Tuon felt she should be shocked. But, oddly, she wasn’t. So Matrim was not mistaken about this, she signed covertly to Selucia. And she had assumed Trollocs to be nothing more than superstition. She glanced at the heads again. Revolting.
Selucia seemed troubled. Are there other things he said that we discounted, I wonder?
Tuon hesitated. We shall have to ask him. I should very much like to have him back. She froze; she hadn’t meant to admit so much. She found her own emotions curious, however. She had felt safe with him, ridiculous though it seemed. And she wished he were with her now.
These heads were yet another proof that she knew very little of him. She reasserted control of the chattering crowd. Selucia Voiced, “You will silence yourselves.”
The room fell still, though the Blood and the sul’dam still looked very disturbed. Tylee still knelt, head bowed, the soldier who had borne the heads kneeling beside her. Yes, she would have to be thoroughly questioned.
“This news changes little,” Selucia Voiced. “We were already aware that the Last Battle approaches. We appreciate Lieutenant-General Tylee’s revelations. She is to be commended. But this only makes it more urgent that we subdue the Dragon Reborn.”
There were several nods from those in the room, including General Galgan. Beslan did not seem so quickly persuaded. He just looked troubled.
“If it pleases the Highest Daughter,” Tylee said, bowing.
“You are allowed to speak.”
“These last few weeks, I have seen many things that have given me thought,” Tylee said. “Even before my troops were attacked, I was worried. The wisdom and grace of the Highest Daughter undoubtedly let her see further than one such as I, but I believe that our conquests so far in this land have been easy compared to what might come. If I may be so bold . . . I believe that the Dragon Reborn and those associated with him may make better allies than enemies.”
It was a bold statement. Tuon leaned forward, lacquered nails clicking on the armrests of her chair. Many of the low Blood would be so in awe at meeting one of the Empress’s household, much less the Highest Daughter, that they would not dare speak. Yet this woman offered suggestions? In direct opposition to Tuon’s published will?
“A difficult decision is not always a decision where both sides are equally matched, Tuon,” Selucia said suddenly. “Perhaps, in this case, a difficult decision is one that is right, but requires an implication of fault as well.”
Tuon blinked in surprise. Yes, she realized. Selucia is my Truthspeaker now. It would take time to accustom herself to the woman in that role. It had been years since Selucia had corrected or reproved her in public.
And yet, meeting with the Dragon Reborn, in person? She did need to contact him, and had planned to. But would it not be better to go to him in strength, his armies defeated, the White Tower torn down? She needed him brought to the Crystal Throne under very controlled circumstances, with the understanding that he was to submit to her authority.
And yet . . . with Seanchan in rebellion . . . with her position here in Altara barely stabilized . . . Well, perhaps some time to think—some time to take a few deep breaths and secure what she already had—would be worth delaying her strike on the White Tower.
“General Galgan, send raken to our forces in Almoth Plain and eastern Altara,” she said firmly. “Tell them to hold our interests, but avoid confrontation with the Dragon Reborn. And reply to his request for a meeting. The Daughter of the Nine Moons will meet with him.”
General Galgan nodded, bowing.
Order must be brought to the world. If she had to do that by lowering her eyes slightly and meeting with the Dragon Reborn, then so be it.
Oddly, she felt herself wishing—once again—that Matrim were still with her. She could have put his knowledge of this Rand al’Thor to good use in preparing for the meeting. Stay well, you curious man, she thought, glancing back at the balcony, northward. Do not dig yourself into trouble deeper than you can climb to freedom. You are Prince of the Ravens now. Remember to act appropriately.
Wherever it is you are.
CHAPTER 20
On a Broken Road
“Women,” Mat declared as he rode Pips down the dusty, little-used road, “are like mules.” He frowned. “Wait. No. Goats. Women are like goats. Except every flaming one thinks she’s a horse instead, and a prize racing mare to boot. Do you understand me, Talmanes?”
“Pure poetry, Mat,” Talmanes said, tamping the tabac down into his pipe.
Mat flicked his reins, Pips continuing to plod along. Tall three-needle pines lined the sides of the stone roadway. They’d been lucky to find this ancient road, which must have been made before the Breaking. It was mostly overgrown, the stones shattered in many places, large sections of the roadway just . . . well, just gone.
Sapling pines had begun to sprout at the sides of the roadway and between rocks, miniature versions of their towering fathers above. The path was wide, if very rough, which was good. Mat had seven thousand men with him, all mounted, and they’d been riding hard in the little under a week they’d spent traveling since sending Tuon back to Ebou Dar.
“Reasoning with a woman is impossible,” Mat continued, eyes forward. “It’s like . . . Well, reasoning with a woman is like sitting down to a friendly game of dice. Only the woman refuses to acknowledge the basic bloody rules of the game. A man, he’ll cheat you—but he’ll do it honestly. He’ll use loaded dice, so that you think you’re losing by chance. And if you aren’t clever enough to spot what he’s doing, then maybe he deserves to take your coin. And that’s that.
“A woman, though, she’ll sit down to that same game and she’ll smile, and act like she’s going to play. Only when it’s her turn to throw, she’ll toss a pair of her own dice that are blank on all six sides. Not a single pip showing. She’ll inspect her throw, then she’ll look up at you and say, ‘Clearly I just won.’
“Now, you’ll scratch your head and look at the dice. Then you’ll look up at her, then down at the dice again. ‘But there aren’t any pips on these dice,’ you’ll say.
“ ‘Yes there are,’ she’ll say. ‘And both dice rolled a one.’
“ ‘That’s exactly the number you need to win,’ you’ll say.
“ ‘What a coincidence,’ she’ll reply, then begin to scoop up your coins. And you’ll sit there, trying to wrap your head ’bout what just happened. And you’ll realize something. A pair of ones isn’t the winning throw! Not when you threw a six on your turn. That means she needed a pair of twos instead! Excitedly, you’ll explain what you’ve discovered. Only then, do you know what she’ll do?”
“No idea, Mat,” Talmanes replied, chewing on his pipe, a thin wisp of smoke curling out of the bowl.
“Then she’ll reach over,” Mat said, “and rub the blank faces of her dice. And then, with a perfectly straight face, she’ll say, ‘I’m sorry. There was a spot of dirt on the dice. Clearly you can see that they actually came up as twos!’ And she’ll believe it. She’ll bloody believe it!”
“Incredible,” Talmanes said.
“Only that’s not the end of it!”
“I had presumed that it wouldn’t be, Mat.”
“She scoops up all of your coins,” Mat said, gesturing with one hand, the other steadying his ashandarei across his saddle. “And then every other woman in the room will come over and congratulate her on throwing that pair of twos! The more you complain, the more of those bloody women will join the argument. You’ll be outnumbered in a moment, and each of those women will explain to you how those dice clearly read twos, and how you really need to stop behaving like a child. Every single flaming one of them will see the twos! Even the prudish woman who has hated your woman from birth—since your woman’s granny stole the other woman’s granny’s honeycake recipe when they were both maids—that woman will side against you.”
“They are nefarious creatures indeed,” Talmanes said, voice flat and even. Talmanes rarely smiled.
“By the
time they’re done,” Mat continued, almost more to himself, “you’ll be left with no coin, several lists’ worth of errands to run and what clothing to wear and a splitting headache. You’ll sit there and stare at the table and begin to wonder, just maybe, if those dice didn’t read twos after all. If only to preserve what’s left of your sanity. That’s what it’s like to reason with a woman, I tell you.”
“And you did so. At length.”
“You aren’t making sport of me, are you?”
“Why, Mat!” the Cairhienin said. “You know I’d never do such a thing.”
“Too bad,” Mat muttered, glancing at him suspiciously. “I could use a laugh.” He looked over his shoulder. “Vanin! Where on the Dark One’s blistered backside are we?”
The fat former horsethief looked up. He rode a short distance behind Mat, and he carried a map of the area unrolled and folded across a board so he could read it in the saddle. He’d been poring over the bloody thing the better half of the morning. Mat had asked him to get them through Murandy quietly, not get them lost in the mountains for months!
“That’s Blinder’s Peak,” Vanin said, gesturing with a pudgy finger toward a flat-topped mountain just barely visible over the tips of the pines. “At least, I think it is. It might be Mount Sardlen.”
The squat hill didn’t look like much of a mountain; it barely had any snow atop it. Of course, few “mountains” in this area were impressive, not compared to the Mountains of Mist, back near the Two Rivers. Here, northeast of the Damona range, the landscape fell into a grouping of low foothills. It was difficult terrain, but navigable, if one were determined. And Mat was determined. Determined not to be pinned in by the Seanchan again, determined not to be seen by any who didn’t have to know he was there. He’d paid the butcher too much so far. He wanted out of this hangman’s noose of a country.
“Well,” Mat said, reining Pips back to ride beside Vanin, “which of those mountains is it? Maybe we should go ask Master Roidelle again.”
The map belonged to the master mapmaker; it was only because of his presence that they’d been able to find this roadway in the first place. But Vanin insisted on being the one to guide the troop—a mapmaker wasn’t the same thing as a scout. You didn’t have a dusty cartographer ride out and lead the way for you, Vanin insisted.
In truth, Master Roidelle didn’t have a lot of experience being a guide. He was a scholar, an academic. He could explain a map for you perfectly, but he had as much trouble as Vanin making sense of where they were, since this roadway was so disjointed and broken, the pines high enough to obscure landmarks, the hilltops all nearly identical.
Of course, there was also the fact that Vanin seemed threatened by the presence of the mapmaker, as if he were worried about being unseated from his position guiding Mat and the Band. Mat had never expected such an emotion from the overweight horsethief. It might have been enough to make him amused if they weren’t lost so much of the flaming time.
Vanin scowled. “I think that has to be Mount Sardlen. Yes. It’s got to be.”
“Which means . . . ?”
“Which means we keep heading along the roadway,” Vanin said. “The same thing I told you an hour ago. We can’t bloody march an army through a forest this thick, now can we? That means staying on the stones.”
“I’m just asking,” Mat said, pulling down the brim of his hat against the sun. “A commander’s got to ask things like this.”
“I should ride ahead,” Vanin said, scowling again. He was fond of scowls. “If that is Mount Sardlen, there should be a village of fair size an hour or two further along. I might be able to spot it from the next rise.”
“Go, then,” Mat said. They had advance scouts out, of course, but none of them were as good as Vanin. Despite his size, the man could sneak close enough to an enemy fortification to count the whiskers in the camp guards’ beards and never be seen. He’d probably make off with their stew, too.
Vanin shook his head as he regarded the map again. “Actually,” he muttered, “now that I think about it, maybe that’s Favlend Mountain. . . .” He set off at a trot before Mat could object.
Mat sighed, heeling Pips to catch up to Talmanes. The Cairhienin shook his head. He could be an intense one, Talmanes. Early in their association, Mat had assumed him to be stern, unable to have fun. He was learning better. Talmanes wasn’t stern, he was just reserved. But at times, there seemed to be a twinkle to the nobleman’s eyes, as if he were laughing at the world, despite that set jaw and his unsmiling lips.
Today, he wore a red coat, trimmed with gold, and his forehead was shaved and powdered after Cairhienin fashion. It looked bloody ridiculous, but who was Mat to judge? Talmanes might have terrible fashion sense, but he was a loyal officer and a good man. Besides, he had excellent taste in wine.
“Don’t look so glum, Mat,” Talmanes said, puffing on his gold-rimmed pipe. Where’d he gotten that, anyway? Mat didn’t remember him having it before. “Your men have full bellies, full pockets, and they just won a great victory. Not much more than that a soldier can ask for.”
“We buried a thousand men,” Mat said. “That’s no victory.” The memories in his head—the ones that weren’t his—said he should be proud. The battle had gone well. But there were still those dead who had depended on him.
“There are always losses,” Talmanes said. “You can’t let them eat you up, Mat. It happens.”
“There aren’t losses when you don’t fight in the first place.”
“Then why ride to battle so often?”
“I only fight when I can’t avoid it!” Mat snapped. Blood and bloody ashes, he only fought when he had to. When they trapped him! Why did that seem to happen every time he turned around?
“Whatever you say, Mat,” Talmanes said, taking out his pipe and pointing it at Mat knowingly. “But something’s got you on edge. And it isn’t the men we lost.”
Flaming noblemen. Even the ones you could stand, like Talmanes, always thought they knew so much.
Of course, Mat was now a nobleman himself. Don’t think about that, he told himself. Talmanes had spent a few days calling Mat “Your Highness” until Mat had lost his temper and yelled at the man—Cairhienin could be such sticklers for rank.
When Mat had first realized what his marriage to Tuon meant, he’d laughed, but it had been the laughter of incredulous pain. And men called him lucky. Well why couldn’t his luck have helped him avoid this fate! Bloody Prince of the Ravens? What did that mean?
Well, right now he had to worry about his men. He glanced over his shoulder, looking along the ranks of cavalrymen, with crossbowmen riding behind. There were thousands of both, though Mat had ordered their banners stowed. They weren’t likely to pass many travelers on this backwater path, but if anyone did see them, he didn’t want their tongues wagging.
Would the Seanchan chase him? He and Tuon both knew they were on opposing sides now, and she’d seen what his army could do.
Did she love him? He was married to her, but Seanchan didn’t think like regular people. She’d stayed in his possession, enduring captivity, never running. But he had little doubt that she’d move against him if she thought it best for her empire.
Yes, she’d send men after him, though potential pursuit didn’t trouble him half as much as the worry that she might not make it back to Ebou Dar safely. Someone had offered a very large pile of coin for Tuon’s head. That Seanchan traitor, the leader of the army Mat had destroyed. Had he been working alone? Were there others? What had Mat released Tuon into?
The questions haunted him. “Should I have let her go, do you think?” Mat found himself asking.
Talmanes shrugged. “You gave your word, Mat, and I think that rather large Seanchan fellow with the determined eyes and the black armor wouldn’t have reacted well if you’d tried to keep her.”
“She could still be in danger,” Mat said, almost to himself, still looking backward. “I shouldn’t have let her out of my sight. Fool woman.”
> “Mat,” Talmanes said, pointing at him with the pipe again. “I’m surprised at you. Why, you’re starting to sound downright husbandly.”
That gave Mat a start. He twisted around in Pips’ saddle. “What was that? What does that mean?”
“Nothing, Mat,” Talmanes said hurriedly. “Just that, the way you’re mooning after her, I—”
“I’m not mooning,” Mat snapped, pulling the lip of his hat down, then adjusting his scarf. His medallion was a comfortable weight around his neck. “I’m just worried. That’s all. She knows a lot about the Band, and she could give away our strengths.”
Talmanes shrugged, puffing his pipe. They rode for a time in silence. The pine needles soughed in the wind, and Mat occasionally heard women’s laughter from behind, where the Aes Sedai rode in a little cluster. For all the fact that they didn’t like one another, they usually got along just fine when others could see them. But, as he’d said to Talmanes, women were only enemies with one another as long as there wasn’t a man around to gang up on.
The sun was marked by a blazing patch of clouds; Mat hadn’t seen pure sunlight in days. He hadn’t seen Tuon in as long either. The two events seemed paired in his head. Was there a connection?
Bloody fool, he thought to himself. Next you’ll start thinking like her, reading portents into every little thing, looking for symbols and meaning every time a rabbit runs across your path or a horse lets wind.
That kind of fortunetelling was all nonsense. Though he had to admit, he now cringed every time he heard an owl hoot twice.
“Have you ever loved a woman, Talmanes?” Mat found himself asking.
“Several,” the short man replied, riding with pipe smoke curling behind him.
“Ever consider marrying one of them?”
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