The Dragon Reborn (The Wheel of Time #3)

The Dragon Reborn (The Wheel of Time #3) Page 166

“Wake me after an hour,” she told them.

Elayne frowned. “So short, this time?”

“Do you feel uneasy?” Nynaeve said. “Perhaps you are using it too often.”

“We would still be in Tar Valon scrubbing pots and hoping to find a Black sister before a Gray Man found us if I had not,” Egwene said sharply. Light, Elayne's right. I am snapping like a sulky child. She took a deep breath. “Perhaps I am uneasy. Maybe it is because we are so close to the Heart of the Stone, now. So close to Callandor. So close to the trap, whatever it is.”

“Be careful,” Elayne said, and Nynaeve said, more quietly, “Be very careful, Egwene. Please.” She was tugging her braid in short jerks.

As Egwene lay down on the lowposted bed, with them on stools to either side, thunder rolled across the sky. Sleep came slowly.

It was the rolling hills again, as always at first, flowers and butterflies under spring sunshine, soft breezes and birds singing. She wore green silk, this time, with golden birds embroidered over her breasts, and green velvet slippers. The ter'angreal seemed light enough to drift up out of her dress except for the weight of the Great Serpent ring holding it down.

By simple trial and error she had learned a little of the rules of Tel'aran'rhiod — even this World of Dreams, this Unseen World, had its rules, if odd ones; she was sure she did not know a tenth of them — and one way to make herself go where she wanted. Closing her eyes, she emptied her mind as she would have to embrace saidar. It was not as easy, because the rosebud kept trying to form, and she kept sensing the True Source, kept aching to embrace it, but she had to fill the emptiness with something else. She pictured the Heart of the Stone, as she had seen it in these dreams, formed it in every detail, perfect within the void. The huge, polished redstone columns. The ageworn stones of the floor. The dome, far overhead. The crystal sword, untouchable, slowly revolving hiltdown in midair. When it was so real she was sure she could reach out and touch it, she opened her eyes, and she was there, in the Heart of the Stone. Or the Heart of the Stone as it existed in Tel'aran'rhiod.

The columns were there, and Callandor. And around the sparkling sword, almost as dim and insubstantial as shadows, thirteen women sat crosslegged, staring at Callandor as it revolved. Honeyhaired Liandrin turned her head, looking straight at Egwene with those big, dark eyes, and her rosebud mouth smiled.

Gasping, Egwene sat up in bed so fast she almost fell off the side.

“What is the matter?” Elayne demanded. “What happened? You look frightened.”

“You only just closed your eyes,” Nynaeve said softly. “This is the first time since the very beginning that you've come back without us waking you. Something did happen, didn't it?” She tugged her braid sharply. “Are you all right?”

How did I get back? Egwene wondered. Light, I do not even know what I did. She knew she was only trying to put off what she had to say. Unfastening the cord around her neck, she held the Great Serpent ring and the larger, twisted ter'angreal on her palm. “They are waiting for us,” she said finally. There was no need to say who. “And I think they know we are in Tear.”

Outside, the storm broke over the city.

Rain drumming on the deck over his head, Mat stared at the stones board on the table between him and Thom, but he could not really concentrate on the game, even with an Andoran silver mark riding on the outcome. Thunder crashed, and lightning flashed in the small windows. Four lamps lit the captain's cabin of the Swift. Bloody ship may be as sleek as the bird, but it's still taking too bloody long. The vessel gave a small jolt, then another; the motion seemed to change. He had better not run us into the bloody mud! If he is not making the best time he can wring out of this buttertub, I will stuff that gold down his throat! Yawning — he had not slept well since leaving Caemlyn; he could not stop worrying enough to sleep well — yawning, he set a white stone on the intersection of two lines; in three moves, he would capture nearly a fifth of Thom's black stones.

“You could be a good player, boy,” the gleeman said around his pipe, placing his next stone, “if you put your mind to it.” His tabac smelled like leaves and nuts.

Mat reached for another stone from the pile at his elbow, then blinked and let it lie. In the same three moves, Thom's stones would surround over a third of his. He had not seen it coming, and he could see no escape. “Do you ever lose a game? Have you ever lost a game?”

Thom removed his pipe and knuckled his mustaches. “Not in a long while. Morgase used to beat me about half the time. It is said good commanders of soldiers and good players of the Great Game are good at stones, as well. She is the one, and I've no doubt she could command a battle, too.”

“Wouldn't you rather dice some more? Stones take too much time.”

“I like a chance to win more than one toss in nine or ten,” the whitehaired man said dryly.

Mat bounded to his feet as the door banged open to admit Captain Derne. The squarefaced man whipped his cloak from his shoulders, shaking the rain off and muttering curses to himself. “The Light sear my bones, I do not know why I ever let you hire Swift. You, demanding more flaming speed in the blackest night or the heaviest rain. More speed. Always more bloody speed! Could have run on a bloody mudflat a hundred times over by now!”

“You wanted the gold,” Mat said harshly. “You said this heap of old boards was fast, Derne. When do we reach Tear?”

The captain smiled a tight smile. “We are tying off to the dock, now. And burn me for a bloody farmer if I carry anything that can flaming talk ever again! Now, where is the rest of my gold?”

Mat hurried to one of the small windows and peered out. In the harsh glare of lightning flashes he could see a wet stone dock, if not much else. He fished the second purse of gold from his pocket and tossed it to Derne. Whoever heard of a riverman who didn't dice! “About time,” he growled. Light send I'm not too late.

He had stuffed all of his spare clothes and his blankets into the leather script, and he hung that on one side of him and the roll of fireworks on the other, from the cord he tied to it. His cloak covered it all, but gapped a little in the front. Better he got wet than the fireworks. He could dry out and be as good as new; a test with a bucket had shown fireworks could not. I guess Rand's da was right. Mat had always thought the Village Council would not set them off in the rain because they made a be