Lord of Chaos (The Wheel of Time #6)

Lord of Chaos (The Wheel of Time #6) Page 151

Lews Therin had to have that from him—memories passed both ways across that barrier, it seemed—but it cut to the heart.

“We have to go now,” he told them. “Whether Liah is alive or dead, we—must go.” Urien and Sulin only nodded, but Erith moved closer and patted him on the shoulder with surprising gentleness for a hand that could have gripped his head.

“If I might trouble you,” Haman said, “we have been rather longer than we expected.” He gestured to the sinking sun. “If you would do us the favor of carrying us outside the city in the same way you brought us here, I would appreciate it greatly.”

Rand remembered the forest outside Shadar Logoth. No Myrddraal or Trollocs there this time, but a thick wood, and the Light alone knew how far to the nearest village or in what direction. “I will do better than that,” he said. “I can take you straight to the Two Rivers as quickly.”

The two older Ogier nodded gravely. “The blessing of the Light and stillness be on you for your help,” Covril murmured. Erith’s ears quivered with anticipation, perhaps equally for seeing Loial and leaving Shadar Logoth.

Rand hesitated a moment. Loial would probably be in Emond’s Field, but he could not take them there. Too much chance news of his visit would slip out of the Two Rivers. Away from the village, then, far enough to avoid the farms that clustered close nearby.

The vertical slash of light appeared and widened; the taint pounded inside him again, worse than before; the ground seemed to beat at the soles of the boots.

Half a dozen Aiel leaped through, and the three Ogier followed with a haste that was not at all unseemly in the circumstances. Rand paused, looking back over the ruined city. He had promised to let the Maidens die for him.

As the last of the Aiel went through, Sulin hissed, and he glanced at her, but she was looking at his hand. At the back of his hand, where his fingernails had sliced a gash that oozed blood. Wrapped in the Void as he was, the pain might have belonged to someone else. The physical mark did not matter; it would heal. He had made deeper inside, where no one could see. One for each Maiden who died, and he never let them heal.

“We are done here,” he said, and stepped through the gateway into the Two Rivers. The throbbing vanished with the gateway.

Frowning, Rand tried to orient himself. Placing a gateway precisely was not easy where you had never been before, but he had picked a field he did know, a weedy meadow a good two-hour walk south of Emond’s Field that no one ever used for anything. In the lurid twilight he could see sheep, though, a sizable flock, and a boy with a crook in his hands and a bow on his back, staring at them from a hundred paces. Rand did not need the Power in him to tell the boy was goggling, as well he might. Dropping the crook, he set off running for a farmhouse that had not been there when Rand was last here. A tile-roofed farmhouse.

For a moment Rand wondered whether he was really in the Two Rivers at all. No, the feel of the place told him he was. The smell of the air shouted home. All those changes Bode and the rest of the girls had told him about—they had not really sunk in; nothing ever really changed in the Two Rivers. Should he send the girls back here, back home? What you should do is stay clear of them. It was an irritable thought.

“Emond’s Field is that way,” he said. Emond’s Field. Perrin. Tam might be there, too, at the Winespring Inn, with Egwene’s parents. “That is where Loial should be. I don’t know if you can make it before dark. You might ask at the farmhouse. I’m sure they will give you a place to sleep. Don’t tell them about me. Tell no one how you came.” The boy had seen but a boy’s tale might well be taken for exaggeration when Ogier appeared.

Adjusting the bundles on their backs, Haman and Covril exchanged looks, and she said, “We will say nothing of how we came. Let people make the stories they wish.”

Haman stroked his beard and cleared his throat. “You must not kill yourself.”

Even in the Void, Rand was startled. “What?”

“The road ahead of you,” Haman rumbled, “is long, dark, and, I very much fear, bloodstained. I also very much fear that you will take us all down that road. But you must live to reach the end of it.”

“I will,” Rand replied curtly. “Fare you well.” He tried to put some warmth into that, some feeling, but he was not sure he succeeded.

“Fare you well,” Haman said, and the women echoed it before all three turned toward the farmhouse. Not even Erith sounded as if she believed he would, though.

A moment longer Rand stood there. People had appeared outside the house, watching the Ogier approach, but Rand stared north and west, not toward Emond’s Field, but toward the farm where he had grown up. When he turned away and opened a gateway to Caemlyn, it was like tearing his own arm off. The pain was a much more suitable memorial for Liah than a scratch.

CHAPTER

22

Heading South

The five stones made a smoothly spinning circle above Mat’s hands, one red, one blue, one clear green, the others striped in interesting ways. He rode on, guiding Pips with his knees, the black-hafted spear thrust behind the saddle girth on the opposite side from his unstrung bow. The stones made him think of Thom Merrilin, who had taught him to juggle, and he wondered whether the old fellow was still alive. Probably not. Rand had sent the gleeman haring after Elayne and Nynaeve what seemed a very long time ago now, supposedly to look out for them. If any two women needed looking out for less, Mat did not know them, but no two were more likely to get a man killed because they would not listen to reason. Nynaeve, poking into everything a man did or said or thought and tugging her bloody braid at a fellow all the time, and Elayne the bloody Daughter-Heir, thinking she could get her way by sticking her nose in the air and telling you what for as bad as Nynaeve ever did, only Elayne was worse, because if frosty high-handedness failed, Elayne smiled and flashed her dimple and expected everybody to fall down because she was pretty. He hoped Thom had managed to survive their company. He hoped they were all right too, but he would not mind if they had found themselves in the pickling kettle at least once since scurrying off to the Light knew where. Let them see what it was like without him to haul them out, and never an honest word of thanks when he was there to do it. Not too hot a kettle, mind—just enough to make them wish Mat Cauthon were around to rescue them again like an idiot.

“What about you, Mat?” Nalesean asked, reining closer. “Did you ever think what it would be l