The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  Hastily he twisted himself around to a seat on the flat, narrow top of the wall. The leafy branches of a towering tree stuck out over his head, but he had no thought for that. He looked across tiled rooftops, but from the wall his line of sight was clear. He leaned out, just a little, and could see the Palace gate, and the Queen’s Guards drawn up there, and the expectant crowd. Expectant. Their shouts drowned out by the thunder of drums and trumpets, but waiting still. He grinned. I won.

  Even as he settled in place, the first part of the procession rounded the final curve before the Palace. Twenty ranks of trumpeters came first, splitting the air with peal after triumphant peal, a fanfare of victory. Behind them, as many drummers thundered. Then came the banners of Caemlyn, white lions on red, borne by mounted men, followed by the soldiers of Caemlyn, rank on rank on rank of horsemen, armor gleaming, lances proudly held, crimson pennants fluttering. Treble rows of pikemen and archers flanked them, and came on and on after the horsemen began passing between the waiting Guards and through the Palace gates.

  The last of the foot soldiers rounded the curve, and behind them was a massive wagon. Sixteen horses pulled it in hitches of four. In the center of its flat bed was a large cage of iron bars, and on each corner of the wagonbed sat two women, watching the cage as intently as if the procession and the crowd did not exist. Aes Sedai, he was certain. Between the wagon and the footmen, and to either side, rode a dozen Warders, their cloaks swirling and tangling the eye. If the Aes Sedai ignored the crowd, the Warders scanned it as if there were no other guards but they.

  With all of that, it was the man in the cage who caught and held Rand’s eyes. He was not close enough to see Logain’s face, as he had wanted to, but suddenly he thought he was as close as he cared for. The false Dragon was a tall man, with long, dark hair curling around his broad shoulders. He held himself upright against the sway of the wagon with one hand on the bars over his head. His clothes seemed ordinary, a cloak and coat and breeches that would not have caused comment in any farming village. But the way he wore them. The way he held himself. Logain was a king in every inch of him. The cage might as well not have been there. He held himself erect, head high, and looked over the crowd as if they had come to do him honor. And wherever his gaze swept, there the people fell silent, staring back in awe. When Logain’s eyes left them, they screamed with redoubled fury as if to make up for their silence, but it made no difference in the way the man stood, or in the silence that passed along with him. As the wagon rolled through the Palace gates, he turned to look back at the assembled masses. They howled at him, beyond words, a wave of sheer animal hate and fear, and Logain threw back his head and laughed as the Palace swallowed him.

  Other contingents followed behind the wagons, with banners representing more who had fought and defeated the false Dragon. The Golden Bees of Illian, the three White Crescents of Tear, the Rising Sun of Cairhien, others, many others, of nations and of cities, and of great men with their own trumpets, their own drums to thunder their grandeur. It was anticlimactic after Logain.

  Rand leaned out a bit further to try to catch one last sight of the caged man. He was defeated, wasn’t he? Light, he wouldn’t be in a bloody cage if he wasn’t defeated.

  Overbalanced, he slipped and grabbed at the top of the wall, pulled himself back to a somewhat safer seat. With Logain gone, he became aware of the burning in his hands, where the stone had scraped his palms and fingers. Yet he could not shake free of the images. The cage and the Aes Sedai. Logain, undefeated. No matter the cage, that had not been a defeated man. He shivered and rubbed his stinging hands on his thighs.

  “Why were the Aes Sedai watching him?” he wondered aloud.

  “They’re keeping him from touching the True Source, silly.”

  He jerked to look up, toward the girl’s voice, and suddenly his precarious seat was gone. He had only time to realize that he was toppling backward, falling, when something struck his head and a laughing Logain chased him into spinning darkness.

  CHAPTER

  40

  The Web Tightens

  It seemed to Rand that he was sitting at table with Logain and Moiraine. The Aes Sedai and the false Dragon sat watching him silently, as if neither knew the other was there. Abruptly he realized the walls of the room were becoming indistinct, fading off into gray. A sense of urgency built in him. Everything was going, blurring away. When he looked back to the table, Moiraine and Logain had vanished, and Ba’alzamon sat there instead. Rand’s whole body vibrated with urgency; it hummed inside his head, louder and louder. The hum became the pounding of blood in his ears.

  With a jerk he sat up, and immediately groaned and clutched his head, swaying. His whole skull hurt; his left hand found sticky dampness in his hair. He was sitting on the ground, on green grass. That troubled him, vaguely, but his head spun and everything he looked at lurched, and all he could think of was lying down until it stopped.

  The wall! The girl’s voice!

  Steadying himself with one hand flat on the grass, he looked around slowly. He had to do it slowly; when he tried to turn his head quickly everything started whirling again. He was in a garden, or a park; a slate-paved walk meandered by through flowering bushes not six feet away, with a white stone bench beside it and a leafy arbor over the bench for shade. He had fallen inside the wall. And the girl?

  He found the tree, close behind his back, and found her, too—climbing down out of it. She reached the ground and turned to face him, and he blinked and groaned again. A deep blue velvet cloak lined with pale fur rested on her shoulders, its hood hanging down behind to her waist with a cluster of silver bells at the peak. They jingled when she moved. A silver filigree circlet held her long, red-gold curls, and delicate silver rings hung at her ears, while a necklace of heavy silver links and dark green stones he thought were emeralds lay around her throat. Her pale blue dress was smudged with bark stains from her tree climbing, but it was still silk, and embroidered with painstakingly intricate designs, the skirt slashed with inserts the color of rich cream. A wide belt of woven silver encircled her waist, and velvet slippers peeked from under the hem of her dress.

  He had only ever seen two women dressed in this fashion, Moiraine and the Darkfriend who had tried to kill Mat and him. He could not begin to imagine who would choose to climb trees in clothes like that, but he was sure she had to be someone important. The way she was looking at him redoubled the impression. She did not seem in the least troubled at having a stranger tumble into her garden. There was a self-possession about her that made him think of Nynaeve, or Moiraine.

  He was so enmeshed in worrying whether or not he had gotten himself into trouble, whether or not she was someone who could and would call the Queen’s Guards even on a day when they had other things to occupy them, that it took him a few moments to see past the elaborate clothes and lofty attitude to the girl herself. She was perhaps two or three years younger than he, tall for a girl, and beautiful, her face a perfect oval framed by that mass of sunburst curls, her lips full and red, her eyes bluer than he could believe. She was completely different from Egwene in height and face and body, but every bit as beautiful. He felt a twinge of guilt, but told himself that denying what his eyes saw would not bring Egwene safely to Caemlyn one whit faster.

  A scrabbling sound came from up in the tree and bits of bark fell, followed by a boy dropping lightly to the ground behind her. He was a head taller than she and a little older, but his face and hair marked him as her close kin. His coat and cloak were red and white and gold, embroidered and brocaded, and for a male even more ornate than hers. That increased Rand’s anxiety. Only on a feastday would any ordinary man dress in anything like that, and never with that much grandeur. This was no public park. Perhaps the Guards were too busy to bother with trespassers.

  The boy studied Rand over the girl’s shoulder, fingering the dagger at his waist. It seemed more a nervous habit than any thought that he might use it. Not completely, though. The boy had the same self-p
ossession as the girl, and they both looked at him as if he were a puzzle to be solved. He had the odd feeling that the girl, at least, was cataloguing everything about him from the condition of his boots to the state of his cloak.

  “We will never hear the end of this, Elayne, if mother finds out,” the boy said suddenly. “She told us to stay in our rooms, but you just had to get a look at Logain, didn’t you? Now look what it has got us.”

  “Be quiet, Gawyn.” She was clearly the younger of the two, but she spoke as though she took it for granted that he would obey. The boy’s face struggled as if he had more to say, but to Rand’s surprise he held his peace. “Are you all right?” she said suddenly.

  It took Rand a minute to realize she was speaking to him. When he did, he tried to struggle to his feet. “I’m fine. I just—” He tottered, and his legs gave way. He sat back down hard. His head swam. “I’ll just climb back over the wall,” he muttered. He attempted to stand again, but she put a hand on his shoulder, pressing him down. He was so dizzy the slight pressure was enough to hold him in place.

  “You are hurt.” Gracefully she knelt beside him. Her fingers gently parted the blood-matted hair on the left side of his head. “You must have struck a branch coming down. You will be lucky if you didn’t break anything more than your scalp. I don’t think I ever saw anyone as skillful at climbing as you, but you don’t do so well falling.”

  “You’ll get blood on your hands,” he said, drawing back.

  Firmly she pulled his head back to where she could get at it. “Hold still.” She did not speak sharply, but again there was that note in her voice as if she expected to be obeyed. “It does not look too bad, thank the Light.” From pockets on the inside of her cloak she began taking out an array of tiny vials and twisted packets of paper, finishing with a handful of wadded bandage.

  He stared at the collection in amazement. It was the sort of thing he would have expected a Wisdom to carry, not someone dressed as she was. She had gotten blood on her fingers, he saw, but it did not seem to bother her.

  “Give me your water flask, Gawyn,” she said. “I need to wash this.”

  The boy she called Gawyn unfastened a leather bottle from his belt and handed it to her, then squatted easily at Rand’s feet with his arms folded on his knees. Elayne went about what she was doing in a very workmanlike manner. He did not flinch at the sting of cold water when she washed the cut in his scalp, but she held the top of his head with one hand as if she expected him to try to pull away again and would have none of it. The ointment she smoothed on after, from one of her small vials, soothed almost as much as one of Nynaeve’s preparations would have.

  Gawyn smiled at him as she worked, a calming smile, as if he, too, expected Rand to jerk away and maybe even run. “She’s always finding stray cats and birds with broken wings. You are the first human being she has had to work on.” He hesitated, then added, “Do not be offended. I am not calling you a stray.” It was not an apology, just a statement of fact.

  “No offense taken,” Rand said stiffly. But the pair were acting as if he were a skittish horse.

  “She does know what she is doing,” Gawyn said. “She has had the best teachers. So do not fear, you are in good hands.”

  Elayne pressed some of the bandaging against his temple and pulled a silk scarf from her belt, blue and cream and gold. For any girl in Emond’s Field it would have been a treasured feastday cloth. Elayne deftly began winding it around his head to hold the wad of bandage in place.

  “You can’t use that,” he protested.

  She went on winding. “I told you to hold still,” she said calmly.

  Rand looked at Gawyn. “Does she always expect everybody to do what she tells them?”

  A flash of surprise crossed the young man’s face, and his mouth tightened with amusement. “Most of the time she does. And most of the time they do.”

  “Hold this,” Elayne said. “Put your hand there while I tie—” She exclaimed at the sight of his hands. “You did not do that falling. Climbing where you should not have been climbing is more like it.” Quickly finishing her knot, she turned his hands palms upward in front of him, muttering to herself about how little water was left. The washing made the lacerations burn, but her touch was surprisingly delicate. “Hold still, this time.”

  The vial of ointment was produced again. She spread it thinly along the scrapes, all of her attention apparently on rubbing it in without hurting him. A coolness spread through his hands, as if she were rubbing the torn places away.

  “Most of the time they do exactly what she says,” Gawyn went on with an affectionate grin at the top of her head. “Most people. Not Mother, of course. Or Elaida. And not Lini. Lini was her nurse. You can’t give orders to someone who switched you for stealing figs when you were little. And even not so little.” Elayne raised her head long enough to give him a dangerous look. He cleared his throat and carefully blanked his expression before hurrying on. “And Gareth, of course. No one gives orders to Gareth.”

  “Not even Mother,” Elayne said, bending her head back over Rand’s hands. “She makes suggestions, and he always does what she suggests, but I’ve never heard her give him a command.” She shook her head.

  “I don’t know why that always surprises you,” Gawyn answered her. “Even you don’t try telling Gareth what to do. He’s served three Queens and been Captain-General, and First Prince Regent, for two. I daresay there are some think he’s more a symbol of the Throne of Andor than the Queen is.”

  “Mother should go ahead and marry him,” she said absently. Her attention was on Rand’s hands. “She wants to; she can’t hide it from me. And it would solve so many problems.”

  Gawyn shook his head. “One of them must bend first. Mother cannot, and Gareth will not.”

  “If she commanded him. . . .”

  “He would obey. I think. But she won’t. You know she won’t.”

  Abruptly they turned to stare at Rand. He had the feeling they had forgotten he was there. “Who . . . ?” He had to stop to wet his lips. “Who is your mother?”

  Elayne’s eyes widened in surprise, but Gawyn spoke in an ordinary tone that made his words all the more jarring. “Morgase, by the Grace of the Light, Queen of Andor, Defender of the Realm, Protector of the People, High Seat of the House Trakand.”

  “The Queen,” Rand muttered, shock spreading through him in waves of numbness. For a minute he thought his head was going to begin spinning again. Don’t attract any attention. Just fall into the Queen’s garden and let the Daughter-Heir tend your cuts like a hedge-doctor. He wanted to laugh, and knew it for the fringes of panic.

  Drawing a deep breath, he scrambled hastily to his feet. He held himself tightly in rein against the urge to run, but the need to get away filled him, to get away before anyone else discovered him there.

  Elayne and Gawyn watched him calmly, and when he leaped up they rose gracefully, not hurried in the least. He put up a hand to pull the scarf from his head, and Elayne seized his elbow. “Stop that. You will start the bleeding again.” Her voice was still calm, still sure that he would do as he was told.

  “I have to go,” Rand said. “I’ll just climb back over the wall and—”

  “You really didn’t know.” For the first time she seemed as startled as he was. “Do you mean you climbed up on that wall to see Logain without even knowing where you were? You could have gotten a much better view down in the streets.”

  “I . . . I don’t like crowds,” he mumbled. He sketched a bow to each of them. “If you’ll pardon me, ah . . . my Lady.” In the stories, royal courts were full of people all calling one another Lord and Lady and Royal Highness and Majesty, but if he had ever heard the correct form of address for the Daughter-Heir, he could not think clearly enough to remember. He could not think clearly about anything beyond the need to be far away. “If you will pardon me, I’ll just leave now. Ah . . . thank you for the. . . .” He touched the scarf around his head. “Thank you.”


  “Without even telling us your name?” Gawyn said. “A poor payment for Elayne’s care. I’ve been wondering about you. You sound like an Andorman, though not a Caemlyner, certainly, but you look like. . . . Well, you know our names. Courtesy would suggest you give us yours.”

  Looking longingly at the wall, Rand gave his right name before he thought what he was doing, and even added, “From Emond’s Field, in the Two Rivers.”

  “From the west,” Gawyn murmured. “Very far to the west.”

  Rand looked around at him sharply. There had been a note of surprise in the young man’s voice, and Rand caught some of it still on his face when he turned. Gawyn replaced it with a pleasant smile so quickly, though, that he almost doubted what he had seen.

  “Tabac and wool,” Gawyn said. “I have to know the principal products of every part of the Realm. Of every land, for that matter. Part of my training. Principal products and crafts, and what the people are like. Their customs, their strengths and weaknesses. It’s said Two Rivers people are stubborn. They can be led, if they think you are worthy, but the harder you try to push them, the harder they dig in. Elayne ought to choose her husband from there. It’ll take a man with a will like stone to keep from being trampled by her.”

  Rand stared at him. Elayne was staring, too. Gawyn looked as much under control as ever, but he was babbling. Why?

  “What’s this?”

  All three of them jumped at the sudden voice, and spun to face it.

  The young man who stood there was the handsomest man Rand had ever seen, almost too handsome for masculinity. He was tall and slender, but his movements spoke of whipcord strength and a sure confidence. Dark of hair and eye, he wore his clothes, only a little less elaborate in red and white than Gawyn’s, as if they were of no importance. One hand rested on his sword hilt, and his eyes were steady on Rand.

  “Stand away from him, Elayne,” the man said. “You, too, Gawyn.”