The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  The woman was old as humans counted years, yet she climbed more quickly than he and was scurrying down the corridor by the time he reached the top. Doubtless she was taking the towels to his mother’s room, and to Elder Haman’s and Erith’s. Surely they would prefer to get dry before talking. He would suggest that. It would gain him time to think. His thoughts seemed as sluggish as his feet, and his feet felt like millstones.

  There were six bedrooms built for Ogier along the corridor, which itself was properly scaled for them—his upstretched hands would have come a pace short of touching the ceiling beams—along with a storeroom, a bathing room with a large copper tub, and the sitting room. This was the oldest part of the house, dating back nearly five hundred years. A lifetime for a very old Ogier, but many lifetimes for humans. They lived such brief lives, except for Aes Sedai; that had to be why they flitted about like hummingbirds. But even Aes Sedai could be nearly as precipitous as the rest. That was a puzzlement.

  The sitting room door was carved with a Great Tree, not Ogier work, yet finely detailed and instantly recognizable. He stopped, tugging his coat straight, combing his hair with his fingers, wishing he had time to black his boots. There was an ink stain on his cuff. No time to do anything about that, either. Cadsuane was right. His mother was not a woman to be kept waiting. Strange that Cadsuane knew of her. Perhaps knew her, by the way she had spoken. Covril, daughter of Ella daughter of Soong, was a famous Speaker, but he had not realized she was known Outside. Light, he was all but panting with anxiety.

  Trying to control his breathing, he went in. Even here the hinges creaked. The servants had been aghast when he asked after some oil to put on them—that was their task; he was a guest—but they still had not gotten around to it themselves.

  The high-ceilinged room was quite spacious, with dark polished wallpapers and vine-carved chairs and small vine-carved tables and wrought-iron stand-lamps of a proper size, their mirrored flames dancing above his head. Except for a shelf of books, all old enough that the leather bindings were flaking and all of which he had read before, only a small bowl of sung wood was Ogier made. A nice piece; he wished he knew who had sung it, but it was aged enough that singing to it had failed to raise so much as an echo. Yet everything had been made by someone who at least had been to a stedding. The pieces would have looked at home in any dwelling. Of course, the room looked nothing like a room in a stedding, but Lord Algarin’s ancestor had made an effort to have his visitors feel comfortable.

  His mother was standing in front of one of the brick fireplaces, a strong-faced woman with her vine-embroidered skirts spread to let the flames dry them. He heaved a sigh of relief at seeing she was not as wet as he had expected, although it put paid to suggesting they take the time to get dry. Their raincloaks must have developed leaks. They did that after a time, as the anseed oil wore off. Maybe her temper would not be as bad as he feared, either. White-haired Elder Haman, his flaring coat dark with damp in several large patches, was examining one of the axes from the wall, shaking his head over it. Its haft was as long as he was tall. Made during the Trolloc Wars or even before, there were a pair of those, the long axe heads inlaid with gold and silver, and a pair of ornate pointed pruning knives with long shafts, as well. Of course, pruning knives, sharp on one side and sawtoothed on the other, always had long handles, but the inlays and long red tassels indicated that these had been made for weapons, too. Not the most felicitous choices for hanging in a room meant for reading or conversation or the quiet contemplation of stillness.

  But Loial’s eyes swept past his mother and Elder Haman to the other fireplace, where Erith, small and almost fragile appearing, was drying her own skirts. Her mouth was straight, her nose short and well-rounded, her eyes the exact color of a silverbell’s ripe seedpod. In short, she was beautiful! And her ears, sticking up through the glossy black hair that hung down her back. . . . Curving and plump, tipped with fine tufts that looked as soft as dandelion down, they were the most gorgeous ears he had ever seen. Not that he would be crude enough to say so. She smiled at him, a very mysterious smile, and his own ears quivered with embarrassment. Surely she could not know what he had been thinking. Could she? Rand said women could sometimes, but that was human women.

  “So, here you are,” his mother said, planting her fists on her hips. There were no smiles from her. Her brows were drawn down, her jaw set. If this was her better temper, she might as well have been drenched. “I must say, you’ve led me a merry chase, but I have you in hand now, and I do not mean to let you run—What is that on your lip? And your chin! Well, you can shave those right off again. Don’t you grimace at me, Son Loial.”

  Fingering the growth on his upper lip uneasily, he tried to smooth his face—when your mother named you Son, she was in no mood to trifle with—but it was hard. He wanted his beard and mustaches. Some might think it pretentious, as young as he was, but just the same. . . .

  “A merry chase indeed,” Elder Haman said dryly, hanging the axe back on its hooks. He had long white mustaches that fell past his chin and a long narrow beard that hung to his chest. True, he was well above three hundred years old, but it still seemed unfair. “A very merry chase. First we walked to Cairhien, having heard you were there, only you had gone. After a stop at Stedding Tsofu, we walked to Caemlyn, where young al’Thor informed us you were in the Two Rivers and took us there. But you were gone again. To Caemlyn, it seemed!” His eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. “I began to think we were playing ring-in-the-dell.”

  “The people in Emond’s Field told us how heroic you were,” Erith said, her high voice like music. Clutching her skirts with both hands, ears fluttering with excitement, she seemed about to bounce up and down. “They told us all about you fighting Trollocs and Myrddraal, and going out among them by yourself to seal the Manetheren Waygate so no more could come.”

  “I wasn’t by myself,” Loial protested, waving his hands. He thought his ears might fly from his head, they were twitching so with embarrassment. “Gaul was with me. We did it together. I’d never have reached the Waygate without Gaul.” She wrinkled her delicate nose at him, dismissing Gaul’s participation.

  His mother sniffed. Her ears were rigid with distaste. “Foolishness. Fighting in battles. Putting yourself in danger. Gambling. All of it. Pure foolishness, and there will be no more of it.”

  Elder Haman harrumphed, ears twitching irritably, and folded his hands behind his back. He disliked being interrupted. “So we returned to Caemlyn, to find you gone, and then to Cairhien once more, to find you gone yet again.”

  “And you put yourself in danger again in Cairhien,” Loial’s mother broke in, shaking a finger at him. “Have you no sense at all?”

  “The Aiel said you were very brave at Dumai’s Wells,” Erith murmured, looking at him through her long eyelashes. He swallowed hard. Her gaze made his throat feel tight. He knew he should look away, but how could he be demure when she was looking at him?

  “In Cairhien your mother decided she couldn’t stay away from the Great Stump any longer, though why I cannot say, since they aren’t likely to reach any sort of decision for another year or two, so we set out to return to Stedding Shangtai in the hope we could find you later.” Elder Haman said all of that very fast, glaring at the two women as if he thought they might break in on him again. His beard and mustaches seemed to bristle.

  Loial’s mother gave another sniff, sharper. “I expect to bring a decision very quickly, in a month or two, or I’d never have given over the search for Loial even temporarily. Now that I’ve found him, we can finish matters and be on our way without any more delay.” She took in Elder Haman, who was frowning, his ears slanted back, and amended her tone. He was an Elder, after all. “Forgive me, Elder Haman. I meant to say, if it pleases you, will you perform the ceremony?”

  “I believe that it does please me, Covril,” he said mildly. Much too mildly. When Loial heard that tone from his teacher, with ears back, he had always known that he had put a foot v
ery badly wrong. Elder Haman had been known to throw a piece of chalk at a pupil when he used that tone. “Since I abandoned my students, not to mention speaking to the Great Stump, to follow you on this wild chase for that very reason, I believe it does please me indeed. Erith, you are very young.”

  “She’s past eighty, old enough to marry,” Loial’s mother said sharply, folding her arms across her chest. Her ears twitched with impatience. “Her mother and I reached agreement. You yourself witnessed us signing the betrothal and Loial’s dowry.”

  Elder Haman’s ears tilted back a little further, and his shoulders hunched as if he was gripping his hands together very hard behind his back. His eyes never left Erith. “I know you want to marry Loial, but are you sure you are ready? Taking a husband is a grave responsibility.”

  Loial wished someone would ask him that question, but that was not the way. His mother and Erith’s had reached their agreement, and only Erith could stop it now. If she wanted to. Did he want her to? He could not stop thinking of his book. He could not stop thinking of Erith.

  She certainly looked grave. “My weaving sells well, and I am ready to buy another loom and take an apprentice. But that may not be what you mean. I am ready to tend a husband.” Suddenly, she grinned, a lovely grin that divided her face in two. “Especially one with such beautiful long eyebrows.”

  Loial’s ears quivered, and so did Elder Haman’s, if not so much. Women were very free in their talk among themselves, so he had heard, but usually they tried not to embarrass men with it. Usually. His mother’s ears actually trembled with amusement!

  The older man cleared his throat. “This is serious, Erith. Come now. If you are sure, take his hands.”

  Without hesitation, she came to stand in front of Loial, smiling up at him as she took his hands in hers. Her small hands felt very warm. His felt numb and cold. He swallowed. It really was going to happen.

  “Erith, daughter of Iva daughter of Alar,” Elder Haman said, holding one hand palm down over each of their heads, “will you take Loial, son of Arent son of Halan, as husband and vow under the Light and by the Tree to treasure, esteem and love him so long as he lives, to care for him and tend him, and to guide his feet on the path they should follow?”

  “Under the Light and by the Tree, I so vow.” Erith’s voice was firm and clear, and her smile seemed to have grown wider than her face.

  “Loial, son of Arent son of Halan, will you accept Erith, daughter of Iva daughter of Alar, as wife and vow under the Light and by the Tree to treasure, esteem and love her so long as she lives, to care for her and to heed her guidance?”

  Loial took a deep breath. His ears trembled. He wanted to marry her. He did. Just not yet. “Under the Light and by the Tree, I so vow,” he said hoarsely.

  “Then under the Light and by the Tree, I declare you wed. May the blessings of the Light and the Tree be upon you always.”

  Loial looked down at his wife. His wife. She raised a hand and stroked slender fingers along his mustaches. The beginnings of mustaches, anyway.

  “You are very handsome, and I think mustaches will be beautiful on you. A beard, too.”

  “Nonsense,” his mother said. Surprisingly, she was dabbing at her eyes with a small lace handkerchief. She was never emotional. “He’s much too young for that sort of thing.”

  For a moment, he thought Erith’s ears began to slant back. That had to be his imagination. He had had a number of long talks with her—she was a wonderful conversationalist; though come to think of it, for the most part she listened, but what little she did say was always very cogent—and he was sure she possessed no sort of temper at all. He had no time to think on it, in any event. Resting her hands on his arms, she rose on tiptoes, and he bent to rub his nose against hers. In truth, they nosed for longer than they should have with Elder Haman and his mother present, but others faded from his thoughts as he inhaled his wife’s scent and she his. And the feel of her nose on his! Pure bliss! He cupped the back of her head and barely had the presence of mind not to finger her ear. She tugged the tuft on one of his! After a while, a very long while it seemed, voices intruded.

  “It is still raining, Covril. You cannot seriously be suggesting we set out again when we have a sound roof over our heads and proper beds to sleep in for a change. No, I say. No! I will not sleep on the ground tonight, or in a barn, or worst of all, in a house where my feet and knees hang over the end of the largest bed available. There have been times I’ve seriously thought of refusing hospitality, and to the Pit with rudeness.”

  “If you insist,” his mother said grudgingly, “but I want an early start come morning. I refuse to waste an hour more than I must. The Book of Translation must be opened as soon as possible.”

  Loial jerked erect, aghast. “That’s what the Great Stump is discussing? They can’t do that, not now!”

  “We must leave this world eventually, so we can come to it when the Wheel turns,” his mother said, striding to the nearest fireplace to spread her skirts again. “That is written. Now is exactly the right time, and the sooner the better.”

  “Is that what you think, Elder Haman?” Loial asked worriedly.

  “No, my boy, not at all. Before we left, I gave a speech of three hours that I think swayed a few minds in the right direction.” Elder Haman picked up a tall yellow pitcher and filled a blue cup, but rather than drink, he frowned into the tea. “Your mother has swayed more, I fear. She may even get her decision in months, as she says.”

  Erith filled a cup for his mother, then two more, bringing one to him. His ears quivered with embarrassment yet again. He should have done that. He had a great deal to learn about being a husband, but he knew that much.

  “I wish I could address the Stump,” he said bitterly.

  “You sound eager, Husband.” Husband. That meant Erith was very serious. It was almost as bad as being called Son Loial. “What would you say to the Stump?”

  “I won’t have him embarrassed, Erith,” his mother said before he could open his mouth. “Loial writes well, and Elder Haman says he may have the makings of a scholar about him, but he gets tongue-tied before even a hundred. Besides, he is only a boy.”

  Elder Haman had said that? Loial wondered when his ears would stop quivering.

  “Any married man may address the Stump,” Erith said firmly. There was no doubt this time. Her ears definitely slanted back. “Will you allow me to tend my own husband, Mother Covril?” His mother’s mouth moved, but no sound came out, and her eyebrows were halfway up her forehead. He did not think he had ever seen her so taken aback, though she must have expected this. A wife always took precedence with her husband over his mother. “Well, Husband, what would you say?”

  He was not eager, he was desperate. He took a long swallow of the spice-scented tea, but his mouth felt just as dry afterward. His mother was right; the more people were listening, the more he tended to forget what he intended to say and go off on tangents. In truth, he had to admit that sometimes he rambled a bit with only a few listeners. Just a bit. Now and then. He knew the forms—a child of fifty knew the forms—yet he could not make the words come. The few listening to him now were not just any few. His mother was a famous Speaker, Elder Haman a noted one, not to mention being an Elder. And there was Erith. A man wanted to stand well in his wife’s eyes.

  Turning his back on them, he strode to the nearest window and stood rolling the teacup between his palms. The window was sized decently, though the panes set in the carved casement were no larger than those in the rooms below. The rain had dwindled to a drizzle falling from a gray sky, and despite bubbles in the glass he could make out the trees beyond the fields, pine and sourgum and the occasional oak, all full of new growth. Algarin’s people tended their forest well, clearing out the deadfall to rob wildfire of its tinder. Fire had to be used carefully.

  The words came more easily now that he could not see the others watching him. Should he begin with the Longing? Could they dare leave if they would begin dying
in a handful of years? No, that question would have been addressed first thing and suitable answers found, else the Stump would have finished inside a year. Light, if he did address the Stump. . . . For a moment, he saw the crowds standing all around him, hundreds and hundreds of men and women waiting to hear his words, perhaps several thousand. His tongue tried to cling to the roof of his mouth. He blinked, and there was only the bubbled glass before him, and the trees. He had to do it. He was not particularly brave, whatever Erith thought, but he had learned about bravery watching humans, watching them hang on no matter how strong the winds grew, fight when they had no hope, fight and win because they fought with desperate courage. Suddenly, he knew what to say.

  “In the War of the Shadow, we did not huddle in our stedding, hoping no Trollocs or Myrddraal would be driven to enter. We did not open the Book of Translation and flee. We marched alongside the humans and fought the Shadow. In the Trolloc Wars, we neither hid in the stedding nor opened the Book of Translation. We marched with the humans and fought the Shadow. In the darkest years, when hope seemed gone, we fought the Shadow.”

  “And by the War of the Hundred Years we had learned not to get ourselves tangled in human affairs,” his mother put in. That was allowed. Speaking could turn into a debate unless the pure beauty of your words held the listeners. She had once spoken from sunrise to sunset in favor of a very unpopular position without a single interruption, and the next day, no one had risen to Speak against her. He could not form beautiful sentences. He could only say what he believed. He did not turn from the window.

  “The War of the Hundred Years was a human affair, and none of ours. The Shadow is our affair. When it is the Shadow that must be fought, our axes have always grown long handles. Perhaps in a year, or five, or ten, we will open the Book of Translation, but if we do it now, we cannot run away with any real hope of safety. Tarmon Gai’don is coming, and on that hangs the fate not only of this world, but of any world we might flee to. When fire threatens the trees, we do not run away and hope that the flames will not follow us. We fight. Now the Shadow is coming like wildfire, and we dare not run from it.” Something was moving among the trees, all along the line he could see. A herd of cattle? A very big herd, if so.