"I'm not going anywhere with you, spirit," Mat said. "Thorn, you seeing this?"
The gleeman rubbed his chin. "Perhaps we should hear the man out, Mat."
"Ghosts and spirits," Mat muttered, turning Pips. "Come on." He urged Pips forward, charging around to the front of the inn, Thom following. Here he caught a glimpse of many workers inside, carrying buckets of white paint. To fix the places where Aes Sedai fire had scored the building, likely.
Thom pulled up beside Mat. "I've never seen anything like this, Mat," he said. "Why would spirits need to paint walls and repair doors?"
Mat shook his head. He'd spotted the place where he'd fought the villagers to save Delarn. He pulled Pips to a halt suddenly, making Thom curse and round his own mount around to come back.
"What?" Thom asked.
Mat pointed. There was a stain of blood on the ground and across several rocks beside the road. "Where they stabbed Delarn," he said.
"All right," Thom said. Around them, men passed on the street, gazes averted. They gave Mat and Thom a wide berth.
Blood and bloody ashes, Mat thought. I've gotten us surrounded again. What if they attack? Bloody fool!
"So there's blood," Thorn said. "What did you expect?"
"Where's the rest of the blood, Thorn?" Mat growled. "I killed a good dozen men here, and I saw them bleed. You dropped three with your knives. Where's the blood?"
"It vanishes," a voice said.
Mat spun Pips to find the burly, hairy-armed mayor standing on the road a short distance away. He must have been near already; there was no way the workers could have fetched him that quickly. Of course, the way things seemed to be going in this village, who could tell that for certain? Barlden wore a cloak and shirt with several fresh rips in them.
"The blood vanishes," he said, sounding exhausted. "None of us have seen it. We just wake up and it's gone."
Mat hesitated, looking around the village. Women peeked out of houses, holding children. Men left for the fields, carrying crooks or hoes. Save for the air of anxiety at Mat and Thorn's presence, one would never know anything had gone wrong in the village.
"We won't hurt you," the mayor said, turning away from Mat. "So you needn't look so worried. At least, not until the sun sets. I'll give you an explanation, if you want one. Either come and listen or be gone with you. I don't really care, so long as you stop disturbing my town. We've work to do. Much more than usual, thanks to you."
Mat glanced at Thorn, who shrugged. "It never hurts to listen," Thorn said.
"I don't know," Mat said, eyeing Barlden. "Not unless you think it could hurt to end up surrounded by crazy, homicidal mountainfolk."
"We leave, then?"
Mat shook his head slowly. "No. Burn me, they've still got my gold. Come on, let's see what he has to say."
"It started several months back," the mayor said, standing beside the window. They were in a neat—yet simple—sitting room in his manor. The curtains and carpet were of a soft pale green, almost the color of ox-eye leaves, with light tan wood paneling. The mayor's wife had brought tea made from dried sweetberries. Mat hadn't chosen to drink any, and he had made certain to lean against the wall near the street door. His spear rested beside him.
Barlden's wife was a short, brown-haired woman, faintly pudgy, with a motherly air. She returned from the kitchen, carrying a bowl of honey for the tea, then hesitated as she saw Mat leaning by the wall. She eyed the spear, then put the bowl on the table and retreated.
"What happened?" Mat asked, glancing at Thorn, who had also declined a seat. The old gleeman stood with arms crossed beside the door from the kitchens. He nodded to Mat; the woman wasn't listening at the door. He'd make a motion if he heard someone approach.
"We aren't sure if it was something we did, or just a cruel curse by the Dark One himself," the mayor said. "It was a normal day, early this year, just before the Feast of Abram. Nothing really special about it that I can remember. The weather had broken by then, though the snows hadn't come yet. A lot of us went about our normal activities the next morning, thinking nothing of it.
"The oddities were small, you see. A broken door here, a rip in someone's clothing they didn't remember. And the nightmares. We all shared them, nightmares of death and killing. A few of the women started talking, and they realized that they couldn't remember turning in the previous evening. They could remember waking, safe and comfortable in their beds, but only a few remembered actually getting into bed. Those who could remember had gone to sleep early, before sunset. For the rest of us, the late evening was just a blur."
He fell silent. Mat glanced at Thorn, who did not respond. Mat could see in those blue eyes of his that he was memorizing the tale. He'd better get it right if he puts me in any ballads, Mat thought, folding his arms. And he'd better include my hat. This is a good bloody hat.
"I was in the pastures that night," the mayor continued. "I was helping old man Garken with a broken strip of fencing. And then . . . nothing. A fuzzing. I awoke the next morning in my own bed, next to my wife. We felt tired, as if we hadn't slept well." He stopped, then more softly, he added, "And I had the nightmares. They're vague, and they fade. But I can remember one vivid image. Old man Garken, dead at my feet. Killed as if by a wild beast."
Barlden stood next to a window in the eastern wall, opposite Mat, staring out. "But I went to see Garken the next day, and he was fine. We finished fixing the fence. It wasn't until I got back to town that I heard the chattering. The shared nightmares, the missing hours just after sunset. We gathered, talking it through, and then it happened again. The sun set, and when it rose I woke up in bed again, tired, mind full of nightmares."
He shivered, then walked over to the table and poured himself a cup of tea.
"We don't know what happens at night," the mayor said, stirring in a spoonful of honey.