Knife of Dreams (The Wheel of Time 11)

Her stout mare whickered uneasily as they rode among dead Trollocs to a patch of ground not far from the stable that she knew well enough to weave a gateway. Mandarb, a trained warhorse, reacted not at all to the blood and the stench and the huge corpses. The black stallion seemed as calm as his rider, now that Lan was on his back. She could understand that. Lan had a very calming effect on her, too. Usually. Sometimes, he had exactly the opposite effect. She wished they could have one more night together. Her face grew hot again.

Dismounting, she drew on saidar without using the angreal and wove a gateway just tall enough for her to lead Loversknot through onto grassland dotted with thickets of black-spotted beech and trees she did not recognize. The sun was a golden ball only a little down from its peak, yet the air was decidedly cooler than in Tear. Cold enough to make her gather her cloak, in fact. Mountains topped with snow and clouds rose to the east and north and south. As soon as Lan was through, she let the weave dissipate and immediately wove another gateway, larger, while she climbed into her saddle and settled the cloak around her again.

Lan led Mandarb a few steps westward, staring. Land ended abruptly in what was obviously a cliff no more than twenty paces from him, and from there ocean stretched to the horizon. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, turning back. "This isn't Shienar. It's World's End, in Saldaea, as far from Shienar as you can get and still be in the Borderlands."

"I told you I would take you to the Borderlands, Lan, and I have. Remember your oath, my heart, because I surely will." And with that she dug her heels in the mare's flanks and let the animal bolt through the open gateway. She heard him call her name, but she let the gateway close behind her. She would give him a chance to survive.

Only a few hours past midday, less than half a dozen tables were occupied in the large common room of The Queen's Lance. Most of the well-dressed men and women, with clerks and bodyguards standing attentively behind them, were there to buy or sell ice peppers, which grew well in the foothills on the landward side of the Banikhan Mountains, called the Sea Wall by many in Saldaea. Weilin Aldragoran had no interest in peppers. The Sea Wall had other crops, and richer.

"My final price," he said, waving a hand over the table. Every finger bore a jeweled ring. Not large stones, but fine. A man who sold gems should advertise. He traded in other things as well—furs, rare woods for cabinetmakers, finely made swords and armor, occasionally other things that offered a good return—but gems brought in the greater part of his profit in any year. "I'll come no lower." The table was covered with a piece of black velvet, the better to show off a good portion of his stock. Emeralds, firedrops, sapphires, and best of all, diamonds. Several of those were large enough to interest a ruler, and none was small. None held a flaw, either. He was known throughout the Borderlands for his flawless stones. "Accept it, or someone else will."

The younger of the two dark-eyed Illianers across from him, a clean-shaven fellow named Pavil Geraneos, opened his mouth angrily, but the older, Jeorg Damentanis, his gray-streaked beard practically quivering, laid a fat hand on Geraneos' arm and gave him a horrified look. Aldragoran made no effort to conceal his smile, showing a little tooth.

He had been only a toddler when the Trollocs swept down into Malkier, and he had no memories of that land at all—he seldom even thought of Malkier; the land was dead and gone—yet he was glad he had let his uncles give him the badori. At another table, Managan was in a shouting match with a dark Tairen woman wearing a lace ruff and rather inferior garnets in her ears, the pair of them nearly drowning out the young woman playing the hammered dulcimer on the low platform beside one of the tall stone fireplaces. That lean young man had refused the badori, as had Gorenellin, who was near Aldragoran's age. Gorenellin was bargaining hard with a pair of olive-skinned Altarans, one of whom had a nice ruby in his left ear, and there was sweat on Gorenellin's forehead. No one shouted at a man who wore the badori and a sword, as Aldragoran did, and they tried to avoid making him sweat. Such men carried a reputation for sudden, unpredictable violence. If he had seldom been forced to use the sword at his hip, it was widely known that he could and would.

"I do accept, Master Aldragoran," Damentanis said, giving his companion a sidelong glare. Not noticing, Geraneos bared his teeth in what he probably hoped Aldragoran would take for a smile. Aldragoran let it pass. He was a merchant, after all. A reputation was a fine thing when it enhanced your bargaining power, but only a fool went looking for fights.

The Illianers' clerk, a weedy, graying fellow and also Illianer, unlocked their iron-strapped coin box under the watchful eyes of their two bodyguards, bulky men with those odd beards that left the upper lip bare, in leather coats sewn with steel discs. Each carried a sword and stout cudgel at his belt. Aldragoran had a clerk at his own back, a hard-eyed Saldaean who did not know one end of a sword from the other, but he never used bodyguards. Guards on his premises, to be sure, but not bodyguards. That only added its bit to his reputation. And of course, he had no need of them.

Once Damentanis had endorsed two letters-of-rights and passed over three leather purses fat with gold—Aldragoran counted the coins but did not bother weighing them; some of those thick crowns from ten different lands would be lighter than others, yet he was willing to accept the inevitable loss—the Illianers carefully gathered up the stones, sorting them into washleather purses that went into the coin box. He offered them more wine, but the stout man declined politely, and they departed with the bodyguards carrying the iron-strapped box between them. How they were to protect anything burdened so was beyond him. Kayacun was far from a lawless town, but there were more footpads abroad than usual of late, more footpads, more murderers, more arsonists, more of every sort of crime, not to mention madness of the sort a man just did not want to think on. Still, the gems were the Illianers' concern now.

Ruthan had Aldragoran's coin box open—a pair of bearers were waiting outside to carry it—but he sat staring at the letters-of-rights and the purses. Half again what he had expected to get. Light coins from Altara and Murandy or no light coins, at least half again. This would be his most profitable year ever. And all due to Geraneos letting his anger show. Damentanis had been afraid to bargain further after that. A wonderful thing, reputation.

"Master Aldragoran?" a woman said, leaning on the table. "You were pointed out to me as a merchant with a wide correspondence by pigeon."

He noticed her jewelry first, of course, a matter of habit. The slim golden belt and long necklace were set with very good rubies, as was one of her bracelets, along with some pale green and blue stones he did not recognize and so dismissed as worthless. The golden bracelet on her left wrist, an odd affair linked to four finger rings by flat chains and the whole intricately engraved, held no stones, but her remaining two bracelets were set with fine sapphires and more of the green stones. Two of the rings on her right hand held those green stones, but the other two held particularly fine sapphires. Particularly fine. Then he realized she wore a fifth ring on that hand, stuck against one of the rings with a worthless stone. A golden serpent biting its own tail.

His eyes jerked to her face, and he suffered his second shock. Her face, framed by the hood of her cloak, was very young, but she wore the ring, and few were foolish enough to do that without the right. He had seen young Aes Sedai before, two or three times. No, her age did not shock him. But on her forehead, she wore the ki'sain, the red dot of a married woman. She did not look Malkieri. She did not sound Malkieri. Many younger folk had the accents of Saldaea or Kandor, Arafel or Shienar—he hi

mself sounded of Saldaea—but she did not sound a Borderlander at all. Besides, he could not recall the last time he had heard of a Malkieri girl going to the White Tower. The Tower had failed Malkier in need, and the Malkieri had turned their backs on the Tower. Still, he stood hurriedly. With Aes Sedai, courtesy was always wise. Her dark eyes held heat. Yes, courtesy was wise.

"How may I help you, Aes Sedai? You wish me to send a message for you via my pigeons? It will be my pleasure." It was also wise to grant Aes Sedai any favors they asked, and a pigeon was a small favor.

"A message to each merchant you correspond with. Tarmon Gai'don is coming soon."

He shrugged uneasily. "That is nothing to do with me, Aes Sedai. I'm a merchant." She was asking for a good many pigeons. He corresponded with merchants as far away as Shienar. "But I will send your message." He would, too, however many birds it required. Only stone-blind idiots failed to keep promises to Aes Sedai. Besides which, he wanted rid of her and her talk of the Last Battle.

"Do you recognize this?" she said, fishing a leather cord from the neck of her dress.

His breath caught, and he stretched out a hand, brushed a finger across the heavy gold signet ring on the cord. Across the crane in flight. How had she come by this? Under the Light, how? "I recognize it," he told her, his voice suddenly hoarse.

"My name is Nynaeve ti al'Meara Mandragoran. The message I want sent is this. My husband rides from World's End toward Tarwin's Gap, toward Tarmon Gai'don. Will he ride alone?"

He trembled. He did not know whether he was laughing or crying. Perhaps both. She was his wife? "I will send your message, my Lady, but it has nothing to do with me. I am a merchant. Malkier is dead. Dead, I tell you."

The heat in her eyes seemed to intensify, and she gripped her long, thick braid with one hand. "Lan told me once that Malkier lives so long as one man wears the hadori in pledge that he will fight the Shadow, so long as one woman wears the ki'sain in pledge that she will send her sons to fight the Shadow. I wear the ki'sain, Master Aldragoran. My husband wears the hadori. So do you. Will Lan Mandragoran ride to the Last Battle alone?"

He was laughing, shaking with it. And yet, he could feel tears rolling down his cheeks. It was madness! Complete madness! But he could not help himself. "He will not, my Lady. I cannot stand surety for anyone else, but I swear to you under the Light and by my hope of rebirth and salvation, he will not ride alone." For a moment, she studied his face, then nodded once firmly and turned away. He flung out a hand after her. "May I offer you wine, my Lady? My wife will want to meet you." Alida was Saldaean, but she definitely would want to meet the wife of the Uncrowned King.

"Thank you, Master Aldragoran, but I have several more towns to visit today, and I must be back in Tear tonight."

He blinked at her back as she glided toward the door gathering her cloak. She had several more towns to visit today, and she had to be back in Tear tonight! Truly, Aes Sedai were capable of marvels!

Silence hung in the common room. They had not been keeping their voices low, and even the girl with the dulcimer had ceased plying her hammers. Everyone was staring at him. Most of the outlanders had their mouths hanging open.

"Well, Managan, Gorenellin," he demanded, "do you still remember who you are? Do you remember your blood? Who rides with me for Tarwin's Gap?"

For a moment, he thought neither man would speak, but then Gorenellin was on his feet, tears glistening his eyes. "The Golden Crane flies for Tarmon Gai'don," he said softly.