The Eye of the World

## Chapter 34

#### The Last Village

It was after dark when they reached Carysford, longer than Rand had thought it would take from what Master Kinch said when he let them down. He wondered if his whole sense of time was getting skewed. Only three nights since Howal Gode and Four Kings, two since Paitr had surprised them in Market Sheran. Just a bare day since the nameless Darkfriend woman tried to kill them in the stable of The Queen’s Man, but even that seemed a year ago, or a lifetime.

Whatever was happening to time, Carysford appeared normal enough, on the surface, at least. Neat, vine-covered brick houses and narrow lanes, except for the Caemlyn Road itself, quiet and outwardly peaceful. But what’s underneath? he wondered. Market Sheran had been peaceful to look at, and so had the village where the woman . . . He had never learned the name of that one and he did not want to think about it.

Light spilled from the windows of the houses into streets all but empty of people. That suited Rand. Slinking from corner to corner, he avoided the few people abroad. Mat stuck to his shoulder, freezing when the crunch of gravel announced the approach of a villager, dodging from shadow to shadow when the dim shape had gone past.

The River Cary was a bare thirty paces wide there, and the black water moved sluggishly, but the ford had long since been bridged over. Centuries of rain and wind had worn the stone abutments until they seemed almost like natural formations. Years of freight wagons and merchant trains had ground at the thick wooden planks, too. Loose boards rattled under their boots, sounding as loud as drums. Until long after they were through the village and into the countryside beyond, Rand waited for a voice to demand to know who they were. Or worse, knowing who they were.

The countryside had been filling up the further they went, becoming more and more settled. There were always the lights of farmhouses in sight. Hedges and rail fences lined the road and the fields beyond. Always the fields were there, and never a stretch of woods close to the road. It seemed as if they were always on the outskirts of a village, even when they were hours from the nearest town. Neat and peaceful. And with never an indication that Darkfriends or worse might be lurking.

Abruptly Mat sat down in the road. He had pushed the scarf up on top of his head, now that the only light came from the moon. “Two paces to the span,” he muttered. “A thousand spans to the mile, four miles to the league . . . I’m not walking another ten paces unless there’s a place to sleep at the end of it. Something to eat wouldn’t be amiss, either. You haven’t been hiding anything in your pockets, have you? An apple, maybe? I won’t hold it against you if you have. You could at least look.”

Rand peered down the road both ways. They were the only things moving in the night. He glanced at Mat, who had pulled off one boot and was rubbing his foot. Or they had been. His own feet hurt, too. A tremor ran up his legs as if to tell him he had not yet regained as much strength as he thought.

Dark mounds stood in a field just ahead of them. Haystacks, diminished by winter feeding, but still haystacks.

He nudged Mat with his toe. “We’ll sleep there.”

“Haystacks again.” Mat sighed, but he tugged on his boot and got up.

The wind was rising, the night chill growing deeper. They climbed over the smooth poles of the fence and quickly were burrowing into the hay. The tarp that kept the rain off the hay cut the wind, too.

Rand twisted around in the hollow he had made until he found a comfortable position. Hay still managed to poke at him through his clothes, but he had learned to put up with that. He tried counting the haystacks he had slept in since Whitebridge. Heroes in the stories never had to sleep in haystacks, or under hedges. But it was not easy to pretend, anymore, that he was a hero in a story, even for a little while. With a sigh, he pulled his collar up in the hopes of keeping hay from getting down his back.

“Rand?” Mat said softly. “Rand, do you think we’ll make it?”

“Tar Valon? It’s a long way yet, but—”

“Caemlyn. Do you think we’ll make it to Caemlyn?”

Rand raised his head, but it was dark in their burrow; the only thing that told him where Mat was, was his voice. “Master Kinch said two days. Day after tomorrow, the next day, we’ll get there.”

“If there aren’t a hundred Darkfriends waiting for us down the road, or a Fade or two.” There was silence for a moment, then Mat said, “I think we’re the last ones left, Rand.” He sounded frightened. “Whatever it’s all about, it’s just us two, now. just us.”

Rand shook his head. He knew Mat could not see in the darkness, but it was more for himself than Mat, anyway. “Go to sleep, Mat,” he said tiredly. But he lay awake a long time himself, before sleep came. Just us.

A cock’s crow woke him, and he scrambled out into the false dawn, brushing hay off his clothes. Despite his precautions some had worked its way down his back; the straws clung between his shoulder blades, itching. He took off his coat and pulled his shirt out of his breeches to get to it. It was while he had one hand down the back of his neck and the other twisted up behind him that he became aware of the people.

The sun was not yet truly up, but already a steady trickle moved down the road in ones and twos, trudging toward Caemlyn, some with packs or bundles on their backs, others with nothing but a walking staff, if that. Most were young men, but here and there was a girl, or someone older. One and all they had the travel-stained look of having walked a long way. Some had their eyes on their feet and a weary slump to their shoulders, early as it was; others had their gaze fixed on something out of sight ahead, something toward the dawn.

Mat rolled out of the haystack, scratching vigorously. He only paused long enough to wrap the scarf around his head; it shaded his eyes a little less this morning. “You think we might get something to eat today?”

Rand’s stomach rumbled in sympathy. “We can think about that when we’re on the road,” he said. Hastily arranging his clothes, he dug his share of their bundles out of the haystack.

By the time they reached the fence, Mat had noticed the people, too. He frowned, stopping in the field while Rand climbed over. A young man, not much older than they, glanced at them as he passed. His clothes were dusty, and so was the blanketroll strapped across his back.

“Where are you bound?” Mat called.

“Why, Caemlyn, for to see the Dragon,” the fellow shouted back without stopping. He raised an eyebrow at the blankets and saddlebags hanging from their shoulders, and added, “Just like you.” With a laugh he went on, his eyes already seeking eagerly ahead.

Mat asked the same question several times during the day, and the only people who did not give much the same answer were local folk. If those answered at all, it was by spitting and turning away in disgust. They turned away, but they kept a watchful eye, too. They looked at all the travelers the same way, out of the corners of their eyes. Their faces said strangers might get up to anything if not watched.

People who lived in the area were not only wary of the strangers, they seemed more than a little put out. Just enough people were on the road, scattered out just enough, that when farmers’ carts and wagons appeared with the sun peeking over the horizon, even their usually slow pace was halved. None of them was in any mood to give a ride. A sour grimace, and maybe a curse for the work they were missing, were more likely.

The merchants’ wagons rolled by with little hindrance beyond shaken fists, whether they were going toward Caemlyn or away from it. When the first merchants’ train appeared, early on in the morning, coming at a stiff trot with the sun barely above the horizon behind the wagons, Rand stepped out of the road. They gave no sign of slowing for anything, and he saw other folk scrambling out of the way. He moved all the way over onto the verge, but kept walking.

A flicker of motion as the first wagon rumbled close was all the warning he had. He went sprawling on the ground as the wagon driver’s whip cracked in the air where his head had been. From where he lay he met the driver’s eyes as the wagon rolled by. Hard eyes above a mouth in a tight grimace. Not a care that he might have drawn blood, or taken an eye.

“Light blind you!” Mat shouted after the wagon. “You can’t—” A mounted guard caught him on the shoulder with the butt of his spear, knocking him down atop Rand.

“Out of the way, you dirty Darkfriend!” the guard growled without slowing.

After that, they kept their distance from the wagons. There were certainly enough of them. The rattle and clatter of one hardly faded before another could be heard coming. Guards and drivers, they all stared at the travelers heading for Caemlyn as if seeing dirt walk.

Once Rand misjudged a driver’s whip, just by the length of the tip. Clapping his hand to the shallow gash over his eyebrow, he swallowed hard to keep from vomiting at how close it had come to his eye. The driver smirked at him. With his other hand he grabbed Mat, to stop him nocking an arrow.

“Let it go,” he said. He jerked his head at the guards riding alongside the wagons. Some of them were laughing; others gave Mat’s bow a hard eye. “If we’re lucky, they’d just beat us with their spears. If we’re lucky.”

Mat grunted sourly, but he let Rand pull him on down the road.

Twice squadrons of the Queen’s Guards came trotting down the road, streamers on their lances fluttering in the wind. Some of the farmers hailed them, wanting something done about the strangers, and the Guards always paused patiently to listen. Near midday Rand stopped to listen to one such conversation.

Behind the bars of his helmet, the Guard captain’s mouth was a tight line. “If one of them steals something, or trespasses on your land,” he growled at the lanky farmer frowning beside his stirrup, “I’ll haul him before a magistrate, but they break no Queen’s Law by walking on the Queen’s Highway.”

“But they’re all over the place,” the farmer protested. “Who knows who they are, or what they are. All this talk about the Dragon . . . ”

“Light, man! You only have a handful here. Caemlyn’s walls are bulging with them, and more coming every day.” The captain’s scowl deepened as he caught sight of Rand and Mat, standing in the road nearby. He gestured down the road with a steel-backed gauntlet. “Get on with you, or I’ll have you in for blocking traffic.”

His voice was no rougher with them than with the farmer, but they moved on. The captain’s eyes followed them for a time; Rand could feel them on his back. He suspected the Guards had little patience left with the wanderers, and no sympathy for a hungry thief. He decided to stop Mat if he suggested stealing eggs again.

Still, there was a good side to all the wagons and people on the road, especially all the young men heading for Caemlyn. For any Darkfriends hunting them, it would be like trying to pick out two particular pigeons in a flock. If the Myrddraal on Winternight had not known exactly who it was after, maybe its fellow would do no better here.

His stomach rumbled frequently, reminding him that they had next to no money left, certainly not enough for a meal at the prices charged this close to Caemlyn. He realized once he had a hand on the flute case, and firmly pushed it around to his back. Gode had known all about the flute, and the juggling. There was no telling how much Ba’alzamon had learned from him before the end—if what Rand had seen had been the end—or how much had been passed to other Darkfriends.

He looked regretfully at a farm they were passing. A man patrolled the fences with a pair of dogs, growling and tugging at their leashes. The man looked as if he wanted nothing more than an excuse to let them loose. Not every farm had the dogs out, but no one was offering jobs to travelers.

Before the sun went down, he and Mat walked through two more villages. The village folk stood in knots, talking among themselves and watching the steady stream pass by. Their faces were no friendlier than the faces of the farmers, or the wagon drivers, or the Queen’s Guards. All these strangers going to see the false Dragon. Fools who did not know enough to stay where they belonged. Maybe followers of the false Dragon. Maybe even Darkfriends. If there was any difference between the two.

With evening coming, the stream began to thin at the second town. The few who had money disappeared into the inn, though there seemed to be some argument about letting them inside; others began hunting for handy hedges or fields with no dogs. By dusk he and Mat had the Caemlyn Road to themselves. Mat began talking about finding another haystack, but Rand insisted on keeping on.

“As long as we can see the road,” he said. “The further we go before stopping, the further ahead we are.” If they are chasing you. Why should they chase now, when they’ve been waiting for you to come to them so far?

It was argument enough for Mat. With frequent glances over his shoulder, he quickened his step. Rand had to hurry to keep up.

The night thickened, relieved only a bit by scant moonlight. Mat’s burst of energy faded, and his complaints started up again. Aching knots formed in Rand’s calves. He told himself he had walked further in a hard day working on the farm with Tam, but repeat it as often as he would, he could not make himself believe it. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the aches and pains and would not stop.

With Mat complaining and him concentrating on the next step, they were almost on the village before he saw the lights. He tottered to a stop, suddenly aware of a burning that ran from his feet right up his legs. He thought he had a blister on his right foot.

At the sight of the village lights, Mat sagged to his knees with a groan. “Can we stop now?” he panted. “Or do you want to find an inn and hang out a sign for the Darkfriends? Or a Fade.”

“The other side of the town,” Rand answered, staring at the lights. From this distance, in the dark, it could have been Emond’s Field. What’s waiting there? “Another mile, that’s all.”

“All! I’m not walking another span!”

Rand’s legs felt like fire, but he made himself take a step, and then another. It did not get any easier, but he kept on, one step at a time. Before he had gone ten paces he heard Mat staggering after him, muttering under his breath. He thought it was just as well he could not make out what Mat was saying.

It was late enough for the streets of the village to be empty, though most houses had a light in at least one window. The inn in the middle of town was brightly lit, surrounded by a golden pool that pushed back the darkness. Music and laughter, dimmed by thick walls, drifted from the building. The sign over the door creaked in the wind. At the near end of the inn, a cart and horse stood in the Caemlyn Road with a man checking the harness. Two men stood at the far end of the building, on the very edge of the light.

Rand stopped in the shadows beside a house that stood dark. He was too tired to hunt through the lanes for a way around. A minute resting could not hurt. Just a minute. Just until the men went away. Mat slumped against the wall with a grateful sigh, leaning back as if he meant to go to sleep right there.

Something about the two men at the rim of the shadows made Rand uneasy. He could not put a finger on anything, at first, but he realized the man at the cart felt the same way about them. He reached the end of the strap he was checking, adjusted the bit in the horse’s mouth, then went back and started over from the beginning again. He kept his head down the whole while, his eyes on what he was doing and away from the other men. It could have been that he simply was not aware of them, though they were less than fifty feet off, except for the stiff way he moved and the way he sometimes turned awkwardly in what he was doing so he would not be looking toward them.

One of the men in the shadows was only a black shape, but the other stood more into the light, with his back to Rand. Even so it was plain he was not overjoyed at the conversation he was having. He wrung his hands and kept his eyes on the ground, jerking his head in a nod now and then at something the other had said. Rand could not hear anything, but he got the impression that the man in the shadows was doing all the talking; the nervous man just listened, and nodded, and wrung his hands anxiously.

Eventually the one who was wrapped in darkness turned away, and the nervous fellow started back into the light. Despite the chill he was mopping his face with the long apron he wore, as if he were drenched in sweat.

Skin prickling, Rand watched the shape moving off in the night. He did not know why, but his uneasiness seemed to follow that one, a vague tingling in the back of his neck and the hair stirring on his arms as if he had suddenly realized something was sneaking up on him. With a quick shake of his head, he rubbed his arms briskly. Getting as foolish as Mat, aren’t you?

At that moment the form slipped by the edge of the light from a window—just on the brink of it—and Rand’s skin crawled. The inn’s sign went scree-scree-scree in the wind, but the dark cloak never stirred.

“Fade,” he whispered, and Mat jerked to his feet as if he had shouted.

“What—?”

He clamped a hand over Mat’s mouth. “Softly.” The dark shape was lost in the darkness. Where? “It’s gone, now. I think. I hope.” He took his hand away; the only sound Mat made was a long, indrawn breath.

The nervous man was almost to the inn door. He stopped and smoothed down his apron, visibly composing himself before he went inside.

“Strange friends you’ve got, Raimun Holdwin,” the man by the cart said suddenly. It was an old man’s voice, but strong. The speaker straightened, shaking his head. “Strange friends in the dark for an innkeeper.”

The nervous man jumped when the other spoke, looking around as if he had not seen the cart and the other man until right then. He drew a deep breath and gathered himself, then asked sharply, “And what do you mean by that, Almen Bunt?”

“Just what I said, Holdwin. Strange friends. He’s not from around here, is he? Lot of odd folk coming through the last few weeks. Awful lot of odd folk.”

“You’re a fine one to talk.” Holdwin cocked an eye at the man by the cart. “I know a lot of men, even men from Caemlyn. Not like you, cooped up alone out on that farm of yours.” He paused, then went on as if he thought he had to explain further. “He’s from Four Kings. Looking for a couple of thieves. Young men. They stole a heron-mark sword from him.”

Rand’s breath had caught at the mention of Four Kings; at the mention of the sword he glanced at Mat. His friend had his back pressed hard against the wall and was staring into the darkness with eyes so wide they seemed to be all whites. Rand wanted to stare into the night, too—the Halfman could be anywhere—but his eyes went back to the two men in front of the inn.

“A heron-mark sword!” Bunt exclaimed. “No wonder he wants it back.”

Holdwin nodded. “Yes, and them, too. My friend’s a rich man, a . . . a merchant, and they’ve been stirring up trouble with the men who work for him. Telling wild stories and getting people upset. They’re Darkfriends, and followers of Logain, too.”

“Darkfriends and followers of the false Dragon? And telling wild stories, too? Getting up to a lot for young fellows. You did say they were young?” There was a sudden note of amusement in Bunt’s voice, but the innkeeper did not seem to notice.

“Yes. Not yet twenty. There’s a reward—a hundred crowns in gold—for the two of them.” Holdwin hesitated, then added, “They’ve sly tongues, these two. The Light knows what kind of tales they’ll tell, trying to turn people against one another. And dangerous, too, even if they don’t look it. Vicious. Best you stay clear if you think you see them. Two young men, one with a sword, and both looking over their shoulders. If they’re the right ones, my . . . my friend will pick them up once they’re located.”

“You sound almost as if you know them to look at.”

“I’ll know them when I see them,” Holdwin said confidently. “Just don’t try to take them yourself. No need for anyone to get hurt. Come tell me if you see them. My . . . friend will deal with them. A hundred crowns for the two, but he wants the pair.”

“A hundred crowns for the two,” Bunt mused. “How much for this sword he wants so bad?”

Abruptly Holdwin appeared to realize the other man was making fun of him. “I don’t know why I’m telling you,” he snapped. “You’re still fixed on that fool plan of yours, I see.”

“Not such a fool plan,” Bunt replied placidly. “There might not be another false Dragon to see before I die—Light send it so!—and I’m too old to eat some merchant’s dust all the way to Caemlyn. I’ll have the road to myself, and I’ll be in Caemlyn bright and early tomorrow.”

“To yourself?” The innkeeper’s voice had a nasty quiver. “You can never tell what might be out in the night, Almen Bunt. All alone on the road, in the dark. Even if somebody hears you scream, there’s no one will unbar a door to help. Not these days, Bunt. Not your nearest neighbor.”

None of that seemed to ruffle the old farmer at all; he answered as calmly as before. “If the Queen’s Guards can’t keep the road safe this close to Caemlyn, then we’re none of us safe even in our own beds. If you ask me, one thing the Guards could do to make sure the roads are safe would be clap that friend of yours in irons. Sneaking around in the dark, afraid to let anybody get a look at him. Can’t tell me he’s not up to no good.”

“Afraid!” Holdwin exclaimed. “You old fool, if you knew—” His teeth clicked shut abruptly, and he gave himself a shake. “I don’t know why I’m wasting time on you. Get off with you! Stop cluttering up the front of my place of business.” The door of the inn boomed shut behind him.

Muttering to himself, Bunt took hold of the edge of the cart seat and set his foot on the wheelhub.

Rand hesitated only a moment. Mat caught his arm as he started forward.

“Are you crazy, Rand? He’ll recognize us for sure!”

“You’d rather stay here? With a Fade around? How far do you think we’ll get on foot before it finds us?” He tried not to think of how far they would get in a cart if it found them. He shook free of Mat and trotted up the road. He carefully held his cloak shut so the sword was hidden; the wind and the cold were excuse enough for that.

“I couldn’t help overhearing you’re going to Caemlyn,” he said.

Bunt gave a start, jerking a quarterstaff out of the cart. His leathery face was a mass of wrinkles and half his teeth were gone, but his gnarled hands held the staff steady. After a minute he lowered one end of the staff to the ground and leaned on it. “So you two are going to Caemlyn. To see the Dragon, eh?”

Rand had not realized that Mat had followed him. Mat was keeping well back, though, out of the light, watching the inn and the old farmer with as much suspicion as he was the night.

“The false Dragon,” Rand said with emphasis.

Bunt nodded. “Of course. Of course.” He threw a sideways look at the inn, then abruptly shoved his staff back under the cart seat. “Well, if you want a ride, get in. I’ve wasted enough time.” He was already climbing to the seat.

Rand clambered over the back as the farmer flicked the reins. Mat ran to catch up as the cart started off. Rand caught his arms and pulled him aboard.

The village faded quickly into the night at the pace Bunt set. Rand lay back on the bare boards, fighting the lulling creak of the wheels. Mat stifled his yawns with a fist, warily staring into the countryside. Darkness weighed heavily on the fields and farms, dotted with the lights of farmhouses. The lights seemed distant, seemed to struggle vainly against the night. An owl called, a mourner’s cry, and the wind moaned like lost souls in the Shadow.

It could be out there anywhere, Rand thought.

Bunt seemed to feel the oppression of the night, too, for he suddenly spoke up. “You two ever been to Caemlyn before?” He gave a little chuckle. “Don’t suppose you have. Well, wait till you see it. The greatest city in the world. Oh, I’ve heard all about Illian and Ebou Dar and Tear and all—there’s always some fool thinks a thing is bigger and better just because it’s off somewheres over the horizon—but for my money, Caemlyn is the grandest there is. Couldn’t be grander. No, it couldn’t. Unless maybe Queen Morgase, the Light illumine her, got rid of that witch from Tar Valon.”

Rand was lying back with his head pillowed on his blanketroll atop the bundle of Thom’s cloak, watching the night drift by, letting the farmer’s words wash by him. A human voice kept the darkness at bay and muted the mournful wind. He twisted around to look up at the dark mass of Bunt’s back. “You mean an Aes Sedai?”

“What else would I mean? Sitting there in the Palace like a spider. I’m a good Queen’s man—never say I’m not—but it just isn’t right. I’m not one of those saying Elaida’s got too much influence over the Queen. Not me. And as for the fools who claim Elaida’s really the queen in all but name . . . ” He spat into the night. “That for them. Morgase is no puppet to dance for any Tar Valon witch.”

Another Aes Sedai. If . . . when Moiraine got to Caemlyn, she might well go to a sister Aes Sedai. If the worst happened, this Elaida might help them reach Tar Valon. He looked at Mat, and just as if he had spoken aloud Mat shook his head. He could not see Mat’s face, but he knew it was fixed in denial.

Bunt went right on talking, flicking the reins whenever his horse slowed but otherwise letting his hands rest on his knees. “I’m a good Queen’s man, like I said, but even fools say something worthwhile now and again. Even a blind pig finds an acorn sometimes. There’s got to be some changes. This weather, the crops failing, cows drying up, calves and lambs born dead, or with two heads. Bloody ravens don’t even wait for things to die. People are scared. They want somebody to blame. Dragon’s Fang turning up on people’s doors. Things creeping about in the night. Barns getting burned. Fellows around like that friend of Holdwin, scaring people. The Queen’s got to do something before it’s too late. You see that, don’t you?” Rand made a noncommittal sound. It sounded as if they had been even luckier than he had thought to find this old man and his cart. They might not have gotten further than that last village if they had waited for daylight. Things creeping about in the night. He lifted up to look over the side of the cart at the darkness. Shadows and shapes seemed to writhe in the black. He dropped back before his imagination convinced him there was something there.

Bunt took it for agreement. “Right. I’m a good Queen’s man, and I’ll stand against any who try to harm her, but I’m right. You take the Lady Elayne and the Lord Gawyn, now. There’s a change wouldn’t harm anything, and might do some good. Sure, I know we’ve always done it that way in Andor. Send the Daughter-Heir off to Tar Valon to study with the Aes Sedai, and the eldest son off to study with the Warders. I believe in tradition, I do, but look what it got us last time. Luc dead in the Blight before he was ever anointed First Prince of the Sword, and Tigraine vanished—run off or dead—when it came time for her to take the throne. Still troubling us, that.

“There’s some saying she’s still alive, you know, that Morgase isn’t the rightful Queen. Bloody fools. I remember what happened. Remember like it was yesterday. No Daughter-Heir to take the throne when the old Queen died, and every House in Andor scheming and fighting for the right. And Taringail Damodred. You wouldn’t have thought he’d lost his wife, him hot to figure which House would win so he could marry again and become Prince Consort after all. Well, he managed it, though why Morgase chose . . . ah, no man knows the mind of a woman, and a queen is twice a woman, wed to a man, wed to the land. He got what he wanted, anyway, if not the way he wanted it.

“Brought Cairhien into the plotting before he was done, and you know how that ended. The Tree chopped down, and black-veiled Aiel coming over the Dragonwall. Well, he got himself decently killed after he’d fathered Elayne and Gawyn, so there’s an end to it, I suppose. But why send them to Tar Valon? It’s time men didn’t think of the throne of Andor and Aes Sedai in the same thought anymore. If they’ve got to go some place else to learn what they need, well, Illian’s got libraries as good as Tar Valon, and they’ll teach the Lady Elayne as much about ruling and scheming as ever the witches could. Nobody knows more about scheming than an Illianer. And if the Guards can’t teach the Lord Gawyn enough about soldiering, well, they’ve soldiers in Illian, too. And in Shienar, and Tear, for that matter. I’m a good Queen’s man, but I say let’s stop all this truck with Tar Valon. Three thousand years is long enough. Too long. Queen Morgase can lead us and put things right without help from the White Tower. I tell you, there’s a woman makes a man proud to kneel for her blessing. Why, once . . . ”

Rand fought the sleep his body cried out for, but the rhythmic creak and sway of the cart lulled him and he floated off on the drone of Bunt’s voice. He dreamed of Tam. At first they were at the big oak table in the farmhouse, drinking tea while Tam told him about Prince Consorts, and Daughter-Heirs, and the Dragonwall, and black-veiled Aielmen. The heron-mark sword lay on the table between them, but neither of them looked at it. Suddenly he was in the Westwood, pulling the makeshift litter through the moon-bright night. When he looked over his shoulder, it was Thom on the litter, not his father, sitting cross-legged and juggling in the moonlight.

“The Queen is wed to the land,” Thom said as brightly colored balls danced in a circle, “but the Dragon . . . the Dragon is one with the land, and the land is one with the Dragon.”

Further back Rand saw a Fade coming, black cloak undisturbed by the wind, horse ghosting silently through the trees. Two severed heads hung at the Myrddraal’s saddlebow, dripping blood that ran in darker streams down its mount’s coal-black shoulder. Lan and Moiraine, faces distorted in grimaces of pain. The Fade pulled on a fistful of tethers as it rode. Each tether ran back to the bound wrists of one of those who ran behind the soundless hooves, their faces blank with despair. Mat and Perrin. And Egwene.

“Not her!” Rand shouted. “The Light blast you, it’s me you want, not her!”

The Halfman gestured, and flames consumed Egwene, flesh crisping to ash, bone blacking and crumbling.

“The Dragon is one with the land,” Thom said, still juggling unconcernedly, “and the land is one with the Dragon.”

Rand screamed . . . and opened his eyes.

The cart creaked along the Caemlyn Road, filled with night and the sweetness of long-vanished hay and the faint smell of horse. A shape blacker than the night rested on his chest, and eyes blacker than death looked into his.

“You are mine,” the raven said, and the sharp beak stabbed into his eye. He screamed as it plucked his eyeball out of his head.

With a throat-ripping shriek, he sat up, clapping both hands to his face.

Early morning daylight bathed the cart. Dazed, he stared at his hands. No blood. No pain. The rest of the dream was already fading, but that . . . Gingerly he felt his face and shuddered.

“At least . . . ” Mat yawned, cracking his jaws. “At least you got some sleep.” There was little sympathy in his bleary eyes. He was huddled under his cloak, with his blanketroll doubled up beneath his head. “He talked all bloody night.”

“You all the way awake?” Bunt said from the driver’s seat. “Gave me a start, you did, yelling like that. Well, we’re there.” He swept a hand out in front of them in a grand gesture. “Caemlyn, the grandest city in the world.”