The Gathering Storm - Robert Jordan

"Anyway, when I heard you talking to one another about what you'd seen, I realized that you must have escaped. You remember the night too vividly. Anyone who . . . joins us simply has the nightmares. Count yourselves lucky. I suggest you move on and forget Hinderstap."

"We have Aes Sedai with us," Thorn said. "They might be able to do something to help you. We could tell the White Tower, have them send—"

"No!" Barlden said sharply. "Our lives aren't so bad, now that we know how to deal with our situation. We don't want Aes Sedai eyes on us." He turned away. "We nearly turned your group away flat. We do that, sometimes, if we sense that the travelers won't obey our rules. But you had Aes Sedai with you. They ask questions, they get curious. We worried that if we turned you away, they'd get suspicious and force entrance."

"Forcing them to leave at sunset made them even more curious," Mat said. "And having their bathing attendants bloody try to kill them isn't a good way to keep the secret either."

The mayor looked wan. "Some wished . . . well, that you'd be trapped here. They thought that if Aes Sedai were bound here, they'd find a way out for all of us. We don't all agree. Either way, it's our problem. Please, just. . . .Just go."

"Fine." Mat stood up straight and picked up his spear. "But first, tell me where these came from." He pulled the paper from his pocket, the one that bore a drawing of his face.

Barlden glanced at it. "You'll find those spread around the nearby villages," he said. "Someone's looking for you. As I told Ledron last night, I'm not in the business of selling out guests. I wasn't about to kidnap you and risk keeping you here overnight just for some reward."

"Who's looking for me?" Mat repeated.

"About twenty leagues to the northeast, there's a small town called Trustair. Rumor says that if you want a little coin, you can bring news about a man who looks like the one in this picture, or the other one. Visit an inn in Trustair called The Shaken Fist to find the one looking for you."

"Other picture?" Mat asked, frowning.

"Yes. A burly fellow with a beard. A note at the bottom says he has golden eyes."

Mat glanced at Thorn, who'd raised a bushy eyebrow.

"Blood and bloody ashes," Mat muttered and pulled the side of his hat down. Who was looking for him and Perrin, and what did they want? "We'll be going, I suppose," he said. He glanced at Barlden. Poor fellow. That went for the entire village. But what was Mat to do about it? There were rights you could win, and others you just had to leave for someone else.

"Your gold is on the wagon outside," the mayor said. "We didn't take any from your winnings. The food is there too." He met Mat's eyes. "We hold to our word, here. Other things are out of our control, particularly for those who don't listen to the rules. But we aren't going to rob a man just because he's an outsider."

"Mighty tolerant of you," Mat said flatly, pulling open the door. "Have a good day, then, and when night comes, try not to kill anyone I wouldn't kill. Thorn, you coming?"

The gleeman joined him, limping slightly from his old wound. Mat glanced back at Barlden, who stood with sleeves rolled up in the center of the room, looking down at his teacup. He seemed like he was wishing that cup held something a little stronger.

"Poor fellow," Mat said, then stepped out into the morning light after Thom and pulled the door shut behind him.

"I assume we're going after that person spreading around pictures of you?" Thom asked.

"Right as Light, we are," Mat said, tying his ashandarei to Pips' saddle. "It's on the way to Four Kings anyway. I'll lead your horse if you can drive the wagon."

Thom nodded. He was studying the mayor's home.

"What?" Mat asked.

"Nothing, lad," the gleeman said. "It's just . . . well, it's a sad tale. Something's wrong in the world. There's a snag in the Pattern here. The town unravels at night, and then the world tries to reset it each morning to make things right again."

"Well, they should be more forthcoming," Mat said. The villagers had pulled the food-filled wagon up while Mat and Thom had been chatting with the mayor. It was hitched to two strong draft horses, tan of coloring and wide of hoof.

"More forthcoming?" Thom asked. "How? The mayor is right, they did try to warn us."

Mat grunted, walking over to open the chest and check on his gold. It was there, as the mayor had said. "I don't know," he said. "They could put up a warning sign or something. Hello. Welcome to Hinderstap. We will murder you in the night and eat your bloody face if you stay past sunset. Try the pies. Martna Baily makes them fresh daily."

Thorn didn't chuckle. "Poor taste, lad. There's too much tragedy in this town for levity."

"Funny," Mat said. He counted out about as much gold as he figured would be a good price for the food and the wagon. Then, after a moment, he added ten more silver crowns. He set all of this in a pile on the mayor's doorstep, then closed the chest. "The more tragic things get, the more / feel like laughing."

"Are we really going to take this wagon?"

"We need the food," Mat said, lashing the chest to the back of the wagon. Several large wheels of white cheese and a half dozen legs of mutton lay prominently alongside the casks of ale. The food smelled good, and his stomach rumbled. "I won it fair." He glanced at the villagers passing on the street. When he'd first seen them the day before, he'd thought the slowness of their pace was due to the lazy nature of the mountain villagers. Now it struck him that there was another reason entirely.

He turned back to his work, checking the horses' harness. "And I don't feel a bit bad taking the wagon and horses. I doubt these villagers are going to be doing much traveling in the future. …"

CHAPTER 29

Into Bandar Eban

" /f °iraim Damodred, who died became of my weakness. I 1/1 Rand slowed Tai'daishar to a walk as he passed through

JL ¥ JL the massive gateway to Bandar Eban, his entourage following, ranks of Aiel leading him. The gates were said to be carved with the city's seal, but swung open as they were, Rand couldn't see them.

The nameless Darkfriend I beheaded in those Murandian hills. I've forgotten the looks of the others with her, but I will never forget her face.

The list ran through his head. Almost a daily ritual now, the name of every woman who had died by his hand or because of his actions. The street inside the city was of packed earth, lined with ruts that crisscrossed at the intersections. The dirt was lighter here than he was used to.

Colavaere Saighan, who died because I made her a pauper.

He rode past ranks of Domani, women in diaphanous gowns, men with thin mustaches and colorful coats. The roadways here had wooden boardwalks at the sides, and the people crowded them, watching. Rand could hear banners and flags flapping in the wind. There seemed to be a lot of them in the city.

The list always began with Moiraine. That name hurt the most of all, for he could have saved her. He should have. He hated himself for allowing her to sacrifice herself for him.

A child stepped off the boardwalk and started to run out into the street, but his father caught him by the hand and hauled him back into the press of people. Some coughed and muttered, but most were silent. The sounds of Rand's troops marching on the packed earth seemed a thunder by comparison.

Was Lanfear alive again? If Ishamael could be returned, what about her? In that case, Moraine's death had been for naught, and his cowardice was even more galling. Never again. The list would remain, but he would never again be too weak to do what must be done.

There were no cheers from the people on those boardwalks. Well, he had not come to liberate. He had come to do what must be done. Perhaps he would find Graendal here; Asmodean said she had been in the country, but that had been so long ago. If he found her, perhaps that would assuage his conscience at invading.

Did he have one of those anymore? He could not decide.

Liab, of the Cosaida Chareen, whom I killed, telling myself it was for her own good. Oddly, Lews Therin started to chant with him, reading off the names, a strange, echoing chant inside his head.

Ahead, a large group of Aiel stood waiting for him in a city square set with copper fountains in the shape of horses leaping from a frothy wave. A man on horseback waited before the fountain, an honor guard around him. He was a solid, square-faced man with furrowed skin and gray hair. His forehead was shaved and powdered, after the fashion of Cairhienin soldiers. Dobraine was trustworthy, as much as any Cairhienin was, at least.

Sendara of the Iron Mountain Taardad, Lamelle of the Smoke Water Mi-agoma, Andhilin of the Red Salt Goshien.

Hyena Therin Moerelle, Lews Therin said, slipping the name in between two others. Rand let it stand. At least the madman didn't scream again.

"Lord Dragon," Dobraine said smoothly, bowing to Rand as he approached. "I deliver to you the city of Bandar Eban. Order has been restored, as you commanded."

"I asked you to restore order to the entire country, Dobraine," Rand said softly. "Not just one city."

The nobleman wilted slightly.

"You have one of the merchant council for me?" Rand asked.

"Yes," Dobraine said. "Milisair Chadmar, last to flee the city's chaos." His eyes were eager. He had always been stalwart, but was that a ruse?

Rand had trouble trusting anyone lately. The ones who seemed most trustworthy were the ones you needed to watch the most. And Dobraine was Cairhienin. Dared Rand trust anyone from Cairhien, with their games?

Moiraine was Cairbienin. I trusted her. Mostly.

Perhaps Dobraine hoped that Rand would choose him as king in Arad Doman. He had been steward of Cairhien, but he—like most others—knew that Rand intended Elayne for the Sun Throne.

Well, Rand might give this kingdom to Dobraine at that. He was better than most. Rand nodded for him to lead the way, and he did so, turning with the group of Aiel to march down a large side street. Rand continued, list still running through his mind.

The buildings here were tall and square, with the shape of boxes stacked atop one another. Many of them had balconies, packed with people, like the boardwalks beneath.

Each name on Rand's list pained him, but that pain was a strange, distant thing now. His feelings were . . . different since the day he had killed Semirhage. She had taught him how to bury his guilt and his hurt. She had thought to chain him, but instead had given him strength.

He added her name and Elza's name to the list. They didn't have any right to be there. Semirhage was less a woman and more a monster. Elza had betrayed him, serving the Shadow all along. But he added the names. They had as much claim on him for killing them as any. More, even. He had been unwilling to kill Lanfear to save Moiraine, but he had used balefire to burn Semirhage out of existence rather than allow himself to be captured again.

He fingered the object he carried in a pouch on his saddle. It was a smooth figurine. He had not told Cadsuane that his servants had recovered it from her room. Now that Cadsuane was exiled from his presence, he never would. He knew that she tagged along still with his entourage, pushing the limits of his command to never let him see her face. But she did as ordered, and so he let it be. He would not speak to her, and she would not speak to him.