Rand looked at Gode just in time to see the man’s body crumble to dust. For an instant the burned face held a look of sublime joy that turned to horror in the final moment, as if he had seen something waiting he did not expect. Gode’s empty velvet garments settled on the chair and the floor among the ash.
When he turned back, Ba’alzamon’s outstretched hand had become a fist. “You are mine, youngling, alive or dead. The Eye of the World will never serve you. I mark you as mine.” His fist opened, and a ball of flame shot out. It struck Rand in the face, exploding, searing.
Rand lurched awake in the dark, water dripping through the cloaks onto his face. His hand trembled as he touched his cheeks. The skin felt tender, as if sunburned.
Suddenly he realized Mat was twisting and moaning in his sleep. He shook him, and Mat came awake with a whimper.
“My eyes! Oh, Light, my eyes! He took my eyes!”
Rand held him close, cradling him against his chest as if he were a baby. “You’re all right, Mat. You’re all right. He can’t hurt us. We won’t let him.” He could feel Mat shaking, sobbing into his coat. “He can’t hurt us,” he whispered, and wished he believed it. What protects you makes you vulnerable. I am going mad.
Just before first light the downpour dwindled, the last drizzle fading as dawn came. The clouds remained, threatening until well into the morning. The wind came up, then, driving the clouds off to the south, baring a warmthless sun and slicing through their dripping wet clothes. They had not slept again, but groggily they donned their cloaks and set off eastward, Rand leading Mat by the hand. After a while Mat even felt well enough to complain about what the rain had done to his bowstring. Rand would not let him stop to exchange it for a dry string from his pocket, though; not yet.
They came on another village shortly after midday. Rand shivered harder at the sight of snug brick houses and smoke rising from chimneys, but he kept clear, leading Mat through the woods and fields to the south. A lone farmer working with a spading fork in a muddy field was the only person he saw, and he took care that the man did not see them, crouching through the trees. The farmer’s attention was all on his work, but Rand kept one eye on him till he was lost to sight. If any of Gode’s men were alive, perhaps they would believe he and Mat had taken the southern road out of Four Kings when they could not find anyone who had seen them in this village. They came back to the road out of sight of the town, and walked their clothes, if not dry, at least to just damp.
An hour beyond the town a farmer gave them a ride in his half-empty haywain. Rand had been taken by surprise while lost in worry about Mat. Mat shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand, weak as the afternoon light was, squinting through slitted lids even so, and he muttered continually about how bright the sun was. When Rand heard the rumble of the haywain, it was too late already. The sodden road deadened sound, and the wagon with its two-horse hitch was only fifty yards behind them, the driver already peering at them.
To Rand’s surprise he drew up and offered them a lift. Rand hesitated, but it was too late to avoid being seen, and refusing a ride might fix them in the man’s mind. He helped Mat up to the seat beside the farmer, then climbed up behind him.
Alpert Mull was a stolid man, with a square face and square hands, both worn and grooved from hard work and worry, and he wanted someone to talk to. His cows had gone dry, his chickens had stopped laying, and there was no pasture worth the name. For the first time in memory he had had to buy hay, and half a wagon was all “old Bain” would let him have. He wondered whether there was any chance of getting hay on his own land this year, or any kind of crop.
“The Queen should do something, the Light illumine her,” he muttered, knuckling his forehead respectfully but absentmindedly.
He hardly looked at Rand or Mat, but when he let them down by the narrow, rail-lined track that led off to his farm, he hesitated, then said, almost as if to himself, “I don’t know what you’re running from, and I don’t want to. I have a wife and children. You understand? My family. It’s hard times for helping strangers.”
Mat tried to stick his hand under his coat, but Rand had his wrist and he held on. He stood in the road, looking at the man without speaking.
“If I was a good man,” Mull said, “I’d offer a couple of lads soaked to the skin a place to dry out and get warm in front of my fire. But it’s hard times, and strangers . . . . I don’t know what you’re running from, and I don’t want to. You understand? My family.” Suddenly he pulled two long, woolen scarves, dark and thick, out of his coat pocket. “It’s not much, but here. Belong to my boys. They have others. You don’t know me, understand? It’s hard times.”
“We never even saw you,” Rand agreed as he took the scarves. “You are a good man. The best we’ve met in days.”
The farmer looked surprised, then grateful. Gathering his reins, he turned his horses down the narrow lane. Before he completed the turn Rand was leading Mat on down the Caemlyn Road.
The wind stiffened as dusk closed in. Mat began to ask querulously when they were going to stop, but Rand kept moving, pulling Mat behind him, searching for more shelter than a spot under a hedge. With their clothes still clammy and the wind getting colder by the minute, he was not sure they could survive another night in the open. Night fell without him spotting anything useful. The wind grew icy, beating his cloak. Then, through the darkness ahead, he saw lights. A village.
His hand slid into his pocket, feeling the coins there. More than enough for a meal and a room for the two of them. A room out of the cold night. If they stayed in the open, in the wind and cold in damp clothes, anyone who found them would likely as not find only two corpses. They just had to keep from attracting any more notice than they could help. No playing the flute, and with his eyes, Mat certainly could not juggle. He grasped Mat’s hand again and set out toward the beckoning lights.
“When are we going to stop?” Mat asked again. The way he peered ahead, with his head stuck forward, Rand was not sure if Mat could see him, much less the village lights.
“When we’re somewhere warm,” he replied.
Pools of light from house windows lit the streets of the town, and people walked them unconcerned with what might be out in the dark. The only inn was a sprawling building, all on one floor, with the look of having had rooms added in bunches over the years without any particular plan. The front door opened to let someone out, and a wave of laughter rolled out after him.
Rand froze in the street, the drunken laughter at The Dancing Cartman echoing in his head. He watched the man go down the street with a none-too-steady stride, then took a deep breath and pushed the door open. He took care that his cloak covered his sword. Laughter swept over him.
Lamps hanging from the high ceiling made the room bright, and right away he could see and feel the difference from Saml Hake’s inn. There was no drunkenness here, for one thing. The room was filled with people who looked to be farmers and townsmen, if not entirely sober, not too far from it. The laughter was real, if a bit forced around the edges. People laughing to forget their troubles, but with true mirth in it, too. The common room itself was neat and clean, and warm from a fire roaring in a big fireplace at the far end. The serving maids’ smiles were as warm as the fire, and when they laughed Rand could tell it was because they wanted to.
The innkeeper was as clean as his inn, with a gleaming white apron around his bulk. Rand was glad to see he was a stout man; he doubted if he would ever again trust a skinny innkeeper. His name was Rulan Allwine—a good omen, Rand thought, with so much of the sound of Emond’s Field to it—and he eyed them up and down, then politely mentioned paying in advance.
“Not suggesting you’re the sort, understand, but there’s some on the road these days aren’t too particular about paying up come morning. Seems to be a lot of young folks headed for Caemlyn.”
Rand was not offended, not as damp and bedraggled as he was. When Master Allwine mentioned the price, though, his eyes widened, and Mat made a s
ound as if he had choked on something.
The innkeeper’s jowls swung as he shook his head regretfully, but he seemed to be used to it. “Times are hard,” he said in a resigned voice. “There isn’t much, and what there is costs five times what it used to. It’ll be more next month, I’ll lay oath on it.”
Rand dug his money out and looked at Mat. Mat’s mouth tightened stubbornly. “You want to sleep under a hedge?” Rand asked. Mat sighed and reluctantly emptied his pocket. When the reckoning was paid, Rand grimaced at the little that remained to divide with Mat.
But ten minutes later they were eating stew at a table in a corner near the fireplace, pushing it onto their spoons with chunks of bread. The portions were not as large as Rand could have wished, but they were hot, and filling. Warmth from the hearth seeped into him slowly. He pretended to keep his eyes on his plate, but he watched the door intently. Those who came in or went out all looked like farmers, but it was not enough to quiet his fear.
Mat ate slowly, savoring each bite, though he muttered about the light from the lamps. After a time he dug out the scarf Alpert Mull had given him and wound it around his forehead, pulling it down until his eyes were almost hidden. That got them some looks Rand wished they could have avoided. He cleaned his plate hurriedly, urging Mat to do the same, then asked Master Allwine for their room.
The innkeeper seemed surprised that they were retiring so early, but he made no comment. He got a candle and showed them through a jumble of corridors to a small room, with two narrow beds, back in a far corner of the inn. When he left, Rand dropped his bundles beside his bed, tossed his cloak over a chair, and fell on the coverlet fully dressed. All of his clothes were still damp and uncomfortable, but if they had to run, he wanted to be ready. He left the sword belt on, too, and slept with his hand on the hilt.
A rooster crowing jerked him awake in the morning. He lay there, watching dawn lighten the window, and wondered if he dared sleep a little longer. Sleep during daylight, when they could be moving. A yawn made his jaws crack.
“Hey,” Mat exclaimed, “I can see!” He sat up on his bed, squinting around the room. “Some, anyway. Your face is still a little blurry, but I can tell who you are. I knew I’d be all right. By tonight I’ll see better than you do. Again.”
Rand sprang out of bed, scratching as he scooped up his cloak. His clothes were wrinkled from drying on him while he slept, and they itched. “We’re wasting daylight,” he said. Mat scrambled up as fast as he had; he was scratching, too.
Rand did feel good. They were a day away from Four Kings, and none of Gode’s men had showed up. A day closer to Caemlyn, where Moiraine would be waiting for them. She would. No more worrying about Darkfriends once they were back with the Aes Sedai and the Warder. It was strange to be looking forward so much to being with an Aes Sedai. Light, when I see Moiraine again, I’ll kiss her! He laughed at the thought. He felt good enough to invest some of their dwindling stock of coins in breakfast—a big loaf of bread and a pitcher of milk, cold from the spring house.
They were eating in the back of the common room when a young man came in, a village youth by the look of him, with a cocky spring to his walk and twirling a cloth cap, with a feather in it, on one finger. The only other person in the room was an old man sweeping out; he never looked up from his broom. The young man’s eyes swept jauntily around the room, but when they lit on Rand and Mat, the cap fell off his finger. He stared at them for a full minute before snatching the cap from the floor, then stared some more, running his fingers through his thick head of dark curls. Finally he came over to their table, his feet dragging.
He was older than Rand, but he stood looking down at them diffidently. “Mind if I sit down?” he asked, and immediately swallowed hard as if he might have said the wrong thing.
Rand thought he might be hoping to share their breakfast, though he looked able to buy his own. His blue-striped shirt was embroidered around the collar, and his dark blue cloak all around the hem. His leather boots had never been near any work that scuffed them, that Rand could see. He nodded to a chair.
Mat stared at the fellow as he drew the chair to the table. Rand could not tell if he was glaring or just trying to see clearly. In any case, Mat’s frown had an effect. The young man froze halfway to sitting, and did not lower himself all the way until Rand nodded again.
“What’s your name?” Rand asked.
“My name? My name. Ah . . . call me Paitr.” His eyes shifted nervously. “Ah . . . this is not my idea, you understand. I have to do it. I didn’t want to, but they made me. You have to understand that. I don’t—”
Rand was beginning to tense when Mat growled, “Darkfriend.”
Paitr gave a jerk and half lifted out of his chair, staring wildly around the room as if there were fifty people to overhear. The old man’s head was still bent over the broom, his attention on the floor. Paitr sat back down and looked from Rand to Mat and back uncertainly. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. It was accusation enough to make anyone sweat, but he said not a word against it.
Rand shook his head slowly. After Gode, he knew that Darkfriends did not necessarily have the Dragon’s Fang on their foreheads, but except for his clothes this Paitr could have fit right in Emond’s Field. Nothing about him hinted at murder and worse. Nobody would have remarked him twice. At least Gode had been . . . different.
“Leave us alone,” Rand said. “And tell your friends to leave us alone. We want nothing from them, and they’ll get nothing from us.”
“If you don’t,” Mat added fiercely, “I’ll name you for what you are. See what your village friends think of that.”
Rand hoped he did not really mean it. That could cause as much trouble for the two of them as it did for Paitr.
Paitr seemed to take the threat seriously. His face grew pale. “I . . . I heard what happened at Four Kings. Some of it, anyway. Word travels. We have ways of hearing things. But there’s nobody here to trap you. I’m alone, and . . . and I just want to talk.”
“About what?” Mat asked at the same time that Rand said, “We’re not interested.” They looked at each other, and Mat shrugged. “We’re not interested,” he said.
Rand gulped the last of the milk and stuffed the heel of his half of the bread into his pocket. With their money almost gone, it might be their next meal.
How to leave the inn? If Paitr discovered that Mat was almost blind, he would tell others . . . other Darkfriends. Once Rand had seen a wolf separate a crippled sheep from the flock; there were other wolves around, and he could neither leave the flock nor get a clear shot with his bow. As soon as the sheep was alone, bleating with terror, hobbling frantically on three legs, the one wolf chasing it became ten as if by magic. The memory of it turned his stomach. They could not stay there, either. Even if Paitr was telling the truth about being alone, how long would he stay that way?
“Time to go, Mat,” he said, and held his breath. As Mat started to stand, he pulled Paitr’s eyes to himself by leaning forward and saying, “Leave us alone, Darkfriend. I won’t tell you again. Leave—us—alone.”
Paitr swallowed hard and pressed back in his chair; there was no blood left in his face at all. It made Rand think of a Myrddraal.
By the time he looked back at Mat, Mat was on his feet, his awkwardness unseen. Rand hastily hung his own saddlebags and other bundles around him, trying to keep his cloak over the sword as he did. Maybe Paitr already knew about it; maybe Gode had told Ba’alzamon, and Ba’alzamon had told Paitr; but he did not think so. He thought Paitr had only the vaguest idea of what had happened in Four Kings. That was why he was so frightened.
The comparatively bright outline of the door helped Mat make a beeline for it, if not quickly, then not slow enough to seem unnatural, either. Rand followed closely, praying for him not to stumble. He was thankful Mat had a clear, straight path, with no tables or chairs in the way.
Behind him Paitr suddenly leaped to his feet. “Wait,” he said desperately. “You have to wait.”
“Leave us alone,” Rand said without looking back. They were almost to the door, and Mat had not put a foot wrong yet.
“Just listen to me,” Paitr said, and put his hand on Rand’s shoulder to stop him.
Images spun in his head. The Trolloc, Narg, leaping at him in his own home. The Myrddraal threatening at the Stag and Lion in Baerlon. Halfmen everywhere, Fades chasing them to Shadar Logoth, coming for them in Whitebridge. Darkfriends everywhere. He whirled, his hand balling up. “I said, leave us alone!” His fist took Paitr flush on the nose.
The Darkfriend fell on his bottom and sat there on the floor staring at Rand. Blood trickled from his nose. “You won’t get away,” he spat angrily. “No matter how strong you are, the Great Lord of the Dark is stronger. The Shadow will swallow you!”
There was a gasp from further into the common room, and the clatter of a broom handle hitting the floor. The old man with the broom had finally heard. He stood staring wide-eyed at Paitr. The blood drained from his wrinkled face and his mouth worked, but no sound came out. Paitr stared back for an instant, then gave a wild curse and sprang to his feet, darting out of the inn and down the street as if starving wolves were at his heels. The old man shifted his attention to Rand and Mat, looking not a whit less frightened.
Rand hustled Mat out of the inn and out of the village as fast as he could, listening all the while for a hue and cry that never came but was no less loud in his ears for that.
“Blood and ashes,” Mat growled, “they’re always there, always right on our heels. We’ll never get away.”
“No they’re not,” Rand said. “If Ba’alzamon knew we were here, do you think he’d have left it to that fellow? There’d have been another Gode, and twenty or thirty bullyboys. They’re still hunting, but they won’t know until Paitr tells them, and maybe he really is alone. He might have to go all the way to Four Kings, for all we know.”
The Wheel of Time Page 94