The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  Rand nodded. “I could live on the farm or in Emond’s Field, and that would be a small change. If I wanted to be a king, though. . . .” He laughed, and Loial gave a grin that almost split his face in two. His teeth were white, and as broad as chisels.

  “Yes, that’s it. But sometimes the change chooses you, or the Wheel chooses it for you. And sometimes the Wheel bends a life-thread, or several threads, in such a way that all the surrounding threads are forced to swirl around it, and those force other threads, and those still others, and on and on. That first bending to make the Web, that is ta’veren, and there is nothing you can do to change it, not until the Pattern itself changes. The Web—ta’maral’ailen, it’s called—can last for weeks, or for years. It can take in a town, or even the whole Pattern. Artur Hawkwing was ta’veren. So was Lews Therin Kinslayer, for that matter, I suppose.” He let out a booming chuckle. “Elder Haman would be proud of me. He always droned on, and the books about traveling were much more interesting, but I did listen sometimes.”

  “That’s all very well,” Rand said, “but I don’t see what it has to do with me. I’m a shepherd, not another Artur Hawkwing. And neither is Mat, or Perrin. It’s just . . . ridiculous.”

  “I didn’t say you were, but I could almost feel the Pattern swirl just listening to you tell your tale, and I have no Talent there. You are ta’veren, all right. You, and maybe your friends, too.” The Ogier paused, rubbing the bridge of his broad nose thoughtfully. Finally he nodded to himself as if he had reached a decision. “I wish to travel with you, Rand.”

  For a minute Rand stared, wondering if he had heard correctly. “With me?” he exclaimed when he could speak. “Didn’t you hear what I said about . . . ?” He eyed the door suddenly. It was shut tight, and thick enough that anyone trying to listen on the other side would hear only a murmur, even with his ear pressed against the wooden panels. Just the same he went on in a lower voice. “About who’s chasing me? Anyway, I thought you wanted to go see your trees.”

  “There is a very fine grove at Tar Valon, and I have been told the Aes Sedai keep it well tended. Besides, it is not just the groves I want to see. Perhaps you are not another Artur Hawkwing, but for a time, at least, part of the world will shape itself around you, perhaps is even now shaping itself around you. Even Elder Haman would want to see that.”

  Rand hesitated. It would be good to have someone else along. The way Mat was behaving, being with him was almost like being alone. The Ogier was a comforting presence. Maybe he was young as Ogier reckoned age, but he seemed as unflappable as a rock, just like Tam. And Loial had been all of those places, and knew about others. He looked at the Ogier, sitting there with his broad face a picture of patience. Sitting there, and taller sitting than most men standing. How do you hide somebody almost ten feet tall? He sighed and shook his head.

  “I don’t think that is a good idea, Loial. Even if Moiraine finds us here, we’ll be in danger all the way to Tar Valon. If she does not. . . .” If she doesn’t, then she’s dead and so is everyone else. Oh, Egwene. He gave himself a shake. Egwene was not dead, and Moiraine would find them.

  Loial looked at him sympathetically and touched his shoulder. “I am sure your friends are well, Rand.”

  Rand nodded his thanks. His throat was too tight to speak.

  “Will you at least talk with me sometimes?” Loial sighed, a bass rumble. “And perhaps play a game of stones? I have not had anyone to talk to in days, except good Master Gill, and he is busy most of the time. The cook seems to run him unmercifully. Perhaps she really owns the inn?”

  “Of course, I will.” His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried to grin. “And if we meet in Tar Valon, you can show me the grove there.” They have to be all right. Light send they’re all right.

  CHAPTER

  37

  The Long Chase

  Nynaeve gripped the reins of the three horses and peered into the night as if she could somehow pierce the darkness and find the Aes Sedai and the Warder. Skeletal trees surrounded her, stark and black in the dim moonlight. The trees and the night made an effective screen for Whatever Moiraine and Lan were doing, not that either of them had paused to let her know what that was. A low “Keep the horses quiet,” from Lan, and they were gone, leaving her standing like a stableboy. She glanced at the horses and sighed with exasperation.

  Mandarb blended into the night almost as well as his master’s cloak. The only reason the battle-trained stallion was letting her get this close was because Lan had handed her the reins himself. He seemed calm enough now, but she remembered all too well the lips drawing back silently when she reached for his bridle without waiting for Lan’s approval. The silence had made the bared teeth seem that much more dangerous. With a last wary look at the stallion, she turned to peer in the direction the other two had gone, idly stroking her own horse. She gave a startled jump when Aldieb pushed a pale muzzle under her hand, but after a minute she gave the white mare a pat, too.

  “No need to take it out on you, I suppose,” she whispered, “just because your mistress is a cold-faced—” She strained at the darkness again. What were they doing?

  After leaving Whitebridge they had ridden through villages that seemed unreal in their normality, ordinary market villages that seemed to Nynaeve unconnected to a world that had Fades and Trollocs and Aes Sedai. They had followed the Caemlyn Road, until at last Moiraine sat forward in Aldieb’s saddle, peering eastward as if she could see the whole length of the great highway, all the many miles to Caemlyn, and see, too, what waited there.

  Eventually the Aes Sedai let out a long breath and settled back. “The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills,” she murmured, “but I cannot believe it weaves an end to hope. I must first take care of that of which I can be certain. It will be as the Wheel weaves.” And she turned her mare north, off the road into the forest. One of the boys was in that direction with the coin Moiraine had given him. Lan followed.

  Nynaeve gave a long last look at the Caemlyn Road. Few people shared the roadway with them there, a couple of high-wheeled carts and one empty wagon in the distance, a handful of folk afoot with their belongings on their backs or piled on pushcarts. Some of those were willing to admit they were on their way to Caemlyn to see the false Dragon, but most denied it vehemently, especially those who had come through Whitebridge. At Whitebridge she had begun to believe Moiraine. Somewhat. More, at any rate. And there was no comfort in that.

  The Warder and the Aes Sedai were almost out of sight through the trees before she started after them. She hurried to catch up. Lan looked back at her frequently, and waved for her to come on, but he kept at Moiraine’s shoulder, and the Aes Sedai had her eyes fixed ahead.

  One evening after they left the road, the invisible trail failed. Moiraine, the unflappable Moiraine, suddenly stood up beside the small fire where the tea kettle was boiling, her eyes widening. “It is gone,” she whispered at the night.

  “He is . . . ?” Nynaeve could not finish the question. Light, I don’t even know which one it is!

  “He did not die,” the Aes Sedai said slowly, “but he no longer has the token.” She sat down, her voice level and her hands steady as she took the kettle off the flames and tossed in a handful of tea. “In the morning we will keep on as we’ve been going. When I get close enough, I can find him without the coin.”

  As the fire burned down to coals, Lan rolled himself in his cloak and went to sleep. Nynaeve could not sleep. She watched the Aes Sedai. Moiraine had her eyes closed, but she sat upright, and Nynaeve knew she was awake.

  Long after the last glow had faded from the coals, Moiraine opened her eyes and looked at her. She could feel the Aes Sedai’s smile even in the dark. “He has regained the coin, Wisdom. All will be well.” She lay down on her blankets with a sigh and almost at once was breathing deep in slumber.

  Nynaeve had a hard time joining her, tired as she was. Her mind conjured up the worst no matter how she tried to stop it. All will be well. After Whiteb
ridge, she could no longer make herself believe that so easily.

  Abruptly Nynaeve was jerked from memory back to the night; there really was a hand on her arm. Stifling the cry that rose in her throat, she fumbled for the knife at her belt, her hand closing on the hilt before she realized that the hand was Lan’s.

  The Warder’s hood was thrown back, but his chameleon-like cloak blended so well with the night that the dim blur of his face seemed to hang suspended in the night. The hand on her arm appeared to come out of thin air.

  She drew a shuddering breath. She expected him to comment on how easily he had come on her unaware, but instead he turned to dig into his saddlebags. “You are needed,” he said, and knelt to fasten hobbles on the horses.

  As soon as the horses were secured, he straightened, grasped her hand, and headed off into the night again. His dark hair fit into the night almost as well as his cloak, and he made even less noise than she did. Grudgingly she had to admit that she could never have followed him through the darkness without his grip as a guide. She was not certain she could pull loose if he did not want to release her, anyway; he had very strong hands.

  As they came up on a small rise, barely enough to be called a hill, he sank to one knee, pulling her down beside him. It took her a moment to see that Moiraine was there, too. Unmoving, the Aes Sedai could have passed for a shadow in her dark cloak. Lan gestured down the hillside to a large clearing in the trees.

  Nynaeve frowned in the dim moonlight, then suddenly smiled in understanding. Those pale blurs were tents in regular rows, a darkened encampment.

  “Whitecloaks,” Lan whispered, “two hundred of them, maybe more. There’s good water down there. And the lad we’re after.”

  “In the camp?” She felt, more than saw, Lan nod.

  “In the middle of it. Moiraine can point right to him. I went close enough to see he’s under guard.”

  “A prisoner?” Nynaeve said. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. The Children should not be interested in a village boy, not unless there was something to make them suspicious. The Light knows it doesn’t take much to make Whitecloaks suspicious, but it still worries me.”

  “How are you going to free him?” It was not until he glanced at her that she realized how much assurance there had been in her that he could march into the middle of two hundred men and come back with the boy. Well, he is a Warder. Some of the stories must be true.

  She wondered if he was laughing at her, but his voice was flat and businesslike. “I can bring him out, but he’ll likely be in no shape for stealth. If we’re seen, we may find two hundred Whitecloaks on our heels, and us riding double. Unless they are too busy to chase us. Are you willing to take a chance?”

  “To help an Emond’s Fielder? Of course! What kind of chance?”

  He pointed into the darkness again, beyond the tents. This time she could make out nothing but shadows. “Their horse-lines. If the picket-ropes are cut, not all the way through, but enough so they’ll break when Moiraine creates a diversion, the Whitecloaks will be too busy chasing their own horses to come after us. There are two guards on that side of the camp, beyond the picket-lines, but if you are half as good as I think you are, they’ll never see you.”

  She swallowed hard. Stalking rabbits was one thing; guards, though, with spears and swords. . . . So he thinks I’m good, does he? “I’ll do it.”

  Lan nodded again, as if he had expected no less. “One other thing. There are wolves about, tonight. I saw two, and if I saw that many, there are probably more.” He paused, and though his voice did not change she had the feeling he was puzzled. “It was almost as if they wanted me to see them. Anyway, they shouldn’t bother you. Wolves usually stay away from people.”

  “I wouldn’t have known that,” she said sweetly. “I only grew up around shepherds.” He grunted, and she smiled into the darkness.

  “We’ll do it now, then,” he said.

  Her smile faded as she peered down at the camp full of armed men. Two hundred men with spears and swords and. . . . Before she could reconsider, she eased her knife in its sheath and started to slip away. Moiraine caught her arm in a grip almost as strong as Lan’s.

  “Take care,” the Aes Sedai said softly. “Once you cut the ropes, return as quickly as you can. You are a part of the Pattern, too, and I would not risk you, any more than any of the others, if the whole world was not at risk in these days.”

  Nynaeve rubbed her arm surreptitiously when Moiraine released it. She was not about to let the Aes Sedai know the grip had hurt. But Moiraine turned back to watching the camp below as soon as she let go. And the Warder was gone, Nynaeve realized with a start. She had not heard him leave. Light blind the bloody man! Quickly she tied her skirts up to give her legs freedom, and hurried into the night.

  After that first rush, with fallen branches cracking under her feet, she slowed down, glad there was no one there to see her blush. The idea was to be quiet, and she was not in any kind of competition with the Warder. Oh, no?

  She shook off the thought and concentrated on making her way through the dark woods. It was not hard in and of itself; the faint light of the waning moon was more than enough for anyone who had been taught by her father, and the ground had a slow, easy roll. But the trees, bare and stark against the night sky, constantly reminded her that this was no childhood game, and the keening wind sounded all too much like Trolloc horns. Now that she was alone in the darkness, she remembered that the wolves that usually ran away from people had been behaving differently in the Two Rivers this winter.

  Relief flooded through her like warmth when she finally caught the smell of horses. Almost holding her breath, she got down on her stomach and crawled upwind, toward the smell.

  She was nearly on the guards before she saw them, marching toward her out of the night, white cloaks flapping in the wind and almost shining in the moonlight. They might as well have carried torches; torchlight could not have made them much more visible. She froze, trying to make herself a part of the ground. Nearly in front of her, not ten paces away, they marched to a halt with a stomp of feet, facing each other, spears shouldered. Just beyond them she could make out shadows that had to be the horses. The stable smell, horse and manure, was strong.

  “All is well with the night,” one white-cloaked shape announced. “The Light illumine us, and protect us from the Shadow.”

  “All is well with the night,” the other replied. “The Light illumine us, and protect us from the Shadow.”

  With that they turned and marched off into the darkness again.

  Nynaeve waited, counting to herself while they made their circuit twice. Each time they took exactly the same count, and each time they rigidly repeated the same formula, not a word more or less. Neither so much as glanced to one side; they stared straight ahead as they marched up, then marched away. She wondered if they would have noticed her even if she had been standing up.

  Before the night swallowed the pale swirls of their cloaks a third time, she was already on her feet, running in a crouch toward the horses. As she came close, she slowed so as not to startle the animals. The Whitecloak guards might not see what was not shoved under their noses, but they would certainly investigate if the horses suddenly began whickering.

  The horses along the picket-lines—there was more than one row—were barely realized masses in the darkness, heads down. Occasionally one snorted or stamped a foot in its sleep. In the dim moonlight she was nearly on the endpost of the picket-line before she saw it. She reached for the picket-line, and froze when the nearest horse raised its head and looked at her. Its single lead-rein was tied in a big loop around the thumb-thick line that ended at the post. One whinny. Her heart tried to pound its way out of her chest, sounding loud enough to bring the guards.

  Never taking her eyes off the horse, she sliced at the picket-rope, feeling in front of her blade to see how far she had cut. The horse tossed its head, and her breath went cold. Just one whinny.

  Only a few
thin strands of hemp remained whole under her fingers. Slowly she headed toward the next line, watching the horse until she could no longer see if it was looking at her or not, then drew a ragged breath. If they were all like that, she did not think she would last.

  At the next picket-rope, though, and the next, and the next, the horses remained asleep, even when she cut her thumb and bit off a yelp. Sucking the cut, she looked warily back the way she had come. Upwind as she was, she could no longer hear the guards make their exchange, but they might have heard her if they were in the right place. If they were coming to see what the noise had been, the wind would keep her from hearing them until they were right on top of her. Time to go. With four horses out of five running loose, they won’t be chasing anyone.

  But she did not move. She could imagine Lan’s eyes when he heard what she had done. There would be no accusation in them; her reasoning was sound, and he would not expect any more of her. She was a Wisdom, not a bloody great invincible Warder who could make himself all but invisible. Jaw set, she moved to the last picket-line. The first horse on it was Bela.

  There was no mistaking that squat, shaggy shape; for there to be another horse like that, here and now, was too big a coincidence. Suddenly she was so glad that she had not left off this last line that she was shaking. Her arms and legs trembled so that she was afraid to touch the picket-rope, but her mind was as clear as the Winespring Water. Whichever of the boys was in the camp, Egwene was there, too. And if they left riding double, some of the Children would catch them no matter how well the horses were scattered, and some of them would die. She was as certain as if she were listening to the wind. That stuck a spike of fear into her belly, fear of how she was certain. This had nothing to do with weather or crops or sickness. Why did Moiraine tell me I can use the Power? Why couldn’t she leave me alone?