The Gathering Storm (The Wheel of Time #12)

The Gathering Storm (The Wheel of Time #12) Page 83

"Can't tell you things I don't know myself, Aludra," Mat said, glancing northward. He felt a strange tugging, as if someone had hooked a fisherman's line about his insides and was softly—but insistently—pulling on it. Rand, is that you, burn you? Colors swirled. "Soon, Aludra," he found himself saying. "Time is short. So short."

She hesitated, as if sensing something in his voice. "Well," she said. "If that be the case, then my requests are not so extravagant, yes? If the world goes to war, the forges will soon be needed for arrowheads and horseshoes. Better to put them to work now on my dragons. Let me assure you, each one we finish will be worth a thousand swords in battle."

Mat sighed, stood up and tipped his hat to her. "All right, then," he said. "Fair enough. Assuming Rand doesn't bloody burn me to a crisp the moment I suggest this, I'll see what I can do."

"You would be wise to show Mistress Aludra respect," Leilwin said, eyeing Mat, speaking with that slow Seanchan drawl. "Rather than being so flippant toward her."

"That was sincere!" Mat said. "That last part was, at least. Burn me, woman. Can't you tell when a man's being sincere?"

She eyed him, as if trying to decide if that very pronouncement were some kind of mockery. Mat rolled his eyes. Women!

"Mistress Aludra is brilliant," Leilwin said sternly. "You don't understand the gift she is giving you in these plans. Why, if the Empire had these weapons. . . ."

"Well, see that you don't give them to it, Leilwin," Mat said. "I don't want to wake up one morning and find that you've run off with these plans in an attempt at retrieving your title!"

She looked insulted that he'd suggest such a thing, though it seemed like the logical thing to do. Seanchan had an odd sense of honor—Tuon hadn't tried once to flee from him, though she'd had ample opportunity.

Of course, Tuon had suspected from near the beginning that she'd marry him. She'd had that damane's Foretelling. Burn him, he wouldn't look southward again. He wouldn't!

"My ship is being driven by different winds now, Master Cauthon," Leilwin said simply, turning from him and glancing at Bayle.

"But you wouldn't help us fight the Seanchan," Mat protested. "It seems that you'd—"

"You do be swimming in deep water right now, lad," Bayle interjected in a soft voice. "Aye, deep water, filled with lionfish. It may be time to stop splashing so loudly."

Mat closed his mouth. "All right then," he said. Shouldn't the two of them be treating him with more respect? Wasn't he some kind of high Seanchan prince or something? He should have known that wouldn't help him with Leilwin or the bearded sailor.

Anyway, he had been sincere. Aludra's words made sense, crazy though they sounded at first. They would need to dedicate a lot of foundries to the work. The weeks it was going to take him to reach Caemlyn seemed even more galling now. Those weeks spent on the road should be spent building dragons! A wise man learned that there was no use fretting over long marches—but Mat felt far from wise lately.

"All right," he said again. He looked back at Aludra. "Though—for completely different reasons—I'd like to take these plans with me and keep them safe."

"Completely different reasons?" Leilwin asked in a flat tone, as if searching for another insult.

"Yes," Mat said. "Those reasons being that I don't want them here when Aludra taps one of those nightflowers the wrong way and blows herself halfway to Tarwin's Gap!"

Aludra chuckled at that, though Leilwin looked offended again. It was hard not to offend a Seanchan. Them and the bloody Aiel. Strange how opposite they could be in many ways, yet the same in so many others.

"You may take the plans, Mat," Aludra said. "So long as you keep them in that trunk with your gold. That is one object in this camp that will receive the greatest attention from you."

"Thank you kindly," he said, stooping to gather up the pages, ignoring the veiled insult. Hadn't they just made up? Bloody woman. "By the way, I nearly forgot. Do you know anything about crossbows, Aludra?"

"Crossbows?" she asked.

"Yes," Mat said, stacking the papers. "I figure there should be a way to make them load faster. You know, like those new cranks, only maybe with some kind of spring or something. Maybe a crank you could twist without having to lower the weapon first."

"This is hardly my area of expertise, Mat," Aludra said.

"I know. But you're smart about things like this, and maybe. . . ."

"You will have to find someone else," Aludra said, turning to pick up another half-finished nightflower. "I am far too busy."

Mat reached up under his hat, scratching his head. "That—"

"Mat!" a voice called. "Mat, you've got to come with me!" Mat turned as Olver ran into Aludra's camp. Bayle held out a warning hand, but of course Olver just ran right beneath it.

Mat straightened up. "What?" he asked.

"Someone's come to the camp," Olver said, excitement painting his features. And those features were a sight. Ears that were too big for his head, nose that was squashed down, mouth that was too wide. On a child his age, the ugliness was endearing. He'd have no such luck when he grew older. Maybe the men in camp were right to be teaching him weapons. With a face like that, he'd better know how to defend himself.

"Wait, slow down," Mat said, tucking Aludra's plans into his belt. "Someone's come? Who? Why do you need me?"

"Talmanes sent me to fetch you," Olver said. "He thinks she's someone important. Said to tell you she's got some pages with your picture on them, and that she's got a 'distinctive face,' whatever that means. That. . . ."

Olver continued, but Mat had stopped listening. He nodded to Alu-dra and the others, then trotted out of her camp, past the sheets and out into the woods proper. Olver tagged along behind as Mat hurried to the front of the camp.

There, sitting on a short-legged white mare, was a pudgy woman with a grandmotherly air, a brown dress, and streaks of gray in her hair, which was pulled back in a bun. She was surrounded by a group of soldiers, Talmanes and Mandevwin standing directly in front of her, like two stone pillars barring entrance to a harbor.

The woman had an Aes Sedai face, and an aging Warder stood beside her horse. Though he had graying hair, the stocky man exuded that sense of danger that all Warders had. He studied the Band's soldiers with unyielding eyes, arms folded.

The Aes Sedai smiled at Mat as he trotted up. "Ah, very nice," she said primly. "You've grown prompt since we last parted, Matrim Cau-thon."

"Verin," Mat said, panting slightly from the run. He glanced at Talmanes who held up a sheet of paper, one of those imprinted with Mat's face. "You've discovered that someone's been distributing pictures of me in Trustair?"

She laughed. "You could say that."

He looked at her, meeting those dark brown Aes Sedai eyes. "Blood and bloody ashes," he muttered. "It was you, wasn't it? You're the one who's been looking for me!"

"For some time, I might add," Verin said lightly. "And rather against my will."

Mat closed his eyes. So much for his intricate plan for the raid. Burn it! And it was a good plan, too. "How'd you find I was here?" he asked, opening his eyes.

"A kind merchant came to me in Trustair an hour ago and explained that he'd just had a nice meeting with you, and that you'd paid him handsomely for a sketch of Trustair. I figured that I'd spare the poor town an assault by your . . . associates and just come to you myself."

"An hour ago?" Mat said, frowning. "But Trustair is still half a day's march away!"

"Indeed it is." Verin smiled.

"Burn me," he said. "You've got Traveling, don't you?"

Her smile deepened. "I surmise that you're trying to get to Andor with this army, Master Cauthon."

"That depends," Mat said. "Can you take us there?"

"In a very short time," Verin said. "I could have your men in Caem-lyn by evening."

Light! Twenty days shaved off his march? Maybe he could get Alu-dra's dragons into production soon! He hesitated, eyeing Verin, forcing himself to contain his excitement. There was always a cost when Aes Sedai were involved.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Frankly," she replied, sighing slightly. "What I want, Matrim Cau-thon, is to be cut free from your ta'veren web! Do you know how long you've forced me to wait in these mountains?"

"Forced?"

"Yes," she said. "Come, we have much to discuss." She flicked her reins, moving her horse into camp, and Talmanes and Mandevwin reluctantly stepped aside, letting her in. Mat joined the two of them, watching as she made straight for the cook fires.

"I guess there won't be a raid," Talmanes said. He didn't sound sad.

Mandevwin fingered his eye patch. "Does this mean I can go back to my poor aged aunt?"

"You have no poor aged aunt," Mat growled. "Come on, let's hear what the woman has to say."

"Fine," Mandevwin said. "But next time, I get to be the Warder, all right, Mat?"

Mat just sighed, hurrying after Verin.

CHAPTER 35

A Halo of Blackness

The cool sea breeze washed across Rand the moment he rode through the gateway. That soft, featherlike wind carried with it the scents of a thousand cook fires scattered through the city of Falme, heating morning stews.

Rand reined in Tai'daishar, unprepared for the memories those scents would carry with them. Memories of a time when he'd still been uncertain about his role in the world. Memories of a time when Mat had constantly ribbed him for wearing fine coats, despite the fact that Rand tried to avoid them. Memories of a time when he had been ashamed of the banners that now flapped behind him. He had once insisted on keeping them hidden, as if in doing so he could hide from his own fate.

The procession waited for him, buckles creaking, horses snorting. Rand had visited Falme once, briefly. Back in those days, he hadn't been able to stay anywhere for long. He'd spent those months either chasing or being chased. Fain had led him to Falme, bearing the Horn of Valere and the ruby dagger to which Mat had been bound. The colors flashed again, as he thought of Mat, but Rand ignored them. For these few moments, he wasn't in the present.

Falme marked a turning point in Rand's life as profound as the one that had later occurred in the barren lands of the Aiel, when he had proven himself to be the Car'a'cam. After Falme, there had been no more hiding, no more fighting what he was. This was the place where he'd first acknowledged himself as a killer, the place where he'd first realized what a danger he was to those around him. He'd tried to leave them all behind. They'd come after him.

At Falme, the shepherd boy had burned, his ashes scattered and blown away by those ocean winds. From those ashes, the Dragon Reborn had risen.

Rand kneed Tai'daishar forward, and the procession began again. He had ordered the gateway opened a short ride from the city, hopefully out of eyesight of damane. Of course he had Asha'man creating it—thereby hiding the weaves from women—but he didn't want to give them any clues about Traveling. The Seanchan inability to Travel was one of his greatest advantages.

Falme itself stood on a small spit of land—Toman Head—jutting out into the Aryth Ocean. High cliffs along both sides broke the waves, creating a soft, distant roar. The city's dark stone buildings covered the peninsula like rocks on the bed of a river. Most were squat, one-story buildings—built wide, as if the inhabitants expected the waves to wash up over the cliffs and crash against their homes. The grasslands here didn't show as much withering as the land did to the north, but the new spring grass was starting to look yellow and wan, as if the blades regretted poking their heads out of the soil.

The peninsula sloped down to a natural harbor, and numerous Seanchan ships lay at anchor there. Seanchan flags flew, proclaiming this city a part of their empire; the banner that fluttered highest above the city displayed a golden hawk in flight, clutching three bolts of lightning. It was fringed with blue.

The strange creatures the Seanchan had brought from their side of the ocean moved through distant streets, too far off for Rand to make out details. Raken flew in the sky; the Seanchan apparently had a large stable of them here. Toman Head was just south of Arad Doman, and this city was no doubt a major staging area for the Seanchan campaign to the north.

That conquest would end today. Rand had to make peace, had to convince the Daughter of the Nine Moons to call off her armies. That peace would be the calm before a storm. He wouldn't be protecting his people from war; just preserving them so that they could die for him elsewhere. But he would do what had to be done.

Nynaeve rode up beside him as they continued toward Falme. Her neat dress of blue and white was cut after the Domani fashion, but made of a much thicker—and far more modest—material. She seemed to be adopting fashions from around the world, wearing dresses from the cities she visited, but imposing her own sense of what was proper upon them. Once, perhaps, Rand would have found this amusing. That emotion no longer seemed possible for him. He could only feel the cold stillness inside, the stillness that capped a fountain of frozen rage.

He would keep the rage and stillness balanced long enough. He had to.

"And so we return," Nynaeve said. Her multicolor ter'angreal jewelry somewhat spoiled the look of h