WOT Prequel 02 - New Spring

by New Spring [lit]

  memories of Malkier already were dying. A nation was memory as much as land.

  "That boy at the gates might let his hair grow and ask his father for the

  hadori." People were forgetting, trying to forget. When the last man who bound

  his hair was gone, the last woman who painted her forehead, would Malkier truly

  be gone, too? "Why, Ryne might even get rid of those braids." Any trace of mirth

  dropped from his voice as he added, "But is it worth the cost? Some seem to

  think so." Bukama snorted, yet there had been a pause. He might be one of those

  who did.

  Striding to the stall that held Sun Lance, the older man began to fiddle with

  his roan's saddle as though suddenly forgetting why he had moved. "There's

  always a cost for anything," he said, not looking up. "But there are costs, and

  costs. The Lady Edeyn. . ." He glanced at Lan, then turned to face him. "She was

  always one to demand every right and require the smallest obligation be met.

  Custom ties strings to you, and whatever you choose, she will use them like a

  set of reins unless you find a way to avoid it."

  Carefully Lan tucked his thumbs behind his swordbelt. Bukama had carried him out

  of Malkier tied to his back. The last of the five. Bukama had the right of a

  free tongue even when it touched Lan's carneira. "How do you suggest I avoid my

  obligations without shame?" he asked more harshly than he had intended. Taking a

  deep breath, he went on in a milder tone. "Come; the common room smells much

  better than this. Ryne suggested a round of the taverns tonight. Unless Mistress

  Arovni has claims on you. Oh, yes. How much will our rooms cost? Good rooms? Not

  too dear, I hope."

  Bukama joined him on the way to the doors, his face going red. "Not too dear,"

  he said hastily. "You have a pallet in the attic, and I . . . ah . . . I'm in

  Racelle's rooms. I'd like to make a round, but I think Racelle . . . I don't

  think she means to let me . . . I . . . Young whelp!" he growled. "There's a

  lass named Lira in there who's letting it be known you won't be using that

  pallet tonight, or getting much sleep, so don't think you can — !" He cut off as

  they walked into the sunlight, bright after the dimness inside. The greylark

  still sang of spring.

  Six men were striding across the otherwise empty yard. Six ordinary men with

  swords at their belts, like any men on any street in the city. Yet Lan knew

  before their hands moved, before their eyes focused on him and their steps

  quickened. He had faced too many men who wanted to kill him not to know. And at

  his side stood Bukama, bound by oaths that would not let him raise a hand even

  had he been wearing his blade. If they both tried to get back inside the stable,

  the men would be on them before they could haul the doors shut. Time slowed,

  flowed like cool honey.

  "Inside and bar the doors!" Lan snapped as his hand went to his hilt. "Obey me,

  armsman!"

  Never in his life had he given Bukama a command in that fashion, and the man

  hesitated a heartbeat, then bowed formally. "My life is yours, Dai Shan," he

  said in a thick voice. "I obey."

  As Lan moved forward to meet his attackers, he heard the bar drop inside with a

  muffled thud. Relief was distant. He floated in ko'di, one with the sword that

  came smoothly out of its scabbard. One with the men rushing at him, boots

  thudding on the hard-packed ground as they bared steel.

  A lean heron of a fellow darted ahead of the others, and Lan danced the forms.

  Time like cool honey. The greylark sang, and the lean man shrieked as Cutting

  the Clouds removed his right hand at the wrist, and Lan flowed to one side so

  the rest could not all come at him together, flowed from form to form. Soft Rain

  at Sunset laid open a fat man's face, took his left eye, and a ginger-haired

  young splinter drew a gash across Lan's ribs with Black Pebbles on Snow. Only in

  stories did one man face six without injury. The Rose Unfolds sliced down a bald

  man's left arm, and ginger-hair nicked the corner of Lan's eye. Only in stories

  did one man face six and survive. He had known that from the start. Duty was a

  mountain, death a feather, and his duty was to Bukama, who had carried an infant

  on his back. For this moment he lived, though, so he fought, kicking ginger-hair

  in the head, dancing his way towards death, danced and took wounds, bled and

  danced the razor's edge of life. Time like cool honey, flowing from form to

  form, and there could only be one ending. Thought was distant. Death was a

  feather. Dandelion in the Wind slashed open the now one-eyed fat man's throat —

  he had barely paused when his face was ruined — a fork-bearded fellow with

  shoulders like a blacksmith gasped in surprise as Kissing the Adder put Lan's

  steel through his heart.

  And suddenly Lan realized that he alone stood, with six men sprawled across the

  width of the stableyard. The ginger-haired youth thrashed his heels on the

  ground one last time, and then only Lan of the seven still breathed. He shook

  blood from his blade, bent to wipe the last drops off on the blacksmith's

  too-fine coat, sheathed his sword as formally as if he were in the training yard

  under Bukama's eye.

  Abruptly people flooded out of the inn, cooks and stablemen, maids and patrons

  shouting to know what all the noise was about, staring at the dead men in

  astonishment. Ryne was the very first, sword already in hand, his face blank as

  he came to stand by Lan. "Six," he muttered, studying the bodies. "You really do

  have the Dark One's own flaming luck."

  Dark-eyed Lira reached Lan only moments before Bukama, the pair of them gently

  parting slashes in his clothes to examine his injuries. She shivered delicately

  as each was revealed, but she discussed whether an Aes Sedai should be sent for

  to give Healing and how much stitching was needed in as calm a tone as Bukama,

  and disparagingly dismissed his hand on the needle in favour of her own.

  Mistress Arovni stalked about, holding her skirts up out of patches of bloody

  mud, glaring at the corpses littering her stableyard, complaining in a loud

  voice that gangs of footpads would never be wandering in daylight if the Watch

  was doing its job. The Domani woman who had stared at Lan inside agreed just as

  loudly, and for her pains received a sharp command from the innkeeper to fetch

  them, along with a shove to start her on her way. It was a measure of Mistress

  Arovni's shock that she treated one of her patrons so, a measure of everyone's

  shock that the Domani woman went running without complaint. The innkeeper began

  organizing men to drag the bodies out of sight, still going on about footpads.

  Ryne looked from Bukama to the stable as though he did not understand — perhaps

  he did not, at that — but what he said was, "Not footpads, I think." He pointed

  to the fellow who looked like a blacksmith. "That one listened to Edeyn Arrel

  when she was here, and he liked what he heard. One of the others did, too, I

  think." Bells chimed as he shook his head. "It's peculiar. The first she said of

  raising the Golden Crane was after we heard you were dead outside the Shining

  Walls. Your name brings men, but with you dead, she could be el'Edeyn." He
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  spread his hands at the looks Lan and Bukama shot him. "I make no accusations,"

  he said hastily. "I'd never accuse the Lady Edeyn of any such thing. I'm sure

  she is full of all a woman's tender mercy." Mistress Arovni gave a grunt like a

  fist, and Lira murmured half under her breath that the pretty Arafellin did not

  know much about women.

  Lan shook his head. Edeyn might decide to have him killed if it suited her

  purposes, she might have left orders here and there in case the rumours about

  him proved false, but if she had, that was still no reason to speak her name in

  connection with this, especially in front of strangers.

  Bukama's hands stilled, holding open a slash down Lan's sleeve. "Where do we go

  from here?" he asked quietly.

  "Chachin," Lan said after a moment. There was always a choice, but sometimes

  every choice was grim. "You'll have to leave Sun Lance. I mean to depart at

  first light tomorrow." His gold would stretch to a new mount for the man.

  "Six!" Ryne growled, sheathing his sword with considerable force. "I think I'll

  ride with you. I'd as soon not go back to Shol Arbela until I'm sure Ceiline

  Noreman doesn't lay her husband's death at my boots. And it will be good to see

  the Golden Crane flying again."

  Lan nodded. To put his hand on the banner and abandon what he had promised

  himself all those years ago, or to stop her, if he could. Either way, he had to

  face Edeyn. The Blight would have been much easier.

  Chasing after prophecy, Moiraine had decided by the end of the first month,

  involved very little adventure and a great deal of saddlesoreness and

  frustration. The Three Oaths still made her skin feel too tight. The wind

  rattled the shutters, and she shifted on the hard wooden chair, hiding

  impatience behind a sip of honeyless tea. In Kandor, comforts were kept to a

  minimum in a house of mourning. She would not have been overly surprised to see

  frost on the leaf-carved furniture or the metal clock above the cold hearth.

  "It was all so strange, my Lady," Mistress Najima sighed, and for the tenth time

  hugged her daughters. Perhaps thirteen or fourteen, standing close to their

  mother's chair, Colar and Eselle had her long black hair and large blue eyes

  still full of loss. Their mother's eyes seemed big, too, in a face shrunken by

  tragedy, and her plain grey dress appeared made for a larger woman. "Josef was

  always careful with lanterns in the stable," she went on, "and he never allowed

  any kind of open flame. The boys must have carried little Jerid out to see their

  father at his work, and . . . " Another hollow sigh. "They were all trapped. How

  could the whole stable be ablaze so fast? It makes no sense."

  "Little is ever senseless," Moiraine said soothingly, setting her cup on the

  small table at her elbow. She felt sympathy, but the woman had begun repeating

  herself. "We cannot always see the reason, yet we can take some comfort in

  knowing there is one. The Wheel of Time weaves us into the Pattern as it wills,

  but the Pattern is the work of the Light."

  Hearing herself, she suppressed a wince. Those words required dignity and weight

  her youth failed to supply. If only time could pass faster. At least for the

  next five years or so. Five years should give her her full strength and provide

  all the dignity and weight she would ever need. But then, the agelessness that

  came after working long enough with the One Power would only have made her

  present task more difficult. The last thing she could afford was anyone

  connecting an Aes Sedai to her visits.

  "As you say, my Lady," the other woman murmured politely, though an unguarded

  shift of pale eyes spoke her thoughts. This outlander was a foolish child. The

  small blue stone of a kesiera dangling from a fine golden chain on to Moiraine's

  forehead and a dark green dress with six slashes of colour across the breast,

  far fewer than she was entitled to, made Mistress Najima think her merely a

  Cairhienin noblewoman, one of many wandering since the Aiel ruined Cairhien. A

  noblewoman of a minor House, named Alys not Moiraine, making sympathy calls in

  mourning for her own king, killed by the Aiel. The fiction was easy to maintain,

  though she did not mourn her uncle in the least.

  Perhaps sensing that her thoughts had been too clear, Mistress Najima started up

  again, speaking quickly. "It's just that Josef was always so lucky, my Lady.

  Everyone spoke of it. They said if Josef Najima fell down a hole, there'd be

  opals at the bottom. When he answered the Lady Kareil's call to go fight the

  Aiel, I worried, but he never took a scratch. When camp fever struck, it never

  touched us or the children. Josef gained the Lady's favour without trying. Then

  it seemed the Light truly did shine on us. Jerid was born safe and whole, and

  the war ended, all in a matter of days, and when we came home to Canluum, the

  Lady gave us the livery stable for Josef's service, and . . . and . . ." She

  swallowed tears she would not shed. Colar began to weep, and her mother pulled

  her closer, whispering comfort.

  Moiraine rose. More repetition. There was nothing here for her. Jurine stood,

  too, not a tall woman, yet almost a hand taller than she. Either of the girls

  could look her in the eyes. She had grown accustomed to that since leaving

  Cairhien. Forcing herself to take time, she murmured more condolences and tried

  to press a washleather purse on the woman as the girls brought her fur-lined

  cloak and gloves. A small purse. Obtaining coin meant visits to the bankers and

  a clear trail. Not that the Aiel had left her estates in a condition to provide

  much money for some years yet. And not that anyone was likely to be looking for

  her. Still, discovery might be decidedly unpleasant.

  The woman's stiff-necked refusal to take the purse irritated Moiraine. No, that

  was not the real reason. She understood pride, and besides, Lady Kareil had

  provided. The real irritant was her own desire to be gone. Jurine Najima had

  lost her husband and three sons in one fiery morning, but her Jerid had been

  born in the wrong place by almost twenty miles. The search continued. Moiraine

  did not like feeling relief in connection with the death of an infant. Yet she

  did.

  Outside under a grey sky, she gathered her cloak tightly. Ignoring the cold was

  a simple trick, but anyone who went about the streets of Canluum with open cloak

  would draw stares. Any outlander, at least, unless clearly Aes Sedai. Besides,

  not allowing the cold to touch you did not make you unaware of it. How these

  people could call this "new spring" without a hint of mockery was beyond her.

  Despite the near freezing wind that gusted over the rooftops, the winding

  streets were packed, requiring her to pick her way through a milling mass of

  people and carts and wagons. The world had certainly come to Canluum. A

  Taraboner with heavy moustaches pushed past her muttering a hasty apology, and

  an olive-skinned Altaran woman who scowled at Moiraine, then an Illianer with a

  beard that left his upper lip bare, a very pretty fellow and not too tall.

  Another day she might have enjoyed the sight of him, in another city. Now, he

  barely registered. It was women she watch
ed, especially those well-dressed, in

  silks or fine woollens. If only so many were not veiled. Twice she saw Aes Sedai

  strolling through the crowds, neither a woman she had ever met. Neither glanced

  in her direction, but she kept her head down and stayed to the other side of the

  street. Perhaps she should put on a veil. A stout woman brushed by, features

  blurred behind lace. Sierin Vayu herself could have passed unrecognized at ten

  feet in one of those.

  Moiraine shivered at the thought, ridiculous as it was. If the new Amyrlin

  learned what she was up to . . . Inserting herself into secret plans, unbidden

  and unannounced, would not go unpunished. No matter that the Amyrlin who had

  made them was dead in her sleep and another woman sat on the Amyrlin Seat. Being

  sequestered on a farm until the search was done was the least she could expect.

  It was not just. She and her friend Siuan had helped gather the names, in the

  guise of offering assistance to any woman who had given birth during the days

  when the Aiel threatened Tar Valon itself. Of all the women involved in that

  gathering, just they two knew the real reason. They had winnowed those names for

  Tamra. Only children born outside the city's walls had really been important,

  though the promised aid went to every woman found, of course. Only boys born on

  the west bank of the River Erinin, boys who might have been born on the slopes

  of Dragonmount.

  Behind her a woman shouted shrilly, angrily, and Moiraine jumped a foot before

  she realized it was a wagon-driver, brandishing her whip at a hawker to hustle

  his pushcart of steaming meat pies out of her way. Light! A farm was the least

  she could expect! A few men around Moiraine laughed raucously at her leap, and

  one, a dark-faced Tairen in a striped cloak, made a rude joke about the cold

  wind curling under her skirts. The laughter grew.

  Moiraine stalked ahead stiffly, cheeks crimson, hand tight on the silver hilt of

  her beltknife. Unthinking, she embraced the True Source, and the One Power

  flooded her with joyous life. A single glance over her shoulder was all she

  needed; with saidar in her, smells became sharper, colours truer. She could have

  counted the threads in the cloak the Tairen was letting flap while he laughed.

  She channelled fine flows of the Power, of Air, and the fellow's baggy breeches