selene, I can’t give up the hunt for the horn.” Or the dagger, he thought. “If you wish to break off and try and find your own way home from that Stone, I won't stop you. But we must keep pursuing it.”

             Selene smiled with obvious patience. “You don’t even know if those you seek are in this world,” she said. “Come with me, we can find a way back to our world from the Stone, and I promise you will have the horn, as well as glory and fame beyond measure.”

             Rand shook his head. “I don’t want fame. I don’t even want-“ He cut off before he could say that he didn’t even really want the Horn. It wasn’t right, or fair he knew, but it was the truth. He had to get the dagger from Mordeth so that Mat could live. If he had to pick, he would pick the dagger, and Mat’s life, without question. But admit that selfishness would be too much. “I can not give up the trail, Selene. I am sorry.”

             “Stubborn…You always…” Selene muttered her voice trailing off as she spoke. What Rand did hear however made him blink, but before he could press her, Mat laid a hand on his shoulder.

             “Maybe she’s right. This world it….it isn’t safe, and we don’t know when we’ll get another chance. If the trail really is fading, maybe….”

             Rand shook his head. “Then we’ll follow it until then, or until the Darkfriends cross back. But I won't give up our only lead.”

             Mat visibly struggled to find a good argument, but maybe realizing that there was none that would sway Rand, sighed and let his hand fall. Nodding Rand turned back to Selene.

             “My lady, my offer still stands. If you wish to come with us or to go head back, either way I-“

             Which was when the first, dry, coughing grunt sounded. Followed by another, and another, till a chorus of noises, of grolm calls, surrounded them.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Pools of Fate

             For a moment as the coughing grunts subsided, Mat felt cold inside. Sums had never been his strong suit growing up, and try as he might he could not figure any idea of how many grolm would be required to make that much noise. Except that it would be a lot.  

             “A pack. And they’ve caught our scent.” Selene said the words with cool reserve, as unruffled by the knowledge that a pack of those things were coming for them as one might be at an announcement of rain.

             Rand’s fists tightened on his reins as he spoke. “They’ve got to be a ways away yet. We’ll angle west as fast as we can and lose them in the mountain passes.” But Selene was already shaking her head.

             “That will not work, Rand,” she said calmly. “ Grolm can run down horses with ease, and once they have your scent they will not give up the chase, until they are killed. You must either kill them all, or else go where they can not follow. The mountain passes will not be enough, but the Stone-“

             “I said no!” Rand snapped, and anger flared in the Bond as he turned to face her, followed by shame and regret that reddened his face and made his eyes drop to the ground. Selene’s face didn’t change, she showed no more disconcertion at his anger then she had at the grolm coming for them, but Rand acted as if she called him down for his rudeness.

             “Rand.” Mat said gently. “I think she’s right.” Rand spun to face him this time, and Selene turned to look at him, raising one frosty eyebrow. Well, let her think about what she wanted. “We can’t fight them all off. And at least with the Portal Stone we’ve got a chance.”

             Rand was silent for a long moment, staring down Mat. The Bond thrummed his frustration, not at Mat, but at the situation in general. Until suddenly it turned into something else: determination. Finally he spoke. “….How many can there be?”

             “Perhaps five. Maybe more.” Selene responded calmly. “From the sound of them, they are a small pack. Yet that will matter little if they close with us.”

             “Then I won't give them the chance.” Rand said softly, standing in his stirrups in order to look out across the area. Grinning suddenly, he kicked Red in the ribs and went trotting for a nearby hilltop.

             “Stubborn man.” Mat said in the exact same moment as Selene muttered the same words. For a startled moment, even Selene’s composure was broken as they turned to stare at each other in surprise. After a moment, Mat gave a rueful shrug, and followed Rand. The others did the same, falling behind him.

             “Can….can Lord Rand do this?” Hurin asked softly, coming up beside Mat. “One of those creatures was fierce and I know he dropped it in one blow, but….five?”

             We’re about to find out, Mat thought, but what he said was “Of course he can, Hurin. Rand knows what he’s about.” Light, he better. 

             “Mat!” Rand called out from up ahead. He had dismounted, taken his quiver and bow from Red, and was now crouching atop the hill. “With me!”

             Mat wasted no time dismounting and retrieving his own bow and quiver, joining Rand at the hilltop, where he had thrust several shafts thrust point down into the earth.  Northwards, towards where the coughing grunts were coming from, there was a clear stretch for nearly half a mile, almost free of trees. Part of Mat had to admit it was a good spot for shooting, with plenty of space and view. “We’ll start shooting at five hundred paces. That should be far enough and give us enough time, if there's only five of them. It’s no different than shooting at Bel Tine every year.” Rand said. “Light, those things’ eyes are probably bigger than the bullseyes back home.”

             Mat took a deep breath and pulled arrows from his own quiver, to press into the earth before him. It was easy enough for Rand to say. Though Mat was more than a fair shot with a Two River’s bow, he had never placed in the Bel Tine competition, and never hit the bullseye five times in total during the competition, let alone five times consecutively and on moving targets. Rand might be able to make the shots with his flame and void, but Mat doubted it. Unless…

             “Rand….If you need to….” He trailed off. “Can you, without making it obvious?”

             Rand shook his head with a hard expression growing muley. “No, Mat. I’ll…when I have no other choice I won't hesitate but…it can’t be a crutch. Besides, we can do this.” He grinned. “I saw you shoot in the Blight, remember? If you can fire like that from horseback, this should be as easy as dancing the Spring Pole.”

             That had been different though. That had been all desperation and adrenaline and the sheer knowledge that there was nothing else, but to make every arrow count. There hadn't been another way then.

             But Mat couldn’t, wouldn’t force Rand to channel when there was another path. He could feel Rand’s fear, sharp and painful. And he understood it too. If it was Mat.....

             So he strung his bow and fitted an arrow to it in two clean motions, waiting with it undrawn.

             Selene, Hurin and Loial stayed behind them back at the base of the hill. If they failed, the trio would at least have a decent chance of running. Except Selene said that he grolm could chase down horses. So unless she could channel and was hiding it or didn’t know or….

             No, Rand would call lightning before he left the others to be hurt. Mat was sure of it. But that would unleash a very different problem. They had to kill the grolm with arrows alone. They had to-

             There.

             The first one broke through the trees, leaping forward in bounds like a frog, its hooked beak snapping at the air like the one from before. Mat counted in his head, as each leap covered more paces then it seemed like should be possible. Eight hundred. Seven hundred. Selene was right, it was zeroing straight for them, its tongue licking the air, tasting their scent the way a snake might.

             At five hundred paces he and Rand drew and loosed as one, the strings snapping loudly in his ears. Two shafts flew, side by side, and together struck the center eye of the creature. It was the same as before, the strident cry, the gushing yellow blood as the grolm reared back on its hind legs, but this time, before it could finish its death spasm, another grolm had leapt over it, followed by another, and another, each eating ground with that same long leap.

             “East.” Mat heard himself say faintly as he pulled another arrow from the earth and drew.

             “West.” Rand agreed, doing the same, and again they loosed together, Mat shooting at the east flank, Rand at the west. Mat’s second shaft struck home as well, but not every shot was as lucky. One pierced a creature through the beak and it didn’t even pause in its leaping stride, until Mat’s second shot got its eye. Another just barely missed the eye itself, a broadhead arrow punching its neck instead, which did throw it off, but with it snapping its head back and forth wildly, it took two more shots to find the eye.

            Still more came, how many or for how long Mat could not have said, not if it had been a horde of dozens or had taken hours. It merely seemed that no sooner had Mat felled one grolm then another was scrambling or leaping over it, snapping beak biting at the air. There was no time beyond the moments between shooting and finding a new target. Killing and searching for another creature to kill.

             Until Mat pulled his last arrow from the ground, drew it to his cheek and froze, realizing that nothing moved in the field below, except for a pair of grolm, giving their death spasms.

             “Eight.” Rand murmured, his voice cold and emotionless. In Mat's head, the Bond had turned to hardened sap again which meant Rand was using that void trick, but it lacked the exaltation that meant he was drawing on the Source. They had done it.

             Eyes flicking, counting quickly, Mat realized that Rand was right. Eight. Eight grolm lay dead and dying. That felt like too few, even though the monstrous creatures took up most of the field, the closest less than a dozen paces from the hill’s slope.

             “Impressive.” Selene’s voice made Mat jump and he turned. She and the others had dismounted and climbed up behind them, staying low to the ground out of sight. Loial was staring at them with eyes as wide as teacups, and Hurin, with his jaw hanging open, looked as if he had just seen the Heroes of the Horn battle an army of Trollocs.

             Selene, lifting her skirt, which somehow despite her crouching had not become grass stained, moved over to lay a hand on Rand’s arm. Again Mat felt a surge of wariness. Of fear. It was bizarre, the woman had done nothing except clearly obfuscate the truth of who she was- and Mat couldn’t hold that against her, not when he did it himself so often. For all he knew she was a runaway from the White Tower or a Cairhienien noble woman in hiding. She certainly was not the simple scholar she claimed to be. But whatever he reasons for hiding the truth, and however poorly she did it, that wasn’t why Mat distrusted her. It was something else, something that he felt everytime she came near Rand. Not jealousy either. Something more…primal. Fear maybe, from the depths of his bones.

             “You shot like a hero of legend. Teadra herself could not have done better.” Selene murmured and Rand blushed, right to the tips of his ears.

             “Who?” Mat asked, perfectly innocent. Selene’s eyes cut to him, her face turning to a frown. Well it was a fair question. Mat had never heard of anyone named Teadra before- if she was a hero she couldn’t be a well known one. Maybe it was a Cairhienien story.

             “A sharpshooter from….” She shook her head. “It does not matter.”

             “Indeed it doesn't.” Rand said, shaking off Selene’s hand and rising. “We need to move. We should aim for the pass at the least, before nightfall. That-“

             Which was of course when more grunting coughs filled the air. Far, far more than before, and coming this time from two directions. North again, and east.

             “Blood and ashes!” Mat snapped, standing, reaching for his quiver again. “Could we each take a pack?”

             Selene shook her head, rising as well. “Perhaps, if they were small packs. But these are much larger I think. Do you have enough arrows to each fell twent more? Perhaps thirty?” Mat swore again and shook his head, while Rand ruefully did the same. They did not. “Then it seems fate presses us- the Wheel forcing our path. We must now flee for the Portal Stone.”

             “She’s right.” Loial said gently. “We have no choices left, Rand. We must go.”

             Anger flared in the bond, and Rand’s knuckles were white on his bow, his grip so strong that for a moment Mat feared he might snap it. Finally he shook his head. “But the dagger! The Darkfriends!”

             “Getting the dagger back won't matter if we all end up food for the grolm .” Mat said, laying his own hand on Rand’s arm. “We will find a way, Rand, I promise. But we have to be alive to look.”

             Taking a deep shuddering breath, Rand nodded, and seizing up his quiver, mounted, not bothering to unstring his bow. “Fine. Then we ride! Lead the way, Selene.”

             No one needed any more encouragement than that. The moment they were all in the saddle, Selene turned her mare south and with a kick to its ribs, galloped for the mountains: Mat had not pegged her as a particularly skilled rider, yet she seemed to move with an almost unnatural grace and skill, steady and serene despite the speed she took. More than once, Mat would have sworn her mount was going to slide or stumble around a turn or piece of debris, only for the creature to make leaps and pivots perfectly. Mat followed, urging Northwind for speed to match Selene’s mare. Northwind was far from fresh, the gallop from earlier in the morning had taken its toll, but he was a solid mount and Mat was a strong rider, so he had only a little trouble keeping pace. The Bond told him Rand was not far behind, and Mat prayed that Loial and Hurin were not far behind him.

             South and east they raced, the mountains seeming to grow nearer in leaps and bounds, the world blurring around the edges like it had before. Mat forced thoughts of why that was, of unstable worlds and strange powers away as hard as he could. All that mattered was reaching the Stone, all that mattered was getting Rand back to their world. Everything else he would worry about later.

             All at once they were suddenly at the foothills, a rocky slope before them, rising towards the mountains. They weren't like the Mountains of Mist back home, which rolled up steadily from the land. These were jagged, sharp, like spears of stone thrusting from the earth, yet Selene didn’t even pause, her mare not even scrambling as she rode up slope and then along their length, seeming to find a path with ease. Yet not even she could keep her pace on such unsteady foot, and soon she was dismounting, and leading her horse by the reins. Mat followed suit, glancing behind just in time to see Rand doing the same, and Hurin and Loial, bothering their animals, lathered and panting, managing to catch up to do the same.

             The cries of the grolm were fainter now, but still audible, and coming closer.

             “This way,” Selene called, and Mat turned again to see her vanish into a fold in the foothills, one that he hadn’t noticed a moment before. Blinking, Mat followed, and found that it led into a small hollow at the center of which stood another portal stone, just like the one that had left in the clearing.

             Mat felt a knot of anxiety loosen in his chest that he hadn’t noticed was there before. It wasn’t until the Stone was directly before them, that Mat realized he had been afraid on some level that Selene was lying about its existence.

             “Come, Rand.” Selene said, gesturing as she let her mare’s reins drop and pulling up her skirt, climbing the tiered steps to kneel before the pillar. “We must make haste. The rest of you come closer- this will be easier the closer together we are.”

             There was a bit of a scramble at that, reins being handed off and the horses having to be pulled forward to the steps, as Rand climbed them to kneel beside Selene. Humming under his breath and stroking Northwind’s nose in order to keep him calm, Mat paid little mind to Hurin and Loial, or the other animals. His mind was all on Rand, and on the distant, grunting coughs, which were still growing louder, faster now that the party wasn’t moving away.

             Something in Mat couldn’t look away: it was that wariness in his bones that could not be mollified. And so he watched Selene and Rand put their heads together, trading whispers as she traced a finger along the symbols that decorated the pillar, gesturing as if explaining something. Why? Where was this feeling of unease coming from?

             In the back of Mat’s mind, he felt the Bond harden again, felt Rand assume the Void, in the same instant he reached out a hand, laying it over a symbol that Selene had pointed out, a triangle standing on its point, inside of a circle.

            Was Rand right, was he really just being jealous? But no, not that. At least, he didn’t think it was that.

            As Rand pressed his palm, the one with the heron brand, over the symbol, Mat felt him reach out, felt that surge of fear and anticipation and disgust. Felt frustration spike in that way that Mat knew meant he was reaching out and saidin was failing to come to him. That he was snatching at it, and it was rushing away.  And then….the surge in disgust as he touched it, the exhilaration as the Power flooded into him. It wasn’t like it had been in the world where they had fought Ba'alzamon: nothing visible happened that Mat could see, and beyond Rand’s emotions shifting, there was nothing he could feel either. And yet…Rand was drawing on saidin , on the Power, the shadow-tainted Power. That taint was flowing into him even now, Mat could feel it in the disgust and sickness roiled through Rand, seeping into him.

            Could it seep across the Bond? Would Rand’s madness affect him too?

            “Rand.” Loial said, his voice breaking the tense silence. “Rand, they’re close- I can hear-“

            “Quiet, Alantin .” Selene hissed. Rand had closed his eyes, his expression screwed up in concentration. “He must focus.”

            “But I don’t think he can-'' Loial began, and Mat laid a hand against Loial’s giant forearm, shaking his head. The Ogier cut off, worrying about painting his face.

            “It’s alright, Loial. He can do this.” Mat murmured. His eyes were still fixed to Rand, and Selene.

            No. Not jealousy, he realized. Protectiveness. He watched as Selene stretched out a hand, whispering something he could not hear as she stroked Rand’s hair. That did make something of a defensive bubble inside of him, no one had ever accused him of having an excess of patience or generosity after all. But it was more than that. It was the way she stared at him, the light of something possessive in her eyes.

            Like she was staring at an object that belonged to her, instead of a man she fancied.

            Mat was halfway to moving to Rand’s side, just to be there for him, when the world flickered.

            For just a moment, Mat stood in darkness, absolute and total, stretching as far as the eye could see. There was no Rand, no portal stone, or Selene or Loial or Hurin or horses. No approaching grolm calls. Even the Bond felt dull and fuzzy in the back of his mind, like it wasn’t truly real, like he wasn’t truly real.

            What? Mat thought, and the word seemed to echo around him, faint and quavering, as if he had spoken aloud. What is happening?

            And the world flickered again.

            “Almost.” Selene whispered huskily as the hollow came back into view, resolving like a looking glass coming back into focus. The sound seemed to crash into him, the grolm calls, the whinnies of the horses, Loial’s breathing beside him- all thunderous in his ears to the point of pain after such complete silence. “Again.”

            “Rand-“ Mat started to say, and the world flicked back to darkness, and silence, and emptiness except for….

            Who are you? Mat tried to say, but again the word echoed around him like thought more than sound.

            A figure stood, unsupported in the darkness, her back- he was sure somehow that it was a woman- to him. A hooded cloak fell around her shoulders, and the hood raised to hide any feature he might have made out and yet…

            I am an attendant. The voice, the thought, was not his own, though it echoed across the darkness towards him. A keeper of what was lost forever, a spinner out of memory, a guardian of your fate Successor.

            That title, that name, made the hairs on Mat’s neck stand on end. He had heard it somewhere before, he was sure. But where? And…there was more.

            I know you. Mat thought and again the world flickered. But before the hollow could slide into focus the world flickered, and he was standing….not in darkness but before a tree, a massive tree, towering above any building he had ever seen, giving shade that stretched easily for a mile around, it’s white branches shining in a faint otherworldly blue light. All around him stood buildings, huge edifices and towers and spires stretching as far as the eye could see, most unfinished, and all dwarfed by that giant tree.

            Avendesora. Mat realized. The Tree of Life.

            The Green Man called me that too. Successor.

            Flicker.

            “Yes.” Selene said, her voice breathy. “Just so, just-“

            Flicker.

            He stood among pale blue mist, so heavy he couldn’t see his own feet, and yet there was no coolness to it, no relief from a strange boiling heat that engulfed him.

            Again that woman, her back to him, her dark cloak perfectly still, like….

            Like a Fade’s.

            Successor of the Blood. It sings in you, brighter than it has in any in a very long time, loud enough to reach me. Her thoughts came as they had in the blackness, rolling around him, vibrating inside of his skull. Blood holds memory. You are the heir to the legacy of the Queen.

            Anger and defiance shot up at Mat, and he shot his head. I am the heir to nothing but a horse trader.

            No thoughts came back in response, only a gentle, quiet laughter.

            Flicker.

            The world came together only enough this time for Mat to see Rand’s face, to feel his strain and agony through the bond. He was drawing too much, Mat realized, pulling in too much of the Power, like had against Ba'alzamon. Mat had to-

            Flicker.

            He was in a vast city, different from the one that had held Avendesora. A mountain city, hewn from the rock itself, every building made to look like a feature of nature: domes styled like canopies of interwoven branches, stretching from pillars styled to look like boles. Houses built to resemble mesas and bluffs, fountains styled like natural springs. And everywhere gemstones and crystals decorated the walls, carved into the shapes of fruit and flowers, shining in the moonlight.

            Sadness welled up inside of him, sadness and grief and pain that were not his own.

            Flicker.

            The same city….only awash in flame, the stone melting, the gemstones cracking from the heat as white fire rolled over the land in wave upon crashing wave. Mat could feel the heat, feel it in his bones, in his soul, and grief became agony, a mortal pain, as if he was watching the Two Rivers itself burn.

            No . These aren’t my memories. He thought viciously. They are just snatches of the past, the sorrows of dead men.

            Blood holds memory and memory makes the filament of our very souls. The Queen’s gift to us, a more true immortality than life everlasting. Mat spun at the voice, anger and rage of his own welling up to wash away the grief of dead men. She stood there, her back still to him, silhouetted by the white fire, making her seem almost a shadow.

            Get out of my head! Mat snarled, stalking over to her, reaching out to seize her by the  shoulder, to shake her. Leave me alone!

             As you wish, Successor. No sooner did the words slam into his skull, then Mat’s hand connected with her shoulder, and….she turned, to reveal a skeleton swaddled in a rotted white dress and black cloak, empty sockets staring at him. Mat recoiled, stumbling back, and still her voice rolled from an unmoving jaw, digging into his mind. But remember.  

             Thought is the arrow of time. And memory never fades.  

             Flicker.  

             This time, when reality slid back into focus….Mat was staring up at the sky. A darkening purple sky with a few fluffy white clouds trailing across its length. Not striated or distorted in any way. Just normal, white clouds.  

             Crickets sang in the distance, and the painting of breath surrounded him…but no grunting cough. No Grolm calls. They had made it back.  

             Mat sucked in a breath and sat up, frowning- when had he laid down? – and turned to check the others. Hurin also lay on his back, face covered in sweat, eyes wide in shock, while Loial was stumbling to his feet, using his quarterstaff to steady himself. Selene looked utterly unruffled as she helped Rand to his feet, while Rand looked…..  

             Bewildered and…gratified. Proud.  

             “I did it.” He said in a hoarse voice, as if he had been running miles. “I got us back.”  

             Mat forced a smile, and the memories of….whatever it was he had seen, away. “You did, Rand,” he said, moving to take his other side. Selene shot him a warning look and though it took a great deal of effort, Mat returned his cheekiest smile. “Now we all need some rest.”  

<X>  

             No one wanted to camp in the shadow of the portal stone, but the horses were too exhausted to risk on the slopes, and so they laid out their bedrolls and made the fire as far from the stone as could be reasonably managed.

             No sooner had Rand gotten some flatbread and cheese down then he was curling up on his bedroll for sleep. Hurin, bubbling with enthusiasm and joy at ‘Lord Rand’s’ success and how he had always known that Lord Rand would see them safely home, kept Loial from retiring early by the sheer force of his joy, and kept him instead sitting around the fire, smoking and telling stories. Loial indulged the other man, and clearly had no small measure of relief of his own….but the thoughtful looks he would occasionally throw Rand’s sleeping form put a new knot of tension in Mat’s belly.

             It must be possible to work the stones without the Power, if Padan Fain managed it . Mat told himself. Loial doesn't have any reason to suspect. But it sounded hollow, even in his own head.

             Mat craved to join them, to let their noise and the babble of their voices drown out the silence, and memories of a skeleton and a tree, and a burning city. But at the same time it felt….wrong to intrude somehow, to dampen the mood of their talk with his presence. So instead he remained by Rand, sitting on his own bedroll, and watching them and the stars which had begun to appear in the night sky.

             Selene, seated on her own bedroll, was similarly reserved. She had paid Rand no more mind than she might a rock, since their return, and kept her eyes to the Heavens, to the moon in particular, as the night grew heavy.

             It was by chance, just as he was starting to grow sleepy, that Mat caught sight of her rising, and gently tip-toeing around the fire, leaving the hollow.

             Mat waited a count of twenty before rising to follow, creeping just as carefully to avoid Loial and Hurin’s notice. It was probably nothing, she was just probably going to make water or some such. But it might not be for nothing.

             And the memory of that light in her eyes, that sense of ownership when she gazed at Rand…Maybe it was imagination. But he didn’t think it was.

             Tracking Selene proved easy: whatever her bizarre and inexplicable skill on horseback, she was no woodswoman, and following her trail down the slope and into the forest was simple even by moonlight. Picking his way through the brush, moving as quietly as he could, Mat realized only too late that the faint babbling he heard in the distance was a stream. Realized it the moment he peaked around a tree, to see a snow white dress hung on a branch, and Selene’s pale form, sinking into the water of the stream.

             Mat had spent long enough at Fal Dara that the sight of a woman bathing in her skin was hardly upsetting, but the sight of a woman in her skin that had no idea he was there was another matter entirely. Yet though his mind shouted at him to sneak away, to creep back to camp, his feet were rooted to the spot, unable tear his eyes from the sight of Selene, slowly submerging herself entirely in water and emerging again, her dark hair seeming to glitter in the moonlight like a curtain of night, the waterdrops glinting like stars.

             As Selene ran a hand through her hair, straining water from it, she leaned back her head, catching the full glow of the moonlight against her cheeks.

             And then, she began to sing.

Laughter in the distance

Unfamiliar cadence

Smell the scent of your youth

Fragrant in the breeze

Sitting in your bedroom

All alone you wait to hear the sound

Of a door once locked now opening

            Mat couldn’t stop his breath from catching in his throat, watching her run her hands through her silky hair, each stroke pulling water droplets which fell around her to make ripples in the stream, around her knees. The force of that song seized him, despite the lack of anything but Selene’s voice, full of sorrow and pain, and also….hope. Faint and trembling, but there.

Every time your frozen

memories come to thaw

Bit by bit melts away 'til

there's nothing at all

Even when they're gone you

hold on so tightly to them

In your heart, you will never forget  

             Mat’s eyes followed the arc of her shoulders as Selene shook her head, shaking the last of the water from her hair and leaving it damp and shiny against her back. Still, as she sank back to sit in the water, raising a single pale leg to stroke with a cloth, Mat stood rooted to the spot, held there by the sight, and the song.

Birds sing in the distance

Old familiar cadence

Smell the scent of your youth

Fragrant in the rain

Sitting in your bedroom

All alone you wait to hear the sound

You've been longing for, for a lifetime

            Mat could not have said if he stood there hours, or moments, anymore then he could have with the grolm attack. All he knew was that the thundering of his heart against his rib cage had become painful, the pressure of blood through his neck, his arms, sharp and sore, as Selene went through the motions of her bath, her song never once faltering.

Every time your frozen

memories come to thaw

Bit by bit melts away 'til

there's nothing at all

Even when they're gone we

hold on so tightly to them

In our hearts, we will never forget…

            When at last the song trailed away, Mat sucked in a breath, feeling as if some invisible hand gripping his throat had been loosened, and immediately knew his mistake. Yet Selene gave no sign she had heard, as she moved out from the river, towards her dress, slipping into it with the same calm ease that she had used to bathe.           

            Yet just as Mat was feeling secure enough to try sneaking away, as Selene reached down to pull one of her necklaces off the branch, her voice cut through the night, no longer full of sorrow and pain and hope, but cool judgment.

            “You can stop hiding in the shadows, Master Cauthon. We should speak, you and I.”

            There was nothing to do but grimace refully, put on his most insolent smile, and walk out onto the shore. Selene regarded him without expression and sat on one of the rocks that lay beside the river, while she donned her rings and necklaces, one by one.

            “Lady Selene! Fancy catching you out for a midnight stroll.” He knuckled his forehead to her. “I didn’t realize you couldn’t sleep either.”

             Selene’s mouth twisted as if had made a very good joke and she wanted to avoid smiling at it. Yet instead of calling him out on the blatant lie, she just continued to regard him silently, while retying her silver belt, and setting it with the moon clasp.

             Shifting on his feet uncomfortably, Mat tilted his head. “Did you have a nice walk?”

             “You don’t like me, do you, Master Cauthon?” Selene said casually, smoothing her skirt. Her hair was still damp and glossy in the moonlight, and it framed a face that stared at him with cold impassiveness.

             Shoving his hands in his pockets Mat shrugged. “I don’t know you,” he responded, which was true. “We met what, six hours ago? Not much time to forge a friendship. At least, not how I do it. I’m not quite as free with my affections as Hurin and Loial..”

             Selene rolled her eyes. “You're funny. That’s more than could be said for…” She trailed off and shaking her head changed what she was going to say. “You care for Rand. That is plain to see. You should know that I am no threat to him.”

             “Lord Rand.” Mat could not explain why he said that, except for maybe a desire to tweak the woman, get one up on her, just a little bit. But he refused to double back on the words, staring her straight in the eye.

             Selene’s mouth twitched, and this time she made no effort to hide her amusement. “Lord Rand then.” She said calmly. “I am…interested in him. He has an air of…greatness about him. A rare thing, greatness.”

             A coldness crept into Mat’s veins. Fear sharpening. He was suddenly glad Rand was asleep and wouldn’t be able to feel it, or he might have come running.

             “I don’t think Rand wants greatness, my lady.” Mat responded calmly.

             “It is always better to choose greatness than to have it forced upon you. A man who is forced is never entirely his own master.” She tilted her head to one side. “I don’t think you want that for…. Lord Rand.”

             In his coat pockets Mat’s hands clenched into fists. “I don’t think that’s my decision, my lady.” He responded calmly. Light, he was starting to hate noblewomen.

             Selene stood and there was no mistaking her smile for anything else now. “….You have influence with him.” She noted calmly. “A great deal of it in fact. He values your opinion highly, not just as his…” Her smile flickered to a sneer. “Cue’vin. But as a man, and a person. You could help guide him.”

             “To where you want him to go.” Mat couldn’t keep the snap out of his voice this time, and never mind if his mother would have been horrified at him for talking so to a woman. “Not bloody likely.”

             “To where is best for him.” Selene corrected, and moved, gliding forward to stand beside him and reached over to brush a twig from the shoulder of his coat. “…I am not your enemy, Matrim, and we need not quarrel. We could work together, to show Rand the path to greatness. As we did today- do not pretend that it was not both of our efforts that shifted Rand from following a course that would have led him to disaster.” Mat’s grimace must have shown before he could suppress it, because Selene gave an approving nod. “Between us, we can help him find the path. He needs it. Do not deny that either.” She moved, laying a hand against his shoulder again, stroking it gently. “And for one such as you….it would hardly be a small thing to stand a step below the mighty. Greatness in its own respect some might say, to be the right hand of a hero, or a legend.”

             Mat reached up, and taking her hand in his, pulled it from his shoulder. “No thank you. Rand and I are in this together. I don’t think he’d want me a step below him any more than he’d want to be great.” Or a step below her for that matter. “Besides, great men have a tendency to get stuck full of arrows and swords. I think I’ll pass.”

             “You surprise me.” Selene murmured. “You are more…sentimental than I thought you would be. But very well.” And pulling her wrist free of his grip, she turned to head back to camp.

             He could have left it at that, should have left it that. But a stubborn thread in Mat could not let her have the last word. Greatness indeed.

             “It was a pretty show you put on, thank you for it. I’ve paid for far worse at taverns,” he said airily. “Though I would work on your singing before you went asking after a job. And find a better song, that one was too depressing.”

             Selene turned, regarding him over his shoulder, but instead of anger she looked…thoughtful. “You understood my song?” She said slowly, and Mat realized he had missed badly. “….I was not aware you spoke the Old Tongue, Matrim. I shall have to keep that in mind.”

             And with that she was gone, leaving alone and cold in the moonlight.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: The Turning of Days

            “I have had a thought,” Selene said the next morning as they ate breakfast. Mat felt a sharp comment form on the tip of his tongue, but bit it back. Selene had acted all morning as if their confrontation the night before had not occurred, treating him with the same cordial dismissiveness she had since they met. While Mat was still wary of her, like he might be of a Blacklance in his presence, if she was content to leave matters lie, so was he. He had been taught good manners afterall, and sometimes he even used them. 

            Rand was staring into the fire- he had insisted that after the stress of the day before, hehad earned a day’s rest and a warm breakfast, and no one had argued. Mat knew he had not slept all the way through the night. He was sure it was more bad dreams. Dreams of Ba'alzamon or the White Tower or both. Mat had not gotten a chance to talk to him in private yet about it, and he wasn’t sure there was really a point: talking about the dreams would not make them go away. But talking about them couldn’t hurt either. If nothing else it might give Mat some measure of insight into what Rand was so bloody afraid of all the time.

            For now, however, Rand tore his eyes from the fire and turned them to Selene, blinking away his tiredness. “What about, my Lady?” He asked. He was getting better at that trick Lords had of making every word sound proper and important. Mat didn’t know how he felt about that.

            “Your tracker said that the trail you were following had begun to grow thin and faded. Tell me, Hurin- what did you mean by that?” She turned to regard the man in question who rolled his shoulders, as if uncertain. Or maybe just uncomfortable being the sole focus of Lady Selene’s attention.

            “I suppose it did. After a fashion.” Hurin said finally. “It still stank as badly as ever but it was also….pale. I don’t have another word for it.” He rubbed at his nose. “Like….like it could flicker out. Bah. It was the strangeness of that place, my Lady.”

            “Indeed it was, Master Hurin.” Selene replied calmly. “But not in the way you think.” Rand frowned and opened his mouth and Selene raised a hand to forestall him. “Tell me, did you smell any other trails in that place?”

            Hurin nodded emphatically. “Oh yes my lady, dozens and dozens of them, so many I couldn’t really pick them out from one another, all criss crossing each other. If the Darkfriend’s trail didn’t stink to the Light of Heaven and back I’m not sure I could have followed it as well as I did. But I don’t know that I’ll ever forget the smell of what happened in Fal Dara’s dungeon, or at the Trolloc camps since, my lady, begging your pardon. It…it’s like the worst jakes you can imagine.”

            Selene took no offense at the coarse comparison and simply nodded as if she had expected nothing less. Rand, however, seemed as lost as Mat did.  “What exactly are you saying, my lady?” he asked quietly and Selene smiled, like a badger that had just seen the lid to the honey jar fall off.

            “Unstable worlds such as the one we were in are malleable in a way ours is not. The borders between its reality and others are thin, thin enough for the faint impressions of chance to make a mark. Think of it like unraveling thread in a tapestry: even as it degrades it brushes the threads that surround it, maybe more as it degrades. And if the tapestry is time itself, those impressions need not be bound by our notions of time.”

            She must have caught Rand and Mat’s, and even Loial’, bewildered expressions because she clicked her tongue and sighed. “Hurin does not smell the literal trail of violence, I suspect. I have never heard of anything exactly like his ability, even in all my studies.” She made a vexed sound at that, and Hurin ducked his head, as if he was afraid she would open his mouth and start counting his teeth right then and there, but she seemed to have forgotten his presence entirely as she went on. “But rather the mark it makes in the pattern. Conflict and struggle are a part of the Pattern after all, the threads of men’s lives clashing with one another is a part of the weaving that shapes the world around it. So perhaps, in that strange other world, faint enough for its walls to be thin, Hurin sensed the path that thread of violence was set to take, rather than the path it had already, mirrored there as here.”

            Hurin had gone from uncomfortable to outright panicked. “My lady, really my nose isn’t anything as grand as that! It’s nothing to do with the Pattern or the Wheel I just….smell violence. That’s all. If you tell me that I’m going to start smelling where it might happen as well as where it has…” His shoulders were starting to shake but Selene shook her head.

            “Everything has to do with the Pattern and the Wheel my good man, and no, do not fear such a…growth in your abilities. Unless you plan to make a habit of visiting unstable worlds, I doubt you will ever smell potential violence again.” Her smile, Mat thought, was meant to be reassuring. It was not.

            Rand cut in, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Selene, but…you're assuming and supposing a lot. I don’t doubt your knowledge or your studies- I’ve never met a scholar as knowledgeable as you before.” Selene preened under the compliment, but Mat thought that maybe she wouldn’t have if she knew she was only really the second scholar he had met. Well, except for Aes Sedai anyways, but they didn’t count. It was like saying a Whitecloak was a soldier, technically true but not really.

            Rand continued, clearly picking his words carefully. “But you also seem to be making a lot of guesses for someone who had never visited one of those worlds until yesterday, especially when as you say you’ve never met anyone like Hurin and don’t know how his- his smelling works. Maybe the paleness Hurin was talking about was just because the scent was so overlaid, and maybe the other scents were lingering violence from that world. We can’t really know.”

            Selene regarded him for a long moment, her brief burst of satisfaction gone. Yet she did not seem angry, only mildly annoyed and…thoughtful. “You enjoy arguing with me, very well,” she said, and continued, riding right over Rand’s protests that he enjoyed nothing of the sort. “Consider that the paleness was growing stronger the further south we went, the trail growing more frayed and fainter. Is that not right Hurin?”

            Hurin nodded again. “Yes- frayed. That’s…that’s. a good word for it.”

            Selene nodded. “These ruffians clearly mean to make south, possibly to Cairhien itself, and there is one path to follow there, so in the beginning the scent remained stronger, but as we drew closer to the mountains, the chances, however faint, that they might go another way, increased. Not much, there is really only one pass through the mountains for them to take, near the tip of the dagger, if they wish to remain moving south with all possible haste. The more sure something is, the more likely, the greater its impression in the Pattern. The less likely, the fainter. Very likely if we had remained at the pass in the otherworld the scent would have grown stronger by the day, as the Darkfriends drew nearer to its reflection in our world, their path becoming more and more certain.”

            “Hold on.” Mat cut in. “I’m not sure I understand all this talk about threads of fate and possibility and such- but are you saying that we're ahead of the Darkfriends? That they were never in that world to begin with, and that Hurin was following the trail of where they might go?”

            Selene nodded. “An accurate summation of my theory.” She said crisply. “This means that we have the advantage. As I said, if they mean to press south, there is only one pass they might take. We have some time to reach it: we crossed a distance that will take more than a week for your quarry to do so, in a matter of two days.”

            “We could wait for them at the pass, and set an ambush.” Rand said slowly, staring off into the distance. “Take back the dagger and the horn at one blow.”

            “But my lord!” Hurin said, clearly panicked. “What if they are back in that strange otherworld? They could be moving tens of leagues by the day while we sit and wait.”

            “Maybe.” Rand agreed. “But I’m not sure it matters. I don’t know that I can take us back, and I don’t know that I would if I could. Not with the grolm waiting for us.” He shook his head. “If I knew for certain that Fain and his Darkfriends were in that place maybe. But I don’t. And if Fain is…the worst that comes of going to the pass and waiting is that Ingtar and the others will meet us there in a few days instead. He can’t stay in that Otherworld forever, he’ll have to emerge sooner or later, and we can take up the hunt again when he does.” Mat’s mouth twisted, knowing what Rand was thinking.

            Tomon Head. They already had their heading if it came to that.

            Loial had been quiet, staring off west as they spoke, and running a hand down the length of his huge quarterstaff, as he did when nervous, feeling the grains of it. “So you mean to make for the pass?”

            Rand nodded. “I do. We’ll move tomorrow, once the horses have rested.”

            Out of the corner of his eye, Mat caught Selene’s faint smile of pleasure, and felt that familiar sense of the noose tightening around his neck.

<X>

            Not for the first time, Verin found herself wishing she had bought a good looking glass in Tar Valon before setting out, resolved to attain one as soon as possible, and then immediately forgot about the whole matter as she reached out to embrace saidar . 

            She did nothing with the Power of course, merely let it flood into her: that sweet infinite river of light and life, filling her the way light filled a lantern, and washing away with it the vagaries of age, the aches of a body past its prime. More importantly in this specific instant, it also sharpened her vision and senses. It was that sharpening that made it possible for her to peer through the faint light of dawn, down the slope to where the Shienarans were camped.

            This probably was the reason she always forgot about the looking glass: the sheer convenience and ease of being able to enhance her sight with no more than a thought made the need for such a thing far less urgent even if it was far more practical. It was joked in the White Tower that Brown Sisters could often be found holding the power for hours at time, not for the sweetness of it, but for the way it made reading by faint candlelight much easier. A joke to be sure, but not one entirely based in untruth. Verin could not say with honesty that there had not been times when she had walked into one of the public reading spaces in the Brown Ajah quarters to find more than half the Sisters lit up with the glow of the Power, creating a glow so bright that they could have discarded the low burning candles to read by it alone- not that any of them had been willing to put down their tomes long enough to actually snuff the candles. Why-

            “Verin.” Tomas said beside her in his gruff, almost gravelly voice. “You’re wandering again."

            Verin blinked, turning to stare at her stalky, bluff faced Warder. “Oh am I? Oh bother.” She said, reaching up to adjust her hood and then realizing that either she had not pulled it up, or it had fallen on their ride.

            Sighing, Tomas reached over to lift it for her, nodding patiently as he settled it over her slightly graying hair. With the Power in her, she could see every line that long years of stress and worry over her had carved into his face. Being a Warder bestowed men with incredible vitality, yet their long quest had tested the limits of it, and made him old before his time. Old and tired looking. Not that he had ever been pretty, even as a youth of nineteen when she had first Bonded him. There had always been a dark sadness carved into him that had robbed what little natural handsomeness he possessed. But Verin had not minded, she was not a Green afterall for whom the image that might be painted with a Bard’s words or a weaver’s tapestry loom was always a consideration in her choosing. Verin had other qualities she needed in a Warder that were far more uncommon, and far more important than physical beauty.

            In some ways, I am pickier than any freshly raised Green, she thought wryly. Certainly no one Sister in the Tower would have standards as restrictive as mine.  

            There had been a time she thought she would never have a Warder again, which made the bright-eyed bluff-faced boy with the twin swords strapped to his back a pleasant surprise. In the twenty years since she had laid her hands upon his forehead, Tomas had grown to know her almost as well as she knew herself. With the Bond alone he could tell- 

            “Verin.” He repeated, slight exasperation seeping into his voice. No rebuke though. He knew that you could as soon stop the weaving of the pattern as the twisting of her thoughts. His gift was knowing how and when to redirect them to the task at hand. “The Shienarans.” 

            “Oh, them?” She blinked and turned to look back down the slope. “Ah yes. Twenty of them give or take. But no sign of the Ogier that was with them, and if Rand al’Thor and Matrim Cauthon are about, then I have missed them.” She had not seen the need to conceal the truth of her purpose from him: there were less secrets between them then even among those Sisters who married their Warders. There was no point after all. That had not stopped her from considering leaving him behind in Fal Dara, however. She loved Tomas dearly, but their relationship had more of the eldest son looking after his aged mother then she liked at times, and sometimes there was great need to act recklessly, and no time to make Tomas see that need. 

            It was the realization that Matrim might be brought to confide in another Warder, or better yet seek guidance from one, that had convinced her not to leave Tomas behind. Except now both he and his young man seemed to have disappeared like smoke. Or run off maybe. 

            “Could Moriaine be wrong about them?” Verin wondered aloud. It wasn’t terribly likely: Moraine had a sharp intuition regarding such things and she seemed to think that the hunt for the dagger would bind Rand al’Thor like a chain until his lover was properly healed. But not likely was not the same thing as impossible. 

            “There is only one way to find out.” Tomas said softly, and sighing Verin nodded, releasing the Power, and urging her plump mare forward. 

            Verin made no true effort at concealment, and the Shienarans made no true effort at stopping her: the mutual knowledge of the uselessness of each endeavor held both sides in check. That and the dependable Shienaran pride and respect. The soldiers bowed to her as she passed, some pressing fists to chests, others murmuring benisons of ‘all glory to the White Tower’ and ‘all honor to the Servants of All’. Verin nodded in her usual absent fashion, accepting it as no more than her due. It was always bracing, interacting with Borderlanders, who still remembered proper respect as well as fear. All too much of the world had forgotten one, leaving only the other, and pure respect without fear, could cause just as many problems as pure fear without respect. She could always trust Borderlands to be what they were until they showed themselves otherwise. It was refreshing. 

            Word traveled ahead of them of course, and Lord Ingtar was waiting for them at the head of the small column, his horse already turned around. Beside him, the other young Emond’s Field boy stood: Perrin, looking deeply uncomfortable and working hard to avoid her gaze. As if she had not noted and already filed away his golden eyes for further study. Truly, if only she could divide herself in three, and attach one to each of these ta’veren, then she might be satisfied with all she could learn from them. 

            “Honor and glory, Verin Sedai.” Lord Ingtar said, bowing from his saddle. “You caught my men by surprise. To what do we owe this honor?” 

            “Moriaine Sedai sent me.” Verin responded. “She thought you might have a need for me. Of us.” She nodded to Tomas, who was staring down Ingtar warily. One of her many requirements for a Gaidin was well honed instincts for danger, and Tomas had it in spades. “Such a gallop we’ve had! I thought we might not catch you short of Cairhien. You saw the village of course.” She only waited for him to begin opening his mouth to respond before plowing on ahead. “Oh that was very nasty wasn’t it? And that Myrddraal. There were ravens and crows all over the rooftops, but never one went near it, dead as it was. I had to wave away the Dark One’s own weight in flies though, before I could make out what it was. A shame I did not have time to cut it down and do at least a sketch. Or better yet a dissection. I’ve never truly had a chance to study a-'' Verin cut off and leaned forward to look around ostentatiously. The desired effect hit immediately, every soldier freezing, focusing their attention on her. Ingtar looked about ready to swallow his tongue. Good, off balance men made mistakes, and revealed more than they meant to, Verin had perfected chatter to something of a talent over her centuries of life. Using words to unbalance people was as handy as being able to dance around the truth. “Where are Rand al’Thor and Matrim Cauthon?” 

            Ingtar’s grimace was resigned, but there was a flesh of relief in his eyes, quickly suppressed. So, he had other secrets he feared being drawn out. She would have to spend some time discerning them. “Gone, Verin Sedai. Vanished last night without a trace. Lord Rand, his Cue’vin, the Ogre and Hurin, one of my men.” 

            Verin blinked. “The Sniffer and the Ogier too?” Now that was odd. The primary chance that Rand al’Thor and Matrim Cauthon had run off would be Rand al’Thor mistakenly believing he could use The Power to heal Matrim without the dagger. There was no earthly way he would take any witness along if that was his intent. Another piece, one that didn’t fit the picture. Some might be frustrated by that, but not her. A piece that didn’t fit revealed that there was more than met the eye to the puzzle. 

            Ingtar was gaping at her. Oh, she realized. Yes. That. She wasn’t supposed to know about Hurin. “Did you think you could keep something like that secret from the Tower?” She snorted, shaking her head. Men. They always assumed they were so much better at hiding things than they were. As if reports of such a strange phenomenon would not tear through every Brown Sister like a wildfire in dry grass. “Sniffers.” She made a casting off gesture. She was sure Hurin was a fine man, but all was as dust beside the Dragon Reborn. Not that she had any intention of telling Ingtar that. “Vanished you say?” 

            “Yes, Verin Sedai.” Ingtar said in a faint voice. “But I have- I have a new sniffer.” He nodded to Perrin beside him. “This man seems to share Hurin’s ability. I will find the horn of Valere, as I swore to, have no fear. Your company will welcome Aes Sedai of course, if you wish to ride with us.” 

            A lie if she had ever heard one, though understandable given the circumstances. Verin barely heard him, her gaze shifting to Perrin instead. She felt Tomas’s attention shift to him as well. He was trying very hard to avoid her gaze now. Golden eyes. It was possible he was a sniffer she supposed. And it was also possible that Rand al’Thor had sprouted wings and flown away. That did not make it likely, or what had happened. Golden eyes. She had read something about that, almost twenty years ago. Hadn’t she? She sorely wished she had access to her backlog of notes, but they were safely tucked away in a warded chest in her room in the White Tower. Something about a Warder with golden eyes she thought. Yet even that felt not quite right. Still, it didn't matter. 

            “A new sniffer.” Verin said, tapping her bottom lip in thought. “Just when you lose your old one. How…providential. You found no tracks? No, of course not. You said no trace. Odd. Last night.” She twisted, staring back at the village and the Erinin. She had just missed them then.

             “You think their disappearance has something to do with the Horn, Aes Sedai?” Ingtar asked. She could hear the unspoken question, and Verin turned back to regard him. 

            Shaking her head she sighed. “The Horn? No. I think…not. But it is odd. Very odd. I do not like odd things until I can understand them.” Those boys had to be the most pursued men in the world right now: all the forces of the Shadow would be fixed to them. And just as she was about to reach them, they vanished like mist. Either Fate was working directly to keep them from her- always a possibility with Ta’veren- or another power had stepped in to snatch them away. Either way they were beyond her reach for the moment. 

            “I can have men escort you back to where they disappeared, Verin Sedai. They will have no trouble taking you right to it.” Ingtar’s offer could not have been more plainly designed to be rid of her. Yet she was tempted for a moment: their might be some hint of what had happened at the spot itself, something she could detect that would escape the eyes of mere men. Yet… She did not glance at Perrin. No, best not to abandon her last tie to Rand al’Thor quite yet. He was ta’veren too, if not as strongly. Either he would draw his friend back to him, or he would be drawn to his friend. 

            “No.” She said finally. “Tomas and I will remain with your party.” She smiled suddenly. “Pursuing the Horn. I have always wanted to sketch it. We have no reliable depictions, you know- only second and third hand recreations done at least six hundred years after the time of madness. Talk to me as we ride, Lord Ingtar, and tell me how things have progressed- and more of Rand al’Thor and Matrim Cauthon while you are at it. Everything they did or said.” Making the smallest of gestures with her fingers while pulling her mare in beside Ingtar’s, she leaned in close to confer with him, as he reluctantly ordered the march to continue, and Perrin took the lead. While he talked she kept him in the focus of her sights, and Tomas following her gesture did the same. 

            Puzzles everywhere, and oddities aplenty. It made her feel practically a hundred a fifty again. That was the last time she had such excitement and challenge as this, though she could only hope that this time fewer people would need to die. Tomas did so hate having to dig graves. 

<X> 

            In the beginning, things went smoothly. That should have been Mat’s first clue that something was wrong.

            They rode eastwards until they found a spot in the mountains where they could watch the pass that Mordeth and the Trollocs were most likely to use if they followed the trail Hurin had smelt in the other world. Selene remained positively pleasant to everyone, himself included, if cold and aloof. She spoke of books and history with Loial, complimented and praised Hurin and Mat’s tracking, and each night by the fire took her travel rations with a well calculated touch to Rand’s hand and a smile of thanks that made him flush in embarrassment. It made Mat wish that Perrin was there- he never ended up putting a foot wrong with women the way Mat and Rand always seemed to.

            It had come to Mat that first night before they set out that his rudeness may have been a touch uncalled for given the situation, and he had resolved to apologize and make things right. But every time Mat tried to speak with Selene she managed to deflect somehow, to twist like a serpent out of his grasp, either sliding back to speak with Loial about some lost book, or deciding to ride ahead in the fresh air of solitude. Oh she was unfailingly polite and courteous, but also quite firm. Mat Cauthon was beneath her notice. Mat Cauthon was a rude ragamuffin who was not to be given the time of day.

            “Do you want me to speak to her for you?” Rand asked on the second morning, while they were making camp in their hiding spot. “She won't give me a short shrift.”

            “No.” Mat responded tightly. “I can handle it.”

            The Bond carried Rand’s flagrant disbelief, but he let it lie thankfully. This was something Mat had to do on his own. It was not the first time he had put a foot wrong with a woman, and it would not be the first time he convinced a woman who had hated him to his guts that actually he wasn’t so bad to have around after all. The sense of need to do that, and the way it would spike, when Mat caught Rand looking at Selene when he thought no one was watching, drinking in her beauty and her knowledge, was not something Mat felt a desire to pick at too strongly.

            In the Two Rivers you did not waste time wishing that hail storms wouldn’t come or wolves wouldn’t stalk sheep. You accepted what was and you dealt with it. That became Mat’s mantra over the next few days. Accept what was, and move on. Make your accommodations with how things were, rather than how you wanted them to be.

            The small irritants did not help however.

            Hurin accepted Selene’s condescension as no more than his due of course. She was a Lady afterall, and so not to be questioned or doubted or looked at strangely. Why, if people went around doubting nobles, what would the world come to? Surely the whole of the Pattern would unravel if he didn’t duck his head and knuckle his forehead every time the Lady Selene smiled at him for holding her stirrup. Mat kept these thoughts to himself of course, despite what the Wisdom, the Women’s Circle, or his mother might all say, he could hold his tongue in the name of keeping the peace. And if he had to bite it sometimes, well that was his own business.

            Loial was another matter. He treated Selene with a level of deference, though Mat thought that was more to do with their increasingly animated discussions about various books that each had read. Loial was so hungry for knowledge that he would likely pause to ask the Dark One for a list of his favorite books, given the chance. Yet for all they talked and debated authors and ideas and concepts, sometimes so strange that Mat couldn’t even tell if they were disagreeing let alone what they were talking about, he also didn’t bow or scrape for her, treating her with the same earthy openness that he did anyone else. Selene treated that as no more than her due too, arguing just as passionately and even occasionally ceding points with a good grace, or without ever wavering from calling him Alantin.

            Mat asked about that one night, when he and Loial went aside for their lessons in the Old Tongue and Ogier Script.

            “It means Brother. It’s short for Tia Avende Alanatin . Brother to the Trees.” Loial explained. “It’s an old name for the Ogier used by humans. It’s very formal- but Selene is Cairhien and they are very formal people. When I stayed in Cairhien last, most nobles would refer to the Stonemasons that way.”

            “Why is it not four words then?” Mat asked as Loial began pulling out the various books he had written in the Old Tongue. As he had said, most were in Ogier script, the letters large and bold, yet flowing too. Mat had learned enough to realize that for all he was a scholar, Loial had something of a messy slap dash hand, that lacked the flowing artistry Ogier script was supposed to have. “Or why not just two? Avenda Din , for example. That would mean the same thing.”

            Loial shook his head. “Boiled down, maybe. But Din implies a brotherhood that has more to do with adversity and battle. Alantin is more…spiritual. I know that’s not specific,” he added quickly, gesturing. “But you have to understand that the Old Tongue was made . It did not grow naturally, as other human languages do, shaping itself to your society and setting. Instead it was crafted by the Aes Sedai of the Age of Legends, to serve as a singular tongue for all mankind: a common speech without tether to any one group of people or land. That’s why there are so many gradations and variations, why it sounds like music to hear it spoken.” He gestured with his pen. “Why are things like the order of the words and the rules for metaphor so strong? It's because they wanted to strip any shadow in which misunderstanding or miscommunication might dwell. It’s part of why it was kept by the courts of the Ten Nations, after the Breaking, because it made communication easier. As well as making treaties and agreements harder to break or abuse.” He sighed suddenly, looking sad.

            “It is also what makes learning it so hard: all those shades and gradations and nuances can be hard to convey and understand, especially without context. Metaphors, however stringently governed, are still dependent on an understanding that we can only guess at from context clues and other instances. Variations and graduations can breed confusion. Ultimately, it was the fact that The Old Tongue was constructed by men that ensured its fall: it was not a living language, and so it could not grow alongside your kind.” Loial’s ears were fully dropping then, sadness thick in the air around him: maybe for the death of the Old Tongue, or the folly of humans, or both.

            Which of course meant that Mat had to gently redirect him, with a joke, a laugh and a slap on the shoulder for good measure. Loial was a good friend, but he was also a terrible teacher when despondent, and the lessons were already hard enough.

            Those lessons, held just on the edge of the firelight in as close to privacy as they could manage, were not initially a source of Mat’s frustration, though they became one rather quickly. Learning the Old Tongue was hard enough, but learning it with Mat able to summon up knowledge of how to speak it, but not how to read or write it, made it a stuttering stop and start affair in the beginning, as Loial tried to test the depths of his understanding, and probed for how fluent he was already.

            Which, it turned out, was fairly fluent. For a while they simply held conversations back and forth in the Old Tongue, on topics that ranged from everyday farm work and housekeeping to geography and politics- what little of both Mat understood- to the plots and stories of some of the few books that Mat had read over the years. Mat learned some surprising things about Loial in those conversations: about the Stedding and Ogier life, from their quiet warrior tradition in which every young Ogier was trained the same way everyone learned to ride horses in the Two Rivers, or swim, but with the profound hope the day would never come when they would need to use such arts. He also learned about Loial’s surprisingly strong and defensive opinions of certain historians and scholars that were apparently not well liked by others.

            “ Elder Haman .” Loial said in the Old Tongue on the third night they were camping the past, gesturing as usual with his unlit pipe. “ Says that Agelan, Daughter of Soon, Daughter of Telli, places too much importance on the actions of the individual rather than focusing on broader trends in human societies and their shifts over time. He says that she writes of history being the great deeds of great men and women without pausing to pay mind to the common folk. I say however that pretending that there are not those individuals whose power and influence is such that they are more capable of shaping history and its currents than the others is being willfully blind to reality .”

            It was not the first time a bit of frustration or malcontent about his teacher or other Ogier in general had leaked through when Loial became passionate enough about something to forget himself. If Mat pointed it out however, Loial would only blush and double back, insisting that Haman was right, and that Loial was just being insolent. Mat did not, instead he held onto his cup of tea, and let Loial go on.

            “ Why, the whole nature of the Pattern of the Wheel, teaches us that the individual threads of human lives do matter, and some more than others. Ta’veren quite literally shape the world around them, rewriting history. But to hear Elder Haman tell the tale, Artur Hawkwing would barely appear in the story of his own Empire! Oh no, instead it would be all about the aftereffects of the Trolloc Wars on the stability of kingdoms that rose up in the Free Years, and how the failure of rulers to resettle and repopulate farmable land, or to deal with the Black Fever Plague,  lead to mass instability, which exploded into the War of the Second Dragon when disconnected peasants and former soldiers left purposeless after the end of the Trolloc Wars flocked to the banner of a young rebel in Darmovan. Why, I doubt Elder Haman would even mention that rebel was Guaire Amalasan, until off-hand mentioning that he also falsely Proclaimed himself to be The Dragon Reborn! ”

            Aman Synadi, he said the last word, rolling it on his tongue with that special emphasis that marked it out even among all the others. Aman Syndai. The Dragon Reincarnated. The Dragon Born Again. Or maybe, most directly, the Dragon Spun Out Once More. His proper title would simply be, Aman. The Dragon. A word so strong it needed no qualifier in the original Old Tongue.

            “ To hear Moiraine tell it, the Mountain Home went from mighty kingdom to pleasant farmland without a seam of difference. Were they also unstable and ravaged in those days? ” Mat asked. Which had the desired effect of launching Loial away from the topic of False Dragons and their wars, to much safer, less dangerous ground.

            In the end Loial declared Mat’s spoken Old Tongue to be perfectly fluent if a touch antiquated, which May decide to take as a compliment and lead to the Ogier’s strategy for teaching him to read and write it: in the same fashion he would a child who spoke well, but could neither read nor write. This humiliating process began on the fourth night of camping above the pass, and quickly made Mat wish that the short distance between their lessons and the rest of camp was instead several miles, and also had a dozen walls erected between them. The business of sounding words and matching them to letters, of working writing out the alphabet and memorizing its order and what each character meant…

            It all made him feel as if he were knee high and still on apron strings. It would have been bad enough if it were just him and the Ogier, but the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck- real or imagined it did not matter- and the knowledge that Hurin, Selene, and worst of all Rand were watching, made him burn with embarrassment.

            The worst was the seventh night when Selene came over to their lesson, lowering herself to sit between them. That was all, her face gave no sign of pleasure. No sign of any emotion at all, and she neither interjected nor commented, simply watched from up close as Mat and Loial ran through the alphabet of the Ogier script. Mat would not give her the satisfaction of being asked to leave, of knowing that she was bothering him, so instead he smiled and pretended he didn’t mind as Loial made him recite a song taught to Ogier children in order to help them memorize their letters and a few common combinations.

            The next day, Mat saw her retrieve an ink bottle and some paper from Loial, and thought nothing of it until that night’s lesson, when Loial happily set down a sheet beside the one he had written out the Ogier script alphabet on, containing the human versions of each character, in Selene’s neat flowing hand. They weren't quite as elegant and the lines ran nowhere as thick- but for the most part matching them was not overly difficult. Only a few were truly different enough that he would have trouble memorizing them.

            “It was very kind of her.” Loial said happily. “You know, she is also fluent. We could ask her too-“

            “No, Loial.” Mat said. He had to resist the urge to crumple the sheet. He knew if he looked back at the fire he would see Selene, sitting beside Rand and smirking at him. He pushed it down though. He would not give her the satisfaction of knowing she was bothering him.

            “But-“ Loial began and Mat shook his head sharply.

            “No.” He snapped and when Loial frowned, he sighed. “It’s…a human thing. I couldn’t explain, and you wouldn’t get it if I tried.”

            Loial accepted this, if not with a terribly good grace, and their lessons continued. But the next morning, Selene thanked hi in the Old Tongue when he handed her her breakfast. Her smile was indulgent, like a school mistress with a pupil she thought was not terribly bright. He just smiled. He would smile and make peace with this woman if it killed him.

            Because the worst thing of all, the worst of the dozen little irritants, was that Rand was starting to like her. They talked sometimes around the fire, of music or nature, or the Two Rivers. When Mat had the watch on the pass below, she would take Rand for walks, insisting she needed escort through the wilderness, and since Matrim was busy, Hurin a city man, and the Alantin sure to spook away any animals she would be interested in seeing, could it not be him?

            Mat felt Rand’s awkwardness and weariness as he accepted. And he held onto that like a beacon the first day, until they returned Selene perfectly serene and Rand looked as if he had just ridden a mile blindfolded. Through briars. He held onto it the second day, and the third, each time Selene coming right as Mat was taking up watch, each time being gone with Rand, for a brief walk in the wilderness- never the same path twice- but always at least an hour. And each time Rand returned looking bewildered and off balance. 

            Until the fourth day, when the awkwardness began to fade, and Rand returned laughing at some joke Selene had made. The fifth day saw it fade even further, and by the seventh it was gone completely. Replaced amusement and affection and….something Mat didn’t want to examine too closely. Something faint and flickering, alike to when they had first met and he had been overwhelmed by the woman’s beauty. But warmer. And growing each day. 

            On the tenth day Mat volunteered to take the shift after dinner as well, beginning his usual lesson with Loial, and sat on a boulder, gazing down at the pass. Thinking about women and men. About Egwene and choices, and rights and claims. 

            The worst part was, Mat realized, even if he could have brought the case before the Women’s Circle, he wouldn’t have. No matter how satisfying it would have been watching Selene be switched by the Wisdom for poaching, that wasn’t what was wrong. Mat didn’t want to own Rand, or have sole claim on his affections. He didn’t want to have the Women’s Circle step in as if Rand were just some sheep that had turned up in someone else’s paddock. That was what Rand had been to Egwene, an object for her to covet, and when she had wanted to go where he couldn’t follow, he had been set aside just as easily as one might an object.

            But Rand wasn’t an object to Mat, and if he wanted to be with Selene or any other women he didn’t mind. He just….wanted to be consulted. To maybe be able to sit Rand down and say ‘are you okay with the way she treats people? With the way she expects Hurin’s scraping and bowing? With the way she talks of glory and power? The way she talks down to everyone? The way she looks at me with disdain?’ to ask if this was really what he wanted, or something he was accepting being chosen for him, the way he had accepted Egwene.

            But though Mat and Rand talked and sparred and hunted together, though they curled up side by side each night by the fire, neither of them seemed to be able to find the words. 

            For twelve days they camped, waiting for the Darkfriends or Ingtar to appear on the horizon. And then, on the night of twelfth day, Loial woke them not an hour after taking up the first night watch. 

            “Campfires down the in pass.” He said softly. “At least five. Hidden from the north, but not from where we are.” 

            Rand was on his feet in an instant, the bond turning hard with determination. 

            Mordeth had come.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Into the Night  

             They gathered at the ridge with Loial, staring down into the valley of the pass. Mat’s eyes were decent, but even he could barely make out the flickering lights that Loial indicated with his sweeping gesture. Still he trusted that Loial was right about the campfires.

             “Three.” Rand was saying under his breath. “How many Trollocs for three campfires? How many Darkfriends?” He shook his head.

             “Fewer than they began with.” Selene said calmly, crouched beside Rand. “Of the Darkfriends at least. They could not have carried enough prisoners to sustain any great number of Trollocs so far so quickly.” She showed not the least bit of disturbance at the implication in her words. Mat’s mind was all for the offal they had found at each Trolloc camp north of the Erinin.

             “But still probably too many for the five of us to take.” Rand responded. The unspoken, without aid , hung in the air for Mat alone to hear. Through the Bond, Mat could feel enough steely determination and suppressed fear to know that was where Rand’s mind was, however. All Rand had to do was call lightning or hurl fire and he could scatter the Trollocs as well as any Aes Sedai. But that was assuming Rand could actually seize the Power, and make it do what he wanted if he did.

             And that it was worth letting Loial and Hurin know the truth. Somehow, Mat thought that the ‘milords’ and bowing would not protect them from Hurin going running for the Red Sisters.

             “We don’t need to fight them.” Mat said softly. “We just need to get close enough to take back the dagger and the Horn.”

             Rand turned to frown at him, along with Loial and Hurin, but oddly Selene looked…thoughtful.

             “They will have sentries” she said softly. “How do you propose passing them without raising the alarm?”

             “Trollocs are lazy.” Mat replied. “And they’ve been marching at a killing pace for weeks now, without a Fade to put the fear of the Dark One into them. I somehow doubt that Mordeth has been quite so diligent at keeping them in line, especially when as far as he knows he still has a sizable lead on us, and another week before there's any risk of other humans interfering in their business. If we’re careful and quiet we should be able to sneak into the camp, get the chest and sneak out again before anyone knows we’re there. Loial can move silently when he has to, and can see by moonlight as well as a wolf: not to mention that he has the strength to lift the chest without trouble.”

             Mat realized abruptly that everyone was staring at him as if he had grown a second head, and shrugged, feeling his cheeks heat. “What? We had plenty of time to think about what to do when Mordeth finally showed up. I thought about it.”

             Rand shook his head. “What about the dagger? Mordeth will almost certainly have it on him. How do we get that away?”

             Mat smiled. “Mordeth is too paranoid to sleep far from the horn or to get close to the Trollocs. I can get the dagger off of him while Loial gets the chest. You know there is no one better at sneaking than I am- Loial and I will go together, and be back before you can shake a stick at us.”

             Mat expected an argument, but to his surprise he got none. Instead Rand nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a good plan,” he said, and then, firming his voice and steeling his determination, he added “but I’m coming too.”

             Mat opened his mouth to protest that there was no need for Rand to take that risk, to put himself in danger, but Rand silenced him by reaching out and placing his own hand over Mat’s.

             “We’re in this together.” He murmured. “No matter what. Remember?”

             Mat felt his throat tighten, and his breath catch. Leave it to Rand bloody al’Thor to throw his own words back at him. There really was nothing else to do but nod, and reply. “No matter what.”

             Selene’s lips twitched with bemusement as she watched the exchange. “I commend the desire to seize all the glory for yourself, Master Cauthon. But there will be plenty to split between us when this is done.”

             Rand turned on a dime, shaking his head. “No, my lady, you will remain here with Hurin to guard you.” Her expression turned hard, so quickly you would almost doubt she had ever been amused. “Three is already pushing the limits of what we can safely manage, and should the worst happen, I will need you to carry word to Lord Ingtar of events tonight, and before.”

             For a long moment Mat was sure she was going to argue. Egwene would have: Egwene would have been spitting fire at the notion of being left out of this sort of thing, but finally Selene inclined her head in acquiescence, hardness vanishing from her expression as quickly and completely as it had come. “Very well, Rand. It seems you wish to be masterful. I like masterful men-“ Mat had to resist the urge to goggle at that. He had never met a woman who would have said the same. “-provided that they do not carry it too far. I shall remain, and await your return in glory.”

             At the last she extended a hand to stroke Rand’s shoulder, and Mat had no need of Rand’s furious blush or audible gulp to know his feelings on the subject.

             “I don’t want glory.” Rand replied. “Once we have the Horn, we will get it to Ingtar and-“ He glanced at Mat, no doubt thinking of the dagger and Tar Valon, and Aes Sedai. “And that will be the end of it.”

             Before Selene could respond he was standing, moving to strap on his sword and retrieve his darkest cloak, and Mat moved to follow, but Selene caught his arm before he could take more than a step away.

             “Watch him carefully.” Selene murmured. “He is reckless and unsettled. He needs protection. He will have you and the Alantin alone to keep him safe, but the Alantin is no warrior.”

             Pulling his arm free, Mat did his best to smile at her, and if there was a touch of frost in it, well. It was a warm night, and the Lady Selene needed cooling. “I’ve kept him safe before you, and I’ll be keeping him safe long after, my lady.”

             For some reason that at last seemed to put a crack in her calm: her hand sprang away from his arm and she reached back, as if to strike him….then reined in at the last minute. Mat didn’t wait to see her storm away, instead he moved to retrieve his own leather coat, and then follow Rand down into the pass.

<X>

             The three of them moved down the mountain side in near total silence. Loial in the lead, his sharp eyes guiding them over trunks and around boulders. Mat had been right that the Ogier could be quiet when need be: that had been a gamble on his part, but a safe one. During their lessons Loial had told too many stories of stalking rabbits and watching birds for him not to be able to move quietly when the need arose. Even the Ogier’s bumblebee voice was muted to be audible only for Rand and Mat’s ears. 

             The loudest noise to Mat was his own heartbeat, which had grown thunderous in his ears. The vision of Mordeth towering over him, the shadows of the hallway twisting around him, was still carved into Mat’s mind, but what Mat hadn’t realized was that all the running and stress and worrying, even his frustration over Selene, had served to suppress the fear that had been carved into him too. Ever since awakening in the infirmary in Fal Dara and being spirited to the Amylrin’s chambers there had always been some distraction, something to keep him from dwelling on the fact that Mordeth had held Mat’s life in his hands, and worse spared it not out of any sense of mercy or compassion, but out of sick twisted desire.

             There was nothing to distract him now, and all that fear seemed to bubble up at once, along with a twinge of pain in his shoulder where he had been stabbed.

             Razor’s edge, the kiss of my affection.

            Despite the warm evening air Mat shivered. For a moment he considered trying Rand’s trick of the Flame, and then immediately dismissed it. It had nothing to do with the Power- probably. But still, since finding out that Rand used it to help him channel, Mat was glad he had never found quite managed the Void that Rand and Master al’Thor described.

             Loial paused and without hesitation Mat froze, Rand following suit in the same heartbeat. For ten seconds, and then twenty, and then a full minute. Just as Mat was about to whisper the question hanging in the air, one of the shadows in the night seemed to shift, a figure moving forward, padding across the forest floor. Mat felt himself stop breathing as he watched the hulking form of the Trolloc cross their vision not ten spans away, passing just enough under the moonlight for Mat to make out horns and a twisted boarlike face, before it stepped beneath a tree again.

             Mat waited for it to pass beneath the shade and back out into the moonlight but the vague shadow remained under the tree instead, seeming to twitch once then let out a bellowing breath.

             “Asleep.” Loial whispers so low that Mat almost missed the word. “You were right.”

             Mat nodded. Of course he had been right. He had never doubted it. Now if he could just convince his throat to open and air to flow back into his lungs so he could say so, that would be perfect. His heartbeat quieting down wouldn’t hurt either.

             Carefully, more carefully than Mat had ever crept for any pie or honey cake, they went forward until they saw firelight, and then, sticking to its edge, they crept around the perimeter of the camp. It was not as grisly as Mat had feared: the fires lacked cookpots, and though clumps of men and women in dirty travel-stained clothing lay sleeping around the fires, there were no pens or bound lines of villages to be seen. Mordeth had likely been trying to travel light after the Erinin, Mat thought disgustedly.

             Trollocs slept among the fires as well, in huge shadowed mounds with the occasional horned head or hooved feet visible in the light, but there was no clear dividing line between human and Trolloc, which meant that the humans probably weren't prisoners and they wouldn’t need rescuing. The possibility of that hadn’t been something Mat realized he was avoiding thinking about until now, and he thanked the light that it wasn’t a care they had to concern themselves with. This was already too risky, without adding daring rescues of innocent villagers into the mix. Mat had no intention of playing at being a bloody hero, but that wouldn’t stop Rand from trying and probably getting them both killed.

             If anyone saw their shadows moving on the edge of camp, they gave no cry, likely mistaking them from two Darkfriends and a Trolloc in the darkness. Yet every time a lump of shadow twitched or stirred Mat felt that noose get tighter and tighter, certain that discovery was at hand. Yet it never arrived. Forward they crept….until they reached an open space in the camp, of at least ten paces, where only a single mound lay in the night, beside something that caught the faint light of the moon and the fire and reflected it back, a golden chest worked all over with flowing leaves and vines. Mat’s mouth watered at the sight. He had forgotten how beautiful it was, and how it glowed. There was more gold in that chest’s make probably then all of the Two Rivers, maybe more then Mat had seen in his entire life.

             At least, outside of Mordeth’s treasure room, in Shadar Logoth.

             That thought threw ice water on his greed, and as Loial and Rand silently crept towards it, Mat made himself turn to the mound in the shadows and move for that instead.

             Mat’s heart beat was loud in his own ears, his neck throbbing in pain with the force of the blood being pushed through it, yet oddly, as he crouched beside the bundle of filthy blankets and reached out, his hands didn’t shake in the least. He could feel it, Mat realized, like a chill on the back of his neck, plucking his skin towards what he knew was there, just out of sight. Mat didn’t need to see it, not this close. He could feel the presence of the dagger, the way the hilt of it would be sticking up out from its sheath at Mordeth’s belt. One quick grab and-

             Overhead, a cloud shifted and moonlight bathed the clearing, revealing Padan Fain’s form twisted in the blankets.

             Around another body.

             A woman, Mat registered dully, once fine hair and dress now filthy and torn in places, bare feet covered in blisters and cuts, wrapped in torn strips of cloth, shoulders and arms decorated with bruises and slices. Slices that hummed with a familiar cold static, a faint prickle of the beacon that called to him. It was fainter: the terror of one singular woman nowhere near as potent as the fear of an entire village caught in Mashadar’s grip. Yet it stung more keenly, fresh and alive where the village had been faint and stale. As he had in the village Mat reached out almost instinctively to that cold prickle, that echo of power, and his world…flickered.

            Padan Fain’s smiling face. Mordeth’s smiling face. Laughter and amusement. A game. An experiment. How deep a cut, how purposeful was required to kill. Bloated twisted faces of villagers: men and women and children rotting in real time from brief feather light touches from the dagger: skin purpling and erupting with lesions and boils, rot crawling its way out and spreading over prisoners.

            Others not, left weeping at their good fortune, only to be dragged off to Trolloc cook puts in the next breath. A game played every night south of the Erinin, until no prisoners remained. Relief that had lasted a full day, that they would no longer be forced to witness such a cruel game, even performed on mere peasants. And then nightfall, when the dagger had been turned on them instead.

             It had been nothing but cruelty then. Nothing but games. They knew because the pretty ones never rotted, no matter how many times Mordeth cut them, again and again and again and-

             Mat shoved the vision away and reeled back, feeling the urge to retch violently. He could still feel his skin stinging as if he had been cut, but as he snatched at his arms and shoulders, patting along them with the pads of his fingers, he found the skin unbroken and smooth. But the phantom pain still lingered, for five heartbeats, then ten, then fifteen…..and then finally it began to fade.

             Fighting back his bile, Mat stood upright, looking down at Mordeth. And at the woman. A Darkfriend for certain. An accomplaice to murder and treachery at the least. But a woman suffering and afraid and trapped powerless by the whims of a madman. Mat could not leave her. It was like trying to bite your own tongue, or put out your own eye. Come as close as he might, he could not make the final motion come. His body just would not allow it. Some things were just driven too deep into the bones by life in the Two Rivers. Even Mat Cauthon’s scoundrel bones.

             One clean cut would end it. A slash across Mordeth’s throat, and then…then he would figure something out. It would be easy. Like killing Aginor. Except that this would be in cold blood, rather then to save Rand in the heat of battle. But surely Mordeth deserved it as much. Surely….

             “Mat.” Rand’s whisper was harsh and concerned, and worry flared through the Bond as he moved closer. “What are you-“

             “Get ready to run.” Mat whispered back, and reaching out he closed his fingers around the hilt of the dagger sheathed at Mordeth’s belt. It was like touching his hand to a fire poker that had been sitting in the coals, except instead of heat it was cold that washed through him. He expected his skin to blister with the force of it, to blacken and crack, but as he drew his arm away, the blade coming free with a soft shrink and throwing back the light of the moon, his skin remained as unbroken as before.

             And then, half way through pulling his arm back, Mordeth’s eyes snapped open and his fingers closed around Mat’s wrist. He pulled, grinning, and the woman jerked awake with a scream, scrambling out from between them. All around them noise bellowed as Trollocs sprung up or turned around, all eyes drawn to the source of the noise.

             Mat barely registered them. He stood frozen, staring into Mordeth’s cruel eyes, as a smile spread across his features.

             “Hello pet.” Mordeth whispered in his oily accent, pulling Mat forward, closer. “Where do you think-"

             Screwing up his eyes tight as he could, Mat leaned his head back, and with all his strength snapped it forward again bringing his forehead crashing against Mordeth’s face. For a stunned moment Mordeth recoiled, his gripe snapping open on instinct. That was all Mat needed to scrambled away towards the fire, dagger in hand.

             Heartbeats since the woman had screamed and already the cry was going up, Trollocs moving towards them.

             “RUN!” Mat shouted at the top of his lungs, and then, suiting his own words, he turned into the forest and plunged into the darkness, praying Loial was as fast as he always bragged. Mat needed no assurance that Rand was following him: he could feel Rand moving behind him, his presence a comforting warmth to offset the cold chill of the dagger.

             If Mat’s heart had been hammering before, it thundered now. The night filled with gutturalTrolloc roars and cries, and almost comically, Mordeth’s scratchy voice, muted by the lack of air from his now broken noise, crying out behind them.

             “AFTER THEM! DON’T LET THEM ESCAPE! BRING ME THE SLY ONE AND KILL THE OTHERS!”

             Mat forced himself to ignore the shout- to ignore everything but the ground in front of him as he fled through the forest. The moon was still out, shining faintly, but the forest was thick, and the shadows far from cleared away. It took all his focus, all his skill at woodscraft to keep from tripping and falling as he sprinted through the forest. To stumble now would mean death for sure.

             When the first twang of a bow filled the night air, Mat felt his blood turn to ice, but the dull thunk of shaft striking the trunk, and distantly at that, gave him hope. Most Trollocs could see in the darkness, but the trees were too thick for them to get a good shot. Other twangs followed, arrows whistling through the air, only to uselessly slam into branches and boles, making an odd rhythm of dull thwacks.

             They were going to do it, Mat realized, his heart soaring. They were going to make it out.

             And then the trees broke into a clearing lit by the light of the moon and Mat found himself face to face with eight Trollocs, carrying their axes and curved swords, sniffing the air with their bestial noses. For a moment they seemed as surprised as he was, staring at him stunned even as he skidded to a halt. A patrol returning, Mat’s mind supplied for him somewhat dully , caught off guard and confused.

             And then the one in the lead roared and charged, swinging his scythe-like sword straight for Mat’s head and Mat on pure instinct lept to the side. But instead of simply swishing through the air, there was clang of steel against steel, and for just a moment a flash of blue light, like heat lightning, that illuminated Rand already shifting stance to another of the sword forms Lan had taught him.

             Mat had seen it before, when Lan had fought Fades: the glow of power-wrought steel coming against Thakan’dar-made steel.

             The Bond had handed back the crystal in Mat’s mind, cold and clear. But it flashed with glimmers of emotion like light flicking through a prism. Anxiety and fear and eagerness, all flicking through and then fading away, as if they were glancing blows. Rand moved, flowing from one stance to the next, blue light flaring any time his sword met a Trolloc blade. But they were outnumbered, six to two, and disadvantaged besides.

             Mat, still holding the dagger, did the only thing he could: tightening his grip on the hilt he focused the way he had back at Fal Dara, and when they had faced Ba’alzamon before that. Around him, the world seemed to wash out, color fading from the moonlight, even the flashes of blue light becoming less vibrant. A coldness crept into his bones, tingling and faint for the moment as around the edges of the clearing, almost invisible in the dim shadows, mist began to form, ghostly gray despite the warmth of the evening.

             Mat moved, willing the Trollocs not to see him, to ignore his presence. It took very little effort: all their attention was on Rand, and he could almost taste both their concentration and their fear: each hesitant to strike, knowing they had the advantage, yet knowing Rand’s blade would take some of them at least before they died. They danced around Rand as a result, attacking in bursts and rushes, rather than rushing him all at once, and that made it easy for Mat to slip behind them, to hide in the currents of their fear, and wait for the right moment to strike.

             A wolf-headed beast was the first to fall: it had drawn back, panting through its twisted maw for breath as it tried to assess the situation, maybe trying to think of some weakness it could exploit. Mat gave it no chance as he moved behind it and struck just as he had with Aginor, burying the dagger into the base of its neck. It let out a single cut off howl of surprise, before Mat was pulling the dagger free and stumbling backwards, a rush of savage glee filling him. The Trollocs turned, snarling and snapping, their fear and focus shifting, off of Rand and to Mat.

             A deadly mistake, at least for an eagle headed Trolloc that had been closest to Rand. Mat could not have put a name to the clean swipe of Rand’s sword, but he knew it for one of Lan’s forms, from the grace and precision of it, and the way it cleanly cleaved the Trolloc’s head from its shoulders.

             And just like that it was a roaring melee of fear and horror: blades flashed, some for him and some for Rand, the confused Trollocs caught between them each throwing themselves desperately at whoever was closer. Again Mat moved backwards, drawing them away from Rand, and towards the edge of the clearing. He could not block or parry with a dagger, but he could leap backwards and out of the way of sword strikes, and snapping jaws. Waiting for another opening, another moment to strike.

             More blue flashes lit up the night, but Mat barely noticed them: in the back of his mind he could feel Rand’s determination and strength, feel his lack of wounds taken, and that was enough. The best thing he could do for Rand, for himself, was deal with the monsters in front of him.

             He knew the moment his boot hit the mist that he had won. A cold rolled through him, like a winter cyclone swirling up from his legs through his entire body, rimeing his bones and blood in frost. Mat smiled, and the nearest Trolloc recoiled, sputtering out something in its guttural tongue.

             Mat ignored it, and pointed with the dagger. The mist….coalesced around him, and shot forward, two serpents of smokey white fog.The Trolloc roared and swung its sword, but it passed harmlessly through Mashadar. This was not something that could be killed with steel. This was not something that could be killed by all the White Tower working in tandem.

             The Trolloc let out a wail of horror as the mist curled around its wrists, coiled about its body, sinking in. Mat could…..feel it somehow, like a phantom limb almost: both the mist that connected him to the Trolloc, and the mist that had sunk inside. Experimentally, he tried to flex it, the way he would his hand, just an opening and closing, and the Trolloc’s wail cut off with a sickening cracking noise. Its body slumped abruptly, its shoulders falling, its head lolling to one side to stare sightlessly at nothing. Yet it did not crumple to the ground, it simply hung there, suspended where it stood as if…

             Mat, exhaled, and tried to pull that phantom limb back. The mist drew out of the Trolloc and it fell into a heap on the ground, nothing more than a mass of muscle and flesh.

             The two other Trollocs stared at him in wide eyed horror, their too-human eyes shining with panic, and then they turned to run. But Mat was faster. Again he flicked the dagger, and again, mist shot forward like serpents, this time the two coils each taking a Trolloc in the back. Again he flexed the tendrils, and again twin snaps of cracking bone and tearing flesh filled the night, leaving the two Trollocs to slump, held aloft by nothing more than then tendrils of Mashadar.

             For a moment, Mat just stared at them hanging there, panting for breath, grinning in an unfamiliar way, a way that hurt his face. He knew distantly, vaguely that he should not be feeling this intense glee. And yet…these creatures that had torn apart his life, torn apart the Two Rivers, chased him and Rand for more than a year…and they were nothing more than puppets now. 

            And then a flood of shock in the back of his mind made him start, and turn, realizing that it had been some time since he had last seen a flash of blue light.

             The other Trollocs lay dead, and Rand was panting, sweat drenching his face, a few faint cuts littering his body, but nothing that had actually registered across the Bond. But he didn’t look gleeful, didn’t look proud or triumphant.

             He looked- and felt- terrified.

             “Mat-“ Rand began, but stopped, closing his mouth, words failing him.

            Suddenly everything snapped into place. Bile flooded Mat’s throat, and he dropped the dagger, relaxing the tendrils of Mashadar. Between them, the two Trollocs slumped to the earth lifelessly. The cold did not recede, but it stopped growing, the world stopped washing out of color.

             “I-“ Mat started to say, and then stopped. One of the mounds that lay behind Rand, felled by his sword, twitched.  

             Mat moved without thought, throwing himself whole body at Rand. Shock and confusion replaced fear as Mat’s arms wrapped around Rand as he twisted, trying to throw them to the side, out of the way.  

             Something slammed into Mat’s back with a force that jolted him all the way to his teeth, and the world plunged into darkness.  

<X>  

             Rand felt Mat go limp in his arms, and in the same moment, he felt the void shatter.

             Everything he had felt all the edges of it, his fear of dying, his euphoria of victory, his relief at his survival- it all crashed down on him at once, and just as quickly fled, before the singular overwhelming panic that flooded him as Mat’s body slumped against his own. In the back of Rand’s mind the Bond, which had already felt strangely pale and wan from whatever it was Mat had been doing with the dagger, began to flicker, fading and strengthening. Rand had felt the same before, late at night when Mat had trouble sleeping, and was flitting on the edge of consciousness…but this was different somehow, different from the way the Bond dimmed and fuzzed when Mat slept. It flickered lower, fainter somehow, as if on the edge of oblivion.

             Rand heaved with all his strength, lifting Mat into his arms as he moved back, staring in horror at the Trolloc that pulled away, its black belt knife stained red with blood. It wasn’t grinning in glee, but rather frowning in confusion, it’s almost human face twisted in disbelief. As if it could not fathom what Mat had just done.

             Rand didn’t hear his scream of rage at first, it was faint in his ears even as it tore his throat raw, spit flying past his lips. He was reaching, stretching without thought, like he had back at the village, feeling for it, feeling for saidin . It was always there with him, in the Void, shining like a sickly green light just out of sight. It had been calling to him throughout the entire fight, singing of how easy it would be to dispatch these monsters if only he would embrace it. But now….now he could no more find the peace to form the Void then he could have let go of Mat.

            Yet still he reached, desperately, out to the Source, even though he could not feel it. It was like leaping blindfolded over a cliff, with no way of knowing the depth beyond, no way of knowing if anything lay within. But Mat needed him, needed-

            The Power flooded into him in a tidal wave, the Light itself seeming to swell within his chest, just as it had all those months ago on the Caemlyn Road. Mountains of ice cracking open within his ribs, rivers of lava flooding his veins, and coating it all and slick oily foulness, like all filth of the world, rolling atop those rivers, coating black those snowy mountains.

            Rand did not care. He hurled it all outwards, still screaming from the depths of his belly. Around him a storm of hissing golden threads, tinged in yellow and blue, red and white, sprang into existence swirling around him, forming a tight braid, condensing, humming-

            For a moment everything turned brilliant white.

            When vision returned Rand was still clutching Mat’s body to his chest, curled tightly around him, but he lay a solid ten paces back from where he had been, and all around him there was smoke and fire. The scent of burned flesh and wood was heavy, cloying in the air and, along with char and something else, something acrid and noxious. Fires, Rand realized, were burning faintly around the clearing, but already fading. Something wet was running down Rand’s face- blood, he thought at first, until he realized that it was starting to wet his hair, his hands as well: drizzling rain drops.

            I did that. He thought vaguely, looking up at the cloudy sky. It had been clear before, and even now it was still only covered in light gray clouds. Yet still, they were giving rain. It wasn’t like when Moiraine had called lighting: that she had managed to do out of a clear sky without the aid of clouds. He had twisted the weather somehow, maybe twisted the world.

            Rand didn’t care, nor did he care about the wild ringing in his ears, that obscured all other sound. He didn’t even really care about all the new cuts and bruises that littered his body, or the strange numbness of his right arm. All of his focus was on Mat.

            Rand moved, setting Mat down against the ground as gently as he could manage. Mat was covered in soot and ash, his face pale and his skin cold to the touch, but his eyes were still faintly open, just barely on the edge of closing. In the back of Rand’s mind the Bond still flickered bright and then faint, bright and then faint, and as Mat tried to remain conscious. Or maybe to remain alive.

            Mat’s mouth began to work suddenly, trying to form words, but instead he merely began to sputter. Rand couldn’t hear the choked noises- his ear still ringing from the….whatever it was he had done. But he knew what Mat was trying to say. Gently, as gently as if he were handling a newborn lamb, Rand reached under Mat’s shirt, running his hands over Mat’s chest, his shoulders and sides, desperately trying to find where the problem was. He was too full of worry to feel even a flash of shame or embarrassment, instead he sent his fingers searching on Mat’s clammy skin, searching for- there.

            It was near the square of his back where, by some miracle of luck, it had missed his spine. The wound from the Trolloc blade was not wide, but it was wet with blood that seemed almost icey somehow, and thin besides. It seemed as if the coat had blocked the bulk of the stab. Rand probed that wound, all of Nynaeves' warning about poking cuts and moving people when they were hurt seeming to bounce off his too full mind just like the shame had, he realized that it didn’t really matter. Despite the coldness of Mat’s skin everywhere else, the wound was hot. Familiarly hot.

            It had been months since that cold Winter Night when he had carried his father through the forest towards Emond’s Field, but he would never forget it, and it was with the sinking feeling of despair that Rand recognized the same feverish feeling he had felt on his father’s wound that night. Nothing more than a scratch along his ribs, barely shallow enough to draw blood, and yet it had nearly killed Tam, would have killed him if not for-

            If not for the Aes Sedai using the One Power to heal him.

            Rand knew The One Power could heal, better than most. But when he had tried back in Fal Dara keep, tried desperately to form the Void and draw on saidin he hadn’t been able to manage it. There had been too much fear, and panic, born by all the blood Mat was losing. And when he had finally burned away all emotion, and found saidin waiting for him, it had fled from his touch, each attempt to embrace it, desperately to try and bring to him, causing it to skitter away, or snap out of his grip the moment he seemed on the verge of getting a hold of it.

            That wasn’t a problem this time. Saidin still raged inside Rand, a tempest of purest light, distorted and nauseating from the taint. Rand could feel that too, feel it seeping into his bones, his heart, his very soul. It did not feel like a force for healing. It felt like a font of ruin: the charred clearing around him was proof enough of that. He hated the idea of touching it to Mat, risking it destroying him, tainting him, poisoning him with it the way he was poisoning himself.

            But there was nothing else to be done. A smaller scratch would have killed him in a day. There were no Aes Sedai nearby, no chance of getting Mat real help, safer, better help. There was just Rand, saidin , humming inside of his skin.

            Squeezing his eyes shut, Rand heaved, lifting Mat into his arms pulling him tight against his chest, so that both his hands could cover the wound.

            Rand tried, gently nudging saidin , trying to push that torrent of Light into Mat’s wound, and…nothing happened. Despite his grip on it, for all it was flooding into him, for all it felt like he was a jar holding a tempest, it….refused to do what he wanted, refused to go where he directed, instead shifting, twisting, defiantly.

            This is foolish. Rand thought. I don’t know what I’m doing. I could kill him with my ignorance. There are a thousand good reasons not to do this.

            That was true, but there was also one very good reason to do it.

            He loved Mat, and for all he was afraid of hurting him, Rand was afraid of losing him more.

            Stubbornly he tried again, this time willing the Power to flow as he directed, refusing to be pushed when it pushed against him, forcing when it refused to yield. It was like wrestling a storm, and yet….

            Golden threads burst into being around, tinged red and yellow, blue and green and solid white. He could barely tell one from the other, and they seemed to….flow into one another, merging to become rivers of golden light that lashed wildly through air. This was harder without the Void somehow, harder to keep his thoughts in order, keep them from tangling with the Power somehow. It seemed his every stray thought, every leap of his mind, caused the power to twitch into a new direction, threads attempting to collapse into a different form each second.

            Clarity. He needed clarity.

            I made a wish that night. Rand remembered suddenly. Something I wanted, more then I had ever wanted anything before.

            Rand gulped and focused on the wound under his finger tips. Wishing for it close, imagining it simply knitting shut, being whole again, Mat being whole again. He focused, wanting that, only that, trying to force the Power to do that.

            The threads of gold seemed to shudder and then to loop, curling back and shooting towards his palm like striking snakes, slamming into the skin of Mat’s back, flowing around his hands without ever touching them directly. Abruptly, incongruously, Rand understood  why Moiraine and the Aes Sedai had called it weaving : it was like watching thread on a spinning wheel, moving fast enough to blur and hiss, infinitesimal fibers spiraling into cords that then braided into patterns and shapes.

            Rand could feel that pattern, each thread spinning into it, the threads shaping themselves into tight spiraling circles inside Mat’s flesh. And with it he could feel the flesh trying to knit back together, to mend, but it was like the wound was….resisting somehow. Or something within it was. He could…he could feel the evil of the Trolloc blade, the evil it had carried from its forging in Thakan’dar. It hummed, living in some strange way, twisting and hissing almost like the Power and yet…repelled by it too, pushed away, like trying to force two lodestones from different sources to touch. And there was something else too. Something deep inside Mat’s bones and veins, a different sort of evil, slower and creeping, and cold. Where the Power seemed to repel being mixed with the Evil of Thakan’dar this….this seemed to to be drinking the light of saidin somehow, drinking in the Power.

            The dagger. Rand realized. Mashadar. It’s Mashadar’s evil.

            Rand gritted his teeth- he could do nothing about that right now, no matter how much it bothered him to leave it without trying. If you tried to chase two hares, both would escape you, and just healing the cut was already a huge risk. Rand focused his attention entirely on that cut, willing the Power at it, willing that spiraling pattern of threads to close tighter around it, to press it in. The evil repealed by the threads of Power began to concentrate, tighter and tighter, right at the center of the wound, while under his fingers it grew hotter and hotter until-

            Rand felt it happen, felt the wound burst suddenly, not with leaking blood, but with something else, puslike and vicious, spilling over his fingers. Confused, Rand drew his hand out from underneath Mat’s shirt and stared at it in the moonlight.

             Something black stained his fingers, oily and thick. Shivering, Rand quickly wiped his hand on the ground to get rid of it, and reached back for Mat’s wound- the cut was still there, and still bleeding, but it no longer burned under his to the touch. Again, Rand focused, wiling the Power into the cut, willing it to close, to be made whole.

             This time nothing blocked his way, and the Power spiraled back into loops of all five colors. Mat jerked in his arms, going stiff, legs twisting and head snapping back, but Rand refused to let him go, focusing all he was on healing that wound. He felt it happen beneath his fingers: felt the rent close, felt the flesh sliding back together, becoming a line scabbed over, and then a fresh scar, and then a faint and faded one.

             When it was done, Rand let out a shuddering breath as exhaustion hit him. Saidin still roiled inside of him, still trying to twist away out of his grip, and Rand no longer had the strength of will to keep hold of it. He let it go, and felt that font dwindle inside of him, and then vanish. It felt like suddenly stopping after being in the middle of gallop, or maybe a run for his life. His whole body shook with exhaustion, and the temptation to simply close his eyes and let sleep come was close to overpowering.

             It would be easy. As easy as closing his eyes.

             It would also get them killed.

             There were still Trollocs out in the woods- why they hadn’t been swarmed Rand couldn’t guess, especially with a bolt of lightning literally marking them out for everyone in the area. At any moment more Trollocs could come rushing into the clearing, or worse, Mordeth himself.

             So there was only one thing to do.

             Using what remained of his strength to lift Mat into his arms, Rand forced himself to keep moving back up the slope towards camp.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: Within the Dagger

             “Lady Selene-'' Hurin began again, but Lanfear held up a hand for quiet, and the sniffer cut off. What an odd sort of creature. She had never heard of the like, even in her time- which was more then simply rare, given that her specialty at the Collam Daan had been strange and esoteric knowledge. Were circumstances different, and if she had access to her old resources, she might have spent some time investigating his ability and how it worked.

             But as pleasing as it might be to open Hurin’s skull and explore it with some of the examination webs she had developed herself, and as much as she itched, even now, to understand and know everything about this world, the Sniffer was a tiny concern beside far far more important matters. A gnat beside their so-called Spine of the World.

             She could still see the smoking remains of the clearing where the lightning bolt had fallen a short time ago, but only distantly. The night was dark enough, and the gray clouds summoned by Lews Therin thick enough, that embracing The Source would not allow her to make out any more details then she could without it. She might have tried spinning something to enhance her view of course: perhaps sending out several small view orbs, or maybe seizing a nearby bird with the aid of the True Power- but all of that, and anything else she might have done, would have been noticed by the Sniffer, and very likely reported back instantly to Lews Therin and his catamite.

            She could have Compelled Hurin into silence of course, but the level of Compulsion needed would have taken a noticeable toll on the man. Very noticeable. This new younger Lews Therin was even more unpredictable and dangerous in some ways then the one she remembered. Oh, his bleeding heart was the same, as was his stubborn unyielding backbone. But there was a wildness to him now. This half-civilized age had produced an only half-civilized Dragon, as likely to leap without thinking as plan, and to react…poorly to that which he did not understand.

             Already he was…off-put by her, and not just because of that irritating catamite. The vagaries of this age frustrated her, and having to make herself appear less, to fit their absurd barbaric notions, frustrated her even more. And yet she could not afford to alienate or scare Lews Therin off. The opportunity of him still unshaped, unhardened, the chance to….iron out some of his more irritating qualities, was not something she dared waste. So she could not overplay her hand. For now.

            Which meant, standing atop the rock they had used to keep watch on the pass below, staring down the mountain top in near total darkness. There had been nothing she could detect since the lance of lightning and the slight shift in the weather. Though Hurin wouldn’t be able to tell if she spun a web to detect saidin , the distance was too great for it to be effective. If Lews Therin had channeled anything more, its effects were not obvious to her.

            Part of Lanfear was pleased with the lightning: she had expected it to take more prodding to get Lews Therin to use his abilities: everything she was able to find indicated that the prejudices against men who could channel ran deep in this age, but she should have known better. Lews Therin had never hesitated to grasp at power in his old life, why would he now? A superior man to his very core, he would not be burdened by the silly prejudices of savages, even when he himself was savage born. Yet the lightning bolt worried her as well- it spoke of something wrong, of things going awry.

            I should have pushed harder to go with them. She thought in annoyance. But she had not wanted to press him too much, too soon. She wanted Lews Therin strong, masterful. Maybe a touch more yielding to her will. More…accommodating. But still strong. Besides, unable to use the Power openly, there was little she could do to influence events. But what if he had burned himself out? Or what if there had been an accident channeling? She would not let it all be for nothing- fortune had brought her this second chance and she would not let it slip away. She-

            A soft chime that only she could hear sounded. Wards she had set on her morning walks with Lews Therin, carefully inverted, and with her own ability disguised so as to avoid him sensing her channeling. They were back. Or the first Trollocs had reached them. If the latter, she would have a great deal of killing to do tonight, most of it of Shadowspawn and Friends of the Dark, neither of which she relished, if only because it would mean enduring another of Ishamael’s irritatingly superior lectures. But she did not think it would come to that.

            Sure enough, the Alantin barged into their camp a moment later, grasping a huge golden rectangle covered in carvings of vines and leaves to his chest. She felt the urge to sneer- a Mirha Bah? She knew that the Aes Sedai of the final days had been desperate, but they had put the Horn of Valere in a Mystery Box ?

            “Builder!” Hurin cried rushing forward. “You have it! But- but where are Lord Rand and Master Cauthon?! We saw that bolt the Darkfriends did and-“

             The Alantin shook his head, eyebrows swaying. “I- I don’t know.” He admitted. Panting for breath it seemed he had run the whole length up the mountain without pause. “Something went wrong- I don’t know what exactly, and then Trollocs where chasing us and, Mat shouted at me to run and-“  

             “Peace, Alantin.” Lanfear said, soothingly. She had always liked Ogier for their calm heads and wide perspective, but they could be trying when….overwrought. Very little could make them overwrought, luckily: disrespect for nature, danger to their loved ones. The Great Lord of the Dark. She needed this Ogier calm, for the moment at least. “You forget the speed of which you boast. You likely outpaced them in seconds. They will join us soon.”  

             Loial blinked, looking worried and frantic all at the same time. “But- but how can you know that my Lady?”  

             Because I know Lews Therin, she thought, and he will not fall to a ragged collection of stolen Shadowspawn and some twisted creature of this Age.  

             “I have seen their skill in battle- as have you both.” She said instead, stepping down from the rock. “Trust in Lord Rand, Hurin- he will not fall. In the meantime- we should check to ensure this evening bore fruit.”  

             Loial and Hurin looked unconvinced, and both glanced back down the mountain as if entertaining thoughts of going back down, but Lanfear gave no chance for dissent to fester. Instead she gestured sharply for Loial to lower the chest and for Hurin to stand back. Reluctantly, the Ogier knelt and set the box where she directed. 

            It was covered in an intricate vine and leaf pattern, seeming to be a rectangle of solid gold more than a chest. A part of her couldn’t help but wonder what purpose this particular Mirha Bah had originally been made for: they had been the work of master artisans in her age, made to delight and amuse: most she had encountered had been to hold gifts for fellow Aes Sedai and their children.  Yet she had never seen one of this size, or one made of solid gold . Even Lews Therin at his height would not have balked at such extravagance. Before finding The Great Lord, Graendal would have been livid at the very idea.

             Slowly, Lanfear ran her hands over the leaves and vines, thinking. Each leaf gave slightly under her touch, even though the chest seemed all of one piece. They were not buttons, not even really carvings, she realized, but solid shaped gold. And yet they gave, depressing slightly despite a lack of slots.  Leaves. Each leaf felt…different somehow. Differently shaped, differently ridged. That spoke of an interest in plants or nature to her. Maybe the Mirha Bah had been made for a botanist?

            She knew little of botany or plants, for all she enjoyed spending time in nature, the particulars of it had never interested her. Rather her fondest memories were of her shared childhood running through the fields surrounding the country estates of Lews Therin’s home, back when he had just been Lews, and Asmodean had been Joar, and she…she had been lesser then she was now. Odd that she should still feel fondness for that time, despite the hatred she held for that stupid naive girl that had believed her first love when he said ‘forever’.

            Well, she would have forever. No matter the cost.

            She might not know much of plants, but if this puzzle had to do with the particulars of some tree or weed, then maybe the Alantin-

            Two more chimes that only she could hear went off, right atop one another, and Lanfear stood, turning to the spot where the Ogier had come crashing into the camp. Only when she caught the frowns of the Alantin and Hurin did she realize her mistake, and suppress the urge to curse. There was nothing to be done about it now.

            There was nothing to be done though, so Lanfear simply folded her hands and waited. Sure enough, Lews Therin appeared a moment later, stumbling through the trees.

            Her heart seized when she saw him, and not this time from any spark of his old life detected in movement or actions. He was covered in soot and ash, his scarlet hair almost turned black with it, his fine dark coat and trousers streaked with filth as if he had been shoved down a mountain side. His clothes were torn as well, and small cuts decorated his cheeks. One foot was missing a boot, a torn silk stocking little more than a rag.

            In his arms he carried his catamite, the man curled up against his chest, face pressed against Lews Therin’s neck. It was a mark of how upset she was that she felt only a flash of rage at that. Oddly, though his leather coat was stained with what looked like blood, and a fair amount of soot as well, he seemed…cleaner then he should be. And unmarked besides.

            Lanfear ignored him, moving forward before she could stop herself. It was only when Lews Therin flinched back from her touch that she realized what she had been about to do, and felt a chill. Her skill at Restoration- what the children of this age called Healing- had never been more than indifferent and she could do only the hastiest battlefield work if it came to it, but such a move would have given her away. Yet she had been reaching to embrace saidar , almost without thought.

            “My lady, I-“ Lews Therin began, but Lanfear ignored him, and smothered her own frustration as she shoved down the temptation to draw on the Source. Instead she stepped forward and reached out again to touch his forehead, feeling for fever the way Joar’s mother had when they were children. She felt foolish- what could be detected from mere touch? – but she needed to cover the slip. She had been making too many of those lately.

            “What happened?” She asked softly.

            Lews Therin gulped and shook his head, brushing away Lanfear’s touch, then moved to the fire to lay down Cauthon beside it. “Ambush in the woods. We caught a patrol coming back.” Lews Therin said, his voice hoarse and scratchy.

            “That lightning bolt-“ Hurin began, face pale and sickly.

            “The work of the Darkfriends, no doubt.” Lanfear said softly, kneeling beside Lews Therin at the fire. “Perhaps, this mysterious Mordeth himself.”

            For just a moment, Lews Therin’s eyes flicked to Cauthon and he opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. Interesting. She knew, from Ishamael, of some link between Mordeth and the boy, though he had not been clear on the matter, and the bits she had overheard since joining their party had not clarified it. Ishamael had been…not afraid exactly, she didn’t know that he was capable of fear any longer, but…wary of that link. Something to consider.

            “Yet it did not stop you,” she noted, and Lews Therin shivered as she stood, gently laying a hand on his elbow to help him to his feet, and lead him over to the chest. It looked almost ghostly, reflecting the dancing firelight off its yellow surface. “Your effort has borne fruit.”

            “The Horn- we-“ Lews Therin began extending a hand to touch the lid. Lanfear watched in fascination as he traced his fingers along the vines, frowning as if trying to remember something.

            Realization hit her in the same moment that his fingers seemed to pick out two matching leaves, positioned one atop the other. Leaves in distinctive almost teardrop shapes, that if fitted together would make a whole circle, divided by a sinuous line.

            Of course . Lanfear thought as she watched Lews Therin press his fingers against them at the same time. A disguise, to hide the true key. The symbol of the Aes Sedai. Sentimental fools to the very bitter end, it seemed.

            The chest opened with a soft rush of air, a seam that was disguised by the carvings appearing and the top half of the chest springing backwards of its own accord. Lanfear watched, rapt, as Lews Therin dipped his hands within and drew out a curled golden horn.

            It was beautiful, almost delicate, the surface of it glinting, untarnished by the ages. It hummed faintly with some ancient power. At some point since the War of Power, someone had added silver script in a curling loop around the bell, and she could not stop herself from reaching out to trace it with her fingers.

            Tia mi aven Moridin isainde vadin.

            “The grave.” She murmured softly. “Is no bar to my call.”

            She had seen it before a few times, though not in many many years. It had been in a museum then, among a collection of artifacts from the Spring of Extinction boasted by the city of Selysia. The rumors of its supposed powers had been just that- rumor, and hearsay, dismissed by Aes Sedai and Shadow alike, who could not fit the idea of a horn that called the dead into their views of the world. A reminder of the foolishness of both, though it had been the Shadow that had paid the price.

            It irked her to know that it technically had been in their hands for much of the War. Asmodean had taken Selysia early, but he had forbidden the ransacking of its museums and galleries, refusing to destroy for destruction's sake like Demandred would have, or steal for his pleasure, as Graendal and Rahvin would have. If he had, then maybe the truth might have come out earlier- though she supposed that was a long shot. Asmodean had never been very inquisitive. Or bright.

            It had not been until near the end of the War, during Selysia’s retaking, when a band of rebels was suddenly and mysteriously reinforced by an army of spectral legends, that anyone had seen the truth of what the Horn was. Both sides had scrambled to seize it for themselves- but before they could, Lews Therin had struck at Shaoyl Ghul.

            They must have recovered it, and added the script. For him, for the future. She felt the urge to sneer- with this, those Aes Sedai who had survived the first wave of the Breaking might have forged the world anew, might have been powerful enough to unite the land beneath them. To forge an Empire, maybe even a successor to their lost age. Instead they had hidden it, like the cowards they were, and placed the burden on Lews Therin’s shoulders.           

            Well, that would be their undoing.

            Lanfear moved to take the horn from Rand, intending to examine it more closely, and was surprised when he jerked back, pulling it out of her grasp.

            “You promised me that I could hold it with my own hands.” She raised an eyebrow at him, and Lews Therin blushed. But he did not hold out the Horn again. Instead he turned and laid it back within the chest, where a velvet interior had been formed to hold it exactly.

            “Another time, my Lady.” Lews Therin rasped out. His voice was still scratchy from the smoke. “Right now, we must move.”

            “Rand-“ Loial began. “Did Mat-?”

            By way of answering, Lews Therin drew out a slender dagger, the blade slightly curved, a blood red ruby capping the hilt. Instantly Lanfear felt the air…change somehow. There was no hint of the Power and yet…it almost felt like…a pressure, an intensity that made her want to pop her ears. It took her a moment to realize that she had stepped back, away from Lews Therin.

            “That-“ She muttered, feeling the urge to wipe her hands. Something about the way the blade and the ruby were catching the light of the fire wasn’t right. It seemed to contort oddly, twisting the illumination. “Is dangerous. You must throw it away.”

            Something in Lews Therin’s expression hardened at the suggestion and he shook his head. “No. Mat needs it.” He glanced over to where Cauthon lay, still unconscious. “He needs it to be Healed properly.” His mouth twisted with distaste at that, but he seemed certain.

            Lanfear raised an eyebrow. “That does not change that it is dangerous- maybe as dangerous for us to be near as for him to hold. It is evil, Rand, I can feel it, and I know you can too.”

            For a moment Lews Therin hesitated, glancing again at Cauthon, and she thought that, for once, he might actually listen to reason, but then he seemed to harden again, and instead he leaned down and shoved the dagger into the curl of the horn, then shut the lid. “There.” Lews Therin muttered, trying to sound confident. “That should do it.”

            The pressure seemed to vanish from the air, as if it had never been, that itch disappearing from her skin. She pursed her lips. It made sense she supposed: the Mirha Bah had likely been crafted with the aid of the One Power, and lain deep with as many protections as those fools could think of. If they could protect the Horn, there was no reason she supposed that they could not contain this…Mashadar. She wondered idly what Cauthon would think when he awoke.

            Hurin licked his lips, shifting from foot to foot. Very likely he could sense nothing- not unless his ‘sniffing’ allowed him to smell the strange power of the dagger. “What now, Lord Rand?” He asked, clearly nervous.

            Lews Therin did not respond, did not even give a sign he had heard, his eyes still fixed to the chest. Hurin frowned, exchanging a glance with Loial and then cleared his throat, loudly. Still Lews Therin did not react.

            Lanfear frowned as well, stepping up beside Rand, moving her hand to touch his shoulder. He jumped slightly at her touch as if surprised, and then spun around. 

            “What-” Lews Therin said, then paused to wet his lips. “What is it?”

            Worry creased Hurin’s face, and he repeated his question, slowly now, as if uncertain.

            “Now.” Lews Therin said tiredly, rubbing at his eyes. “We break camp and ride north to Tar Valon.” There was a note of resignation in his voice. Perhaps of defeat.

             Lanfear shook her head in disgust. “That-“ she said coldly, “would be idiotic. Do you loathe the idea of glory that much? Do you really desire to hand away all the advantage to those so-called Aes Sedai?”

             “I told you.” Lews Therin snapped, squaring his shoulders and turning to her. “I don’t want glory, and Mat needs to be Healed. Now more than ever.”

             Lanfear regarded him for a long moment. Part of her wanted to shout, but she knew better. Shouting had never worked on Lews Therin- at least not to shift him. In other ways it had made both their fights and the making up that followed…explosive. But she doubted that would be the outcome in this particular situation. No, all shouting would do was make him dig his heels in deeper. She would have to use sweet reason instead.

             “You mistake me, Rand,” she said calmly. “There is no way to move north from where we are, without giving the Darkfriends and Trollocs another chance to take the Horn back. Trying would be foolish. All it would accomplish is undoing what we have gained tonight. We must go south, towards Cairhien.”

             For a moment, Lews Therin seemed to visibly struggle with himself,  frustrated that his desire to see the most direct path to his goal conflicted with simple sense. It was funny, for all Demandred hated him to his bones, they could be remarkably similar at times.

             “Pardon, my Lady-“ The Alantin broke in. He and the Sniffer were already in the process of striking camp. “But we cannot go south either.”

             Lanfear frowned at him, and the Ogier flinched back, his ears twitching wildly. He explained, gesturing without meeting her eyes. “Mat isn’t in any shape for a hard ride right now, and Rand- forgive me, my friend-” He added with a glance to Rand. “-isn’t much better off. If we try moving south, we might gain a small lead- but the Trollocs will close it again before we reach the King’s Road.”

             Lanfear turned to Lews Therin and realized the Alantin was right. More blood had trickled down his cheeks while they had spoken, and some had begun to pool on his bare foot where it was exposed. Beyond that…exhaustion was an almost physical weight around him: she could see it in the way he was shaking slightly, and in the way he moved slightly slowed, as if arms had become heavier. Whatever he had done in the valley had pressed his current capacity to its limits.

             “We can not stay here,” she said slowly, trying to think. “The Trollocs will be searching the valley- they will find us soon if we remain.” That only left one option. “We need to move east, deeper into the mountains,” Lanfear murmured, “and find a place to wait while you recover.”

             She expected Lews Therin to resist, to insist he was fine to gallop south, but instead he glanced at Mat and nodded. He didn’t look happy about it, but he did it. Interesting.

             The Alantin looked worried however. “I don’t know if that is wise either, my Lady- these mountains, they are not natural. They were made during The Breaking. If we simply ride into them without a guide, we could get lost, maybe never find our way out again. If we-“

             Lanfear shook her head. An odd feeling had bubbled up inside of her. She had seen maps, of course, before moving south. The land had shifted like water in an ocean, everything changed and moved about, the very continents stretched and crumpled like clay. And yet…

             “I know the way,” she said softly. “And I know a place where we can find refuge. Maybe even Healing.” All three men gaped at her at that, but she ignored them, turning to douse the fire and then to saddle her horse. Overhead, the moon had appeared again from behind the clouds, giving a faint light.

             How long had it been? Eons, of course. But from her perspective? Centuries, at least.

             When the party was mounted- the Alantin carrying the chest sheepishly, and Cauthon, still unconscious, draped over Lews Therin’s saddle, one of the man’s arms keeping him steady and pressed to his chest, the other holding the reins- Lanfear turned eastwards and kicked her mare forward, the others following without comment.

             Within minutes, the last faint cries and bellows of the Trollocs had faded to nothing, and night had enfolded them. Yet Lanfear was unafraid. She was the Daughter of the Night after all, and she would know this path no matter how the land warped and changed, no matter the passage of eons.

<X>

             They rode silently through the night, trusting the Lady Selene to guide them through the forest.  

             Rand felt exhausted down to his bones. Drawing on saidin back in the clearing, doing…whatever it was he had done, had taken something out of him. He felt weaker then after any day of hard day’s work back at the farm, weaker then he had at any shearing. Yet he forced himself to remain awake, and keep his eyes fixed on the form of Selene ahead, silver clad and almost ethereal in the moonlight.  

             All the doubts that had melted away this last week had come crashing back. Everything about her that had bothered Mat: her mysterious appearance in that other world, her strange font of knowledge, and, he had to admit, though it stung something deep inside of him, her interest in a flat-footed shepherd boy who was clearly no Lord- all of it seemed large and present in his mind now as he trusted to her to lead them through the night.  

             She knew these mountains? Well, maybe that wasn’t so strange. She said she was from Cairhien, and from what little Rand remembered of the maps he had seen before leaving Fal Dara, they were well into Cairhien now. But why had she not mentioned this place before, during any of their long walks? Frustratedly, maybe chillingly, Rand realized that still after a full week of speaking every day, he knew almost nothing about Selene.  

            Everytime he had tried to ask after her family or her home, she had given vague answers and turned the question around, asking about his travels, his hopes, his plans, his father. It shamed him to admit that he had danced around admitting he was a shepherd’s son. Instead he had told her that Tam had been a soldier, which if Moiraine was to be believed, was at least the truth. He admitted to being Warder trained too, with his father’s sword, and talked about his and Mat’s travels in Andor, and about meeting the Queen. He had talked about traveling the Borderlands, and staying in Fal Dara, and told her more of the quest. He hadn’t lied exactly but he had…let her believe what she would.  

            And you chastise her for keeping secrets, Rand thought, disgusted with himself. Light, you're as bad as an Aes Sedai.            

            Against his chest, Mat shifted, tucking his face deeper into Rand’s neck.

            No. He had a right to be worried. Rand’s secrets were foolish, to protect his own pride, to avoid disappointing a beautiful woman. Selene’s secrets might yet prove dangerous.

            Yet there was nothing to do but to follow and hope. He didn’t have the strength for more.

            They could not move quickly, not with the woods as thick and dark as they were, and not with the terrain growing ever rougher. More than once Rand considered simply hopping down from Red’s back and walking alongside the horse, but everytime he did he felt his legs throb in protest. Very likely he wouldn’t be able to last long, not having to carry Mat, and there was nothing that would persuade Rand to lose his hold on his Warder. So he rode, and felt his heart seize every time Red stumbled and nearly lost his footing on the increasingly rocky ground.

            Rand could not have said how long they rode, struggling to stay awake and in the saddle as he was. At some point the moon had sunk behind the clouds again and bathed them in darkness, slowing their speed dramatically, yet no one called for a halt. Loial and Hurin trailed him, and Rand could feel both their eyes on his back, feel their questions and doubts. But something held their tongues as surely as it held Rand’s. Fear maybe.            

            Rand barely noticed when the sky began to lighten again, the air to turn crisp with the cold of morning, and mist to roll in from the mountain peaks around them. They had to be well and truly into Kinslayer’s Dagger now: huge fir trees spread in every direction and the underbrush of the forest floor was thick with nettles and leaves, broken by huge roots and the occasional boulder. Humans had not come this way in a very long time, Rand realized. If they had come here ever. What was it Loial had said? That these mountains had been made during The Breaking?

            Selene drew her mount up and called a halt, turning to face the others. “Wait here.” Rand tried not to think about how he had to strain to hear her, or turn his head slightly to better catch the sound of her voice. The ringing had died down finally but his hearing was still…wrong somehow.

            “I don’t need-” Rand began, but Selene cut across him.

             “You must sleep for a short while at the least, and the Trollocs will not follow us. Not here. I will scout ahead, while you do.”

            Rand took a deep breath and tried to force his voice to be steady. “What- what do you mean they won't follow us? How- how do you know?”

            “For all their faults.” Selene said. “Trollocs have long memories. Especially for things they fear. Rest here. I will return.”

            And then she was gone, heeling her silver mare into the woods and vanishing into the mist. It was a moment that reminded, irritatingly, of Moiraine. Being ordered about, with only the vaguest and most cryptic of justifications. It made him want-

            Rand jerked suddenly as he felt Mat’s body move, felt him being pulled out of his arms. He reached for the Source without thought, ready to seize saidin again, to strike to destroy. No one would take Mat from him, no one. But even as he felt the oil slick of the taint slide into him…his attempt to grasp saidin proved far too feeble. He barely touched the river of light, before it snapped from his grip and fled, leaving him inhaling the taint alone. It made him want to be sick, to splutter, to-

            “Rand.” Loial said gently. “You both need to dismount and lay down. And it’s alright- I can take him.”

            Rand felt his fingers grip tighter on Mat’s body in response, but he forced himself to ease his grip, feeling ridiculous all of the sudden. Of course he could trust Loial. Of course he could.

            “Be careful.” Rand said anyways. “He’s still weak.”

            “I know Rand, I know.” Loial said as he lifted Mat from Rand’s arms. His voice was soothing and calm, as if he were speaking more to a frightened animal than a man. 

            Rand could barely feel his arms as he began to dismount- he had not realized how they had numbed until Mat’s weight had been eased off them. Light, he was tired. Maybe Selene was right, a brief rest. Just a nap and he would be right as rainwater.

            “It’s okay, Lord Rand.” Hurin’s voice was saying from somewhere far off. Rand blinked. When he had finished dismounting? Was he laying down? All he could see was the misty sky, and distant tops of trees. “We’ll stand guard, don’t you worry.”

            “I…” Rand began, but sleep took him before he could finish.

<X>

             Rand dreamed.

             He dreamed of a city unlike anything he had ever seen before: sweeping white marble and spiral columns, covered everywhere with friezes and mosaics, every piece of stone adorned in some fashion for beauty or delight. There were fountains too, at every intersection, on every corner, each different. Some were leaping fish, or dancing maidens, or gaggles of youths playing instruments. Yet not one gurgled with water.            

            It wasn’t Ogier work, like Rand had seen in Caemlyn. That had been almost like seeing stone brought to life, seeming as if it was going to flow like water, or else grow like trees. This….this was human made, but with a care for detail that surpassed anything he had ever imagined. Many buildings were domed in metal, or had strange curved steps. He passed empty parks and gardens where crystal flowers hung from trees of stone. He found himself having to give a wide berth around strangely teardrop-shaped steel boulders with caps and panes of glass set into them, some no more than the size of a large carriage or cart, some twice that.

             Through the city Rand wandered, unsure of what he was doing here, of what brought him in the first place. Yet knowing there was something….something important. Someone important. Someone he needed to find.

             When Rand first heard the music he felt himself freeze. It was faint, distant, and he wasn’t sure it really was music at first. And yet it broke up the silence of this place, calling him forward, beckoning him…somewhere.

             Rand moved to answer that call, following the faint harmony through the winding streets, somehow not doubting that he moved in the right direction, followed the right path. All around him the beautiful empty buildings loomed, but they didn’t intimidate him the way the ones in Shadar Logoth had- the only other empty city that Rand had ever been inside. It seemed impossible to consider violence in this place. And so he moved without fear or worry, ever forwards.

             The tree, when it came into sight, was like nothing he had ever seen before. A white bole of spiraled wood. Curling, almost swirling branches filled with shimmering silver leaves, stretched out overhead, forming an unbroken, perfect canopy. Even at a distance, Rand could feel peace and contentment, unlike anything he had felt before, and he yearned for more, yearned to lay beneath those gentle branches and let all the cares and fears of the world slip away. Rand started to move, no longer walking but sprinting for the tree- for Avendesora, for that had to be what it was. The Tree of Life.

             The Green Man said it wasn’t in his refuge any longer. Rand thought in awe. But it still lives. It wasn’t lost.

             Rand’s heart was pounding. How often had he and his friends played at searching for the Tree of Life when they were children? How often had they gone on imaginary adventures hunting the legend of Avendesora, pretending that a particularly sturdy oak or fir was actually covered in trefoil leaves? He had to tell Mat, he had to-

             Rand froze suddenly. There was someone sitting beneath the tree already, covered by the shade of it. The music had grown louder as he approached, more distinct: the sounds Rand recognized of a harp, like Thom Merrilin. Only nothing like it. The sound was…oddly metallic somehow, and also sad, far sadder than any song Thom had ever played, though the Gleeman had mostly stayed away from tragedies, in an effort to buoy his and Mat's spirits.

            Rand gulped and forced himself forward, walking slowly again so as not to spook whoever it was. Only the closer he drew, the more he saw. Not one person. Three people, sitting in a circle. Only one held a harp, a beautiful young man with a mop of curly black hair and a gentle tear drop face. Another young man sat beside him, leaning against one of the roots of the great tree, he was handsome where the other was beautiful, dark skinned where the other was fair, and there was a slight quirk to his mouth, as if was on the verge of a smile. There was something about him that…unsettled Rand. Maybe his eyes, a dark gray that seemed strangely…familiar and yet utterly alien.

            The third was a woman who had her back to him. Dark-haired, as the other two were: a waterfall of glossy black that fell to her waist. The only thing Rand could make out was shoulders clad in some shimmering white cloth that seemed to shine like glass, and move like water.

            Rand frowned. It couldn’t be….but why not? This was a dream after all. But then who were the other two?

            He approached the trio, uncertain. They paid him no mind, all three wrapped up in the music of the harp.

            “Selene?” Rand asked, confused, reaching out a hand to touch the girl’s shoulder. She seemed shorter, younger then he recalled but-

            Overhead, a raven’s cry filled the air.

            Abruptly all three caught fire, burning like paper puppets tossed onto a hearth. Rand recoiled in shock, but none of the three reacted, even as the gray eyed man’s skin began to curl and peel away from his jaw to reveal fire spilling out of his mouth, even as the harpist's fingers split and smoked he kept playing, the music uninterrupted. And the girl- she didn’t move an inch, even as the ends of her hair became an inferno.

            Rand opened his mouth to scream and something closed around his neck, yanking him back. Something sharp and cold: a cord of wire digging into his skin, cutting off his air. Rand struggled, fighting whatever this was- this trap, and in the struggle his head tilted back, and his gaze turned to the branches of Avendesora.

            There, in the strange blue light of this place, Rand could see what had been hidden by the shape of the canopy before. A figure, suspended from one of the branches by a rope. A hangman’s noose.

            Mat eyes, glossy with death, gazed down at Rand accusingly, as his limp body was pecked and torn at by crows.

<X>

             Rand sat bolt upright gasping for breath, fingers clawing at his neck trying to rip whatever it was that had been digging into his skin away. Except he found nothing. Not even a mark.

             It was a trap. Rand was confused. He didn’t know where that information had come from exactly. Only that it was true. It had been a trap. The figures, the music, the city- all of it. A trap that ended in Mat’s death. But how? Why?

             “Lord Rand!” Hurin said. “Are you alright?”

             Rand blinked and shook himself slightly. All around him the mountains were still covered in a light morning fog. Loial and Hurin had hobbled the horses and made a small cold camp. He felt…better, from the little rest he had gotten, but oddly cold. With a start, Rand realized that his ruined coat and boots had been removed, and his face cleaned. He was down to his shirtsleeves, a cloak wrapped around his shoulders. Fresh stockings and a spare pair of boots had been set beside his bed roll, though it seemed Loial had not wanted to risk trying to untangle the bundle of coats Moiraine had sent with him.

             Boots. Spare boots. Of course Moiraine had thought to include those with his things as well. Rand shook his head. He wanted to feel embarrassed, but there wasn’t really a point, he knew.

             “I’m alright.” Rand said, forcing himself to smile and reach over to don the new stockings. It was bloody cold this far up. “How long was I…?”

             “Only an hour, Rand.” Loial said gently. “Maybe a little longer. You thrashed a great deal and kept muttering, though I couldn’t tell what about.”

             “Bad dreams.” Rand said simply. It was true after all. Just a dream- that couldn’t hurt him or Mat. And better than having the Dark One in his dreams. Better by far.

             “I think you should sleep some more until Lady Selene returns.” Loial pressed. He was sitting on his own bedroll, a book balanced on one knee. “I don’t think you got much real rest.”

             “I’m fine.” Rand said. Only when he saw Loial’s ears twitch did he realize how harsh it had come out. Rand forced himself to moderate his tone. “Selene isn’t back yet? Maybe she’s lost. I should-“

             “I am never lost.” Selene announced, her voice high and musical as she appeared, riding out of the trees and pulling her mare up in front of them. “I am always exactly where I mean to be. Remember that.” She hesitated before adding, smiling, “Lord Rand.”

             Rand felt himself shiver. She was sounding more and more like Moiraine the more time they spent together. “Did you find what you were looking for?” Rand asked, finishing rolling up his stockings and moving to don his boots, pretending for all the world like her manner weren't bothering him.

             “I did. It is not far.” She smiled again, secretive and knowing. “We shall find help waiting for us, as well as shelter while we recover. Mount quickly, and follow me.”

             With that, Selene moved, turning her horse and trotting it forward.

             “Lord Rand,” Hurin said slowly, Rand turned to find him hoisting the still unconscious Mat into his arms. The only thing that stopped Rand from going over to seize Mat to carry himself, was the knowledge that he would probably topple over if he trued. “Is this….wise? They have stories about these mountains. The Builder is right- they were made during the Breaking. Made by men who could channel ripping the earth apart, reshaping it like clay. People say they're haunted, by the spirits of the dead, and stalked by monsters made by mad men during the Breaking. They say that people who travel too deep into the mountains never come out again. Not even smugglers and bandits risk going this deep.”

             Rand shook his head. “We don’t have a choice Hurin. We can’t let the Darkfriends get that chest back, and we’re in no shape to be chased. Or to fight.” He remembered something Moiraine had said once and grimaced. “We are the rabbits, and it is the hound that dictates the chase. Come on.”

             Hurin didn’t argue further, and neither did Loial. Instead they broke camp and mounted, riding after Selene. She had not gone far, and she picked up the pace slightly as they approached, moving a sense of…determination and purpose.

             Trollocs have long memories. She had said. Especially for things they fear. A place of refuge.

             The last time they had taken refuge in a place Trollocs feared, Mat had ended up with the dagger.

             Rand thought of his dream, of the mysterioius trio, and Mat hung from the limbs of Avendesora.

             I will not let anything hurt him. Rand thought furiously, hand gripping the hilt of his sword. No matter what.

             Suddenly, up ahead, Selene dismounted and dropped to the ground, taking her mare’s reins in one hand. Still not speaking, or looking back, she began to move up a sharp slope, like the one that had led to the hollow with the portal stone, on the other side of Kinslayer’s dagger.

             Again Rand felt Hurin and Loial’s eyes on his back. They were waiting to see what he would do, to follow his lead. They would leave, if he did. But….

             But Mat needed healing. And they needed to recover if they were to escape Mordeth.

             Grinding his teeth, Rand dismounted, and took Red’s reins in the same fashion, following Selene up the slope. Behind him, Hurin and Loial did the same, each shifting to accommodate their burdens as well as their mount’s reins.

             That slope quickly became a narrow goat path, a crack in the mountains barely wide enough to fit their party even single file. Rand heard the sound of fabric tearing as Loial’s coat was caught by jagged edges of stone on either side and torn. And still they advanced until, abruptly, the crack widened out….to reveal a vale.

             A vale that sheltered a ruin unlike anything Rand had ever seen.

             A huge manor house stood before them, larger than all of Emond’s Field, though still no palace. It was all solid white stone and columns, caped by silvery domes and rounded arched roofs. Yet nothing was plain, all of it was ornamented in some fashion: the stone shaped into friezes, the metal set with swirling cloud patterns. Terraced balconies and yards, some collapsed, many intact, stretched off the building’s sides.

            Grass and trees ran wild, spreading to cover most of the area of the vale, right up the manor’s edge. Some had played a role in toppling the terraces- roots upending walls and felling columns. But it wasn’t as much as he had expected, not by a long shot. Weathering had failed to destroy most of the detail, and though he saw several walls covered in choke vine, not one had been toppled by it fully.

            “What is this place?” Rand murmured, following as Selene led them towards the huge arch entryway. The doors, massive and metal, shone in the faint light. Each bore a teardrop. One balanced on its point, the other on its wide end. The flame of Tar Valon, and the Dragon’s Fang.

            “A home that has waited a very long time for its master.” Selene said, not stopping her stride.

            “It’s from the Age of Legends.” Loial said, awestruck. “I have never heard of ruins in these mountains, Lady Selene. And never seen such ruins so well preserved! How did you know about it?”

            “…I came here often when I was a child.” She said simply. “Before I last left Cairhien, an Aes Sedai came asking about. I suspected that if we came looking, we would find her here.”

            “An Aes Sedai?” Rand said, frowning. “I thought you didn’t trust Aes Sedai?”

            “I do not.” Selene agreed as they entered the hall. Like the outside, it had stood well against the test of time. The floor, though covered in leaves and dirt, still shone beneath as if recently polished, not one stone out of place. “But you need Healing. And this one is…in my debt.”

            Rand wanted to argue, but at that moment two figures appeared at the head of the stairs on the other side of the hall, and began to move towards them. Rand frowned, squinting. The woman was dressed in a pale blue riding dress, and a blue hair veil affixed in place with a leather headband almost hid her dark hair entirely. She was slightly shorter than Selene, with a sharp angular face, but her manner was remarkably similar. By her side followed her Warder, his color shifting cloak and dark clothing making him blend in with the shadows in the room.

            Rand frowned. There was something…odd about the pair. Familiar almost. They were nothing like Moiraine and Lan and yet…he could not shake the feeling that he had seen them before.

            “This.” Selene said, turning to regard the group. “Is Adelaid Sedai of the Blue Ajah.”

            “Greetings Lord Rand.” Adelaid said, inclining her head. “I hear you are in need of Healing?”

            “I am, and so is my-“ Too many words leapt into his mouth. Friend, lover, cue’vin , Warder. “-so is Mat. Can you help us?” He felt suddenly like he was back in Emond’s Field, gazing down at Tam’s body, desperate and trapped and in need of help. “What will it cost us?”

            Adelaid’s laugh was amused. And cold. “Oh, nothing much. We would love to help any friends of Lady Selene. No strings attached. Isn’t that right, Adan?”

            The Warder inclined his head, and spoke in a rich deep voice that lacked any emotion. “Of course. Don’t worry. You and your man will be perfectly safe in our hands.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: Ash and Char

        Mat lurched awake with a dry, cracked pain still clinging to his throat and chest. His heart was racing in his rib cage, and a cold clammy feeling stretched over his skin. Something was wrong- he was dying, running, falling, he-

        “Peace, child.” A woman’s voice spoke somewhere to his right. “There is no need to be afraid. You are safe now.”

        Mat squinted, trying to force his swimming vision to focus, to make out who was speaking in the gloom. It wasn’t Nynaeve, gentle but firm, caring but unwavering. It wasn’t Moiraine, lyrical and mysterious. It wasn’t even the cold imperiousness he had come to expect from Selene. It was something else- quiet and a little dry. It made his skin crawl.

        A figure appeared in his sight- near enough to be distinct. A woman with a loosely wrapped head scarf looped around her head, holding back dark hair from a pale face. A face he could put no age to, not young or old or inbetween. She was smiling with thin lips, this stranger, and it did not touch her ageless eyes.

        “Aes-“ Mat began but he cut off as she pressed two slender fingers to his lips, and he felt the urge to draw back, to shrink from this woman.

        “You have had a great shock, and lost much blood and strength, child.” The Aes Sedai said. “But it is alright. You are safe now. All is well.”

        You are lying, Aes Sedai. Mat wanted to say. But he couldn’t make his tongue form the words. It was as if her gaze was pinning him to the ground somehow, holding him as still as an rabbit shot through with an arrow. He felt a raw cold fear, and for once he didn’t care if it was Mashadar eating away at him, or his own gut whispering the truth. It didn’t matter. This woman was dangerous. He needed to find Rand- he was close, Mat could still feel him in that corner of his mind that always belonged to the other man now- and the others and he needed to get them away from this woman. He needed to-

        “Is there a problem, Adelaid Sedai?” A deep, slightly gravelly male voice said, and Mat felt the blood go cold down to his toes. A figure appeared behind the Aes Sedai, barely distinct through Mat’s still blurry vision.

        He wore no scarf and cloak to hide his face this time, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he had. Mat would have recognized those cold, dead eyes anywhere, and the pain and sorrow held within them.

        “The Scarlet-“ Mat began, his mouth moving with a tinglingly unnatural numbness, the words coming out slurred before they were cut off, his jaw snapping shut.

        “Now, now, child.” The Aes Sedai said, almost cooing. “None of that. I think you need to rest now. Don’t you?”

        The words seemed to swell in his ears and his head, rushing into him like water would if he opened his mouth beneath the surface of a pond. He felt like he wasn’t breathing, even as his lungs continued to fill with air.  It was as if everything from his eyes blinking to his fingers twitching where the work of someone else, not him.

        Rand- Mat thought furiously, trying to will the words to the other man, even knowing that wasn’t how the Bond worked. Rand, you need to run. You’re in danger. We’re in danger. Please, Rand. I need you to go, to escape. It’s a trap. We’re -

        He felt his whole body trying to shake violently, even as his muscles, his joints locked up to prevent it. It was like sinking into mud and drowning in it. The world started to turn dark, to flicker away.

        “Peace child. Just rest. You’re safe now.” The Aes Sedai cooed. He felt fingers stroking through his hair and it made him want to scream as badly as anything Mordeth had ever threatened or done. 

        “All is well.” She lied, as darkness drank him in.

<X>

        Rand resisted the urge to shiver at the sound of dead grass and fallen leaves crunching underfoot. So many layers of it had fallen and turned to mulch and fallen again that it made a thick blanket of underbrush through which only snatches of strangely veined marble flagstones were visible, at least on the outer edges of the grounds. Even with his height, the grass rose well past his knees out here, and would likely grow taller and thicker, as spring turned to summer.

        He thought it was early into the evening but it was hard to tell in this place. The trees made a thick canopy over most of the grounds, some towering higher than the highest oaks Rand ever seen in the Waterwood. That canopy let in only thin rays of light that allowed a vague sense of the time of day. He had slept more after they had settled with a fire in the main hall, out of the way of the strange Aes Sedai, but how long before he had awoken he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t dreamed again, or if he had, he didn’t remember anything beyond unsettled lurching darkness.

        He would have stayed in the hall still, to keep watch over Mat, waiting for him to awaken, but Loial and Selene between them had managed to convince him that he wasn’t helping by looming. Stalking about, Loial had called it, though Rand hadn’t agreed with that assessment. Still, he had needed some fresh air, so he had come out here, to the edge, to wander the manor grounds and try to avoid brooding over Mat’s fate. 

        It had been that or submit to a lecture from Loial about how beautifully preserved the ruins were as he made notes in his little book.

        Mat will be fine. Rand told himself firmly. The Aes Sedai had said as much as she worked her healing over him and they could not lie.

        If you believe that- A voice began in the back of his head, the one that sounded like Moiraine. Rand crushed it ruthlessly. Moiraine was wrong. It was that simple. It had to be that simple. He was not the Dragon.

        He forced his mind to focus on his meandering walk through the grounds. He could still see the house from where he was- a rolling slope of grass lead to one of the courtyards that bordered the sprawling estate, but it was far enough that the place didn’t seem to loom entirely over the landscape. Keeping it in the corner of his eye Rand wandered from tree to tree, letting his fingers trace along the thick wooden boles, the rough bark scratching his fingers ever so lightly.

        He was just being foolish. Letting the excitement of the last few days get to him. Once had rested some more, he would have a clearer head, and once Mat was back on his feet they could come up with a plan to get the Horn back to Shienar, and Mat healed, and Selene back to Cairhien, and all the rest of it would be taken care of too. He just needed to-

        Rand paused as his fingers moved to a new tree, and the texture of bark changed, becoming smooth, almost glassy. He turned and blinked as he realized he had come to a tree that was scorched and burnt, almost down to its core, the spreading branches bare despite the spring flowering, the thick roots cracked, right down to where they vanished into the earth.

        It was not a new burn, Rand could tell that- grass grew right up to those roots and the blanket of underbrush, though thinner around this place, was still heavy from leaves and grass being blown about. It was years old at least, probably older, old enough that part of Rand wondered why the tree hadn’t been reclaimed by the forest yet. It was odd for a dead tree to stand for even five years after its dying, especially a death like this.

        But what was odder still was the fact that it stood alone. None of its nearest neighbors, not even the ones that tangled branches with it, were similarly burned. None of them showed the slightest hint of charring- or indeed damage of any kind.

        “What-“ Rand muttered, pulling back his fingers which were now stained black with soot. But he cut off as he felt something running down his cheek, something hot, and wet. Stunned, Rand lifted his hand, uncaring of the black on his fingertips, to wipe away the tears he had not realized he had started to cry.

        Suddenly the world lurched, seemed to flicker , and then there was a pain in Rand’s chest: sharp and agonizing and cold all at once. It was sadness, Rand realized- the kind of bone deep sadness he had felt when he realized Tam wasn’t really his father, or when he had feared he might lose Mat on the road to Camelyn. But there was anger mixed in it too, a cold acidic kind of anger that made him want to destroy, to tear apart, to rend the earth with his own two-

        “A terrible thing, being burned.” Selene’s voice cut through the haze of Rand’s emotions like a knife and he spun. He had not noticed Selene’s approach, but she stood behind him, the grass reaching up almost to her waist, her dark hair fluttering in the faint breeze. Her eyes were fixed on the tree, her expression emotionless. She continued as if she had not noticed him, or his reaction.

        “It’s almost worse than simply being cut down or uprooted. This way there is the shell, the carcass, to remind everyone that here was once a thing that was beautiful. Here something once lived.” She shrugged and stepped forward, bringing herself shoulder to shoulder with him.

        Rand realized what she was doing and felt a surge of gratitude, and he quickly struggled to master his emotions. The only sure way was the Flame and the Void, and he hesitated for just a moment.Would saidin be waiting for him there still? He had channeled somehow without the Void, to save mat, and the memory of it, of how terrible and wonderful it had felt to draw forth that power, still echoed in his bones. The questions, the doubts, the fears all roiled in him still, and he wasn’t ready to face them, not yet.

        Instead he fought to make his face still, pushing away the tears he couldn't explain and sucking down several deep breaths. It took longer than he liked, and he ended up with black streaks over his face, but he got there in the end, turning back to find Selene still studying the tree, giving no sign she had noticed his distress.

        “Not always.” Rand said, once he was sure the tears had stopped. His voice was still frustratingly strained, and he did not know why. What had come over him? He prayed fiercely that it was just more signs of his exhaustion, and not the first creeping steps of- 

        He cut that thought off.

        “Not always?” Selene prompted.

        “Being burned.” Rand explained turning his eyes up to the tree. “Done badly it leaves a charred mess. But we burn our fields in the Two Rivers every few seasons. It’s a way to clear away rot, to freshen the soil.” He shrugged. Not a very Lordly thing for him to know about, but well, he was a farmer in the end, beneath his fancy coat.

        Selene didn’t seem to notice. She nodded as if he had said something thoughtful and wise. “Maybe that is the only way sometimes. To let it all go to ash so it can be restored, better, brighter, than it once was.” Her lips quirked. “Though whoever did this-“ She reached out but stopped short of laying fingers against the black bole of the tree. “-likely wasn’t interested in enriching the earth.”

        Rand blinked, opening his mouth to ask how a person could burn just a single tree, then closed his mouth again as the answer came to him. The One Power. Of course. This was no naturally done thing. It couldn’t be.

        “Why would anyone do something like that?” Rand muttered the question as much to himself as Selene.

        Selene didn’t answer at first, her gaze fixed to the tree, and then she shrugged. “Who can say?” She said finally. “Anger? Sorrow? Pain?” She turned finally to look at him. “Something they held in, till it had no other way to burst forth but flows of Fire? That is what happens, when we lock away our troubles. They find a way out anyways. Better to share them, to open our hearts to each other, then to suffer in silence.”

        Rand felt Selene’s fingers brush against his own, gently, in a way that could easily be chance or coincidence. A tangle of emotions, that Rand knew were entirely his own this time, bubbled up in his chest. Affection and fear and desire and bashfulness. Every day he tried harder and harder to sort them out, to figure out what exactly Selene was to him, and he never seemed to get any closer.

        “No true man can burden a woman with his cares.” Rand heard himself say, then cringed. It was a Shienaran saying, and it sounded pompous coming from a farm boy who should be worrying about getting crops planted, sheeringing a good clip of wool, and who to ask to dance at Sun Day. Yet instead of laughing at him, Selene only smirked.

        “Everyone must share their burdens, eventually...Rand.” She said his name gently, calmly. “Even a man.” She glanced at the tree then laughed. “But then, who is to say that a man did this at all? It might as well have been a passing woman, offended at the sight of it. Maybe some long ago Aes Sedai visiting this place for her own reasons.”

        “Of course.” Rand said hollowly, though he did not believe it. This place, if it truly was from the Age of Legends, had been a place where madmen once walked. Who knew? Maybe Kinslayer’s Dagger had been pulled from the earth specifically to shield some poor man’s hideaway from mortal eyes. It was what Rand would have done if he could. Make a place cut off from the rest of the world, from anyone he could hurt, and stayed there, to go mad in peace.

        It's what I should do. Rand told himself. Except there was nowhere he could run that Mat wouldn’t follow, and no place he could go that his madness and death wouldn’t hurt Mat too.

        He pulled his hands away from Selene’s and sighed. No. He couldn’t risk it, no matter what his feelings were. Bad enough he had chained Mat so tightly to him. He couldn’t tangle anyone else up with him now. Not with what he was.

        Selene stared at him for a long time and then chuckled and pointedly folded his arm in her own. “Come, Rand.” Again his name in her mouth felt like a caress, and it made him shiver. “Escort me back to the manor, won’t you?”

        He sighed but obeyed as he had to, gently walking alongside as they made their way back down the slope to the huge stone building. 

        “How did you find this place?” Rand found himself asking. According to Selene she had known the Aes Sedai would be here because the Aes Sedai had been asked questions about the ruins in Cairhien- of Selene and other scholars. But she never explained how she knew of them in the first place.

        Selene shrugged. “You’d be surprised at the things that linger still, from bygone days.” She replied as they approached one of the court yards. “Tucked away in hidden places and forgotten corners.”

        “I-“ Rand began but cut off as something caught his ear. Something faint and twinkling, almost like chimes.

        They had just stepped inside the courtyard. All around them were column-fronted walkways, looming ancient and beautiful and a little broken, creating long shadows even with the faint light filtering in through the canopy.

        “Did you hear that?“ Rand began to ask, turning on the spot. Loial would in the courtyard beyond the main hall, along with the Aes Sedai and her Warder. Hurin was checking the path they had come, to make sure the Darkfriends and Trollocs hadn’t followed them. It should just be Selene and him in this part of the ruins. But he would have sworn-

        He heard it again. A soft sharp rining. Not a chime. Glass. Glass being faintly struck by something.

        “What is it, Rand?” He heard Selene say, but her voice seemed distant, and oddly lacking in emotion. “What do you hear?”

        Before Rand could begin to consider a response there was a laugh and he saw a flash of color, something darting behind one of the columns. In heartbeat Rand had drawn his sword and moved into the running stance Lan called Heron Races Across the Pond .

        “Someone else is here!” Rand hissed his voice low. “Go! Warn the others!” 

        Rand didn’t want for her response, instead he shot for ward, letting his long legs carry him he gave chase, ready to bring his sword up to defend or slash at need. He darted after the flash of cloth, dodging between columns as he pursued whoever it had been.

        Someone was here- someone other than their party. Someone was here and Mat was at his most vulnerable, and their enemies were countless. Rand could only give chase and hope to catch them before it was too late.

        He chased the person, whoever they were, down hallways and up stairs and through long emptied dusty rooms, some littered with broken furniture and scattered pieces of metal and stone. Always they seem to stay just out of his reach and his sight, that soft laugh and the faint twinkling sound seeming to taunt him and goad him. The most of saw his quarry was a flash of a boot, some cloth around a corner, and once a snatch of dark hair.

        “Stop!” Rand shouted. “There is nowhere to run! I will-“

        But even as he spoke the words he burst through an arch into another chamber, and felt himself go perfectly, frigidly still.

        It was a long open air hall, with columns to one side gazing out over the grounds, the other, covered in a sprawling frieze standing opposite it, while over head the curve ceiling was decorated with what had once been some kind of painted and gilded mosaic, the paint almost entirely flecked away by the years, and the gold so tarnished that it barely seemed to glint any longer.

        But none of that was what held Rand still. 

        Scorch marks covered everything in random almost wild splashes- the ceiling, the floors, the walls, even the columns, without any seeming rhyme or reason. In other places, the stone seemed to have flowed and boiled like water, leaving behind a field of bubbles and pocks in one place, and a crashing wave in another. Yet for all the wild destruction none of of it seemed targeted: remains of wall hangings and pieces of furniture sat undisturbed save where they had been accidentally brushed aside by the carnage, or knocked askew, and those few columns chipped or damaged seemed done almost incidentally.

        The world seemed to stutter again, to lurch, to flicker-

        Fear boiled inside Rand. Fear like nothing he had ever known, and he could neither explain or control it. He moved forward as if in a dream, passing through the stray beams of light let in by the columns, which hung heavy with clouds of dust that grew thicker as he moved through the hallway. His skin was clammy and a cold sweat seemed to cover his face, his palms, and his lips, making a sour salty taste on his tongue.

        He passed for a moment near one of the crashing waves of stone and as his eyes adjusted to the shadow he spotted what lay beneath it: a small broken skeleton, all flesh and cloth having long since rotted away. Empty eyes sockets in the skull gazed at him and Rand wanted to scream, but his throat felt packed full of wool.

        He moved almost on instinct, turning away to run, but he found his path blocked. Another skeleton lay in the next slice of sunlight, sprawled across the ground in an almost peaceful pose, the hands gently crossed over the chest. Nothing remained of whoever it had once been except for a few long tarnished bits of jewelry- a necklace, a bracelet, a ring.

        Something lanced into Rand’s gut seeing that skeleton. It was like having his organs ripped out from inside his body. It was a sorrow, a pain, so deep he couldn’t stop the scream that left him this time, tearing free from his throat, turning his lungs raw.

        “Ssssssssh.” Selene’s sounded far away, almost on the other side of a waterfall. He could feel her hands on his shoulders, feel himself being pulled close to her, his head pressed against something warm and firm. “Sssssssh Rand, it’s okay. It’s all right. I’m here. There is no need to be afraid.”

        Rand found his hands tightening around her arms. He was clinging to Selene he realized- as if he were a child freshly awakened from a nightmare. Sobs he couldn’t understand ripped out of him, more hot bitter tears spilling from his eyes. Nothing seemed to make sense, every time he tried to put his thoughts together they slipped away like molten shards of glass, cutting him even as they fell through his fingers. All he could see, all he could think of, was the color yellow. 

        Yellow hair, like fields of wheat at sunset, waving gently in the wind, a more pure gold than any gilt.

        “Ssssssssh.” Selene’s whisper seemed to fill his world, to push back against the pain somehow. “Close your eyes and just breathe for me Rand. Just breath min ayar . Just that.”

        He did. He thought in that moment that if she commanded his heart to stop beating, it would have. He breathed deep, filling his lungs with her scent, like the forest at night, and exhaled his hot, broken breath onto her, trying not to think about anything at all, trying to be as still in his mind as he could manage without the Void. Bit by painful bit, the pain receded, the fear, the agony- all chipping away until he could step back.

        “There.” Selene whispered, lifting his chin with her fingers, bringing him to gaze up at her eyes. “Just so.”

        Flicker .

        The moment he gazed into those black eyes, sparkling and beautiful and pitiless, something snapped inside of Rand. Revulsion and anger surged up inside of him, acrid vomit shooting up in his throat. Without conscious intent he found saidin flooding into him, even the taint of the Power, like all the midden heaps of all the world opened into his veins, seeming better somehow then the emotion that stormed inside of him staring into those dark eyes. He wanted to strike, to destroy, to ruin. 

        How dare she! How dare she bring him to this place, and stand here not five feet from-!

        Her hands closed around his cheeks, finger tips gently pressing into Rand’s skin and he shuddered, but couldn’t bring himself to pull away. It was taking all his will, all his focus, to keep the Power from hurtling forward in waves, turning this woman to ash in a heartbeat.

        “It’s okay, Rand.” She breathed, and despite it all her voice still seemed to speak to something else deep inside of him, primal and ashamed. She moved her hands, letting them trace along his neck, down his arms, to cover the backs of his palms. “It’s okay. I’m right here, and I am not afraid of you. Ever.”

        She moved his hands to her neck, pressing the flesh of his palms against her skin. His breath was coming in ragged pants now as he tried to just hold on, with saidin threatening to scour him, aching to destroy, to be wielded, like a volcanic fissure screaming to erupt. He could feel Selene’s pulse under his hands, steady and rhythmic and wet, and knew he could stop it as easily as blinking if he chose to. He wanted to, almost as much as he wanted to press his mouth against hers.

        Selene leaned forward, and he found himself doing the same, to kiss or kill he had no idea, but it would be one or the other he was certain.

        And then the Bond flared , just for a moment. It pulsed like a beating heart, stuttering with fear and confusion and exhaustion. Once. Twice. Growing sharper, then winking out. Mat waking for a moment, and then falling back asleep.

        Rand’s own unexplainable, alien fear and hate and anger all seemed to wink out at once, as if they had never been. His desire to kill, to destroy, to lash out, vanishing as if it had never been. With his lips inches from Selene’s he found himself stepping back, his hands springing away from her neck in shock and terror at what he had been considering. With all his remaining store of will, he forced the Power away, prying his grip on saidin back and letting it snap away, fading back into a faint, barely-there light in the back of his mind.

        “Rand?” Selene asked, tilting her head to one side. There was a note of annoyance, maybe frustration in her voice, and her lips were pursed as she regarded him. “Is something the matter?”

        Of course. She knew nothing- to her Rand had just seemed on the verge of kissing her, and pulled away without reason. Rand forced himself to take a deep steadying breath to wipe his palms on his trousers. He had come so close, so bloody close, to doing something unforgivable. He was going mad. There was no other explanation.

        Yet despite all that, something had clicked into place in his head. An understanding that he had long been avoiding confronting directly.

        “Forgive me, my Lady.” Rand said finally when he could form words, making his voice stiff and formal as he could manage. “I have been unjust to you. I am flattered by your attention and your affection, and they do me much honor, but-“

        Rand cut off as for just a moment, Selene’s lips seemed to peel back to show teeth in rage, but in the next blink the expression was gone, and she was smiling again, bright and warm, so fast Rand doubted his own eyes. 

        “Rand.” She said, speaking in that gentle half-coo he knew all too well. “Rand, there is no need for this. I saw the passion in your eyes, the heat. I know-“

        Rand shook his head. “You’re wrong.” More wrong than you will ever know. “I am sorry Selene, you honor me greatly, but I love another, and I will not betray him like this. I can not.”

        “Do not be foolish, Rand.” Some of the cooing softness had left her voice, and a sharpness had entered it. “We can have so much together, if only you would be willing to see it. I know that boy is special to you, but he is only a man. What can he do but keep you warm? I can offer you glory and power beyond imagination, a place in the history books, a place in legend. More. You just-“

        “I don’t want that!” Rand snapped, and even as the words came out of his mouth the truth of them seemed to settle into his bones. He didn’t. He didn’t want any of that. If he did he would have leapt at the chance to be the Tower’s creature, to become a false Dragon, like Logain and Darksbane and countless others had. He didn’t want anything except…

        Except to stay with Mat, to keep traveling together, to keep chasing that horizon, that adventure, that distant land, like they had always promised each other they would. There was no going back to the Two Rivers, now or ever, to sheep and tabac and Bel Tine dances and the hope of teaching his children to run through the woods. But for however long they could have it, there would be adventures and laughter and far away places, shared between him and Mat, and that….that was not something Selene could understand or share in, or want. 

        And so Rand could never give away any part of himself to her.

        “I don’t want that.” He repeated firmer this time, more confident. “I am sorry if I misled you, my lady. But my mind is set, and you can not change it.”

        For a while she just stood there and stared at him, dark eyes gazing at him in a complete lack of comprehension. And then a terrible rage seemed to grip her. Her shoulders shook, her fists clenched, and her snarl came back, a thousand fold. Her eyes glinted with a malice so intense it felt like she would start to flay him alive any moment, to open his chest and dig her fingers into the pulp of his innards.

        Rand drew back further, ready to run- he would not chance touching saidin around her, not again- but before he could she turned on her heel and swept away.

        When she left, Rand let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in and felt himself shudder. It was more madness, but somehow he felt as if he had just escaped the jaws of something vast and terrible.

        Shoving that thought aside, Rand forced himself to leave the hall, not daring to look back at the skeletons or linger on the damage for one second more.

<X>

        Adan stayed back in the shadows as he watched the Ogier down in the courtyard. The creature was fascinated by the ruins, and seemed to drink in every strange minute detail of them like water. At the moment he was looking over the remains of a tapestry of some kind- he had brushed away the dust to reveal a shimmering cloth neither woven, nor dyed, nor painted, so thin Adan couldn’t believe that a stray breeze had not unraveled it yet. The Ogier was looking over the design, some strange collection of pictograms, and making notes as he did.

        Adan didn’t understand the fascination himself, but watching the Ogier was better than thinking of Cauthon laying prone downstairs, put to sleep by Adelaid’s compulsion, or the al’Thor boy somewhere out in the grounds, who might recognize Adan too, if given a good enough look. 

        Or worse, the Chosen who now held him and Adelaid both by the scruff of their necks. How had it all gotten twisted around like this? His world was simple, his mission simple. He didn’t want to be tangled up with the Dragon. He only wanted revenge for Micha. He needed those names, and yet-

        As if thinking of the woman had summoned her, he saw Lanfear sweep into the room out of the corner of his eye. Automatically, Adan went to one knee. Always wisest to err on the side of deference with those set above you by the Great Lord, and likely more so with one of the Chosen.

        She didn’t seem to see him at first. Her face was a mask of rage, her teeth bared, her jaw set, her eyes sparking with a hate that spoke of imminent death. Adan was still not afraid to die- now, less than ever. He was doing all he could to avenge Micha, and if that quest brought him to his grave he went to it with a light heart. But there was no need to take stupid chances, so he hunched his shoulders and waited for Lanfear to take notice of him or go away.

        To his disappointment, Lanfear did take notice of him. He saw her silver tooled boots appear in his vision, and he had no choice but to look up and meet that terrible, furious gaze.

        “Great Mistress?” Adan said, putting just a hint of a question into it.

        “You will kill Mat Cauthon. Tonight.” Lanfear said, the words some strange mix of boiling fury and giddy delight. “You will make it obvious that the Tower is responsible.”

        Adan held her gaze, and felt a drip of sweat roll down the small of his back. He opened his mouth to answer but before he could another voice spoke.

        “It will be done, Great Mistress.” Adelaid said from the doorway on the other side of the room. Adan turned to stare at her, his mouth thin, but she paid him no mind. Her attention was all for Lanfear.

        “Good. Excellent.” Lanfear said, her voice horse as if she had just run miles. “We shall see what he wants then.” Her smile was the kind to make men throw themselves at her feet and beg for mercy. Before either Adelaid or Adan could respond Lanfear turned and one of those for a moment she seemed to shimmer, the air to boil with a heat haze that turned black and then swirled around her.

        In a flash, the haze folded in on itself and Lanfear was gone leaving Adan alone with Adelaid in the dust and the dying light.

        Adan turned to stare at Adelaid, his face without expression. The Blue Sister- the Black Sister- simply took a small note out of her pocket, folded and sealed with a small glob of white wax, and held it up where he could see it.

        “It is warded.” Adelaid said, turning it around. “If any hand but mine breaks the seal, it catches fire and turns to ash.”

        For a long moment they just stood there, staring at each other, not speaking, and then Adan inclined his head.

        “Tonight.” He said tightly, and Adelaid smiled, returning the note to her pocket.

        “Tonight.” She agreed. “And then it will all be over.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: The Scarlet Groom

         Mat’s world was endless blackness and fog. There was a cold sweat on his skin, his teeth ached, and his tongue was sour in his mouth. Beyond that he couldn’t feel, couldn’t dream. All he could sense was a sweaty, bleak numbness, coursing through his veins. It wasn’t even like having a fever- it was like something under his skin had hardened into ice so cold it burned, and so thick nothing bubbled up from underneath. 

         Danger. 

         The word seemed to come to him across a great distance. Even in this strange half-awake state Mat found enough of himself to be annoyed.

         I know that . He thought. Of course I’m in bloody danger. Light! Has there been a time since I left the Two Rivers where I haven’t been in danger?

         Danger comes now. The voice echoed to him and Mat wanted to frown. Was it…speaking back to him? Troubling if true. Light of heaven, could Rand’s madness flow across the bond? That thought alone was enough to chill his marrow, if he hadn’t already been freezing. He now-

         Wait. Now? What do you mean now?

         Wake, Successor of the Blood! Wake Son of Battles! Wake last heir to the Queen! Wake final Warden of the Tree! Wake now! Or let her blood be extinguished with you!

         Mat’s eyes sprang open just in time to see the flash of steel coming for him. His limbs still felt crusted in ice but he threw himself with all his strength, feeling the beacon in the back of his mind that was Rand pulse with warmth. That pulse thawed something in him just enough to let him roll out of the way of the strike.

         Mat heard a distorted clang as the blade embedded itself in the stone where his head had been a moment before. He wasted no time on stupid questions like who and why - he just scrambled away, desperate to reach for his quarterstaff, the Shadar Logoth dagger- anything with which he could defend himself. But his fingers could barely grasp- they were too cold, too numb, and he found himself fumbling even stones and blankets that he might have thrown as he grabbed blindly.

         The assailant was on him in another heartbeat, another dagger flashing in the dull firelight. Again Mat twisted but not quickly enough this time- he felt his roll cut off as the blade embedded itself in his sleeve, missing his skin by inches. His attacker drew it back, and Mat, knowing he had no hope of wrestling the dagger out of the man’s hand or dodging again, did the only thing he could think of- he rolled back the other way, slamming his still numb shoulder into his attacker’s chest.

         And just like that they were rolling and scrabbling on the ground- Mat doing his best to kick, bite, punch- inflict any kind of desperate damage he could manage. In some corner of his mind the smug thought floated up that Nynaeve had been wrong- all that scrapping in the dirt he done as a boy had been worth something. But he dared not dwell on it, too busy trying to keep the man’s fists from slamming into his shortribs too many times, or worse, getting him in a headlock.

         And then they rolled close enough to the firepit that Mat felt his cheek begin to singe even as it remained numb and icy, and he had no choice but try and jerk away. That space was all the man needed and suddenly Mat had a pair of knees shoved into his sternum, his back slammed against the ground, a hand shoved at his throat, holding him down by the collarbone. There was another flash of the steel in the firelight and Mat’s vision cleared enough to see his attacker clearly for the first time.

         There, staring down at him, dagger poised to deal the final strike, was the Adelaid’s Warder. The Scarlet Groom. Mat felt confusion bubbling in equal measure to his frustration. Why, his mind raced. Why now? Why like this? Why not poison in his medicine or-

         No. No he didn’t have enough information to figure out those answers, and that would be the death of him. Not bloody knowing enough. There was a way out of this trap, there was , he believed that, but he wouldn’t be able to find it. It was too late. It was too bloody late.

         I’m sorry, Rand. Mat thought, feeling a white hot fury and shame well up inside of him. The idea that Rand had been right- right to think Mat couldn’t take care of him, protect him, do this single stupid job, was what rankled worst of all, and he couldn’t even summon up any regret. Only murmur a prayer that it would be quick and painless at least, and that Rand wouldn’t suffer too much from losing him.

         It's not as if he would be losing much after all , the thought bubbled up to the surface and Mat bit his tongue hard enough that it bled, just to be rid of it.

         Mat braced himself, waiting for the blow to fall, waiting for it all to end. He screwed his eyes shut to hold back tears, then set his jaw and his shoulders, determined at least not to scream or beg- to hold onto some kind of dignity.

         And then one second dragged into two, the four. Mat’s jack hammering heart became loud in his own ears, the veins in his neck and shoulders feeling full to bursting, ready to break open out of his skin. The sound of the fire crackling came to Mat, the howling of the wind, and enough of sensation broke through that he felt his head throb from where it had struck the stone, and feel his joints twang with agony.

         And still that last blow did not fall.

         When Mat dared enough to open his eyes, he found himself gazing up at the Scarlet Groom, who was staring down at him. The clouds had rolled back enough to turn the blade in his hand more white then red, and illuminate his dark features. That anguish was back- a mortal agony in those eyes that Mat could neither understand nor fathom. He was gazing down at Mat as if he had never known a greater source of pain, or hurt. Through his fear and regret and shame a bit of indignation managed to well up. What bloody right did his would-be murder have to be sad? Mat hadn’t even done anything to him!

         Mat shoved that thought aside. Trying to think- but it was hard now that the adrenaline was fading. His head felt stuffed with wool again. Hesitation. The man was hesitating. That was what mattered. There was something holding him back. Mat could feel the snare around his throat, but it wasn’t closed yet. There had to be a way.

         He would get one chance, maybe just one word before the man came back to himself. One toss of the dice. He scrambled wildly, trying to find the right thread to pull, all his memories of this man blurring together into a single mass.

         “Rand.” The name popped out of Mat’s mouth almost without thought. The Scarlet Groom had looked more than sad when he looked at Rand. He had held regret in those eyes. “Please- For Rand’s sake. Don’t do this.” Mat’s tongue felt heavy and the words came out slurred. He knew he should be ashamed, but he wasn’t above begging if there was a chance it might actually work. “Please, he’ll have no one.”

         Mat was certain in the next moment that the dice were set to come up the Dark One’s Eyes. The Scarlet Groom’s face broke into a furious snarl, his eyes flashing with rage, and he drew back the knife. Mat flinched, recoiling, as the knife fell…

         And thunked into the stone directly beside his temple.

         “You.” The Scarlet Groom said in a voice full of frustration and anger as he released the dagger. “Play dirty.”

         You have to when you’re playing to survive, burn you, Mat wanted to say, but his tongue wasn’t yet up to the task of forming that many words again, and his throat still hadn’t opened enough to let air back into his lungs.

         The Scarlet Groom’s knees left Mat’s sternum, and his hand released Mat’s collarbone as he rolled off Mat away from the fire, his body going limp as he stared up at the ceiling of the chamber. Mat choked down a gasp of fresh air, not caring how it made his lungs feel, and immediately scrambled away on hands and legs. His fingers closed around his quarterstaff, laying a good two spans from where he had been sleeping, and he twisted, trying to force himself up onto his feet and into a fighting stance at the same time…only to find the Scarlet Groom unmoved, still on his back. The only difference was that he had put the heels of his palms to his eyes and was rubbing deep angry circles into them.

         “I can’t do it. Hang me from the weave of fate, but I can’t.” The Groom spat. “Blood and ash- Micha-! I-“ He pressed his palms harder against his eyes, fingernails digging into his forehead. “I can’t. Forgive me, but I can’t do it.”

         For a few heartbeats Mat just stared at him, unsure of what to do as he tried to wrestle his breathing under control and steady his feet under him. The savage urge to bring the quarterstaff crashing down onto the man’s throat was strong- this was the third bloody time this man had tried to kill him, and parts of Mat were still bruised and aching. But this time the man had spared him, this time it hadn’t been someone else- it had been the man’s own choice to stop trying to kill him. And Mat didn’t know if he could kill someone who wasn’t trying to kill him.

         Even for Rand? a tiny voice said in the back of his mind. Mat ordered it to shut up.

         Still, Mat kept his staff at the ready- prepared to crack the man’s skull if he even looked like moving to attack. Having principles was not the same thing as being stupid, no matter how some folks back home acted. Mat could feel Rand somewhere off the distance- coming closer by the moment, his emotions, worry and fear mainly, becoming more and more distinct as he approached. Mat just needed to buy time until then and- what? This man was a Warder afterall. He had an Aes Sedai. One who could handle Rand like a kitten in all likelihood if it came to an all-out squabble with the One Power.

         “Who is Micha?” Mat found himself asking, without quite meaning to. The way the Groom said his name would have been enough to make most young folks in the Two Rivers blush.

         The Groom’s hands stilled on his face and let them drop down. Deep angry red furrows had been dug into his dark skin, some scratches deep enough to well up with blood. Yet he looked oddly tired and he still wasn’t looking at Mat as he spoke.

         “Everything.” He said finally. “He was everything.”

         Then all at once exhaustion seemed to leave him. He was standing, dusting dirt off himself. Mat crouched back, ready to swing at his knees and knock him to the ground again, but the man didn’t come nearer then he had to, simply retrieving the knives from where he had left them, and with a skill Mat begrudgingly had to admit was impressive, hiding them up his sleeve and behind his gauntlet.

         “Adan.” The Groom said when he turned back to Mat. Mat blinked in confusion and the man added. “My name. Adan al’Savin.”

         Mat wasn’t sure why that made him shiver more than his moniker did. It wasn’t a particularly impressive name- it sounded.well, it sounded like one he would have expected to hear in the Two Rivers, or any of the parts of Andor he had traveled to before Caemlyn. Yet for some reason that made his gut twist with more fear than anything else he had learned.

         “Your name is Mat Cauthon.” Adan continued, as he began picking up and righting things displaced in their scuffle- rolling the pallet even as he straightened it. “And you are being hunted.”

         Mat forced a smile. It was brittle and he knew it. “You don’t say?” Mat said, tilting his head to one side. “And here I thought you were just trying to invite me over for a cup of brandy and a chat.”

         Adan did not look amused, but he was saved the trouble of having to answer by the huge oak doors at one end of the hall grinding open and someone stepping inside. For the moment before they got close enough to the firelight, Adan tensed and Mat gaped to realize that he had drawn a third knife from one his boot, and a small canvas bag in his other hand, from seemingly nowhere at all.

         When Hurin stepped into the fire his face was all confusion, one hand resting on his notched swordbreaker, the other his short sword. He seemed to take it all in as his eyes adjusted to the light- the mess of a campsite, the bruises covering both men, and the weapons they had drawn, and be utterly baffled. He looked around the campsite again, as if wondering what the pair had done with the bodies of Trollocs and Darkfriends that must have so obviously attacked them.

         “Adan Gaidin, Sir Mat, what-“ Hurin began and Adan cut across him.

         “We are leaving, thieftaker.” Adan said calmly. “Now. Go find the Ogier and the Dr- and Lord al’Thor.” The slight hitch in his words was almost too small to notice, but whether or not Hurin caught it Mat couldn’t tell. “Chances are good he will be on his way here already.”

         Mat half hoped Hurin would protest, as he looked between the two men, but instead he merely knuckled his brow and ran off to do as bid, leaving them alone once more. When Mat was sure Hurin was out the door and into the night he turned to glare at Adan, who was still in the process of both straightening and putting away the camp with clean efficient motions.

         “Why should I go anywhere with you?” Mat demanded sharply. “Why in the Light’s name should I trust you?”

         The look Adan gave him was so heavy with exasperation and contempt that Mat abruptly felt ten years old again.

         “Because.” Adan said with all the deliberate patience of someone explaining something to a particularly dull child. “I could have killed you and didn’t. I could kill you right now, and I’m not.” He shook his head and his mouth twisted into a grim curve. “I have made my choice, and now I have to pay the consequences.”

         Mat opened his mouth to argue…and then closed it again. A Warder didn’t just betray his Aes Sedai or the Tower. No one did- but Warders less than any other. Paradoxically, Mat couldn’t help but feel a bit of indignation that Adan had- even if that meant he was still alive.

         Light, the Tower really does want me dead. But why? He shoved that aside. There was no answering it now. No time to think. And definitely no time to go counting the teeth on a gift horse- even one that had tried to bite him already.

         “If you make me regret this…“ Mat said instead, grabbing up his long coat from where it had been kicked accidentally, thankfully away from the fire. He was getting fond of that coat.

         Adan’s answering laugh was bitter and hollow.

<X>

         With Adan’s help, Mat made it out into the courtyard mostly on his own, where the horses had been tied up and left to rest. Mat wasn’t steady enough on his feet yet to help with getting them bridled and saddled, and he could only watch like a hawk as Adan did the work for him, trying to keep an eye sharp for any funny business when the man was handling Red and Northwind especially. 

         He didn’t pick up on any cause for concern- the man was competent at horses, Mat had to admit, if still not likely to land a job as a stablehand anytime soon, and Mat had to admit there was nothing he could have done if he had spotted a problem. After only a handful of minutes he found himself leaning on his quarterstaff for support again, his limbs aching with exhaustion and pain.

         Rand, Loial and Hurin came racing into the courtyard as one, just as Adan was tightening the last strap holding the golden chest into place on one of the horse’s backs. Rand’s expression was a shifting mass of different emotions, but the bond burned hottest and brightest with Rand’s worry and fear. He was moving for Mat almost before Mat could open his mouth.

         “Rand, I’m alright, it was just-“ was about the extent he got out before Rand’s hands were on his shoulders, steadying him, trying to support him, pressing their foreheads together. He let out a shaky breath as he ran his fingers down Mat’s arms to cup his elbows, as if afraid Mat would tip over.

         Another burst of shame shot through Mat- shame at everything from how he must have looked that moment, like a Light-awful mess more than a person- to the fact that Rand was trying to comfort and support him , worrying about him , when it was supposed to be the other way round.

         “Something’s wrong with this place.” Rand whispered. “It’s…it’s wrong. I think- we need to-“

         “We are leaving, Lord al’Thor.” Adan said, as he led over Northwind and Red. Loial and Hurin were already mounting their own horses, exchanging strange looks. “Now,” He added, handing the horse’s reins to Rand. “If your man cannot ride, tie him to the saddle, or carry him over your own. But we go now.”

         Rand shook his head. “But Adelaid Sedai and Lady Selene-“ he started, but the moment he accepted the reins Adan had turned on his heel and marched to his own chestnut gelding without a backwards glance.

         “There isn’t time, Rand,” Mat whispered, unsure of how to broach the subject that Adan had tried to kill him- and how that almost certainly meant Adelaid wanted them dead as well. “There just isn’t. We have to go.”

         Rand seemed to want to argue- he wouldn’t have been Rand if he wasn’t at least a little stubborn, but then he gazed up at the strangely shaped windows of the huge sprawling manor house, and shivered. “You’re right,” he said softly. “Do you need a hand to get up onto Northwind, or-?”

         In answer Mat pushed off Rand, and bracing himself, ignoring the way his legs wailed red hot in protest, he forced himself up into Northwind’s saddle. It wasn’t the most graceful mount up he had ever done, but his feet found the stirrups, and he found his balance, and that was what counted.

         Rand followed suit, climbing up onto Red’s back. The moment Adan saw they were ready he snapped the reins of his own horse and galloped out the courtyard and down the path towards the edge of the vale. They had no choice but to gallop to catch up to him. Mat gritted his teeth and before Rand could do more than send a concerned look his way, he dug his heels into Northwind’s sides, the first to follow suit. He felt Rand follow close on his heels, and heard the whinnies of Hurin and Loial’s horses immediately after.

         For a moment Mat forgot the pain, the exhaustion and the numbness that still had a grip on so much of his body. He forgot fear and pain and shame. They were getting away, getting out- that was what mattered in this moment. This was just another trap, another snare, but if they could slip it, then everything else…they would figure out everything else on their own. They had to.

         And then a figure stepped into the path ahead of them. Adan drew rein and the horses whined and kicked, and Mat had to do the same or crash into him, and the whole loose column was drawn to a halt, leaving the horses frisking and confused.

         Under the light of the moon, the Aes Sedai looked almost like a Fade, instead of a human being. The blue of her cloak and scarf seemed black as the billowed around her, and the illumination of her pale face, combined with the shadows cast by her headscarf, hid her expression and eyes even as her neck and cheeks seemed to glint in the light.

         For a long moment, Adan and Adelaid stared at each other, the silence stretching heavy between them. Three spans of distance and yet somehow it seemed like miles more. Mat felt his mouth go dry.

         “…You truly aren’t afraid.” Adelaid said last, sounding almost impressed. “So many emotions in you. But no fear. No regret.”

         “What is fear, to someone who has already buried everything he ever had to love?” Adan replied, voice steady. “I had only one thing left to lose any longer. My principles. And that you will not take from me.”

         Adelaid inclined her head. “So be it.” And then she was throwing out her arms in front of her, but even as she was moving Adan dived from his horse back, hands flinging outwards, a pair of knives hurling straight for the Aes Sedai. They froze in mid air, points glinting a good span still from the Aes Sedai, and then they rotated, spinning, to turn back on Adan and then hurling straight for him, launched like arrows from a short bow.

         Adan dived to the ground and rolled, the daggers missing him by inches and flying off into the brush and grass somewhere. He came up again, now only a span from Adelaid and threw something through the air towards her, something that became a cloud of glittering grey flecks in the moonlight. That cloud–metal shavings, Mat realized–froze in mid air as well, as if stilled in time, and in that moment of confusion Adan closed the last of the distance between them, diving through the flecks which brushed aside from him harmless, and slashing with his dagger right for her throat. He missed by inches only as she drew back, catching her sleeve with the edge of the blade instead and sending a crescent of blood to the dirt.

         “STOP!” Loial boomed, sounding distressed. “This is not right! This is now how it should be! Warders serve and protect Aes Sedai and Aes Sedai-“

         “Do as we must, Builder.” Adelaid cut across him. A faint ripple in the ground under Adan was all the warning he had, but it must have been enough because he jumped back just in time to avoid the small explosion and the rush of steam, as the earth cracked open where head been standing and stones hurled outward in a fan before the Aes Sedai. “As the Tower demands.”

         “She is-“ Adan began, trying to speak, but he cut off, his mouth clicking shut as another explosion nearly threw him from his feet. Again he threw something at her–a metal ball, Mat thought–but she side-stepped it this time, rather than using the Power to catch whatever it was.

         “I do as I must, for the fate of the world.” Adelaid said coldly. “A duty you have abandoned, Gaidin.”

         Mat’s eyes found Rand, who had drawn his sword, but was hesitating, eye flitting between the two. Hurin had his sword breaker out as well, but stepping in between an Aes Sedai clashing with her own Warder must have seemed as bad idea to them as it did to Mat.

         “You know no more of duty than I do, you-“ Adan snarled, but cut off as lashes of fire seemed to spring out of thin air, slashing at him like a nine-tailed whip. He seemed to Mat’s eyes to move quickly enough that the tongues of fire did not touch him, but the unmistakable smell of burning flesh filled the air.

         “I know more than you think, Adan Gaidin.” Adelaid responded, her voice growing more icy and serene by the moment. “You may struggle all you wish for the memory of one man. I struggle for the good of all- as all the White Tower does.” A pause and then, “A good that will not be endangered by watching the Dragon corrupted by that creature and the power he stole from Shadar Logoth."

         Mat reeled back as a single pale finger came up to point at him, but no lightning, no fire streamed towards him. Yet the sound of Hurin’s agonized gasp and Loial’s sharp intake of breath stung as badly as if he had been stabbed again.

         “You will not be allowed to poison him, and the world. We will not allow it, Matrim. The Mother will not allow it. She has seen what must be done, and sent me to carry it out.” Adelaid continued, and suddenly her hand was spreading, something gathering there–a light of some kind. Mat recoiled, trying to snap up his quarterstaff as if that would protect him, but before he could Rand was shouting with a wordless snarl, and gout of white flame burst into the middle of the road between the group and Adelaid, killing the night and blinding everyone for several painful seconds. The horses screamed and whined, and it was all Mat could do to avoid being thrown to the ground as Northwind reared up, hooves beating at the air as he tried to pull away.

         “I won't let you hurt him-!” Rand snarled and Mat tried desperately to blink, to adjust his eyes to the light, but he couldn’t make out more than a faint silhouette galloping in front of him that might have been Rand.

         The white flame parted like a curtain, and the shadow of the Aes Sedai moved forward, almost contemptuously. A noise came from Rand and the flames jumped, as if trying to close in around her, choke her out- but they just seemed to batter against some invisible wall.

         “Light of heaven it’s true-!” Came Hurin’s voice from somewhere behind them, but Mat could barely hear. His eyes were all for the woman walking through the tunnel of fire. He tried to steady himself. There was only one way. It was him she wanted. He just needed too-

         A shadow seemed to come out of nowhere behind Rand–Adan, Mat realized, hurling something at Adelaid again–the small bag he had been holding earlier when he attacked Mat, he thought. Again she tried to step out of the way but this time it went hurtling into the fire…and exploded in a spray of crackling green sparks and shrill earsplitting whistles that made the horses scream and buck and Mat’s head throb with pain–both his and Rand’s– so strong that that it briefly eclipsed everything else.

         Firework. Mat realized. It was an Illuminator’s-

         Adelaid clapped her hands over her ears and let out a vicious hiss….and Rand’s white flame suddenly was closing in around her, whatever barrier that had held it back gone. Horror and shock came through the bond, and Mat felt the moment Rand’s efforts shifted direction, felt him trying to pull back or kill the fire, but he might as well have been trying to stop a boulder already rolling down hill with his bare hands. Adelaid screamed in fury and pain as the smell of burning cloth and flesh shot sharply through the night and then–

         Adan spun and struck, the edge of his hand coming down against the back of Rand’s neck. Rand gave one jerk and then fell forward onto the saddle, the bond throbbing with a single dull pain then going quiet as Rand went unconscious, the flames flicking out in the same moment, leaving behind only smoldering blackened ground, and a staggering figure of charred rags swaying in the wind. Mat whipped his quarterstaff around, but Adan sidestepped it with ease.

         “You need to go.” Adan said, ignoring Mat drawing the staff back and readying it to crack the man’s skull. Mat’s mouth worked furiously, but Adan merely stepped up and in three clean motions had pulled Rand’s belt free and used it to lash his hands to the bridle, before taking the reins and offering them to Mat. His face was covered in sweat and dirt, but his eyes were hard and cold. “Go. Now. She’ll recover in moments, but I can hold her a while yet. The bag is my most expensive trick, but it’s not my last.” 

         Adan was right, Mat realized, the figure–the Aes Sedai–was already making a furious gurgling noise, ripping off pieces of her cloak to staunch the bleeding. 

         “But you–You’ll die.“ Mat cut off as Adan reached up to unfasten his color shifting cloak and toss it up to Mat. 

         “In another life, a kinder world, that would have been mine by rights. But you have the better claim to it of the two of us.” Adan said it softly, and for a moment the sadness in his eyes broke into something else- just a moment before it returned, and he reached down and pulled another knife from his boot top. “Go! Go and protect that which you love with all you are, for as long as you can!” 

         “But-!” Mat stared down at the cloak. The material felt strange. There was a liquid feel to it, and a texture that was almost like fish scales. This was wrong. This was all wrong. 

         “Mat.” Loial’s hand was heavy on his shoulder, his voice booming with strength and worry. The Aes Sedai had apparently managed to wrap something over the worst of the burns on her arms because she was staring, through a face covered in soot and angry red burns. “We must go now!” 

         All Mat could do was scream his frustration to the heavens, heave the horse reins, and gallop past the Aes Sedai into the night. The shadowed figure turned to stare at them–maybe to act with the Power, maybe to just curse at them–but in that moment when she took her eyes off Adan, he came hurtling towards her, the figures crashing together and rolling off the path and into the grass. Flashes of white light, hissing fire, and an acrid smoke filled the air, but Mat couldn’t force himself to look back, only ahead, as he tried to guide Northwind and Red up the slope at the same time, with Hurin and Loial’s mounts trailing close behind. 

         Burn you, Mat thought viciously. Burn you for sparing me and then dying! Burn you to the Pit and back-! 

         As they crested the hill, his gaze fell on Rand, who still lay limp against Red’s neck, out cold, and Mat knew it wasn’t for him that Adan had done anything. His hands tightened around the color shifting cloak, the material bunching between his fingers, and seeming to take on the same dark color for just a moment. 

         Holding fast and not letting himself look back, Mat rode through the night, did his best to hold Red steady, and prayed to make it till dawn. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: Chasm

              It was a miracle they made it down the mountain like that.

              Mat took the lead on Northwind, with the reins for Red twisted around his fist in order to lead the bay stallion beside him. Rand, lashed to the saddle and laying against Red’s neck jerked wildly this way and that, but stayed atop the horse’s back. Behind Mat, Hurin and Loial followed atop their own mounts, riding near enough that when Mat dared a look back, he could make them out with ease even in the darkness.

              Mat kept waiting for the tell-tale scream of a horse breaking its leg on an unseen divot or rock, or for flashes of Aes Sedai fire to come streaking out of the darkness, or for Trollocs to appear ahead of them in the woods– or for all of them together and at once. Overhead the moon hung low, giving a faint, shallow light that barely seemed to make a dent in the pool of darkness around them. Mat could feel his shirt against his chest, heavy with sweat born from fear.

              But against all odds none of it ever came. Downwards they rode through the dead of the midnight hours, down mountain paths that Mat would have hesitated to take the horses up in the light of day, across shallow creeks and around hills and through thickets of woods that slowed them sometimes to no more than a crawl- and nothing appeared out of the shadows to drag them down.

              By the time the sky had begun to lighten and the moon to vanish the land had started to level out slightly finally, turning to forested foothills. Onwards they went, south and out of Kinslayer's Dagger, leaving the mountain- with its ruins and its dead- behind.

              The sun was just peeking over the horizon when they reached a small stream, and Mat finally called a halt. The horses were lathering and panting, the memory of all the fire and death not yet gone completely. More, Mat could tell Loial and Hurin were flagging too. He didn’t think they had much of a chance to rest on the mountain.

              “We’ll stop here.” Mat declared, dismounting. His legs were stiff and his whole body ached still- but so far he had held together. Some of that must be the bond- one those myriad blessings the stories talked about Warders getting. “We make a cold camp for a few hours, then keep moving south.”

              Loial and Hurin nodded- Loial’s ears were drooping low and Hurin looked about ready to sick up. They both seemed glad to be off their horses and onto their own feet again.

              As Mat moved to start unlashing Rand’s hands, Hurin glanced at him- opened his mouth, then closed it again, muttering something to himself under his breath. Mat braced- waiting for what he was sure was coming: a request, maybe a plea, to leave Rand bound in the hopes that would keep him from using the Power somehow. Mat was ready to cut back- more than a few sharp comments dangling on the tip of his tongue, but instead Hurin approached slowly and gently stroked Red’s flank.

              “Do you need help getting Lord Rand down and settled, Master Ca- er… Mat Gaidin?” Hurin asked, ducking his head.

              Mat’s eyes swung back to Northwind. Adan’s cloak hung from where Mat had half stuffed into one of the saddle bags. It had taken on the brown color of the leather, and you might have mistaken it for a dark coarse looking blanket.

              “Hurin I-“ Mat began, then cut off, gulping. What was there to say? Hurin was staring at him, steady and weathered. He had to be at least twenty- maybe twenty five- years Mat’s senior. His dark face carried deep lines that said those years had been full of worry about Trolloc raids, about children, about a wife he loved dearly and was often away from.

              Mat didn’t want to hurt him. But he would. It was one of the things he had braced himself for, when he had decided to stay at Rand’s side. To protect Rand, meant protecting his secret. No matter what that took. Mat didn’t relish the idea. But he didn’t fear it either. Maybe that was the dagger working on him still, or maybe it was something deep inside of him already: something callous that had always been there. He didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. Weighted against Rand’s life, what was the life of a stranger who got too close and heard something they shouldn’t? Hadn't Lan been ready to kill to protect Moiraine’s secrets back in Baerlon?

              But Hurin…Hurin was not a stranger. He wasn’t someone who had stumbled onto something by listening at doors or sticking his nose where it wasn’t wanted. All he was guilty of was having the misfortune of being swept up in Rand and Mat’s….whatever it was.

              Something of what Mat was thinking must have shown on his face because Hurin’s shoulders lowered and his voice softened considerably. “It’s alright Mat Gaidin. Really I-“ He shifted nervously. “It’s of no mind to me.”

              Mat frowned at him not believing that for a second.

              “It really isn’t!” Hurin insisted, touching the back of his head. “The way I see it- the Amyrlin, and Moiraine Sedai they wouldn’t have let you two run loose if they didn’t think he was safe. And besides he’s... well he’s Lord Rand! Lord Ingtar trusts him and he’s led us since we got separated from the others and- bah! Light burn me man, stop looking at me like that!” He shifted on his feet, clearly uncomfortable.

              “What makes you think the Amyrlin did set us free?” Mat said quietly. “That sister in the mountains- Adelaid- she said the Amyrlin sent her to kill us.”

              “To kill you.” Hurrin corrected. “But all that it’s… it’s none of my business.“ Mat raised an eyebrow and Hurin shrugged. “It’s not! Nobles and Kings and Aes Sedai and what not- politics, that’s your business. That Aes Sedai, she said that he’s-“ Hurin gulped.

              “The Dragon.” Mat finished for him in a flat voice. Hurin waited for more- clearly expecting Mat to confirm or deny it, but Mat kept his peace instead. He still hadn’t made up his own mind one way or the other.

              “Well, if that’s the case. Then- the Aymrlin she’s going to do what she’s going to do. The Game of Houses they call it in Cairhien- Daes dae'mar. That’s nothing I can do anything about or concern myself with.” Hurin made a gesture as if picking something up and tossing it aside. “I’m a sniffer and a thief-taker, sworn to Lord Agelmar and Fal Dara. I was given a task- run down those who did murder and theft in Fal Dara keep, and recover what they stole. That’s my duty. Right now the best way to follow it is to stay with you and Lord Rand. Knives in the dark and scheming and the like- that’s all for you and him to worry about.” 

              “And after we reunite with Lord Ingtar?” Mat said tartly.

              Hurin blew out a breath. “Light of heaven, you’re not making this easy.”

              “I am not.” Mat replied coldly. “If you’re going to betray us- betray him- I’d rather know sooner rather than later. I know you Borderlanders are all mad for duty. Well, isn’t it your duty to report all this to Ingtar and Agelmar also?” Light, Mat didn’t know what would be worse- the others learning that Rand could channel, or that the Aes Sedai thought he was the Dragon.

              “I know what it’s like to be different.” Hurin said quietly, looking away. “To be afraid of yourself. Afraid for the people you care about. Afraid you’ll hurt them without meaning to, without wanting to.” He looked up at Rand. “To wish you were strong enough to leave them for their own sake. And to not be able to.” His eyes turned to Mat. They where dark with understanding.

              Mat suddenly felt ashamed, and his shoulders fell. That fear lived somewhere deep in the bones of every man. Of waking up one day and realizing: Oh. I’m a monster . Mat could imagine how bad it had been for Hurin, in the years after his talent had emerged, but before he had realized he only smelt violence and couldn’t do anything more.

              Hurin perked up suddenly, as if realizing something. “Besides- if the Amyrlin wanted Lord Ingtar and Lord Aglemar to know, she would have told them herself. I imagine the Aes Sedai would say, my duty is hold my tongue and let them sort these matters out. So that’s what I intend to do.” He extended a hand. “I know you're just trying to protect him. That’s a Warder’s duty as much as mine is tracking down thieves. So why don’t we both stay to our duties, and try and muddle through until they're done, eh?”

              Mat stared at Hurin’s hand and then shook it. “Alright- then yes. I’d love some help getting this lug down and on his bed roll.”

              As they worked, Mat felt Loial’s eyes on them. Loial had said nothing. Not regarding Rand’s ability to channel, or his status at the Dragon. He hadn’t even muttered his usual awed refrain of ta’veren . That, Mat knew, presaged nothing good, but for the moment Mat could do nothing about it. Instead he saw Rand settled, and his boots and coat off, in the hopes he would wake at least a little refreshed. Adan had not hit him lightly.

              Once that was done, and Loial and Hurin were similarly resting, Mat went to the pack horse, unloaded the gilded chest containing the Horn of Valere and set it on the ground, right beside the stream’s bank. Mat had slept enough to last him for a while- and the taste of whatever he had been given to keep him sleeping so the Aes Sedai could work her schemes had still not completely faded from his mouth. So instead he stared at the chest, at its intricate interlocking vines and leaves.  And he made himself think about schemes, and knives in the dark, and duty.

              Every angle, he thought to himself. Just look at it from every angle, and you’ll find a way to unravel this knot.

              He needed to believe it.

<X>

              Mat meant for them only to stay by the stream for a few hours. That was what Lan would have done. A hard cold camp with a few hours rest then back into the saddle going….somewhere. Probably to Tar Valon. But somehow, against his will, Mat found his eyes drifting. Just a few seconds he told himself, to let his eyes adjust to the growing light.

              It was until the sound of boots crunching on the pebbled shore woke him that Mat realized he had even fallen asleep. He gave a jerk and was half way to rising before Rand’s hand on his shoulder steadied him, and guided him to sit again.

              “It’s alright Mat.” Rand said gently. “It’s just me.”

              Mat felt himself relax. He could feel Rand through the bond- still tired, with a wicked headache and cramp in his shoulder. But he was…calmer, then he had been during their flight the night before. Whatever had upset him so badly he had either pushed it aside or forgotten it.

              Rand lowered himself to sit beside Mat and joined him in staring at the chest. For awhile there was only silence. Anything they might have said swallowed up by the sheer weight of the realities in front of them.

              It was Mat’s first time really getting a good look at the chest since they had brought it out of the Blight, and it still took his breath away and chilled his blood in equal measure. You could not mistake it for anything but important, just from a glance. Light, the gold inlay alone might be enough to buy all of Emond’s Field and most of Watch Hill. Maybe more.

              “Selene?” Rand asked finally. The word was barely more than a whisper but there wasn’t any wistfulness in his voice, which Mat had to admit, did give him a touch of savage satisfaction.

              “No sign of her.” Mat said simply and truthfully. Rand didn’t have any answer to that, so he shifted slightly, resting on his hands on his knees as he stared harder at the chest. Maybe trying, like Mat was, to will the thing into giving them answers.

              “We can’t go north.” Rand said finally.

              Mat hesitated before responding. “Padan Fain could have kept on south towards Cairhien while we were in the mountains- assuming that was where we would be headed.” But Rand was shaking his head before Mat had finished speaking.

              “Even if he has, he'll soon realize his mistake and run us down before we can reunite with Ingtar. Remember what Moiraine said? He was…remade to hunt us. He can track us, and that’s before you consider the…” Rand trailed off but Mat knew how that sentence ended. Even before you consider the dagger. Not to mention Mat’s connection to Mordeth. Realizing Mat understood Rand pressed on past the point. “There's no chance Ingtar has managed to close the distance between the two of us already- so if we had north we’ll just be reversing our positions from before. Running desperately while Fain tries to bring us down.” Rand shifted as he spoke leaning back but not taking his eyes from the chest.

              “But if he has headed south then we’ll be riding right into him.” Mat pointed out. He kept his hands on his own knees, trying to resist the urge to pluck at his pants or sleeves. His mind itched like it had been littered with scatter heads. He knew why, but he refused to give in.

              Rand nodded. “Yes. But he’ll also have to go more carefully. The closer we get to the city, the more farms and towns we’re sure to come across- just like the trek to Camelyn. You can go days without seeing anyone between the Erinin and Kinslayer’s Dagger according to Ingtar, so a few dozen Trollocs and some darkfriends don’t make much of a sight. But with soldiers and traffic on the roads, Fain will have to go by night and stay away from the main highways, or anywhere else he might get caught out. Whatever is going on in Cairhien, the King won't ignore a band of Trollocs in his backyard.”

              “Maybe.” Mat said shrewdly. “But there is another way. We could go west along the mountain range towards-“

              “No.” Rand’s response was immediate and firm, and his voice flat.

              “We don’t know that there was any truth to what Adelaid was saying.” Mat said, voice exasperated. “She could have misunderstood her mission, or gotten it from some Red sister who knows too much. The oaths could be fiction afterall, or Light, she could be Black Ajah for all we know. If the Amyrlin wanted me dead then she had plenty of chance in Fal Dara and-“ Mat cut off as Rand tore his eyes away from the chest to stare him right in the eyes.

              “No Mat.” Rand’s knuckles had turned white. “We’re not risking it. I’m not risking you.”

              His voice brooked no argument and Mat bit his tongue. Well, he didn’t really want to go to Tar Valon anyways. Just the thought made his skin crawl, even if it was the surest way to get the horn to safety. Mat wasn’t as certain about Siuan Sanche as he would have liked. To say nothing of that strange Brown Sister both she and Moiraine seemed to trust. He wasn’t eager to put himself, or to put Rand for that matter, back in Aes Sedai hands.

              “It will have to be you, then.” Mat said quietly. Rand’s face contorted and the bond flared with a mix of emotions so violent Mat couldn’t pick any single one out from the others.

              When Rand spoke he sounded hoarse. “Egwene and Nynaeve. Maybe if their training advances enough, they could…” He trailed off, gulping down. Mat said nothing. If their training advanced that far…would they even be willing to help Mat and Rand anymore? Or would they be as ready to try tying strings to Rand as the rest?

              By then, would they even be ready to snip Mat’s thread out of the pattern if he threatened the Tower’s plans?

              Not Nynaeve. Mat thought stubbornly. Never Nynaeve. She’ll always be the Wisdom no matter where she goes or what the Aes Sedai try to do to her. She’ll be ready to bandage our hurts and call us fools all the while.

              But Egwene? Mat was less sure. Whatever Egwene did, she did with her whole heart. She committed with all she was. Mat did not think the Tower would be any different.

              “They might be able to help.” Mat said finally. Might. It was a thin word to hang their hopes on. “But even so…”

              “I know.” Rand said softly.

              They lapsed back to silence after that, both their eyes drifting to the chest. Faintly, Mat could hear Hurin snoring the distance, the crackle of a few bugs somewhere in the brush, the faint babble of water streaming by.

              “Do you want me to open the chest?” Rand asked finally, not looking at Mat.

              Mat hated that his breath caught at the question, hated that his head spun to stare up at Rand. He hated the naked hunger that flared in his gut, no doubt plain in his eyes and his jaw. The yes was already half formed in his tongue when he bit down on it to stop the word from coming out.

              Arguments immediately sprang together fully formed in his head- so fully formed that he realized he must have been mulling them over in some corner of his mind for a while.

             The Aes Sedai warded you so you can’t spread the evil of it. You’ll die if you go too long without it and no telling if just traveling with it in the chest will be enough. It could be damaging the horn for all you know

              You might need Mashadar’s power to protect Rand.

              They were good arguments. Mat didn’t have answers for them. But he was also stone stubborn and determined not to be weak. Not anymore.

              “No.” The word rasped out of his throat. When it was out, Mat exhaled, feeling as if his lugs had been let out of some terrible vice.

              Guilt surged in the bond, becoming so strong in the back of Mat’s head it nearly overwhelmed him. Mat blinked in confusion, having been ready to argue, ready for any reaction except this one. Before he could speak though, Rand was talking, words coming out in a rush.

              “I’m sorry about Selene. I wasn’t thinking straight that whole time. I knew- I know it couldn’t come to anything and you were right I think to be suspicious of her, at least a little. I don’t know if she was working with the Aes Sedai but she wasn’t what she seemed and I was too blind to see it and-“ Rand took a deep breath, and the flow of words slowed down. “I’m just….I’m sorry Mat. Really I am. I seem to always make the wrong choice somehow, no matter what I do.

              Mat was bewildered, but he found his hand sliding into Rand’s, their fingers lacing together. In all honesty, he had been meaning to apologize: for how he had treated Selene and for leaving her behind. Mat had dismissed the possibility that she had been working for the Aes Sedai, unable to figure out how the plot could have been arranged when it seemed impossible to be anything but chance that they would meet Selene in that otherworld. But he didn’t think pointing that out now was the best idea.

              “It’s alright.” Mat said softly. “We’ll figure this out- all of it- together.” Somehow we will.

              Rand nodded in answer, but did not take his eyes from the chest. They sat there for some time longer, feeling the weight of everything bearing down upon them, until the sun was near enough to its peak that they had no choice but to stand and start breaking camp.

<X>

              Loial must have taken the watch after Mat had fallen asleep because they found him huddled at the edge of the camp in his wide coat, quarterstaff resting across his wide knees. When he saw Rand and Mat moving to put the chest back on the pack horse he moved to take it into his large hands without being asked.

              For a moment, after the straps were secure and the blanket thrown over the bundle in order to hide it, Loial hesitated, staring down at Mat and Rand. He opened his mouth and Mat braced himself while Rand- weariness rolling through the bond like a gray tide- simply stood there, waiting. But whatever Loial had intended to say he seemed to think better of it, closed his mouth, and then turned to help Hurin up onto his mare.

              Hurin too, kept his peace, seemingly determined to hold to his line of thinking that the best way out was through, and to keep his head down in the meantime. To that end he seemed set to pretend nothing had changed. Mat could almost admire the determined normalcy with which Hurin went forward, mounting up and deliberately taking up his usual spot in the party. You would have to look closely to see the sweaty hands and nervous fidgeting that betrayed a fear otherwise kept firmly in check.

              They rode in silence southwards, Rand in the lead, followed by Mat and Hurin, with Loial leading the pack animals in the rear. They had set out late and the horses were still exhausted from the last few days, so Rand set a steady pace, even slower then usual for cross country riding.

              The land stayed hilly and scattered with copses as they went. Mat felt like he should have ranged out, the way Lan had on the stretch of journey from the Taren to Baerlon- but he had no idea what he would look for if he did. Signs of Trollocs or other travelers he supposed. Maybe villages or a farm where they might rest at night. But while Mat was a decent woodsman he knew he didn’t hold a candle to the likes of Nynaeve or Tam al’Thor, let alone Lan or Uno. And there was always the risk that something would befall the party while he was away.

              So he stayed with the group as they wound around hills and through small valleys, at most going to a crest to check ahead. It made his gut tight, and couldn’t help but feel he was falling short of the mark, but there was nothing to be done.

              As the sun was sinking, Rand called a halt and turned to Hurin. “Any scent of Fain or the Trollocs yet?” When Hurin shook his head, and Rand exhaled through his nose. “Alright. Let’s make camp here for the night and set out fresh in the morning.”

              “Are you sure we should not…” Loial began then trailed off, shifting on his mount uncomfortably. Rand turned to face him and Loial’s cheeks turned dark, his eyebrows quivering. The bond flared with sadness and frustration so hard Mat flinched, even though Rand’s face stayed stony.

              “I don’t want to push too hard. Mat was just healed, and the horses have been through a rough go of it lately. We go easy the next few days, unless Hurin catches scent of Fain.” Loial nodded tightly, accepting this. Mat wanted to ask what they would do if Hurin did catch smell of Fain, but he bit his tongue.

              That was how they passed the next week. Rising early each day from a cold camp, then traveling in a heavy blanket of awkward silence, plodding through the hills and the forest in search of a road. It wasn’t long before the hills began to fall out as they drew further and further away from Kinslayer’s Dagger- the crests growing lower and farther apart, and the woods thicker. No road appeared through the woodlands though, and the land stayed hilly enough that they spent more time circling around them moving straight. 

              Rand refused to push however, even as Mat ground his teeth at their slow pace, holding firm to the idea that the horses needed rest. That was true enough, for the first day and a bit of the second Mat could admit, but by the evening of the third there was no real danger. Yet still Rand refused to let them hasten southwards.

              Each night Mat thought of those that were likely still pursuing them: darkfriends and Aes Sedai for certain, and maybe one who was both, Fain and his lot, and who knew what else. But each time Mat came close to raising the prospect something stopped him short. Mat only realized why on the fifth day, when he caught Rand looking back northwards, towards Kinslayer’s dagger, hesitating with one foot in Red’s stirrups.

              Anger–ugly and acrid–bubbled up in Mat’s throat.

              “She won't catch us up.” Mat said before he could stop himself. Rand whipped around, shock and embarrassment flaring in the bond as he realized Mat had caught on. His cheeks turned hot and he looked away. If the bond hadn’t been enough to confirm Mat’s guess, that would have.

              “If she lives, she’ll be making her way to the city. Whatever- whatever happened on the mountain, she is still a woman alone surrounded by dangers. We have a duty to help if we can.” Rand finished mounting as he spoke, not looking Mat in the eyes.

              Mat’s fist clenched and he took a deep breath. “The Shadow has no reason to be hunting Selene- she’s probably safer now that she’s away from us.” Rand’s eyes squeezed shut as the truth of that made something twang deep inside his chest. Not quite pain. But not entirely dissimilar. Mat hurried on. “She’s clever enough to look after herself, and getting ourselves caught by Fain or Adelaid because we’re dragging our feet waiting for her to ride out of the woods and join us won't help anyone.”

              At that, Rand blinked, taken aback. Mat expected the rebuke to draw some ire but instead Rand was just confused. “You think-“ He began, but was cut off as Loial and Hurin approached, leading their mounts.

              They froze when Mat and Rand turned to face them, Loial’s eyebrows twitching wildly and Hurin suddenly becoming very interested in the ground. Mat realized he was glaring and forced his jaw to unclench. Rand, suddenly rueful, did the same, and relaxed his shoulders.

              Is this what it was like every time one of us tried to barge in or pry on Moiraine and Lan’s conversations? Mat wondered. Then he dismissed the thought. This was completely different.

              “What is it, Loial?” Rand asked, with such strong politeness that Loial actually recoiled slightly.

              “Smoke.” Loial answered and at Rand’s confused blink, Loial turned to point a finger at the horizon, southwards. Mat had to squint to try and make out the faint trails of gray in the distance, and even then he wasn’t certain that was what he was seeing.

              “It started just before dawn. I didn’t want to bring it up until it was light enough that I could be sure. But it’s at least a dozen chimneys worth.” Loial explained shifting from foot to foot.

              “A village.” Rand said and Loial nodded. “Well then, let’s not waste any time.”

              And with that Rand settled down to his saddle, snapped the reins and sent Red forward. Mat breathed out through his nose and followed suit, with Hurin and Loial falling into their usual positions.

              You think - What? What had Rand been about to say? You think I’m still interested in her? You think I care about surviving when a woman’s life is on the line? You think you get a say in any of this? Mat wanted to shake Rand by the shoulders until he gave an answer. Instead he ground his teeth. He resolved to find the time to continue the conversation tonight, and if Loial and Hurin ended up overhearing a row, then so be it.

              For an hour Mat stewed like that, his mood only worsening each time Rand turned around in the saddle to glance back at him, forcing Mat to sit up straighter and put on a good show of not brooding. He knew any smile he mustered in this state would be ghoulish, so instead he tried to adopt Lan’s stony countenance, but for some reason that seemed to deepen the worry and concern flowing from Rand. But there was nothing to be said or done as things stood.

              “There's something ahead.” Loial announced without warning just as the sun was beginning to truly warm the crisp air. “Through the trees.”

              Mat forced his jaw to unclench and leaned forward on Northwind to peer ahead. Loial was right, Mat thought–there was something glittering in the distance and something faint ringing in his ears. The sound of….metal? Metal pickaxes Mat realized, striking against stone, again and again.

              Rand and Mat exchanged looks and without needing words,kicked their horses into a trot, Hurin and Loial following suit. Anger and frustration vanished like mist, as Mat’s shoulders went bowstring taught. Whatever this was- his and Rand’s problems would make no difference to it, so it was time to put it away.

              If it’s an ambush … But surely it couldn’t be? Hurin had smelled nothing of Fain and unless Adelaid or some other Aes Sedai had circled around to lay in wait, there was no way it could be the White Tower.

              The tree line broke around them…and Mat gasped as he took in the sight before him.

              A giant stone arm, large as a tower reaching for the heavens, and in its fingers was clasped a massive crystalline sphere that glittered in the morning light. All around it wooden scaffolds were suspended as men worked to hew it from the earth, revealing the bare beginnings of a face- a handsome older man with wise eyes. The workers were dressed in plain grays and browns, swinging heavy pickaxes under the direction of mounted soldiers in mail shirts and curved bell like helmets, some carrying small rectangular flags on their backs.

              “What on earth…” Mat muttered. Hurin looked equally bewildered, and Loial….unsettled.

              “Those are the King’s men.” Hurin said, eyeing the soldiers. “That’s the con of House Riatin,” Hurin said, pointing to the banner staffs some of the soldiers carried on their backs. Five red stars across a field of black. The soldiers had not noticed their group yet, but Mat knew that wouldn’t last long. Mat could see the smoke for himself now- a few miles to the south still. Mat suspected Loial had been right- it would be a village, where ovens where being lit for breakfast.

              “We should circle around and try to find a road.” Mat told the others. There would be one nearby. All these men and these supplies had not traveled cross country. Chances were good this soldiers was based out of that same village. “With luck we can keep south and find directions to the city. What do you think, Rand?”

              Rand didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed to the great crystal sphere still. His expression was odd and the bond…

              Mat blinked. The bond had gone…quiet. Not crystalline the way it did when Rand channeled sometimes. Not dull like when he slept. But…quiet. Muted.

              “Rand?” Mat asked, feeling worry spike in his chest. He reached out a hand to try and touch Rand’s shoulder…and instead Rand kicked Red’s flanks and trotted forward a few steps, to the edge of the small cliff overlooking the dig site.

              Mat moved Northwind forward to match and reached out, catching hold of Rand’s reins. Rand didn’t even seem to notice him. His eyes were fixed to the sphere. Mat swore he heard a curse from Loial, and soft whimper of terror from Hurin.

              “Rand.” Mat said, more firmly this time. “Rand, we need to circle around. Those soldiers are going to notice us if we stay out here.” It was a miracle that had not already, with how far out on the ledge Rand had come.

              Rand didn’t even twitch. His pupils had grown large as he gazed at that sphere, as if he were seeing something in it that Mat could not.

              “Rand, please. We have to go.“ Mat whispered, his heart hammering in his chest. Surely it couldn’t be this sudden. Surely it wouldn’t just come out of nowhere and overtake him without warning. Light, he hadn’t even channeled today as near as Mat could tell! He couldn’t-

              The bond flickered suddenly. Shifted. Mat couldn’t describe it any other way. It was just suddenly…different. And when Rand turned to face Mat….Mat didn’t recognize him. The face, the eyes, the mouth- it was all the same. But the expression he was making was alien. It belonged on someone else.

              “It yet exists.” Rand said and Mat felt the words like grit on his bones.

              Aso bift d’humat.

              Rand’s- the stranger’s- gaze swung back to the statue, and he spoke again, almost to himself. “ The Choden Kal .” He raised one hand as if he could reach out and lay his fingers on the sphere’s surface. “It yet exists. I could bring her back. With this I could bring them all back. With this I could do anything… ”

              “ Ilyena Sunhair is dead, Lews Therin.” Mat didn’t mean for the words to come out in the Old Tongue, but he was glad they did. Rand’s body recoiled as if Mat had slapped it across the face. Red tossed and pulled backwards away from the cliff’s edge, kicking up dirt. The stranger- Lews Therin- stared at Mat for a moment as if he were the phantom. The mystery. The thing that didn’t make sense.

             “Ilyena is dead, Lews Therin.” Mat repeated savagely. Pain, mortal agony blazed across Rand’s face and through the bond. It hurt Mat to be the source of that pain, but he had nothing else with which to try and drive this thing away. Nothing but the truth. “She is dead three thousand years and so are your children, and your world. So are you. Depart from this place and burden those that yet live no more.”  

               Shock and pain turned to anger, and Lews Therin threw back Rand’s head in a haughty way that Rand could never have managed.

              Rand's fingers extended towards Mat and Mat braced himself to be destroyed.

              Then the hand snapped shut as if with a muscle spasm. Lews Therin blinked in confusion and then began to cough and splutter as Rand’s throat must have constricted. The bond flickered once, then twice, and suddenly it was…right again and Rand was pounding his fist against his own chest, trying to clear his cough. 

              Mat let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding in.

               My bloody luck is still holding. By a hair’s breath. But it was enough.

              “Rand.” Mat said, forcing his voice to be soft again. He reached out a hand to touch Rand’s shoulder, even as he continued to splutter and cough, around gulps of air. He looked as if he had just run a mile at midsummer. “Rand, we need to go now.“

              Rand looked up at Mat then, still heaving for breath, his eyes full of naked fear and panic. Mat wanted to kiss him so so much and push away his tears, but it still felt like there was a chasm between them, growing wider every day, and nothing could bridge it.

              “The horses are rested enough.” Rand said in a scratchy voice- but loud enough for Loial and Hurin to hear. Mat thought he heard a sigh of relief that was too loud to be a human’s. Rand ignored it. His eyes stayed fixed to Mat as he continued. “We gallop.”

             And so they did, turning their horses from the edge and fleeing the shadow of whatever that colossus was.

             The cry from the miners went up just as they disappeared into the tree line.