Lord of Chaos (The Wheel of Time #6)

Lord of Chaos (The Wheel of Time #6) Page 206

Startlingly, a smile bloomed on Sorilea’s leathery face. Her multitude of bracelets clattered as she shifted her shawl in a satisfied manner. “You see? I told you she would understand. She could be Aiel.”

Some of the tightness faded from Amys, a little more from Bair, and Egwene understood. They were not angry that she meant to try entering Tel’aran’rhiod in the flesh. That was wrong in their eyes, but you had to do what you felt you had to do, and even if this worked it incurred no obligation except to herself. Not angry at all really, not yet. What dug at them was her lie. Her stomach fluttered. The lie she had admitted. Maybe her smallest lie.

Another deep breath was required to prime her throat for the words. “I lied about other things, too. I entered Tel’aran’rhiod alone after I promised I would not.” Amys’ face darkened again. Sorilea, not a dreamwalker, only shook her head ruefully. “I promised to obey as a pupil, but when you said the World of Dreams was too dangerous after I was injured, I went anyway.” Bair folded her arms, expressionless. Sorilea muttered something about foolish girls, but it hardly sounded heated. A third long breath; this would be the hardest to say. Her middle was not fluttering anymore; it danced so hard she was surprised she was not shaking. “The worst of all is, I am not Aes Sedai. I’m only Accepted. You might call me an apprentice. I will not be raised to Aes Sedai for years, if I ever am, now.”

Sorilea’s head came up at that, thin lips compressed in a hard line, but still none of them said anything. It was up to Egwene to make matters right. They could never be exactly as before, but. . . .

You’ve admitted everything, a small voice whispered. Now you’d better get on with finding out how fast you can reach Salidar. You can still be raised Aes Sedai one day, but not if you make them madder than they already are.

Egwene lowered her eyes and stared at the colorful layered carpets, her mouth twisting with scorn. Scorn for that small voice. And shame that it could speak in her head, that she could think it. She was going away, but before she did, she had to put matters right. It was possible, under ji’e’toh. You did what you had to do, then paid the cost. Long months ago, in the Waste, Aviendha had showed her how a lie was paid for.

Gathering every scrap of courage she could find, hoping it was enough, Egwene put the silk dress aside and stood. Strangely, beginning seemed to make going on easier. She still had to look up to meet their, eyes, but she did it proudly, head high, and she did not have to force the words at all. “I have toh.” Her stomach was not fluttering any longer. “I ask the favor, that you will help me meet my toh.” Salidar was going to have to wait.

Leaning on his elbow, Mat examined the game of Snakes and Foxes laid out on the tent floor. Occasionally a drop of sweat fell from his chin, just missing the board. It was not a board at all, really, just a piece of red cloth with the web of lines drawn in black ink, and arrows showing which lines allowed movement only one way and which both. Ten pale wooden discs each with an inked triangle were the foxes, ten with a wavy line the snakes. Two lamps set to either side gave more than enough light.

“We will win this time, Mat,” Olver said excitedly. “I know we will.”

“Maybe,” Mat said. Their two black-stained discs were nearly back to the circle in the middle of the board, but the next roll of the dice would be for the snakes and foxes. Most of the time you did not make it as far as the outer edge. “Roll the dice.” He never touched the dice cup himself, not since the day he had given it to the boy; if they were going to play the game, it might as well be without his luck taking a hand.

With a grin, Olver rattled the leather cup and spilled out the wooden dice his father had made. He groaned as he counted the pips; this time three dice showed faces marked with a triangle, the other three wavy lines. On their turn you had to move the snakes and foxes toward your own pieces by the shortest path, and if one landed on the point you occupied. . . . A snake touched Olver, a fox Mat, and Mat could see if the rest of the pips had been played, two more snakes would have reached him.

Only a child’s game, and one you would not win so long as you followed the rules. Soon Olver would be old enough to realize that, and like other children, stop playing. Only a child’s game, but Mat did not like the fox getting him, and even less the snakes. It brought back bad memories, even if one had nothing to do with the other.

“Well,” Olver muttered, “we almost won. Another game, Mat?” Not waiting for an answer, he made the sign that opened the game, a triangle and then a wavy line through it, then chanted the words. “ ‘Courage to strengthen, fire to blind, music to dazzle, iron to bind.’ Mat, why do we say that? There is no fire, no music and no iron.”

“I don’t know.” The line tickled something in the back of his head, but he could not bring it up. The old memories from the ter’angreal might as well have been chosen at random—they probably had been—and there were all those gaps in his own, all those fuzzy places. The boy was always asking questions he did not know the answer to, usually beginning with “why.”

Daerid ducked in out of the night and gave a start of surprise. Face shining with sweat, he still had his coat on, if hanging undone. His newest scar made a pink furrow across the white lines crisscrossing his face.

“I think it’s past your bedtime, Olver,” Mat said, pushing himself up. His wounds gave a few twinges, but only a few; they were healing just fine. “Put the board up.” He stepped close to Daerid and lowered his voice to a whisper. “If you ever tell about this, I’ll cut your throat.”

“Why?” Daerid asked dryly. “You are turning into a wonderful father. He shows a remarkable resemblance to you.” He seemed to be struggling with a grin, but a moment later it was gone. “The Lord Dragon is coming into camp,” he said, as serious as death.

Thoughts of punching Daerid in the nose vanished. Mat pushed the tent flap aside and ducked into the night in his shirtsleeves. Six of Daerid’s men, in a circle around the tent, stiffened when he appeared. Crossbowmen; pikes certainly would not be much good for guards. It was night, but not dark in the camp. The bright glow of a waxing three-quarter moon in a cloudless sky was washed out by the light of fires spaced among the rows of tents and men sleeping on the ground. Sentries stood every twenty paces all the way to the log palisade. Not the way Mat would have preferred it, but if an attack could