The Gathering Storm

By the time Mat and Talmanes reached the village, Thorn had already gathered a small crowd. He stood upright on his saddle and juggled three colored balls in his right hand while talking of his travels in the south. The villagers here wore vests and green cloaks of a deep, velvety cloth. They looked warm, though upon closer inspection, Mat noticed that many of them—cloaks, vests and trousers—had been torn, and carefully mended.

Another group of people, mostly women, had gathered around the Aes Sedai. Good; Mat had half-expected the villagers to be frightened. One of those standing at the side of Thorn's group eyed Mat and Talmanes appraisingly. He was a sturdy fellow, with thick arms and linen sleeves that were rolled to the elbows despite the chill spring air. His arms curled with dark hair that matched his beard and the locks on his head.

"You have the look of a lord about you," the man said, approaching Mat.

"He's a pr—" Talmanes began before Mat cut him off hastily.

"I suppose I do at that," Mat said, keeping an eye on Talmanes.

"I'm Barlden, the mayor here," the man said, folding his arms. "You're welcome to come and trade. Be aware that we don't have much to spare."

"Surely you at least have some cheese," Talmanes said. "That's what you produce, isn't it?"

"All that hasn't molded or spoiled is needed for our custom," mayor Barlden said. "That's just the way of things, these days." He hesitated. "But if you have cloth or clothing you'll trade, we might be able to scrape something up to feed you for the day."

Feed us for a day? Mat thought. All eleven of us? He'd need to bring a wagonload back at least, not to mention the ale he'd promised his men.

"You still need to hear about the curfew. Trade, warm yourselves by the hearths for a time, but know that all outsiders must be out of the town by nightfall."

Mat glanced up at the cloud-covered sky. "But that's barely three hours away!"

"Those are our rules," Barlden said curtly.

"It's ridiculous," Joline said, turning away from the village women. She nudged her horse a little closer to Mat and Talmanes, her Warders— as always—shadowing her. "Master Barlden, we cannot agree to this foolish prohibition. I understand your hesitation during these dangerous times, but surely you can see that your rules should not apply here."

;Aye," Thom said, almost with a sigh. "An old one, forgotten by most. I've discovered three versions of it, all with the same words, set to different tunes. I guess the area has me thinking of it; it's said that Dor-eille herself penned the original poem."

"The area?" Mat said with surprise, glancing at the three-needle pines.

Thom nodded, thoughtful. "This road is old, Mat. Ancient. Probably was here before the Breaking. Landmarks like this have a tendency to find their way into songs and stories. I think this area is what was once called the Splintered Hills. If that's true, then we're in what was once Coremanda, right near the Eagle's Reaches. I bet you if we climbed a few of those taller hills, we'd find old fortifications."

"And what does that have to do with Doreille?" Mat asked, uncomfortably. She'd been Queen of Aridhol.

"She visited here," Thorn said. "Penned several of her finest poems in the Eagle's Reaches."

Burn me, Mat thought. I remember. He remembered standing on the walls of a high fort, cold on the mountaintop, looking down at a long, twisting roadway, broken and shattered, and an army of men with violet pennants charging up the hillside into a rain of arrows. The Splintered Hills. A woman on the balcony. The Queen herself.

He shivered, banishing the memory. Aridhol had been one of the ancient nations that had stood long ago, when Manetheren had been a power. The capital of Aridhol had another name. Shadar Logoth.

Mat hadn't felt the pull of the ruby dagger in a very long time. He was nearly beginning to forget what it had been like to be tied to it, if it was possible to forget such a thing. But sometimes he remembered that ruby, red like his own blood. And the old lust, the old desire, would seep into him again . . .

Mat shook his head, forcing down those memories. Burn it, he was supposed to be enjoying himself!

"What a time we've had," Thom said idly. "I feel old these days, Mat, like a faded rug, hung out to dry in the wind, hinting of the colors it once showed so vibrantly. Sometimes, I wonder if I'm any use to you anymore. You hardly seem to need me."

"What? If course I need you, Thom!"

The aging gleeman eyed him. "The trouble with you, Mat, is that you're actually good at lying. Unlike those other two boys."

"I mean it! Burn me, but I do. I suppose you could run off and tell stories and travel like you used to. But things around here might run a lot less smoothly, and I sure would miss your wisdom. Burn me, but I would. A man needs friends he can trust, and I'd trust you with my life any day."

"Why Matrim," Thom said, looking up, eyes glimmering with mirth, "bolstering a man's spirits when he's down? Convincing him to stay and do what is important, rather than running off to seek adventure? That sounds downright responsible. What's gotten into you?"

Mat grimaced. "Marriage, I guess. Burn me, but I'm not going to stop drinking or gambling!" Ahead, Talmanes turned around and glanced at Mat, then rolled his eyes.

Thom laughed, watching Talmanes. "Well, lad, I didn't mean to get your spirits down. Just idle talk. I still have a few things I can show this world. If I really can free Moiraine . . . well, we'll see. Besides, somebody needs to be here to watch, then put this all to song, someday. There will be more than one ballad that comes from all of this."

He turned, rifling through his saddlebags. "Ah!" he said, pulling out his patchwork gleeman's cloak. He threw it on with a flourish.