Gleeman Bob writes: sorry it has taken so long! Chapter 5: At World's End got rather grim towards the end and the Will of the Pattern forced me to kill-off poor Atual Gaidin which I still feel bad about so Chapter 6: Through the Paerish Swar is intended to be a bit more light-hearted. (except for the middle part, which is all nasty and Darkfriendy.) I hope that you will appreciate the light-heartedness in the spirit in which it is intended, for I am but a foolish, fun-loving Gleeman and prefer to laugh than to weep! thanks again everyone who has been good enough to read (and even review!) my humble efforts. I promise to post Chapter 7: Under the Hill before this coming Winternight, I swear it upon the Light and my hope of Rebirth, and on Santa's beard also!

as ever, I wish to extend the greatest of respect and admiration to the legacy of Mr Rigney jnr.

Walk in the Light!


A Hunter for the Horn he was, impressive to behold

Impressive as the Horn itself (they say it's made of gold)

But he only went Horn-Hunting as his wife was such a scold!

Raise a cheer for the Horn of Valere!

from "The Horn-Hunting Song" by Roth Blucha, Gleeman


Chapter 6 * Through the Paerish Swar

Aebel Gaidin and Blaek Gaidin, twin-brothers bonded in sword-service to Shrinalla Tolamani, Aes Sedai of the Green Ajah, rode slowly and miserably west across Almoth Plain, hunched in the saddle, their dark, long-lashed eyes fixed nervously on their Aes Sedai, just ahead of them. Riding at the fore. Leading their small party. Shrina always did that! Rode ahead of them, as though it was her duty to take the first arrow in an ambush and not theirs. It was not fair! But it would be unwise to point-out her foolishness. Her selfishness! Today, of all days, this would not be a wise thing to do.

Even though the twin Warders could only see Shrina's back, swathed in the green damask cloak embroidered with curling golden horns that she had acquired several months earlier in Illian, her long red tresses spilling wildly over her shoulders as they always did, her graceful carriage as she sat her gelding, walking smoothly down the merchant's wagon-road of hard-packed earth… even had they not felt her mood through the bond (and how they wished that they could not!) the Twins would have known that their Aes Sedai was furious. No, that was far too mild a word. There did not exist a word to describe the mood Shrina was currently in – and this was Shrinalla Sedai – her bad moods were of legendary proportions. Though the kissing and making-up that always followed on from them, after the customary three days of cold silences and challenging glares on her part combined with the cringing, puppy-like behaviour they were required to exhibit on theirs, always made up for it. Certainly made up for it!

Although the Twins had not really known many women before they met Shrina, at least not in that way, they both agreed that there was no-one quite like her. Life had certainly become less dull after the wild young Battle Ajah Sister had come into their lives, taken them into her bed and, the following morning, peremptorily informed them that they were to be her Warders.

Oh dear. The Twins swallowed nervously. Shrina had abruptly reined A'vron to a halt. Was she going to shout at them again? And throw things? The Twins reined-in likewise, sitting Mosk and Merk, waiting cautiously. And the newcomer to their party (met that very morning) followed-suit, his dark blue eyes still slightly wide at some of the things he had recently witnessed, though his gaze was more curious than a-feared. Still a fair amount of fear, though… an angry Aes Sedai could have that effect on anyone, no matter what other awe-inspiring spectacles they might have recently witnessed, and he had seen… well, they all knew what he had seen. What he had seen was the problem, after all.

Shrina sat there awhile, staring straight ahead across the flat, wind-swept plain that stretched out before them – the Twins could almost imagine they saw a dark, miniature storm cloud hovering right over her russet head, tiny forks of the lightning that she wielded so adeptly stabbing down into her snaky, fox-hued locks! Lightning… no, they did not want to think about lightning… not after what she did to that tree

The Twins were aware that Shrina was extremely upset and since they also knew why, they knew that she had a perfect right to be – she had been hunting for it since the age of three, after all! But even so… it was a shame about the oak.

It had taken the Twins ages to find the Darkfriend who murdered their father, but at least they got her in the end – how would they have felt if they had just been about to stick their blades into the evil Tairen witch (sorry Aes Sedai, we don't mean you, just some Shadow-loving Wilder in a swamp years ago!) and Atual Gaidin had jumped in front of them and killed their father's murderer instead of them? Which he nearly had, by the way, you had to be fast if you wanted to kill Darkfriends when Ellythia Sedai's Warder was around! Fortunately, Atual had remembered about their dead father in time, so he stood aside and let them do it, even though they could tell that he didn't really want to. Very generous of him, really, so later the Twins had asked Shrina if they could have some of their coin back (though by that point she had already lost most of it at cards) and bought Atual a new hair-clip as a thank-you gift.

Atual Gaidin did not trouble to say thank-you for the gift and never wore it, probably didn't like it (it was much cheaper and plainer than the nice ones Ellythia Sedai gave to him on his Namedays) but it was not their fault that Shrina had only been able to give them back three silver marks and some coppers! Shrina was terrible at cards, dice as well, she should not play, especially with her Warder's coin… but there was that line in the False Dragon's Prophecy about a 'gambler' sounding the Horn of Valere, so Shrina thought that if she wagered a lot, she would be more likely to find it! The Twins disapproved of their Aes Sedai participating in games of chance, but… what could they do? She wore the Shawl, not they!

Still, Atual must have liked the thought of the gift, because even though Shrina had only bonded them the week before and it was customary for a senior Gaidin to keep taunting newly-bonded Warders with fresh-fish names for at least a month, he turned his back on tradition (which he did not do very often) and promptly ceased calling them 'new-caught fish' or 'fresh Mayene fishies' or 'little Green Ajah fishes in the net.' He still called them 'oilfishers' though, but the Twins did not mind that so much as they were from Mayene after all, whose natives were often named this by those of other lands… except for the vile land of Tear, where they were instead usually referred to as 'Mayener scum' (which did not have quite the same ring to it.)

People from Mayene were dubbed 'oilfisher' even if they did not work in the Oilfishing trade. But as boys, Aebel and Blaek had once (like their father and his forefathers before him) sailed to where the oilfish shoals lay, far to the distant south where even the Sea Folk did not go. So technically, they were 'oilfishers.' They knew where the shoals were, after all, and had sworn the ancient oaths never to tell where. They had the secret tattoo, did they not?

Jabal Gaidin had once told them how much it hurt when he had his hands tattooed as a boy, the deep ink-marks of his Clan and Family sigils scored into his skin, and the Twins had just sat there in the Inn and smiled without looking at each other, thinking about what they had endured – because they had once each had a small gold tattoo of an oilfish needled onto their gum! It had been a proud moment for the young brothers, induction into the Ancient and Honoured Order of Oilfishermen – but it had also been extremely painful.

Shrina was still sitting there, staring bleakly out across Almoth Plain, which was also rather bleak. The Twins hoped there would be no more lightning – how they wished Ellythia Sedai was here to tell Shrina not to do stupid things like that, since they were not allowed to! They would far rather Shrina hurl abuse and blunt objects some more, but lightning... however angry Shrina was, however justified that anger, it still did not give her the right to scorch branches off harmless oak trees – she might start a fire!

Shrina was always channelling in public places, there might be more Whitecloaks about, or some of those 'Shornshan Monstermen' the foolish Gleeman had spoken of, the ones he claimed had come across the Aryth Ocean in giant tea-cups, carrying Artur Hawkwing's scowling head on a big silver plate – the same ones who were said to have so recently infested Shrina's hometown. They had Aes Sedai as well, did they not? Though if one of those Shornshan Sisters came along and bothered Shrina right now, they would have almost felt sorry for the channelling monsterwoman, who was about to encounter Shrina on a bad day! A very bad day…

Finally, Shrina moved, leaning forward, reaching for her saddlebag on the right, which bulged oddly. Aebel and Blaek suppressed the urge to groan – this must be the third time Shrina had done this today, and it was not yet even noon! Shrina pushed back the flap and reached inside, grasping something. The Twins sighed, and rolled their eyes at each other.

"Stop rolling your bloody eyes at each other!" snapped Shrina, without turning around. She then pulled a large, curling huntsman's horn out of the saddlebag… it was definitely a ter'angreal and even had 'the Grave is no Bar to my Call' engraved on it in the Old Tongue! But it was made out of the wrong kind of metal, unfortunately. And while something interesting had happened on both occasions that Shrina had sounded it, this had in no wise involved the dead Heroes who were bound to the Horn of Valere. These same Heroes were all somewhere up ahead in Falme, apparently, giving the Shornshan monsterfolk a good pummelling, and serve them right for not staying on their side of the Ocean! The Twins did not like what they had heard of these invaders, even if it was mostly exaggerated nonsense told by idiotic Gleemen… these Shornshans sounded as though they were almost as bad as Tairens.

"Flaming Sages of the flaming Ages…" Shrina muttered, venomously. She scowled down at the horn she held for a while, then drew back her arm!

"No, Shrina!"

"Stop, Shrina!"

Shrina hesitated for a long moment, caught on the verge of hurling the horn into a bush, trembling as she resisted the urge to cast it violently away from her… then, cursing vilely under her breath, she reluctantly lowered her arm and stuffed the huntsman's instrument back into the saddlebag. She folded her hands atop the pommel of her saddle and sniffed loudly. The Twins knew what – or rather who – she was thinking about. They did their best to keep silent, to not attract Shrina's unwelcome ire with further ill-conceived attempts at cheering her up and trying to make her see the bright side of things. That had not worked. That had nearly brought them an encounter with the lightnings themselves!

When nothing happened for a while, the fourth member of their small party heeled his horse a step forward. The Twins were aware of him but their eyes remained fixed on their Aes Sedai, as the fellow was no threat. Not to them, at least (which was odd, considering his derivation) for he had proved himself trustworthy.

"May I enquire as to what is happening?" the fair-haired young man whispered softly, his words clipped and precise… after a moment, when no response came, he added, slightly louder; "Shrinalla Sedai will perhaps destroy more trees now, yes?" He sounded almost… hopeful! He was a strange fellow! The Twins turned to glare at him and he shrugged apologetically, conceding that it was currently best to keep quiet on that (or any other) subject. This did not reduce the Twins ire.

"Hush!" hushed Aebel.

"Shush!" shushed Blaek.

The Twin's dark eyes returned to their Aes Sedai… there was little in life that made them nervous, but a combination of the One Power and a furious female could do it every time… if little else, Warders had this in common with all other men!

Eventually, Shrina spoke, calmly. Well, not that calmly… but at least she was no longer shouting. For the time being. Her words echoed back to the three watching men, pregnant with foreboding, menace and… vengeance!

"Watcher's Oath, but if I ever catch the skinny, bug-eyed, lanky, grinning, gambling Andorman who sneaked the Horn of Valere right out from under me," Shrina promised, darkly, "then I swear on the Eye over the Endless Waves that I am going to make that little thief eat the burning thing!"

Shrina then did a graceful, wiggly thing with her fingers and used her first digit to draw an eye in the air above. That meant it was a real Watcher's Oath, to be taken seriously. So, if the unlucky fellow from Andor did cross her path, then Oath Rod be cursed – Shrina would be honour-bound to attempt to force-feed him with the fabled Horn of Valere! Which she would very much enjoy doing…

Shrina was quite looking forward to their eventual meeting – eventual and inevitable – for, if she could no longer be a Hunter for the Horn (since as of earlier in the week, it had been successfully hunted and sounded, though not by her) then she would devote the rest of her life to being a Hunter for the Andorman instead! Though when she found him, she wasn't going to sound him – she was going to pound him!

Shrina smiled grimly at the thought of the sweet revenge she would one-day exact upon the 'Hornsneaker,' as she thought of him… she did not consider the Andoran thief to be a proper Hornsounder like her, since he had sneaked-off with her rightful Horn, so earlier she and the Twins and the young Amadici fellow (who had initially given them the bad news) had between-them come-up with this clever name to describe him. She had needed to make-up a title for the grinning, gambling Andorman in any case, because even though she had been told that his name was Matrim Cauthon of the Two Rivers (wherever that was, it sounded horrid and dull) she could not yet bring herself to even speak the name of the… the Hornsneaker!

Shrina growled warningly, deep in her throat like an angered leopardess, her darkly exotic features shaping themselves into a grim mask of righteous vengeance for a moment, then tapped her booted heels. A'vron resumed his steady pace, Mosk and Merk followed suit, as did the tall roan gelding of their companion in misfortune… and the odd party's slow progress across Almoth Plain resumed.

As soon as he thought it was safe to, Aebel glanced at Blaek wordlessly, a swift, meaningful communication that hopefully Shrina would not notice through the bond. It was not they she was angry with (for once) but that would not stop her from taking it out on them – it never had before! They really were the unfairer sex! The glance, that only the other Twin could have possibly deciphered, meant something along the lines of:

Well… at least we found a Horn… even if it wasn't the Horn…

Considering that throughout the long history of the Great Hunts, most Hunters for the Horn had managed to find little more than their own deaths in some lonely place, finding a Horn was surely better than nothing? But try telling Shrina that… try telling her anything at the moment, and get ready to dance with the lightning!


Part I: Illian

"He is called Snowpelt… Ereklass Snowpelt! And he is a Hero. Also is he named 'He who Smites the Shadow…' and he is yet a Hero. He is Wan-of-the-Howling-Axe and, in the old-speech, 'Eldest Son' and by these names a Hero is he in addition! The Dragonmen call him 'Firstborn' and as well they name him 'Shadow-Slayer!' And of these names, he is equally a Hero… for a Hero may go many places and gain many a Name of Honour in the doing of many a Heroic Deed! A Hero often has many names, many names indeed… but it is by the name of 'Snowpelt' that we shall know him…"

The Gleeman lowered his voice and hissed, in a loud, stagy whisper;

"For convenience!"

The Gleeman's audience shifted a little and blinked, then chuckled nervously and glanced at each other with perhaps a touch of disapproval. It wasn't usual for a Gleeman to intersperse his stories with jokey asides… it had been amusing, but they hoped he would not do it again. It was difficult to lose yourself in some ancient tale when it was being told by a sarcastic Gleeman! But the Gleeman did not do it again.

Outside, a tall young woman tossed a copper to the dark-haired stable-boy who had taken the reins of her gelding. She squinted through the window… and smiled delightedly, recognising the story-telling Gleeman inside.

"I might have known!" she exclaimed, and turned to her companions to share the tidings – but they were already leading their own horses around to the stableyard, scorning the services of the stable-hands in favour of their own. She shrugged, and moved toward the open door beneath the strange sign – a white-striped badger dancing on its hind legs beside a man brandishing a silver shovel – the unaccustomed heat along with the heady aroma of the Perfumed Quarter all but forgotten at the anticipation of a merry common-room, a cup of wine… and entertainment.

Inside, the Plainchant continued, moving inexorably toward a sad conclusion, as such tales always do… but a Hero never dies until the end of his story.

"The Shadowmen advance, blackening the slopes of the Mountain of Night, numberless beyond numbering, grim and awful to behold…" Roth Blucha, Gleeman, strummed low, menacing chords on his harp. "…their savage Beastmen swarm in their footsteps, countless beyond counting…" Brutal, jangling chords. "…their Batmen flock above, darkening the sky, blotting-out the pale and distant sun…" Deliberately discordant chords. "…and their Shadowdogs romp at their heels!"

Roth then used his trained Gleeman's voice to make some surprisingly realistic barking noises, and the audience clapped a bit. Roth was not above doing animal impersonations. There wasn't much that he was above doing if it meant that he did not have to pay for his room or board! Roth plucked a few dark and dissonant notes, whilst scowling fiercely – but then, they changed, to golden, triumphal scales…

"But Snowpelt cares not! Why, he stands upon his own mountain, of a height to rival even that of the Night – a mount he has carved from Shadow-wrought, their bones piled high, torn and broken by his wrath! His eyes shine with the Light, too bright for the creatures of the Shadow to look upon, searing their dark and twisted souls. He raises his Howling-Axe high and whirls it over his head – and the Axe howls, howls for the blood of the Shadow!" Roth used his fingernails briskly, running them up and down the longer strings, producing a disconcerting noise.

The crowded common-room was firmly in Roth's hands – where a Gleeman's audience rightly should be – and behind the bar even Nieda stood attending, a forgotten mug and polishing cloth in her hands… her watchful eyes distracted, the maids had stopped serving to stare also, and young Bili by the door had his mouth hanging open.

"The enchanted axe of four silver blades, it howls, loud enough to split the sky in twain! The footsteps of the enemy falter, the pale faces of the Shadowmen pale further, the Beastmen groan and cover their hairy ears with their hairier hands, the Batmen shriek and tumble from the sky, the curs of the Shadow whine and whimper and cower down upon the ground!

"But their King is watching, and no sufferer of cowards is he… so they come on, full half the host of the Shadow – for has not Snowpelt slain the other half, and the day yet undone? On they come, encircling and surrounding him. An ordinary man might tremble at such a sight – but Snowpelt is no ordinary man! He carries the blood of the Fire-Giants in his veins, stands taller than the tallest man, higher than the highest Ogier… and the Light that shines from his eyes is terrible to behold! No, Snowpelt is no mere man – for he is a Hero of the Light, born to war on the Shadow!

"The horde of the Night encompass the mountain of bones, an island of the Light in a sea of fell and fatal darkness. The Shadow-wrought stand still and fall silent… and gaze upon our Hero. Will he now quail and quiver at the sight of his own death? No! Of course he will not!

"For noble Ereklass, clad in the glowing white skin of the monstrous Ice-Bear that he slew as his first Great Task, the enchanted snowy pelt that gives him his name and protects him from harm – he looks down upon the host of the Shadow – and he laughs! He laughs loud and he laughs long!"

Roth's voice swelled into booming laughter for a moment, his harp jangling in accompaniment. By the door, Bili gaped a little wider, not noticing the young woman slipping past him any more than Roth did. The Gleeman's eyes were on his audience, holding them… he squinted alarmingly, his face assuming a mask of ferocity.

"Then Snowpelt narrows his terrible eyes, twin orbs that burn with the Light, and he raises his Howling-Axe high, so that a cold white flame shines from its silver blades and further blinds the dark-blinded Shadowmen! Contemptuously, he looks down upon the Shadow-wrought arrayed before him, countless beyond numbering, numberless beyond counting… and he speaks, in a voice that shakes the sky and trembles the earth…" (Roth raised and deepened his voice, words resounding in the narrow confines of the common-room) "…and he says;

" 'Not enough! Tell the dark King of Night to send more! Tell your foul Lord of the Grave that I will fight all of his minions… or I will fight none of them!' "

Roth was giving them Snowpelt. Or, The Heroic Death of Ereklass Snowpelt, to give the tale its full title. There had been the usual requests, Rogosh Eagle-eye this, Gaidal & Birgitte that, but Roth Blucha, Gleeman, did not take requests, even when the Great Hunt itself had been called. If they did not like his story, then there were other Inns where he was sure there were older, fatter Gleemen who would be happy to recite for them whatever oft-told tale they pleased in return for the price of a cup of wine. But here, tonight, he was giving them Snowpelt… and they could like it or they could lump it!

Besides, Roth preferred to tell his audience a story they might not have heard before… and this certainly fit the bill. It was a strange tale, of unknown provenance, one of the lost stories that Old Willi, the Master Gleeman Roth stood 'prentice to, had found when he journeyed the Aiel Waste, a long time ago… It was confusing, also. The bear's skin, for example… clearly, the legend of Ereklass Snowpelt was based on that of a more ancient Hero of the First Age, the mythical 'Lionskin' who might or might not have been bound to the Horn, opinion on the matter was divided amongst Gleemen… and yet, it was known (if little else was, beyond the performance of a certain amount of trials) that Lionskin had used a great wooden club to defeat his enemies, not a four-bladed axe… and when had the skin of a lion become that of a bear? Were these Heroes one and the same? A single thread of the Pattern, spun-out in different Ages? Or had one taken the other's name, in emulation of his deeds? It was impossible to say… but it was thought the tale of Lionskin went back even further than that of Elsbet, the Queen of All, and there were not many stories older than hers.

But in spite of all this, there was only one criteria The Death of Snowpelt needed to meet as far as any Gleeman was concerned – it made for a good story! Roth was coming to the conclusion now – Snowpelt's over-confidence had proved his undoing, as was often the case with Heroes, but his end had proved worthy of song and story… and so, the Gleeman was telling it! For that was what a Gleeman did.

"The Shadowmen gather about the dying Hero, though feign to face the Light that still shines from his terrible eyes – they will wait until he is no more, then they will tear off the great pelt of the Ice-Bear, the shining, white armour he wears beneath, and cast them away… they will despoil his carcass and leave it for the Beastmen and Shadowdogs to fight over!

"Ereklass Snowpelt closes his eyes and lies still – the Shadowmen smile their cold and mirthless smiles, and approach. There is his great Howling-Axe, still gripped in his lifeless hand – they will take it to their King as his dark tribute, the weapon of his greatest foe (but one!) the shining silver blades that will wound even the dread Shape-shifters of the Shadow, who stand immune to any ordinary weapon!

"The Shadowmen stand over the fallen Hero… but then, his eyes open! He is not dead! And the Light that shines from them is terrifying indeed! His Howling-Axe sweeps in a circle over his head and the Shadowmen fall where they stand – just a scratch of its shining blades enough to kill them… but Snowpelt is no cat! Even in death, he does more than merely scratch his enemies! The remaining Shadowmen fall back, wary! And again, Snowpelt laughs at them!

" 'Not yet, Shadowmen!' his voice booms, potent even in death, 'soon… but not that soon!' And though dying from the venomous blood of the Hounds of Darkness, Ereklass Snowpelt, Firstborn, laughs loudly! Of great humour is he!

"But even a Hero has his limits… and Snowpelt has reached his. His mighty arm falls, his Howling-Axe lies still, no more to rise… and the surviving Shadowmen return cautiously, eager to be about their grim task…"

The sailors and dock-workers who filled the common-room stirred a little. Roth knew that they did not wish to hear about Shadowmen despoiling the Hero's corpse and stealing his enchanted axe. Which was well, for they were not going to! It is a foolish Gleeman, who dissatisfies his audience…

"But lo? What is that distant noise that approaches? The Shadowmen feel no fear, any more than they know mercy or compassion… but at this sound, they look blindly at each other with… trepidation!"

Roth made a keening noise in the back of his throat as he plucked strange dissonant chords, slowly making the sound louder, till it filled the common-room…

"As well they should! A screaming! A shrieking! Moving closer… coming nearer… and the Shadowmen blanch – for they know what that noise means! Well know they who is coming and they turn to stare, in something approaching horror!

"Who comes, to save Snowpelt's honour? Why, it is his brother, Taw! Aye, Taw-of-the-Screaming-Spear! He who Scourges the Shadow! Known to the Dragonmen as 'Shadowman-Slayer' – and with good reason!

"Yes, Snowpelt's younger brother, Taw! His Squire before battle, his Second during it, and on this occasion, his Saviour after! Though Taw cannot save Snowpelt's life, for the blood of the Shadowdog is fatal to all, even to Heroes… but he can, at least, preserve his Honour! Though told to hold back, he defies his elder brother's command – he disobeys! He comes!

"No giant's blood is Taw! He stands the height of a tall man only – but no ordinary man is he either… a Hero also! No ordinary man… and no ordinary steed rides Taw! Mounted on the back of a great wolf is he! The first Shadowman falls, for the Screaming-Spear never misses its target, though Taw has been blind from birth – a white scarf is tied about his brow, but what need has Taw for eyes? His ears can hear a pin drop from the other side of the Great Ocean!

"They say Snowpelt found him as an abandoned babe, raised and fostered him… and each time Taw casts his spear, a Shadowman dies. Weaponless is Taw now? No! For the Screaming-Spear returns to his pale hand – he throws again! Another Shadowman falls! And another! The rest turn to flee, but too late! Taw is amongst them now, his dread weapon once more in his grasp, his enchanted spear moving too fast to see, the great jaws of his fell, wolfish steed snapping and tearing! The Shadowmen swiftly despatched or put to flight, Taw kneels at Snowpelt's side, takes a great hand in both of his own…

" 'Forgive my disobedience, but I have come, Brother,' says Taw, 'though too late, it would seem…'

" 'There is nothing to forgive. Take this, Brother,' replies Snowpelt, his great voice fading, and gives Taw his Howling-Axe, 'carry it from the field and leave me, for I am too much a burden even for your great wolf to bear… do not fear, the King of the Night shall not have me… for I know what to do! Mark well – there shall be no Shadow at Noon on this day!' And for the last time, mirthful Snowpelt laughs…

"Though he has no eyes with which to weep (and they say, no heart with which to mourn, for he was born without that either) Taw-of-the-Screaming-Spear sorrowfully kisses his brother on the forehead and obeys… he departs, as swiftly as he came, bearing away the Howling-Axe, depriving the Shadow of its spoils…

"And, with his dying breath, Ereklass Snowpelt calls upon the Creator… and is answered! They say that on that day, the Father of Creation reached down and touched the earth with His hand, and a bright, white Light bloomed in the desolation of the Shadow, so that even the dread King of Night was forced to lower his gaze… a great, dark cloud blossomed high above, in the shape, it is said, of a vast toadstool… and there, before the Shadowmount, a deep chasm to rival even the Pit of Dhoom itself! All that is left to mark the passing of a Hero… but it is enough. The Lord of the Grave shall not display the bones or arms of Snowpelt in his dread barrow!"

Roth plucked a low, funereal march, his voice solemn and resonant…

"All is silent. All is still. Ereklass Snowpelt lives no more… but bound to the Horn is he, as are all Heroes of the Light, and his Legend will live-on, for as long as the Wheel turns, for so long as the sun shines."

Roth lowered his harp and bowed his head. His throat felt dry. He needed a drink! The usual pause, while the audience came back to themselves, returned to the present from whichever place they went when a story-teller spoke of things long past, of legends faded to myths… and then, that which was meat and drink to a Gleeman, life and breath… applause!

The crowd that filled the common-room of Easing the Badger clapped enthusiastically and called for more, but that had been Roth's eighth and last story of the night so he shook his head, smiling. Nieda expected him to tell at least five, though they were old friends and she never actually came right out and said so… but a room and board had to be paid for, one way or another, and Roth rarely had coin for either… besides, the accommodations were not his alone, he was sharing with someone who definitely did not sing songs or tell tall tales! He glanced at the door.

Ysmet should be back soon…

But Nieda was nodding at him approvingly, before turning to scowl at her nephew and the serving wenches, to let them know that they were not there to listen to stories… muscle-bound Bili returned to watching the neglected entrance with one eye, the often rowdy patrons with the other, while the slim girls in tight aprons scurried back to work, bearing heavily laden trays. Young Ayella, who had the rosebud lips of a Taraboner and very pretty ankles, came over with a clay cup of the Inn's best wine, and since Ysmet was not around to see, Roth smiled his appreciation at her. Though not too warmly, as Nieda did not approve of that sort of thing.

Still, eight stories stood him in good stead… Roth usually told more than five because he enjoyed telling them, or at least sang a few songs afterwards. He liked performing – he was a bloody Gleeman, was he not? It was hardly a trade for a man who feared the eyes of others on him, who disliked attention… whereas Roth had always loved these things!

Roth took a grateful sip of wine, set the cup aside and rose from his stool, unconsciously giving his many-patched cloak a flutter… and abruptly became aware of the tall, red-headed young woman who had sneaked around behind him so that he would not see her until the tale was done.

"Bravo, Gleeman," she cried, "extraordinary!"

Roth stared in surprise. "Shrina!" He grinned delightedly. The next moment, she was cannoning into his arms, laughing, hugging him enthusiastically. A little too enthusiastically, in fact.

"Please, Shrina, it's lovely to see you again, but… mind the harp! It's the only one I've got!"

Shrina withdrew somewhat, though still clutching his arms. She sniffed, disparagingly. "Honestly Roth, you never change… you and that bloody harp! Why do you not just get married to it?"


The Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar strode purposefully over one of the Perfumed Quarter's many bridges, ignoring both the pungent smells that lingered in the evening air and the excited crowds of intoxicated, scantily-clad people surging past to either side. She was preoccupied… planning. Ysmet did not have mere plans as do most… rather, she had a Plan – and it looked as though it might finally be coming to fruition, for all that it had taken long enough. But the Merchants had agreed – they had put up half of the money, after all, so perhaps… Ysmet allowed herself a brief, victorious smile. Yes… she was finally going to do it! As far as her investors were concerned, she would be opening up new markets in distant lands, for the purposes of expanding trade and making profit. But as far as she was concerned… she was going to see places that even Jain Farstrider had never beheld! Or die in the attempt. Yet more Illuminator's nightflowers burst in the skies above, almost masking a horrid sound, just ahead. Ysmet's steps faltered and she scowled.

Before her, an old, fat Gleeman was leaning over the side of the bridge, noisily emptying his stomach into the turgid waters of the canal below. He straightened at her approach, wiping his mouth… the revellers pushing past to either side did not seem to notice, certainly, such sights were common during the Feast of Teven, though Ysmet certainly did, and sniffed disparagingly. Though it was no worse than some of the things she had seen during the Festival of Birds in her home-city of Ebou Dar…

"Ah, that's better," the greying, rotund Gleeman exclaimed, to no-one in particular, adding, "bloody oysters!" before continuing on his way, giving his many-patched cloak a flutter as though nothing untoward had happened. Ysmet glared and shook her head disapprovingly as he strode past, noting that the crude fellow – who stank of brandy! – had a good deal more patches on his cloak than Roth did. A Master Gleeman then, rather than a Journeyman, as her lover proudly acknowledged himself to be, at every given opportunity… though when she first met Roth, he had been posing as a Bard. Gleemen occasionally did this, he had explained later, much as they loathed all manner of Bardkind… it was to make a point, apparently, though she had no idea what point.

Though only a minor cousin of the Royal House, Ysmet had grown-up in the Tarasin Palace and was more accustomed to the company of Bards, but since meeting Roth, had learned a good deal more of Gleemen… perhaps more than she wished to!

Roth lay in his shirt-sleeves on the narrow bed they shared, head resting on his palms, long legs encased in dark velvet comfortably crossed, gazing up at the ceiling, his lips moving but no sound emerging. Running through the tales he intended to tell that night, no-doubt ensuring that they were word-perfect in his mind, every pause and inflection just-so… he had told her that the Master Gleeman he stood 'prentice to used to rap him painfully on the knuckles with a stick for every single mistake, no matter how small!

Over by the wash-stand (somewhat chipped) Ysmet glanced away from Roth, shaking her head, and resumed checking her appearance in the small mirror (slightly cracked.) It would be well to look her best, for the coming meeting – she might barely have two spare coppers to rub together, but those accursed Merchants were expecting to receive a Noblewoman of one of Ebou Dar's most ancient Houses – and that was exactly who they were going to get. A good job they did not know that she was currently sharing cramped accommodation in the Perfumed Quarter, rather than staying at the King's Palace… she had been a guest there once before, on a previous visit to Illian, but that was when she was still connected to the Ruling House, which was no longer the case. Thank the Creator!

Besides, Ysmet much preferred Easing the Badger to the company of King Stepaneos and his court of cronies, swarming about him like so many sycophantic golden bees… though the gold often proved to be mere pinchbeck! Their stings were real enough, if conversational rather than actual… no, it was better here with Roth. Theirs was one of the rooms at the back of the Inn, and rather small – but Ysmet had certainly stayed in worse in the months since she had run away from Ebou Dar.

Ysmet examined herself critically in the mirror. Her dark, ebony locks were arranged in a single thick braid down her back and two thinner braids hanging over either shoulder, a rather old-fashioned style, perhaps, but practical. It suited her. Her large, brown eyes moved to her face; olive skin, full lips, unblemished cheeks… she sighed. No duelling scar. It was not her fault that she had always been so much better with a blade than her opponents, that they had not been able to so much as touch her with sword or knife! But it would have been nice to at least have one beauty-scar…

Ysmet caught Roth's eye in the mirror. He was grinning at her – he knew why she had sighed! Ysmet turned to glare at him. The young Gleeman had ceased his internal recitation and was leaning up on one elbow, golden-brown, wavy locks falling down over his sea-green eyes as usual, so that he had to brush them away in order to watch her. She liked to do that for him! When she was in the mood… which she was not at the moment.

Usually, Ysmet did not care for facial-hair on a man – particularly the ridiculous chin-beards the locals grew! – but the moustache beneath Roth's rather pointed nose was small and carefully trimmed, so she did not mind so much and had let him keep it… though the single garnet ear-stud he wore looked a little strange. Ysmet shook her head in bemusement. He had won it from a Kandori Gleeman in a bizarre rhyming contest in which they had attempted to insult each other's abilities in the most skilful ways possible, set to music… whilst Ysmet had watched and listened, in some confusion. Roth had apparently triumphed – though only just – and the pair of patched-cloak fluttering fellows had seemed to part as friends, or at least as friendly as two strutting, competing songbirds could be… Gleemen were odd indeed!

Roth schooled his features a little, but the mirth remained in his eyes.

"You are thinking that Gleemen are strange, no-doubt," he commented, in his melodic voice, "but really – you Ebou Dari females are a burning-sight stranger!"

"How so, my cooing dove?" Ysmet enquired, levelly. Though her eyes flashed dangerously. Roth raised his hands in temperance.

"Peace, my darling! No offence! All respect to the honour of the women of Altara, but-"

"Southern Altara, you chirping canary! Those of the north would not know honour if it bit them upon the rump!" Ysmet sniffed. How many times did she have to explain this to him? Roth, who did not even come from a nation, however divided, but hailed from a town that neither Tarabon nor Arad Doman seemed particularly interested in claiming, merely shrugged.

"The south, then! And even more respect to my woman in particular…" Roth blew her a kiss, fluttering his eyelashes, and despite herself, Ysmet smiled momentarily, as it was such a ridiculous gesture, and amused her every time! "…but there isn't another place in the world whose womenfolk actually regret not having a scar on their face!" Roth laughed, and held out his arms. "Come here, my unblemished lovely! Let us cuddle awhile!"

"I do not have time for that! Business before pleasure, remember?" Which reminded her… Ysmet picked up the small-yet-heavy velvet bag from the washstand and held it open, inspecting the contents with a frown. Gold and silver jewellery, all of it very fine, set with diamonds and rubies, emeralds and sapphires… her mother's. Now hers. For a little while longer, at least.

"Don't you ever regret not marrying that Nobleman, or one of his ilk?" Roth wondered aloud, "some rich fellow, who can offer you more than this?" An elegant, long-fingered hand gestured at their mean, if comfortable, surroundings.

Ysmet snorted. "No! You should have seen the greasy oaf Aunt Tylin wished me to wed! Posturing fool! I called him that, and worse, in front of his vile family… I even duelled with his rather ferocious sister over the matter, and gave the termagant a good scar to remember me by! Why, if I hadn't left when I did, I might have ended-up duelling his bloody mother also!" Ysmet brandished the velvet bag, her own mother's jewellery clinking inside. "I saw the way things were going… since my mother gave these to me and as I have no surviving sisters and had decided not to marry, I felt perfectly entitled to take my own dowry with me when I absconded! I mean to put it to a better use than seeing it squandered at the horse-races by a fool husband I never asked for!" Though she doubted that her aunt, the Queen, saw it quite that way…

"Slow horses? Shocking!" exclaimed Roth, who had heard only shorter versions of this story before, adding with a grin, "well, if you change your mind about matrimony, I am sure I could waste your dowry in much more interesting ways than that! On fine clothing, mostly – if you don't believe me, I'll prove it to you!"

Ysmet stalked over to the bed, sat and, seizing Roth by the ears, kissed him rather forcefully and at some length. When she eventually released him, she took a deep breath and regarded him levelly. "We shall see about that. While you make for a fine lover, I suspect you would be a rather poor husband… but I regret nothing, my handsome Gleeman!" She poked him in the chest with a finger. "You had best not either, or I'll put a scar on that pretty smooth face of yours also!"

"No regrets here, my sweet," Roth assured her, somewhat breathlessly. Though it seemed contradictory to him… the Noble Houses of Ebou Dar wished their daughters to be docile and compliant wives on the one hand… yet on the other, they taught their girls the arts of sword-fencing and knife-fighting from an early age!

Ysmet smiled, relenting, smoothing those fine locks back over his ears.

"Will you not come with me, Roth?" she enquired, in softer tones.

"I would love to, my dearest, but you know what Nieda is like… the evening draws on and if I don't go down and sing for our collective suppers, then she'll throw us out into the street on our collective…" Roth did not trouble to finish the sentence.

Ysmet scowled, rising and returning to the washstand. She thought that Roth was exaggerating, the Innkeeper would not expel them if Roth missed but one performance, Mistress Sidoro seemed to be an old friend of his… she suspected that he just didn't want to go. She turned back to the mirror. The blouse she wore was fine, creamy silk, embroidered with brightly coloured feathers on the sleeves, her skirts of sea-green satin… she stamped her feet against the heels of her suede boots to settle them, glumly looking down at the jewellery. Oh well.

"I hope this is enough," Ysmet muttered, "that thief you introduced me to will probably give me barely half their value…"

"He'll treat you more fairly than most, my darling…" Roth smiled, reached up and removed the garnet-stud from his ear, tossing it to Ysmet. "Here, add this to the haul! I never much cared for it…"

Ysmet had fast hands – her duelling-master had always said so – and snagged the not-particularly precious jewel from the air, eyeing it disparagingly before adding it to the glittering stack. It would not make much difference, but it was the thought that counted, she supposed. With satisfaction, she also added the topaz-set choker that her prospective fiancé had given to her, the article worn by young Ebou Dari women of marriageable age prior to wearing the marriage knife itself – she would not need that now! She hoped it would all be enough…

The negotiations were complete, and provided that she could show a sizeable banker's draft to her investors, they would have no choice but to provide the rest of the capital for her venture. And then… construction could commence.

"Thank-you, songbird," Ysmet muttered absently, her dark eyes moving to Roth's flute, sitting on the table in its open case… it appeared to be solid silver, chased with gold… and he was always complaining that it was rather shrill, had a poor tone… Ysmet picked up the garish instrument, turning it back and forth in the dim light that filtered through the shutters.

"How much do you suppose this is worth..?" Ysmet wondered, idly.

Roth was up off the bed in a heart-beat, slinging his patched cloak across his back, grabbing his harp-case and whisking the flute out of her hand as he slipped past, leaving a quick, demure kiss on her cheek as he went!

"Sorry my lovely, but a Gleeman should never keep the crowd waiting overlong, and I must run!" and he was off, through the slatted wooden door and down the stairs, bearing his precious flute to safety, beyond the reach of moneylenders.

Ysmet scowled after him. She loved Roth… at least she thought she did, though had never particularly loved a man before… there was something about this odd Gleeman from the west that she found appealing and… necessary, for her own happiness. She had not been very happy before she met him, certainly, and he always managed to make her smile. At least, when he was not making her frown! But when they were apart, she often found herself wondering about what he was doing, worrying about his safety… and when they were together, for some reason she felt oddly… complete. That was love, was it not? She certainly found herself growing unaccustomedly angry when Roth was to be found in the company of other women, whether or not he had encouraged it! Though a Gleeman often was, to be fair, it was a very… public way to live, and a handsome fellow with a fine singing voice was rarely short of female attention…

Besides, Roth loved her too, he had said so and had better have meant it, or he was going to find himself kissing the wrong end of her mother's marriage-knife! Though set with even finer jewels than the rest of her small legacy, she had no intention of parting with that. She would wear it herself one day, when she had the right to… when and if she had made an honest man out of Roth! If it was even possible to do so, with a Gleeman… No, he certainly returned her feelings, but… Ysmet sighed. There were just times that she got the impression that, while Roth loved her, he loved his bloody harp and flute just a little bit more! Not to mention that flaming threadbare cloak of his, with the silly fluttering patches! He had told her, quite seriously – and he was not serious very often – that his Gleeman's cloak would always be the first thing he saved from a burning building, regardless of what other precious possessions of his lay inside!

Ysmet secured the jewellery in the inner pocket of her short, silken coat, buckled her slim-bladed sword to the belt snugged tight about her slender waist, swept a voluminous grey cloak over her shoulders and paced down the old, creaking rear stairs of the Inn every bit as regally as if she were descending the marble steps of the Tarasin Palace… she had jewels to barter, Merchants to go and see. She did not care for Merchant-Bankers, but there it was. Investors were unfortunately necessary to her Plan, every bit as much as the renegade Sea Folk fellow she was meeting later. Raab had best not be late this time, or she would put a few more holes in his ears to hang those silly rings through!

Ysmet had crossed several more bridges and navigated numerous cramped canal-side streets before she came to the reluctant realisation that she was lost… and she was supposed to be an explorer! Losing one's way was hardly an acceptable thing to do, in light of this! But the sprawling warren of Illian's Perfumed Quarter was harder to navigate than the open ocean, after all, even though she had been here for at least a month… the trouble was, it all looked the same, one bridge much like another… and she had always thought Ebou Dar had too many canals!

Ysmet was preoccupied with glancing about herself, hoping to catch a glimpse of the arched roofs of the King's Palace, the Assemblage Building, some sort of landmark anyway, to help her get her bearings… at which point, she found herself walking straight into a tall man who was not looking where he was going either! They collided, without much force, and each took a step back.

"Watch where you walk, fellow!" Ysmet snapped, touching her sword-hilt.

The fellow in question examined her with cold, blue eyes. He was wearing fine (if worn) clothing, the golden scrollwork on his knee-length burgundy coat faded, but the sword-hilt his signet-ringed hand rested lightly on was well-engraved with silver and bore a Heron-mark. The embroidered Red Bull on the breast of his cloak and the reddish moustaches waxed into points that flared beneath an aquiline nose marked him out as a Murandian… even before he opened his mouth and, in the distinctive lilting accents of that nation, began to effusively and surprisingly apologise!

"My dear Lady, do forgive me for near-enough trampling you like a wild ox! 'Tis a thousand pardons I ask for the imposition! Unforgivable!" He performed an elegant, courtly bow, sweeping his shabby yellow cloak back and to the side. He was younger than he looked, the moustaches adding a few years but for up-close…

Ysmet swallowed the angrier words she had been about to utter. She had briefly wondered if they might duel over the matter, since those of Murandy were famed for their mercurial temperaments – indeed, her own anger at having lost her bearings like some foolish outlander (which to be fair, she was) was such that she almost wished to! But his unexpectedly mannerly behaviour took her aback.

"Yes, well… there is no need-"

"It is plain mortified, I am! And what must you think of me, to go barging into you like a clumsy great carthorse?" The Murandian shook his head ruefully. His long hair, dark brown with reddish streaks, shook against his shoulders… without the ridiculous moustaches he would be rather beautiful, Ysmet considered… not that that had anything to do with anything!

"I was not looking where I was going either," she pointed-out, mollified.

"Nonsense! The fault is all mine, so it is, inconsiderate billygoat that I am! Is there anything I might do to make up for my hasty and intemperate behaviour, now?"

Ysmet blinked. He had an odd turn-of-phrase, granted, but seemed sincere in his regret. "Well… as you mention it, you do not happen to know where the Bridge of Flowers is? I can find my Inn from there, but I seem to have lost my way…"

"Aye, indeed I do!" The tall, young Murandian swivelled, pointing. "Cross that canal, turn left, then right and the bridge in question should be right before you, my Lady… though might I escort you? I fear the streets are packed with ne'er-do-wells, many of them taken in strong drink, even more so than usual!"

"I thank you, but there is no need… I am well-able to protect myself." The Murandian looked disappointed. "But may I know your name, sir?"

The young man – young for the Heron-mark, certainly – bowed again, even more elegantly if anything. He certainly moved very gracefully… an excellent dancer, no-doubt…

"I have the honour to be the Lord Dagnon do Merivny a'Vrois, my Lady..?"

"Ysmet of House Mitsobar…" The words were out before she could recall them and give the name 'Rashiel Blucha.' Ysmet rarely gave her true name, rather than that which she had used in most of her dealings in Illian… word might get back to Aunt Tylin, after all, and she had no wish to be kidnapped by the Queen's armsmen and delivered back to Ebou Dar bound hand-and-foot for an old-fashioned knife-point wedding! 'Blucha' always amused Roth (when it did not disconcert him) and 'Rashiel' she took from a former companion, long-since gone to the White Tower.

"I assume you are here to swear the Hunter's Oath, Lady Ysmet, as am I?"

"No, of course not!" As if she had time to waste on gallivanting after a silly myth! The young Lord – Dagnon – blinked. Perhaps he was offended, though his handsome features remained impassive. Oh dear. He had given her directions, and she had walked into him as much as he into her… she had no wish to insult the helpful fellow, and it positively had nothing to do with how undeniably attractive he was! Besides, she had seen plenty of other women with swords in the City, those that did not carry quarterstaffs or have large amounts of knives strapped to them, doubtless also here to take the Hunter's Oath, so it was a fair assumption to make…

"That is to say, I have other business here…" Ysmet qualified, "though under different circumstances, I would be happy to seek after the Horn of Valere, a noble calling I am sure…" Lord Dagnon smiled (he had a lovely smile!) twisted at the points of his moustache a little and, with a final graceful bow, continued on his way.

Ysmet watched the tall young Lord stride away with bemusement. Well, the Great Hunt had been called again, False Dragons abounded and Roth claimed that Old Hob roamed abroad, a-hunting with his wild pack of Darkhounds (really!) so in these disquieting times, anything was possible, anything at all – even a polite Murandian!


Roth looked around for an empty table… there, in the corner, one of the regulars, the ship-captain (he thought he was called 'Bil Dromon' or something like that) was rising from his place, a frown on his square and oddly-bearded face, the suspiciously cloaked and cowled men he had been whispering with earlier, already gone… Conspiring and consorting instead of having the courtesy to listen to his tales… smugglers!

As Roth and Shrina sat down, Nieda came over with a tray, set a bottle of the best wine down and a fine pewter goblet, silver-engraved. She smiled significantly at Shrina, who smiled back. Roth frowned. He knew about Nieda and her occasional pigeons, flying north to Tar Valon, knew where her allegiance lay. No mere clay cup for an Aes Sedai, clearly!

"Thank-you, Mistress Sidoro," said Shrina, "it's awfully nice to be back at the Badger again. Goodness, young Bili has grown since last I was here! I barely recognised him…"

Nieda sighed. "Eats me out of house and home, he does," she muttered ruefully, "but he be a good boy and does drop trouble-makers into the canal when the need do arise, so worth his weight in gold, he be!" Nieda nodded to Roth. "A strange tale that last," she commented, "fair shivered my spine, it did!"

"I'll tell one about Gaidal Cain and Birgitte courting tomorrow night, Nieda," Roth assured her, "promise!" Nieda nodded, satisfied, and walked back to the bar, patting the thick roll of grey hair at her nape. Roth poured the wine and they caught up. It had been nearly two years…

"So, Shrina… where are the Terrible Twins?"

"Roth! You mustn't call them that! Though it is quite funny… my beloved boys are in the stables, attending to their ferocious steeds, since they'd bite the fingers off any stable-lads who went near them… no-doubt they are feeding carrots to their horses whilst neglecting to give any to mine… I sometimes think that apart from me, those beasts of theirs are the only things in the world they have any time for… perhaps, even a bit more time than they have for their…"

Shrina might not be the most discreet of women, but even she would not say 'Aes Sedai' in a crowded southern Inn in her rather loud and carrying voice… so she glanced significantly at Roth, and just formed the words with her full lips instead.

Roth grinned. Partly at Shrina's conception of being tactful, but also at the pleasant memories those lips engendered – and he had been the first to kiss them!

"Carrots, eh? I am surprised they let you out of their sight long enough!"

"Oh, apart from almost getting trampled by wild horses, Illian isn't that dangerous a place! Besides, in the event, you will protect me won't you, dear Roth?"

"No! Never! I would like to, but am sadly unable. As you well know, I am a lover, not a fighter!" Roth shrugged. "In the event of any trouble, you can always protect me, Shrina, with that sword I hear you carry, or…"

Roth glanced at her hands. Shrina was not wearing her Great Serpent ring. She scowled at him. Roth was a diplomatic man (at least he considered himself so, if no-one else did) and if Shrina wanted to travel incognito, then that was her business.

"…or your fists! Remember back when that surly girl, the baker's daughter, what was her name? The one who called you a strumpet…"

"It wasn't a strumpet, it was a harlot, so I bashed her in the nose! Her name was Dylia! That showed her!"

"It certainly did. So why are you here, Shrina? As if I couldn't guess!"

And Roth deepened his voice, declaiming;

"In the last, lorn fight 'gainst the fall of long night, the mountains stand guard and the dead shall be ward, for the grave is no bar to my call!"

Some sailors on the nearest bench banged their wooden mugs on the table in approval (or perhaps they were also indicating the vessel's emptiness to the serving maids) and Roth rose from his chair a little, grinning and fluttering his cloak.

Shrina eyed Roth levelly as the words faded into the hubbub of the crowded common-room. "I am here to take my Hunter's Oath in the Square of Tammuz tomorrow." She nodded, firmly.

"Hah! As soon as they called the Hunt, I knew I'd see you!"

"You're a fine one to talk – the Feast of Teven and the Great Hunt for the Horn at the same time? I doubt there's a Gleeman between here and the Blight who hasn't come running to Illian with unseemly haste! Fluttering his silly patches and drooling at the thought of all the coin he can rake in!"

Roth opened his mouth to point-out that he had already been in the City when the Hunt was called, and was not nearly so avaricious as most Gleemen, but-

"Never mind that!" Shrina narrowed her eyes. "Have you been home lately?"

"Not since the day I left, and I'm not sorry – the bloody place always did stink of fish! Though I send a letter to my old ma every now and then, with a nice song too, since she always liked my songs! Well, the less crude ones, at least…"

"I just wondered… I'm worried about grandpa, I haven't heard from him in over a year… and there are these disturbing stories… all saying different things, but they all mention Falme, or at least Toman Head…"

"Yes, I've heard the rumours too. One of the Hawkwing's lost armies come back from the dead… huge grey monsters with long noses… Aes Sedai using the One Power in battle…" Roth trailed off. Shrina was eyeing him, censoriously. She had certainly been easier to talk to before she went off to the Tower. Though he had already been long gone from Falme when she did…

"It sounds like you have been instrumental in spreading those absurd stories," Shrina pointed out. And sniffed, disapprovingly. Roth grinned.

"Idle rumour-mongering? All part of an honest Gleeman's trade, Shrina!" But seeing that she was worried, he went on in placatory tones, "it's all nonsense, and even if it isn't, if a monster came out of the sea and looked sideways at your grandpa, then my money (if I ever had any!) would be on him! He's a scary man – chased me right through town with that hatchet, he did, with everyone watching!"

Shrina laughed delightedly. "Oh yes, after he caught us in the barn together! It was hilarious!" Roth scowled. Shrina certainly hadn't changed either!

"Not for me it bloody wasn't, it was frightening! Your grandpa runs flaming fast for such an old fellow! He would have caught me too, if I hadn't cut through the stables of the Black Lion and climbed a few garden walls… had to hide in an outhouse until he eventually stopped looking for me! Watching for me! No, if one of those 'Shawnshans' annoys him, I wouldn't like to be in its shoes… not that big grey monsters wear shoes… or do they?"

"Of course they don't, stop being silly Roth. And grandpa isn't that bad!"

Roth snorted. Shrina glared at him, though not very forcefully, then shrugged.

"Yes, well, if my Hunt takes me north, I may head back to the old place, just to make sure he is alright… and all of my cousins as well, I suppose…"

"Your Hunt? You really mean to do this, Shrina?"

Shrina scowled. "Go ahead Roth, make your amusing jokes!"

"Perish the thought!" Roth pulled his harp-case nearer and lowered his voice, significantly. "In fact, honoured Hunter, I may even have a clue for you." Shrina sat up straighter. Roth continued; "I found something in the Aiel Waste that I was going to tell you about the next time our paths crossed, though it has been a while… so I thought I might send a letter to the Tow-" – Shrina's eyes narrowed – "…to the island," finished Roth, smoothly. "Not that you're ever there! I was going to send it to that talkative friend of yours to pass-on, the one who lives above the library..."

Shrina blinked, recalling, looking surprised. "Hold-on! When were you ever amongst the Aiel, Roth? I thought that you did not want to go there?"

Some Gleemen avoided the Waste while others actively preferred it. Aiel audiences were no different from other audiences Roth considered, a bit better behaved than most, even, but he had never particularly desired to go there himself… he sunburnt easily and preferred the comforts of civilisation too much.

"I didn't want to go there! It was by accident! Long story, Shrina my lovely…" It always was, with Roth! Shrina sighed, and took a sip of wine.

"Well… give me the short version then. And my clue, I need a good clue since I've no idea where to even start looking for the bloody thing!" Though when she found the Horn of Valere (as she surely would) Shrina knew exactly where she would take it… to the Hill above the Waves. Prophecy must be fulfilled, after all…

Again, she complacently thought of the strange girl from Andor, the one who had… Visions. A Horn, floating above her head? Gleemen would tell tales of her for a thousand years! She might even end-up being bound to it herself!

Roth poured them some more wine. "How did I end up in the Aiel Waste? (The Aielmen call it 'the Three-fold Land' by the way.) Well… in-short, an insane midget took me up to see the Blight, over in the east of Shienar! I was supposed to be writing songs about his Lordship's adventures but it all turned out to be the most horrific experience of my life… and I've had a few! Did I ever tell you about that huge black dog with the glowing red eyes that Old Willi and I encountered in the woods? The one we had to play music to all night, so that it wouldn't eat us?"

"Several times." Shrina yawned delicately behind her hand and rolled her eyes. Roth frowned. She clearly did not believe it had happened… but it had!

"Well… the whole thing with the Blight, it was a bloody nightmare! I managed to drop my best flute while we were fighting our way through a huge mob of Trollocs and later, after the Worm-monster ate our horses and we got split-up, I wandered in the wrong direction for weeks and ended-up bumping into three Aielmen who were out hunting for the Dark One! Not the Horn of Valere like you, Shrina – they were hunting Shai'tan! That's what they said they were doing anyway, though perhaps it was a joke… they have a flaming odd sense of humour, those Aiel!"

Shrina shifted impatiently in her chair. Roth pretended not to notice.

"Anyway," the Gleeman continued, "at first, the Aielmen thought I was a Shienaran and nearly stuck their spears in me, but I showed them my cloak and fluttered the patches a bit for them (I wasn't able to speak as I'd run-out of water the week before) so that was alright then. Quite nice fellows really, those Aiel, once you got to know them, if rather alarming in appearance – their leader especially! The short one gave me a drink from his waterskin and the big one picked me up and they took me back to Wet Sands Hold which wasn't too far from the Blight… in fact, it rather was like the Blight, I don't know how those Shaidos can bring themselves to live like that… dreadful place… fine-looking girls though, those Maidens of the Spear (you'd make a good Maiden, Shrina!) if a little on the scarred side, admittedly. Though I didn't mind that, I don't have a single scar on me, except for where I burned my arm on the kettle, so it's interesting to lie abed with a woman who has enough scars for both of us put together!" Roth smiled lewdly, his eyes glazing a little.

"Spare me the sordid details!" Shrina was clearly growing more impatient.

Roth shook his head. "Sorry, miles away. Forgive me, my lovely!"

Shrina sniffed. "You mustn't keep calling me that, I am not your lovely! At least, not any more, I am Aebel and Blaek's lovely – and a very lovely one at that!"

"Can I at least say it when the scowling simulacrums aren't about?"

"No! And don't call them that, they are my lovely boys too… and I carry a sword! Though it is quite funny, I suppose… but what does simulacrum mean? Is it another word for 'twins?' Oh, never mind, I'll ask Ellyth next time I see her… if I remember to…"

"Next time you..? Is her Ladyship not with you, then?"

Shrina scowled. "We aren't joined at the hip, Roth! Though I do miss her… but Ellyth has her Cause and I have my Hunt… I dare say we shall be reconciled and reunited in time for the Last Battle…" Roth blinked, confused. "Never mind that! Continue with your silly story, Gleeman! You had met some Aielmen and had just got back to damp mud cave or something… you do go on, as though everyone should be in awe of your great adventures… I've had adventures too, you know! You never bloody want to hear about them though, it's all you, you, you!"

Roth grinned. He went on? Well, he supposed he did, there were few Gleemen who did not, but Shrina was the Mistress of going on and on! Although that friend of hers he had met at the Tower that time, Renn Sedai, came in a close second!

"Wet Sands Hold, Shrina. Anyway, their Wise One tended my injuries and nursed me back to health – now there was a grim woman! She seemed to quite like me though, which rather surprised all of the other Aiel, since they said that old Sadora never likes anyone! Anyhow, it was while I was resting-up and recovering from my ordeal that I found an old piece of parchment… one of the Aielmen who'd been out unsuccessfully hunting for the Dark One, great big fellow, had it tucked into an old book in his library… he was happy to let me have it, since he said that he wasn't interested in finding the Horn of Valere, just some sort of a strange metal tower he'd read about, down near the River Manetherendrelle… or perhaps it was the Arinelle..?"

"Is this really the short version?" snapped Shrina, "honestly, Roth, you do love the sound of your own voice! Where is my clue? Give me my clue!"

Roth sighed, and slid his long fingers beneath the lining of his harp-case, drawing out an ancient scrap of yellowed parchment, somewhat stained. Shrina eagerly (and rather rudely) snatched it from him. She perused the four thin, vermilion lines of much-faded ink, scratched out in spidery, antique scrawl, and frowned.

"This is written in the Old Tongue," she muttered, "if only Renn were here!"

"Well of course it is, it's very old – and it is in the same handwriting as…"

"Hush, Gleeman! Hmm… I see Paerish Swar which means 'the wood that is dark' and Aman which is 'Dragon' of course, but I'll be dipped in hog-fat if I can understand the rest! What does it say?"

Naturally, Roth knew what was written on it off-by-heart and promptly recited a translation for Shrina, his voice echoing portentously;

"In Paerish Swar; Third of the Three

where Western Dragon mote it be –

bound to it are they, through the Ages…"

Shrina was leaning forward, looking interested. Roth glanced at her, licked his lips, and belatedly added, in less impressive tones;

"…something-something-something Sages."

There was a pause. Shrina eyed Roth with suspicion. He smiled, innocently.

"Watcher's Oath! What in the Wheel do you mean with your 'something-something-something?' " Shrina demanded, hotly, "is this supposed to be some kind of a silly joke, like when we were children and you made up that rhyme about the Eye of the World appearing at the bottom of your ma's garden? And the Green Man hiding behind the bird-bath? Honestly, I can't believe I actually went to look!"

"No! That was just a jest, and quite a good one too, I might say! But I am actually serious about this! Gleeman's Oath! There is mud, or perhaps it is dried blood, all over the bottom of it, see? The final line can barely be read at all…"

"Gleeman's Oath? Hah! But yes, it is indecipherable… definitely blood…"

"Well, those Aielmen are always stabbing each other with their spears… though the big fellow said he obtained the book from a Peddler… stuck in the binding of an old history by Jeorad Manyard, who served the Hawkwing, or some such..."

"I cannot really understand any of this…" Shrina sighed. A Battle Ajah Sister did not need to be as conversant with the Old Tongue as an Aes Sedai of the Brown Ajah… but even so… she wished she had paid better attention in Serafelle's classes! Instead of mooning over which handsome Youngling she intended to bond…

"Well, I can! And that last word is definitely 'Sages.' I think… I wrote it out for you in the Vulgar, on the back. For those who lack education! You know that I am conversant with the Old Tongue, as well as the High-Chant, if self-taught… remember that old Prophecy you asked me to translate when you were a girl, because your grandfather wouldn't? It's in exactly the same bloody handwriting, I could swear it is!"

"I asked you to translate it Roth, not turn it into a bloody song!" Shrina relented. "Guaire Amalasan's handwriting, eh? Huh! Though I thank you for the interesting clue... I suppose." She turned the parchment over, to Roth's more familiar florid scrawl. "Hmm… 'bound to it' sounds promising, 'bound to it, through the Ages…' and there is at least a location… the Darkwood, though I had not thought to go that far north… 'Western Dragon…' that's alarming! But… 'Third of the Three?' What does that mean? There is only one Horn of Valere, after all…"

"But up in the Borderlands, they quest for the Eye of the World also… so that makes two things… and as for the other… hmm… Callandor?"

"But that has already been found! It is right there, in the Stone of Tear, though they would not let Ellyth and I go and look at it, when we were last there…" Shrina scowled. She must have picked up some of her Warder's prejudices, however justified they might be, for she added; "stupid bloody Tairens!" under her breath.

"Well, something else then… Avendesora, the Tree of Life? The Hawkwing's sword, Justice? Mangore Kiramin's favourite harp? What else do foolish types (present company excepted!) go questing for? I do not know, Shrina, but it is at least a clue, and better than nothing, so you can either continue to grumble or you can thank me with a chaste kiss on the cheek, my lovely! Or a not-so-chaste kiss on…"

At which point, Ysmet returned. Fortunately, she did not appear to have heard Roth's last comment. Her face was flushed with excitement as she leant down to kiss him exuberantly.

"Roth, my handsome song-thrush!" Roth raised his eyebrows. Ysmet was in a good mood. The investors must have agreed. Ysmet realised that Roth was not alone and turned a cool gaze on Shrina. "And who are you?" she enquired, coldly.

Shrina smiled, tucking the folded piece of parchment into the front of her green, woollen dress, so that it nestled between her breasts. "Me? I'm the girl who was going to marry your song-bird, before he ran off to be a Gleeman and I… went somewhere else. That's who I am! And who might you be, missy?"

Ysmet scowled. "Roth, do you know this woman?"

"She's an… old friend, Ysmet…"

"I'm not old!" declared Shrina.

"The Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar – Shrinalla Tolamani of the… of the Do Miere A'vron," Roth muttered, doing his duty by way of introductions.

Ysmet sat down at the table. Shrina stared at her. Ysmet stared back. Roth sighed. 'One pretty girl means fun at the fair – two pretty girls… a dreadful nightmare!' He grabbed his harp.

"I think I'll go and sing a song!" Roth declared brightly, rising swiftly and leaving them to it. When he saw that they were still eyeing each other like two strange cats in an alleyway and not watching him, the Gleeman veered away from the raised platform he had occupied earlier (now taken-up by the fumble-fingered fool with the bittern, who was welcome to it!) and slipped out toward the stables to say hello to the Twins.


"Aebel loves Mosk… does Mosk love Aebel?"

Mosk whickered and nudged his white-flashed nose against the young Warder. Clearly, he did love Aebel. So, Aebel fed him another carrot. The Mayener Gaidin was wearing a somewhat soppy expression, as was his twin brother, whilst they communed with their beloved horses. Had anyone else been present, this would of course not have been the case, but the stables were deserted, except for the various steeds of those staying at the Inn. As well as… from the hayloft above came a muted scuffling sound. Aebel glared upwards a moment, but the noise did not resume.

The Twins had earlier bought a bucket-full of carrots from the stable-boy for three coppers. Carrots would have been just one copper not so long ago. Even compared with Tar Valon – no cheap place at the best of times – the prices down south were ridiculous! But these were not the best of times, far from it, and everything seemed to have got dearer. Even carrots. Still, at least they had argued the enterprising lad down from five coppers, the little thief!

The Twins had given some to Shrina's gelding A'vron also, to be fair, but had saved the largest and juiciest specimens for their own horses, who probably loved carrots slightly more than they loved them. But there was no need to dwell on this.

"Does Merk want another carrot?" Blaek enquired. Merk did want another carrot, clearly… he tossed his head and whinnied, seeming to nod. "Merk will get fat if he eats too much carrots!" Blaek chided. "But he may have one more…"

A soft footfall from the back door of the Inn and the Twins glanced up, the fond expressions they reserved for their horses (and Shrina) dissolving into the habitual hostility they directed at the rest of the world… and one person in particular. They narrowed their eyes in unison. They had met Roth before, and had not liked him any more than Atual Gaidin had… Warders and Gleemen rarely became fast friends!

"The Terrible Twosome!" Roth smiled at them, inclining his head and fluttering his patches a little, then raised his harp, long fingers caressing its strings.

"Oh no," Aebel growled, "it is-"

"-that bloody Gleeman!" Blaek snarled.

At which, a pleasing voice drifted to them across the cobbles of the yard, raised in not-so-pleasing song, accompanied by the jaunty strains of a harped melody;

"'Tis Aebel and Blaek –oh!

Twin peas in a pod!

Two sides of one coin –though…"

Roth drew out the last word, then, twanging his harp, delivered the final line;

"…not even – both odd!"

If Roth had expected an ecstatic reception to his impromptu song, he was disappointed. The Twin Warders blinked at him, like cats… which made him the mouse! They spoke without looking at each other, dark eyes fixed coldly on their sarcastic serenader.

"Look, Blaek… the foolish Gleeman, Roth Blucha."

"Yes Aebel, the silly Gleeman, Roth, who thinks that he is clever-"

"-and amusing… when he is clearly neither."

Roth grinned, and bowed in acknowledgement, flourishing his cloak a little… but taking care to not get too close. He knew how fast the Twins could move!

"Aebel?" wondered Blaek.

"Yes, Blaek?" responded Aebel.

"The Gleeman… he is skinny and weedy and cannot fight…"

"It is true… of a certainty, it is true…"

Roth's smile slipped a bit. It was fairly true, but still rather insulting!

"So," Blaek continued, consideringly, "were we to pick him up by his heels and dip his head into the horse-trough..?"

"Yes," agreed Aebel, "I see where you are going with this, brother – he would scarcely be able to prevent us from doing so, would he?"

Roth blinked. The water in the horse-trough looked rather dirty…

"Indeed he could not…" Blaek mused further.

"He most certainly would not…" Aebel speculated.

"So let us wash his girlish hair for him!"

"Yes, let us!"

As one, the Twins darted forward – but Roth had been expecting the usual bullying behaviour, and was already haring back into the Inn, a step ahead of them… he would seek safety with the womenfolk! And he did.

Back in the common-room, the Twins pulled-up short, scowling at Roth as he swiftly slid back behind the table, taking care to sit close to Shrina – she would protect him! He smiled triumphantly at the hovering Warders… but glancing at the 'two pretty girls' his smile took on a sickly cast. It had only been a few moments, but how much could change in that time! Ysmet and Shrina were deep in animated conversation – they had decided to become friends! It was always the bloody same – one moment hissing and scratching, the next purring and grooming each other! They both looked his way in an amused and condescending fashion… clearly, they were discussing him! Though the chatter ended at his reappearance… Shrina leant toward Ysmet and whispered something… then they looked at Roth and giggled! Women!

"What are you talking about?" demanded Roth, suspiciously. As if he did not know! Ysmet smiled and patted his hand.

"Nothing of consequence, my prattling parakeet!" she reassured him, though he did not find the way she winked at Shrina particularly reassuring. Shrina sniggered, and turned to the Twins.

"So there you are, my handsome boys," she smiled, "finished stuffing your four-legged friends with carrots, have you?" Shrina indicated Ysmet. "The Lady Ysmet – she has been telling me all about her Plan… amongst other things…" She and Ysmet glanced at Roth, and chuckled. He flushed. Shrina noted that the Twins were glaring at the Gleeman. "What's this? You haven't been chasing poor Roth, have you? Threatening him, like the last time? You know how delicate he is!"

"Of course not, Shrina."

"Not at all, Shrina."

The Twin Warder's faces became smooth and expressionless… innocent… but their dark eyes flashed, promising retribution to the Gleeman for his rude song, at a later date… when he did not have their Aes Sedai's skirts to hide behind!

Roth gulped, and reached for the bottle. Shrina smiled at Ysmet, indicating her Warders… "Aebel and Blaek Feruile…" – she glared at the Twins – "where are your manners?" The Twins flushed, and bowed formally, hands over hearts.

Ysmet inclined her head, though there was a hint of confusion in her eyes. "Which is which?" she enquired. The Twins eyed each other, repressing the urge to sigh. Was it not obvious? It was to them!

"I am not always entirely sure myself," Shrina laughed. The Twins did sigh, this time. Shrina turned to Roth. "Ysmet has been telling me all about her venture… and your part in it!" Roth winced. The Aiel Waste had been bad enough… but where Ysmet wished to go… it did not bear thinking about! And, oddly enough for someone from a coastal town, he loathed travelling by sea! The motion of the waves always made him feel distinctly unwell… Ysmet was eyeing him suspiciously. Roth smiled.

"I cannot wait, my dear…" he told her, "a bold adventure! What more could a besotted Gleeman ask for?" Ysmet smiled back, then frowned, glancing around the common-room.

"Yes, well," the young Noblewoman muttered, "we are not going anywhere without our ship, and the fellow I need to build it for me… where in the Wheel has Raab got to? I told him that if he was late the next time, I would hang him up by his heels in the accursed rigging… which I can now finally afford to buy!"

Shrina shrugged. "The Sea Folk are normally quite punctual. Especially when there is money to be made. Perhaps he fell in a canal and forgot how to swim?"

"Not likely… though a few moments in one of the Perfumed Quarter's canals would be enough to kill anyone, if not by drowning!" They laughed.

The Twins glanced at each other. Aebel silently formed the name 'Raab?' while Blaek bit his lower lip. Something of this filtered through the bond, for Shrina eyed them, curious. Aebel leant down, and whispered softly in her ear.

"You did what?" Shrina exclaimed, in some surprise. Blaek leant down and whispered something else. "You didn't!" The Twins straightened and shrugged. Shrina glanced at Ysmet, flushing a little. "Um… perhaps we should all repair to the stables… I think I know why the fellow you're waiting to meet is… delayed…"

Earlier, returning to the stableyard with their expensive carrots, the Twins had noticed a suspicious, skulking personage. The slight fellow wore oilskin trousers, was bare-chested and bereft of shoes… clearly, Atha'an Miere! As he crept along the wall, a shaft of light from an upstairs window flickered across his face, momentarily lighting his shifty features… and the eyes of the Twins had narrowed in recognition. Without needing to discuss the matter further, they silently drew their blades and split-up, slipping soundlessly forward to take their prey, the bucket of carrots left for later. This was something that needed tending to even before their beloved horses!

Raab thought that he was being clever. There were many of his people in Illian, and though they rarely went ashore, this Inn was uncomfortably close to the docks… there might be Takana amongst them, and meeting someone from his former Clan was a sure way to end-up floating face-down in a canal! So, whilst keeping his appointment with his current benefactor, he elected to do so by entering the Inn via the stables. He would reconnoitre the common-room through a rear window, before entering. Just in case. It had seemed like a good idea at the time…

The scowling fellow with straight, dark hair who materialised from the shadows in front of him was clearly not one of the Sea Folk… but seemed to like him as little as they did, if the drawn sword in his hand was any indication! Raab turned to flee, and was more than a little surprised to find essentially the same blade-brandishing fellow, blocking his path. How had he moved so fast? Raab whirled, deciding that a headlong flight through the common-room was a better course than scaling the wall – but no, the first swordsman was still there… there were two of them! And they looked exactly the same! A pair of what felt like very sharp blades touched his neck on either side, and Raab raised his tattooed hands in surrender. The dagger tucked into his sash was whisked away, his arms were seized, and the Atha'an Miere renegade found himself pushed roughly up against the rear wall of an empty stall and held in place. The scowling pair eyed him darkly, their sword points pressing against his bare chest… Raab, on the point of being doubly stabbed, took care not to breathe too deeply… he thought that his twin accosters looked vaguely familiar… but where had he seen them before?

"I do not possess much coin," he stammered, "but you strangely-similar Shorebound are welcome to what little I have!" The identical swordsmen snorted in unison. They spoke, in what sounded like Mayener accents…

"We know who you are," said one.

"We have seen your face before," added the other.

"You are the dishonest one called 'Raab.' "

"The renegade who got our friend into trouble."

"Your… friend?" Raab choked.

"Jabal! He is a good friend of ours-"

"-and often-times lends fresh shirts to us-"

"(-since we are of a size-)"

"-when we have none clean!"

"Jabal?" Raab gulped, "Jabal din Sudim Lionfish?"

"Aye!" agreed the one on the left, "even he!"

"The very same!" confirmed the one on the right.

Raab groaned. Now he knew where he had seen this dangerous pair before! Tar Valon! They had chased him, had they not? Of all the accursed bad luck!

Up in the hayloft, Raab shifted uncomfortably, his wrists and ankles tied in the small of his back, his wadded silk scarf stuffed into his mouth and held in place with a length of twine. His be-ringed ears listened intently. The twin Warders, after dragging him up here and securely hog-tying him, had then engaged in strange, nonsensical talk with their munching land-horses (odd customs, these Shorebound! did they expect the creatures to speak back to them?) and then seemed to have gone away… but what of that strange song he had heard? Followed by running feet? It had been quiet for a time, but now he heard approaching footsteps. And voices. He strained his ears further. Melodic, female tones, with a west-coast accent, perhaps..?

"Well, you couldn't let the sneaking fellow go on his way, not after nearly getting poor Jabal executed, but why in the waves did you tie him up in the hayloft?"

"We were going to tell you, Shrina-"

"-after Mosk and Merk had their carrots-"

"-and leave his fate in your hands-"

"-but the foolish Gleeman interrupted us!"

"I did not! I only sang you a nice song, about peas!" Another west-coast accent, a voice he recognised. The Gleeman! The voices were beneath the hayloft now. Raab shifted his position, trying to squint down through the dusty wooden boards. What in the Eight Oceans was going on? Why were things always so much more complicated on land than at sea? He should go back to his Clan, say he was very sorry, and take his chances… assuming that he wasn't fed to the sharks, a few decades spent as a bilge-boy surely wouldn't be too bad?

"Peas? Why are you singing of vegetables to my lads, Roth?"

"Never mind that! Raab is in my employ, I shall decide his fate, thank-you!"

Raab's eyes widened. That last speaker had a cultured, Ebou Dari accent – his benefactor, the Lady Ysmet! She would not let the scowling swordsmen cut out his liver and feed it to the gulls, as they had threatened! Or would she? Surely not before he had built her ship for her, using his knowledge to design her a genuine Sea Folk hull? Hope springs eternal in fools and villains… and Raab would have been the first to admit that he was both!

The scowling twins appeared, cut his bonds, and hustled Raab down the ladder, sitting him forcefully upon a bale of straw. Raab eyed the assembled Shorebound nervously. In addition to the Lady Ysmet and the preening Gleeman she consorted with, a tall, red-headed young woman in a riding-dress as green as her eyes, her skin almost as dark as his own. Raab spat out the scarf and licked his dry lips.

"Are you going to kill me?" he asked the Warders. They looked at each other, then at the red-head. She must be their Aes Sedai! Raab moaned softly.

"Are we?" the identical Gaidin asked her.

The Lady Ysmet scowled, and eyed the Aes Sedai... who eyed him. She wasn't the short one with the yellow hair or the pale one with the ringlets… had he seen her in Tar Valon also? Raab could not remember… just his cousin Jabal trying to kill him (and very nearly succeeding!) then the two brothers chasing him… taking a running-dive off the shining walls and swimming the Erinin… the charts he had wanted to sell, up in flames… it had all been very confused. A bad day! The City of the Witches… he would never go there again, if he could help it...

The Aes Sedai shrugged apologetically at the Lady Ysmet. "I defer to your wishes," she declared, before scowling at Raab, "but I wouldn't trust this outcast as far as I could throw him!"

The Lady Ysmet sniffed. "Oh, I don't trust him… but I do need him." She scowled at Raab, fingering her sword-hilt. "For the time being, at least."

Raab breathed a sigh of relief. The Shorebound Windfinder noticed, and smiled a rather feral smile. "Very well. I release him to you, and apologise if my lads overstepped their bounds…" The twin Mayeners frowned and the Aes Sedai smiled at them. "Don't pout! It was very loyal of you to uphold Jabal's honour, I am sure he would be happy to know you threatened and intimidated the renegade who almost got his head chopped off for him!" The twins ceased frowning and nodded, in unison.

"Peas!" muttered the Gleeman. They turned their resumed frowns upon him.

Raab gulped as the Aes Sedai loomed over him. "But, after you have assisted the Lady Ysmet with her ship-building… you, my pigeon, are going to take a little flight north, to a particular island… you have been there before, and should be able to find your way. In return for sparing your misspent life, there is a letter I wish delivered to a friend of mine. At the library of a certain tower, the colour of which need not be specified! And you had best watch out for her Warder when you do so – I believe that the two of you are well acquainted!"

"But of course, Windfinder!" Raab stammered, "anything to oblige!" If she thought he would ever go to Tar Valon again, she was a bigger fool than he!

"Oh, you shall oblige me… swear that you will deliver the letter I give you!"

"By the Light, I swear it!" Raab felt that there might be a catch… there usually was, he had heard, with Aes Sedai, but he did not know what it could be. The way she was smiling at him did not bode well, however. Like a silverpike baring its teeth at a fat grunter…

"I shall hold you to that…" The Aes Sedai raised a hand and Raab shuddered, as a cold wave passed swiftly through his body, from the tight curls on his head down to his bare toes – she was using the One Power! On him! "I shall not specify what I have just done to you, but it would be best not to ignore this duty… I shall not say why, however – I think that you would rather not know!"

Raab nodded, enthusiastically. He certainly did not wish to know, and found that he had had a sudden change of heart – if the Aes Sedai told him to sail the Dead Sea and deliver a letter to the Blight itself, then he would do so!

"When you have delivered the letter, you may consider yourself released from your oath. And only then!"

Watching Ysmet lead the shivering Atha'an Miere fellow away, Shrina felt a little guilty… but only a little. Anyone who feared Aes Sedai as much as Raab clearly did, would certainly rather not know any more than this, she was sure… so she did not trouble to mention that she had only Delved him… it was best to let Raab use his no-doubt fervent imagination. Besides, she could not justify the expense of sending a courier to the Tower, so this Sea Folk renegade would do just as well. Too bad if he ran into Jabal – serve him right for trying to sell charts that did not belong to him!


"As bound to the Horn are they – so sworn to the Hunt are we,

Age to come from Ages past, my Hunter's Oath shall hold me fast,

until my thread is cut at last – from Time's great Tapestry.

For bound to the Horn are they – now sworn to the Hunt are we!"

The drums and cymbals had died-down a little for the Oath and several thousand voices turned the words into a sustained rumble, echoing against the columns surrounding the Square of Tammuz… and then fell silent. And that was that. It was done. The Oath had been taken. Shrina lowered her raised right hand and smiled triumphantly at her Warders, who lowered theirs also. They glanced at her.

"We are now Hunters for the Horn!" she told them, rather unnecessarily. Shrina had considered herself such for most of her life, of course… but now – now, it was official!

The next morning dawned bright and clear for Shrina and the Twins. The Causeway of the Northern Star that traversed the swamplands which protected Illian better than any wall or moat ever could, was largely bereft of travellers this early – just a lone Peddler leading a pack-mule some distance ahead of them, and yet another Gleeman (she had seen more of them in the past week than in the rest of her life put-together!) going the other way on foot, tugging a lame horse along behind him. A short, pale fellow, he looked angry, and well he might… he had missed out on several days of the festivities, after all, and must bitterly resent the lost coin.

But Shrina had her own problems. She was feeling rather delicate. Too much feasting and dancing the night before, and definitely too much drinking! She wished she was still in the large and comfortable bed in the best room that Nieda always reserved for Aes Sedai, a warm Warder on either side of her, but had been the one to insist they leave this early – getting a head-start on the other hung-over Hunters! Still, Shrina wished she had changed her mind about this. None of the rest of those who had sworn the Oath had had the Horn hanging over their head in a mystical vision, after all! But one should not go back on one's orders, it set a bad example to the Gaidin – who had been up early, raring to go. She suspected they were rather tired of Illian, and of a certain Gleeman in particular. She wished her head was not pounding quite so badly, though.

Shrina scowled. If only Ellyth had been in the next room, to give her Healing as she so often had before… but no matter. She hoped her friend had found out something useful about the paperweight-ter'angreal at least. Hopefully, she was safe back in the Tower… probably still waiting for Renn to emerge from the catacombs beneath the Library… but when Shrina had awoken with a pounding head and a sick stomach, how she had wished it otherwise!

"Ten silver marks," muttered Aebel ruefully, under his breath. Blaek shook his head and made a 'tutting' sound.

"I told you not to mention that again," snapped Shrina, through gritted teeth, then squeezed her eyes shut. Oh! She would abjure all wines and ales and spirits until her Hunt was concluded, she decided. A noble sacrifice indeed!

"Gleemen!" the Twins hissed, under their breaths.

"Honestly! Why don't you like Roth? You know he is my oldest, dearest friend!" Shrina sighed. "What have you got against him?"

"He is too full of himself," Aebel answered.

"He is arrogant… and a show-off," added Blaek.

"He's a bloody Gleeman! They're supposed to be like that!" Shrina winced. She really shouldn't raise her voice, but talking took her mind off her morning head a little. "You two sad-faced flounders are just too grim and serious to enjoy a Gleeman's songs and tales, that is all."

"Not true, Shrina."

"We like stories, Shrina."

"Like what? What stories do you like? I can't readily think of any…"

"Stories like Aldor and Baltus seeking the Eye of the World."

"Or Chanu and Dravid searching for the Tree of Life."

Shrina snorted. A'vron swivelled his ears toward her and she patted him soothingly on the head, wishing that someone could likewise soothe her own aching skull! "Really! Don't you like any tales that are not about two brothers going on a quest together and fighting the Shadow, side-by-side?" she enquired, pointedly.

"No," responded the Twins, "we do not."

"You do realise that you're being rather obvious, don't you?" Shrina accused.

"We do not care if we are obvious, Shrina."

"We like what we like, Shrina."

"We like stories about brothers who have adventures-"

"-and battle together against the Shadow-"

"-and you, Shrina, we like you!" Aebel nodded, firmly.

"Indeed. And that is about it," Blaek added. They did not trouble to mention their horses, which went without saying, naturally.

"And we do not like the Gleeman!" the Twins concluded.

"How do you do that?" Shrina demanded, "I've always bloody wondered! How do you say things at exactly the same time like that?"

"We are not telling, Shrina."

"It is just for us twins to know, Shrina."

A pause, then they added, as they so often did, in unison;

"Sorry, Shrina!"

"Aaah!" shouted Shrina in exasperation, immediately wishing she had not, clutching at her brow. Ahead of them, the Peddler glanced back, curious. Shrina sighed. And felt the urge to stick-up for her childhood sweetheart some more.

"You are being unfair, boys. Roth tells the old tales well… I heard the end of this super story I'd never heard before… it was all about a giant Hero slaughtering heaps of Shadowspawn with a shouting axe or some such, he was standing on a big pile of skulls and laughing at the Dark One's minions… you would have loved it!"

"If it was being told by the Gleeman-"

"-Roth Blucha, then we would not!"

"But the Hero, he had a brother! Though I don't think they were twins, like Aldor and Baltus were, I think the giant was the other one's big brother – literally! And then the blind younger brother on the wolf carried his dead brother's axe off the battlefield, I think…"

"We do not like stories where only one brother dies, Shrina."

"They must both die, not just one of them, Shrina."

"Well, I expect the other brother died later – Heroes always do, it is so depressing! They never seem to live to a ripe old age and get to dandle their grandchildren on their knees…"

"It sounds like a silly story," the Twins muttered. In unison.

"There you go again! It's eerie. And you are so hard to please! Roth has a lovely singing voice, you know!"

Aebel shrugged. "Roth is not a proper Gleeman – he will not sing a nice song like 'The Wind that Shakes the Willow' but only wants to perform his own songs…"

"Like the foolish Horn-Hunting song, which nearly caused a riot in the Inn!" Blaek added, darkly.

"His songs are all scurrilous and bawdy-"

"-as though he is a painted Court-fool-"

"-or a silly Jester, with bells upon his cap."

"Don't tell him that," spluttered Shrina, "he hates Court-fools and Jesters!"

"Then we will tell him next time we see him, Shrina."

"We will say, 'hello Roth-the-Jester,' to him, Shrina."

"Be fair! He has more wit than a Jester!"

"Perhaps."

"Slightly."

The Twins thought about it for a bit. "Why does he not just become a Bard?" they enquired.

"Don't say that to him either, he hates Bards even more!"

"But you said he was a Bard, Shrina?"

"Or that he used to be a Bard, Shrina?"

"I said that he 'barded.' Or that sometimes he 'goes barding.' It is not the same as being a Bard."

There was silence for a moment, just the muted clopping of hooves on the ancient, flinty causeway. Then, suspiciously;

"What is 'barded' Shrina?"

"What is 'barding' Shrina?"

"It is Roth's term for… what he does… he wears fine clothes and puts his nose in the air and struts about some Palace strumming his harp, if he can manage to talk his way past the guards… then he meets a pretty Noblewoman with lots of money who is stupid enough to believe that Roth's temporarily charming and witty ways are representative of his true character… or that his fine, well-turned calves or handsome profile or graceful dancing are indicative of… stop glaring at me like that!"

The Twins stopped glaring at Shrina like that, albeit reluctantly.

"Where was I?" she muttered.

"Roth-the-Jester-"

"-going barding."

"Oh yes… not much more to tell really… anyway, before you know it, Roth is sharing the silly rich Noblewoman's bed every night, doing… well, the sort of things that we get up to in our bed at night…"

"Yes, Shrina!" agreed the Twins, with some enthusiasm.

"At least, on those nights when you haven't gone out drinking with Jabal Gaidin instead!"

"That was over a month ago, Shrina!"

"You promised that you would not speak of it again!"

"I did?" Shrina's head was feeling a little better… perhaps it was the fresh air.

"Myrelle Sedai lets Nuhel Gaidin go out drinking once every week!"

"Myrelle Sedai does not make Nuhel Gaidin's life a misery just because-"

"Alright! I won't mention it again! But in return for tooting on his flute and doing the other thing… well, at least the Gleeman gets bought some nice clothes! Roth lives with the poor girl as a sort of male paramour for about a fortnight, usually, then they have a huge argument about what a pig he is and it's all over! Barding!" Shrina chuckled. "Though I think he and Ysmet might actually go the distance…"

"Why, Shrina?" the Twins enquired, in spite of themselves.

"Because it's lasted several months between them and since she's put every copper into building a ship to go exploring in, she hasn't got any bloody money! It must be love!" The Twins considered this, scowled, and gave vent to their feelings;

"You still should not have lent the foolish-"

"-Gleeman ten silver marks, Shrina!"

The foolish Gleeman in question had got up early to see them off…

"So this is the famous sword, eh?" Roth commented, eyeing the Saldaean blade slung over Shrina's pommel. Shrina drew the sword. There seemed to be writing engraved along the blade. Roth leaned closer. Shrina held the sword steady so that he could read. His lips moved, his eyebrows raising significantly.

"Yes I know, it is a little over-the-top, but dear Wakime always was a little over-the-top. Even though he can barely see over the top of a table!" Shrina sighed gustily. "Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing, refusing his suit..? He would have made a fine Warder at least, though probably not a very good husband… a little on the short side, but… extremely attentive!"

Roth frowned. "Did you say… Wakime? As in… Lord Alven of House Wakime?"

"Yes. What of it?"

"Oh… nothing…"

Shrina could feel the Twins glaring at her and smiled sweetly over her shoulder. "It is alright, my sadly sulking pretties! I do not regret turning the fellow down, I am perfectly happy with my two fine doves!" The Twins glanced at each other.

"We are not doves, Shrina," they muttered. But at least they stopped glaring.

"It is a figure of speech." Shrina turned back. "What do you think of the verse, Roth? It is your area of expertise after all, my talented Gleeman."

Roth looked at her seriously. "I think that it is the finest love poem I have ever read," he commented, equally seriously. And he meant it – after all, he was the poet! But if he had only known at the time that the object of Wakime's desire, described to him in great and lurid detail, was Shrina, his first-love, his darling girl from Falme… the diminutive Saldaean Lord had never mentioned her name or anything about her not purely physical, other than that she was Aes Sedai… he had not realised!

Roth turned away a moment, pretending to cough, hiding the fierce scowl that momentarily swept over his features… That little lecher! To describe his Shrina in such… warm terms! How dare he! And then, nearly getting him killed with his reckless behaviour, up in the Blight… lying to him about the sheer magnitude of those Worms! He had thought them the size of… well, worms. Not bigger than bloody barns! Almost depriving the world of the great talent of Roth Blucha, Gleeman!

He wanted me to write a song about him, didn't he? I'll write him a song – I'll write him such a song that… that he'll never show his face in public again!

Roth ceased scowling, turned and smiled up at Shrina winningly.

"Shrina, would you lend your devoted childhood friend a mere ten silver marks? I'll give it back to you the next time I see you… I promise, faithfully…"

Shrina scowled. "That's what you always say and you never do!"

"But I don't have any money, I pay for my keep with songs and stories… what need has a Gleeman for coin, when he has something even better – talent!"

"That's your problem! What do you even need it for? It's for ridiculous clothes, or some sort of a stupid musical instrument, isn't it?"

"No! I swear it isn't." Roth did a wiggly thing with his fingers, getting it completely wrong, to boot! "Watcher's Oath!"

"Your family weren't Watchers, Roth, you can't say the Watcher's Oath if you're not a Watcher over the Waves like me and grandpa!" objected Shrina, scandalised. "Your ma didn't await the Hawkwing's Return, she was a fishmonger!"

"Then I shall say the Fishmonger's Oath," declared Roth, solemnly, before resuming his whining beggar's tones. "Please? Only ten?"

"Roth! I don't have a huge amount of coin you know, they cut my stipend and I lost some silver in a dice game and…"

"Please, Shrina?" Roth's big green eyes were fixed on hers…

"…and the Twins got in a stupid argument with the Captain on our riverboat coming south, like they always do when Tairens are about, so he put us off at Aringil, refusing to return half our fare and then threatened to call the Town Watch because they hung him over the side and dipped his head in the river…"

"Pretty-please? With honey on the top?" Shrina felt her resolve crumbling.

"…and I don't know how far I'll have to go to find the Horn of Valere and everything has got so much more expensive and… stop looking at me like that!"

"Plee-ease?"

"Aah! You never change Roth, do you know that? Thank the Creator I went off to the White Tower instead of marrying you!" Roth blinked, confused.

"But Shrina, I had already run away from home and trotted off down the road to become a Gleeman a whole year before you even left for the Tower…"

"Abandoning me!"

"Abandoning..? Shrina, your grandfather chased me up the high street with a hatchet after he caught us together! Right in front of the whole town! They were all laughing and pointing! I had to leave Falme or he'd have chopped my bloody head off!"

"Yes, well… that is a fair point I suppose. Grandpa always did have a bit of a temper..."

"Um… Shrina? The ten marks..?"

Shrina sighed. "If you tell me what you need it for and if I approve, then you may have it." Behind her, the Twins rolled their eyes at each other. "Stop that," she snapped, without turning around, "who controls the purse-strings around here?"

"You do, Shrina," the Twins muttered, neglecting to add the word 'unfortunately' though it seemed to hang in the air even so. They glared at Roth spitefully… he smiled back at them, fluttering the patches on his cloak a little, before turning to Shrina, a hand over his heart. The Twins walked their horses out of the stableyard, shaking their heads, fingering their sword-hilts, muttering under their breath. Roth summoned his best honest expression from somewhere deep within him and proceeded to lie with greater facility than he ever had before! Even to Ysmet!

"Very well, Shrina, here is why I need the money; I mean to write a nice song about the bold exploits of your friend Lord Wakime, who I also have the honour to be acquainted with… an excellent fellow, with fine dress-sense! The idea was to hand copies of the song out to all of my Gleeman friends who would then sing it everywhere, thus making noble Wakime even more famous than he already is. I think a few hundred copies should do it, but alas, I cannot afford all of that paper and ink. Whatever am I to do?"

Shrina looked at Roth suspiciously. Roth smiled back, his nicest smile.

"That Ysmet girl," said Shrina, slowly, "is she a better kisser than me?"

Roth glanced over his shoulder, but Ysmet was still drowsily occupying their bed the last he'd saw. He lowered his voice a little, just in case.

"Nowhere near! No woman kisses like Shrina Tolamani! Men think that they have died and are resting in the Hand of the Creator when Shrinalla kisses them! Just one taste of the luscious lips of gorgeous Shrina and the world dissolves into-"

"Yes, alright, you can have the bloody money! Since it should make dear Wakime happy… I did not know you even knew each other? It is a small world… But when I find the Horn of Valere, you are to write a song about me also, and the Twins as well – a good one… and tasteful! None of your smutty lyrics about blossoms and bosoms and sighs and thighs!" Shrina dug into her money pouch, scowling.

Roth performed his best bow, fluttering the patches on his cloak exuberantly. "It shall be as you command, beauteous Queen of the Kisses, exquisite Empress of the-"

"Bah! They should make flaming Gleemen take the First Oath against lying!"

"Ah, Shrina my lovely, but that would make for some very dull stories!"


Part II: Seleisin

Arachnae Kirikil rocked slowly back and forth in the corner of the Inn's private dining-room, the muted click of her knitting needles providing a counterpoint to the occasional crackle from the fireplace, as the wood was rather damp. She would have to speak to the Innkeeper about that… perhaps she would need to set another painful example. The Innkeeper, his wife, the maids, even the stable-boy… all Friends of the Dark. It was good, to have Friends in low places. Provided they knew that their place was lower than hers. The Innkeeper had personally fetched down the old rocking-chair from the attic and was doing his best to be obliging, as he well knew how high she stood. At least, he did now, though had behaved as though they were equals at first, thinking her a Merchant only. Equals! Her example had put paid to that notion… now, the man was consummately terrified of her. As well he should be.

Arachnae (who had not always had that name) frowned slightly, pale brows drawing down over her dark, gimlet eyes. Eyes that missed nothing. Eyes like those of a small bird, a wren perhaps, an impression enhanced by the pointed beak of a nose, set deep in a lined, round face, her grey hair cut short and curling about her skull. Terror… such a useful instrument for imposing one's will on others. She had been terrified herself, once – a strange, giddy sensation, experienced only that one time in her very long life, but once was enough. Terrified… but also, at the same time… elated. Exalted. Ecstatic. Re-swearing her Oaths, at that place… the great chasm falling away beneath her feet, its unquiet depths roiling with molten fire… the streaking ribbons of virulent cloud striating the dreadful sky over her head… the dark breath of the Great Lord, seeping from his once-sundered prison, suffusing her very being… Arachnae shuddered, slightly. There was nowhere quite like Shayol Ghul, and once you had been there, well… everything else paled into insignificance.

Light-forsworn Kings, Shadow-sworn Queens, soul-sold High Lords and Ladies, even Aes Sedai of the Black Ajah (her wrinkled lip curled slightly) it did not matter what station you held, openly or in secret… as far as Arachnae was concerned, to stand at the edge of the Pit and feel the presence of the Great Lord in your bones… that was the ultimate mark of status amongst Friends of the Dark... and you had either been there, or you had not.

Arachnae glanced up for a moment, the knitting needles gripped in her small fingers continuing to move deftly, a hint of expectation in her gaze as those dark eyes moved to the window. She could sense Ranim arriving at the village outskirts now, a faint knot of cold, suppressed emotions in the back of her mind. She had felt the young man's approach for several weeks as he moved nearer, travelling many leagues each day, returning from the gathering somewhere to the far north that she had not been able to attend personally.

Arachnae had made her excuses to Ba'alzamon, in the strange place that was (and yet was not) a dream, and though he might have severely punished another for declining his summons, he knew what she was about and had seemed to approve. Had he not approved, she would surely have known it, when she awoke! Had she woken at all. Of late, there were many of her ilk receiving their orders in that disconcerting dream-place, and not just from he with the terrible flames of perdition flickering in his eye-sockets and mouth, the very avatar of the Great Lord of the Dark… he who had first begun to speak to her more than a year ago. Shai'tan stirred in his prison, reaching out to touch the world again, and the Chosen walked abroad in the land. Those foolish enough to doubt their power or provenance were soon given stern reminders of their lowly place in the scheme of things.

So, Arachnae had sent her representative in her place, to hear and observe, and now Ranim was on his way back, to report. Just as well he could sense her location as well as she his, for this tiny village at the foot of the peaks was not somewhere either had troubled to visit before. But that was one of the many advantages of the bond.

Of course, Ranim was not Arachnae's Warder, anymore than she was Aes Sedai – she felt contempt at the very thought – but the bonding weave was one of the many useful tricks she had learnt at the Tower, a very long time ago now, and it had often proved useful to hold such a connection to a personal assassin. She had many other killers in her pay, of course, but always made a point of having a particularly skilled murderer attached to her in this way… and Ranim was the most gifted she had ever bonded in her service, though only nineteen years old. No, now twenty…

Her time at the White Tower… an unhappy time, if necessary, with but one exception… the Library. Arachnae well-recalled the Tower Library… she had not worn novice-white for very long, had hated almost every moment of her time there, and had had to leave Tar Valon rather abruptly after killing the other girl… but she did remember the Library with fondness. In the dark, winter evenings, her odious chores complete, she had often sat silently, poring over many an ancient tome… quietly reading and memorising what little knowledge of the Shadow and Dark Prophecy that was not securely locked away… and she had felt oddly content. Why, there were times when she had almost been happy in that comforting, cavernous space, lined with tall stacks of books on every topic imaginable. Arachnae had always enjoyed knowledge for its own sake. Certain knowledge, at least.

Some of the Librarians in their brown-fringed Shawls had smiled approvingly at the studious young novice, lost in her endeavours – though their approval might have waned had they taken a closer interest in what she studied – and had perhaps thought her destined for their own Ajah… well, that was all they knew!

Arachnae supposed that had she elected to stay and test for the Ring and Shawl, had she identified herself to certain Sisters with certain signs, then she might well have joined the Brown Ajah, on the day of her Raising… while later that night, swearing to the Black Ajah at another, more secretive ceremony. But Arachnae had never had the least interest in being Aes Sedai. Like many Friends of the Dark, her greatest fear, but for her terror at the power and touch of the Great Lord, had always been in her own mortality. She well knew that, with the Shawl, came the Oaths.

Arachnae was not stupid, and had realised early on what the Binding Rod did. So few others seemed to, and yet the facts were there, if one had the wits to look for them! Merely comparing the ages of Aes Sedai before the Trolloc Wars with those of their less fortunate Sisters after, those bound to the Three Oaths, told all one needed to know… but Initiates of the White Tower did not care to discuss their age. Fools!

Though she had always held her tongue in the Library, Arachnae wondered distantly if they still enforced the silly rule about having to leave and not return for a day after being 'shushed' three times? Probably, the Tower never got rid of any of its rules that became customs that became traditions, they just added more on top until those beneath who were forced to live by them could barely breathe. Which was exactly why Arachnae had decided to leave after six months, and let the world be her school instead. But, despite her long-abiding hatred for the Institution that lay at the heart of Tar Valon, Arachnae always remembered the Library with fondness, as the one place in the whole of the White Tower that she had not entirely detested.

Still, her months as a novice had given Arachnae priceless knowledge… spending her free-time, when she did not have to attend foolish classes, wandering the parts of the White Tower where there were most likely to be Aes Sedai channelling, idly glancing at their weaves as she walked past… she only ever needed to see something once to have it down perfectly, and the complex, interwoven threads of saidar had always come as naturally to Arachnae as the complicated knitting-patterns she favoured. In fact, when she melded the flows, channelled Air and Water, Spirit, Fire and Earth, she always thought of it more as pearling and stitching…

But call them what you will, the weaves… they were why Arachnae went to Tar Valon. The leader of her Circle in Mar Haddon, on sending her, had approved of a possible new addition to the Black Ajah… which was all that long-dead fool knew! She had never had the slightest intention of attaining the Shawl.

After half a year of silent, careful observation, of studiously ignoring the gibes of the other novices, poking-fun at the quiet girl who never wished to talk or make friends or even go to a dance, but simply spent her freedays wandering about the Tower, staring at things… well, Arachnae decided that she had learned all she could. With great relief, she had run away from the Tower, as many an unhappy novice had before her. But only after carefully targeting and murdering her least-favourite fellow novice, the beautiful daughter of one of Harad Dakar's First Families.

Arachnae did not care for Noblewomen, now or then, and this had at least something to do with her choice of that particular girl – but also, because she was the one who had begun the practice of referring to her as 'the odd little owl,' a cruel name, swiftly taken-up by many another novice, since Arachnae was rather short and round, was often seen walking about the halls, staring owlishly at the Aes Sedai. Especially if a Sister happened to be channelling… did she think that she could see the weaves? Of course she could not, she was only a novice, like them, that odd little owl, daughter of the lowly Thatcher in some flyspeck, swamp-bounded village!

Well, the odd little owl from the Mirk had a secret or two, hidden up her sleeve... Arachnae still felt pleasure as she recollected the shocked, horrified look in the Hardani girl's eyes as the dark blade had gone in, just beneath the breastbone, angled upwards… just as she had been taught. A slim black knife that had appeared in her hand from nowhere, woven from Air and Fire, decorated with ravens. It had not been difficult to do, and had hardly been her first murder. Besides mere revenge, Arachnae supposed that she had just wanted to give the other novices something to remember her by. It was not as though she had signed her real name in the novice book! She had written that – as well as everything else – with her left hand, just in case.

Arachnae had little trouble slipping out of Tar Valon that night, a harbourmaster Darkfriend sneaked her onto a riverboat going south and a ship-captain Darkfriend hid her in the hold until they reached Tear. It was good, to have Friends. And the world lay before her… the roads safe to travel once more, now that the more than two centuries of unrest that followed the War of a Hundred Years had finally died-down, the internicine feuding between the nations forged from the ashes of the Hawkwing's Empire finally at an end as they contented themselves with the bounds of their own borders, no longer seeking to quite so readily encroach on their neighbours. Arachnae - who had been taught by Aes Sedai who actually remembered the High King's twenty-year seige of Tar Valon - appeared old, but certainly did not look her age. But then, she had never held the Binding Rod.

A tap on the door. Arachnae was already holding the Source – which she always did whilst knitting – and prepared a nasty surprise just in case, though her wards had already told her who it was outside. She glanced up enquiringly as the Innkeeper cautiously opened the door. The skinny, balding fellow blinked nervously at the old lady in the rocking chair, clicking her knitting-needles together, regarding her with an open fear that belied her outward appearance. Arachnae smiled at him, and the man flinched slightly, lowering his gaze.

"Master Kadere to see you, Dread Mistress," he muttered breathlessly, before ducking out of sight. He had tried calling her 'Great Lady' after she set her example, and she had asked him whether he thought her one of the Chosen? Clearly, he was as terrified of her as though she might have been, but Arachnae knew her place. Even her name in certain circles, 'the Little Spider…' she would have preferred simply 'The Spider' but if Moghedien was free again, as the others seemed to be… well, it would not be a good idea to attract her ire. Arachnae was content with her place in the grand scheme of things, and others should be too. As long as the Innkeeper understood that she stood as high above him as the Chosen did above her, then that was enough. Really, she preferred working with Friends who lived in cities, they at least tended to be more sophisticated.

Hadnan Kadere stepped carefully into the room, moving with deft assurance for so heavy-set a man. His tilted eyes above a hooked, Saldaean nose, regarded Arachnae with caution, though less-so than the swarthy, broken-nosed wagon-driver who followed him unwillingly into the room, closing the door behind him.

"Laers here, and the others, they just returned..." Kadere explained.

Arachnae held Kadere's gaze for a long moment, but somehow, he managed to not blink. Though he did swallow a little, feeling sweat begin to creep across his brow. This terrible old woman had that affect on him… really, he was not sure who was worse, she or the dark-robed monster in the mask who had lately begun to visit his dreams… a finch could starve on the difference. And a man could die.

"Mistress," Kadere added, belatedly. And grudgingly. No, Ba'alzamon, if it was truly him, was worse, of course… but he ruled over his dreams. His nightmares. While the Kirikil woman was sitting right in front of him, rocking slowly back and forth. And Kadere was very much aware that at the moment, he was wide-awake.

Arachnae smiled. She still had all of her teeth – somewhat at odds with her appearance – and this only made the pleasant-seeming expression worse, somehow.

"Did they now, Hadnan, my petal? And I had not expected them yet."

It was a strangely warm, grandmotherly voice, but those dark, placid eyes seemed to burn a little in their depths. Kadere felt more sweat breaking-out on his face, and almost reached for his handkerchief.

Arachnae turned her attention to Laers, the wagon-driver, lowering her knitting to her lap and beckoning. "Come closer, dear... where I can see you properly." Unwillingly, Laers moved to stand before the rocking-chair, whilst Kadere took up a position in the corner of the room, arms crossed.

"Well, my boy?" enquired Arachnae, "why back so soon?"

Laers swallowed. He wished that the Trollocs hadn't eaten Divid, it should have been that fool standing here in front of this dreadful old witch instead of him!

Mouth dry, he began to speak...


Ranim half-led, half-dragged his lathered, exhausted horse into the stables, and watched, dispassionately, as it dropped to its knees and then its side, chest heaving. He doubted that it would rise again. The bond gave him more stamina than he would have thought possible, the ability to stay awake and active long after most men would have collapsed. The same could not be said for his steed. If it died, then that would make the third horse he had ridden to its death on his way back down south. Ranim did not care. There was very little left in the world that he did care about. This was one of the reasons why he was so good at what he did.

The stable-lad was a mute, or perhaps he had just been left incapable of speech by the Mistress, setting one of her examples... Ranim was not sure. But the way the youth pointed towards the barn, making a gobbling sound, his eyes wide with terror, told him what waited there. So, before going to make his report, Ranim went to the barn. He skirted numerous large wagons on the way, guards and drivers huddled in blankets beneath the wheels and beds… both wagons and men those of the Mistress, who often posed as a Merchant, as well as those of the Saldaean fellow, Kadere. Ranim presumed that he was still alive… the fellow was a survivor, one of those Friends with the skill of feeding others to his superiors, when mistakes were made and examples needed to be set. Though he might not yet know it, Kadere was now deep in thrall to a different Mistress, by all accounts. Ranim did not envy the man.

In addition to a Myrddraal, clad in shimmering scales of dark armour and a darker cloak, the barn contained a stocky, greying Warder of the White Tower. Ranim eyed them both. The Myrddraal said nothing, just looked at him eyelessly with the same loathing it had reserved for the Gaidin, who smiled mockingly.

"Hello Ranim," greeted Tomas, adding, "have you found the Song yet?"

Ranim scowled slightly. Not so much at the off-colour jest, but because Tomas always confused him. He might be a Friend of the Dark first and foremost, but he was still a Warder… the man should have been above making jokes.

"What are you doing here, Tomas?" demanded Ranim.

"Just passing through, on my way south. I have a message for your Mistress. From mine." Tomas briefly held up a sealed, waxed packet, then nodded disparagingly at the Myrddraal. "You should meet with these things out in the woods. Not everyone in this village is a Friend, I imagine. Someone might see it."

The Myrddraal gazed upon Tomas. He returned the gaze placidly, with no sign of nervousness, a hand resting idly on his sword-hilt.

"Have a care, worm…" the Myrddraal hissed, warningly. But did not draw its dark sword. Tomas's smile was unwavering. Ranim knew that the Warder's Black Ajah Mistress stood high indeed. The Myrddraal could not touch him. But Arachnae did not trust the Warder's Mistress any more than Ranim did… strange, that she had not been at the meeting. The other two Supreme Council witches were there, certainly…

Ranim eyed the Myrddraal. Its gaze did not perturb him overmuch either, though perhaps for different reasons. Not after some of the things he had seen recently. There were worse than Fades, north of the Blightborder. Much worse.

"Well?" Ranim asked it. He did not like Myrddraal any more than Tomas did. It was unfortunate, how necessary they were. For now. "What of the Aes Sedai?"

The Myrddraal looked on him with hatred. Ranim knew they loathed doing the bidding of Darkfriends, even his Mistress, who, before the Chosen woke, had been one of the most powerful female channellers sworn to the Shadow. Worthy of the title 'Dreadlord' though she had always scorned it. But it answered him reluctantly, because Ba'alzamon himself had told it to obey, its voice rustling like dead leaves.

"They are trapped, Firewoman and Swordman both. Twenty more Fists move through the Ways, one at a time, to avoid the accursed wind-of-death… two more days to gather... then, we will sweep the mountains clear until we find them."

"And the Draghkar?" Ranim demanded. The night before, curled beside a guttering fire, his head pillowed on his saddle, a bare blade clutched in his hand, Ranim had dreamt an odd dream. His Mistress had stood over him in the clearing, and told him of her plans. Some of them, at least… and she had then presented him with a flower, since it was his Name-day. He had forgotten himself, but she rarely overlooked such things, the small gestures alongside the large. On waking, Ranim was unsure if it had been real, if it had actually happened. Until he saw the black rose, each petal as dark as sin itself, lying beside his blanket.

The Myrddraal bared its teeth momentarily – it was unaccustomed to a human addressing it so – but Ranim's expectant gaze did not waver. Vaguely, the human reminded it of an Aielman, with that same intensity, that strange absence of fear.

"It will take time, to assemble so many," the Myrddraal answered, grudgingly.

"You know who my Mistress serves. Do not fail her. Or him."

The Myrddraal looked at Ranim for a long moment, well-conveying just how much it wished to kill him… then, it turned away, stepping with deadly, serpentine precision into the gloom at the rear of the barn. Ranim watched carefully, but saw no hint of what exactly it did, no riding of the shadows as in some dark tale of Lurks abroad in the night, told by a Gleeman… one moment it was there, the next, it simply was not. He shook his head, regretfully. That was one skill he did not possess…

Tomas also eyed the darkness where the Myrddraal had disappeared. He shook his greying head slowly. "How do they bloody do that?" he muttered.


Arachnae Kirikil frowned slightly. There was a lumpy bit sticking to the thread – she carefully picked it off with her long nails. The big wagon-driver, Laers, tried to focus on what he was saying, but the steady clicking of needles distracted and disconcerted him. His grandmother, who had thrown him out of the house at the age of eleven, after overhearing him chanting a prayer to the Great Lord in the basement, had always been knitting too – it raised bad memories.

"We found Bartok's body three days ago," Laers was saying, "looked like he was killed with a sword-thrust, though it was hard to tell from what remained. He'd been left under some rocks, but the Trollocs dug him out... they didn't leave much."

"Oh, they never do," Arachnae murmured, tugging some more wool from the ball at her feet. "Hungry monsters!" she added, with a soft chuckle.

Laers bit his lip and glanced at Kadere, who eyed him flatly, motioned for him to continue. "Some of them chased us – they caught Divid and a couple of the other lads!" The Mistress did not react to this, her eyes on her knitting. "If we'd gone any further into the mountains, we'd have all ended-up in their cookpots for sure," Laers added, repressing a shiver. In the corner, Kadere shook his head slowly. He was glad his orders were sending him elsewhere on the morrow. Tar Valon first, and then who knew where? But he had no wish to go up into mountains infested with Shadow-wrought, who often did not seem to be able to distinguish between humans who had forsaken the Light, and those who had not… or perhaps they just did not care. A shame about Bartok, though. Kadere had known he was almost certainly dead, as soon as the mirror-signals from the other side of the valley had abruptly ceased, half-way through. Phelan had been a useful fellow, in his time…

"Bartok was a fool," Arachnae declared, fixing her stare on Kadere as though reading his thoughts. He wouldn't put it past her to be able to – the old woman could do things he would not have thought possible. Some rumours said she could even fly through the night sky in a wicker basket, like something out of an old tale of witches, used to frighten badly-behaved children! "The stupid boy clearly gave himself away, or the young chit would not have had her guardian kill him..."

"Perhaps Taim betrayed him to the Aes Sedai?" Kadere speculated.

"Doubtful..." Arachnae shook her grey head slowly. She was not certain if Mazrim Taim was even a Friend... she had never seen him at any of the High Councils, certainly... that did not, of course, preclude him from being one of their number, but she thought it more likely that he was not. False Dragons, at least the major, notorious ones who could channel strongly, never were. Rather, they were often unwitting puppets of the Shadow, though like Guaire Amalasan, and Davian before him, they often kept low company.

"But possibly he might have known..?"

A glare stopped Kadere in his tracks. "Taim! Taim knew only what we let him know!" Arachnae spat, before abruptly resuming both composure and knitting. Kadere flinched slightly. Those occasional flashes of temper, like a sudden, deadly whirlpool appearing momently in a still and placid lake, were one of the more disconcerting things about the Kirikil woman. Her dark gaze returned to Laers. "I believe you were asked to locate our quarry, dear?" she reminded him.

Laers swallowed nervously. And behind him, the door opened again, though this time it was not the Innkeeper but a tall youth with auburn hair and blue eyes, who moved gracefully… and was clad in a garish yellow coat and lurid green breeches, tucked into crimson knee-boots. The Tinker closed the door quietly behind him, and bowed to Arachnae elaborately, as though performing the first step in some Cairheinin court-dance, then stood quietly against the wall. He did not speak, and ignored the room's other occupants. The wagon-driver turned away in disgust. Clearly, the Tuatha'an was a Friend also (if he was not, he would not be leaving the room alive) but his presence was confusing. Tinkers! Worse than useless… what did they need them for? The eyes of the old witch were still on him, holding a terrible expectancy that he could in no way satisfy.

"We could not get near them, or even find any tracks!" Laers protested.

"Did you even try?" Arachnae enquired, before looking down at her knitting, shaking her head back and forth sadly.

"It was impossible to go any further! Those bloody Trollocs are everywhere, swarming through the peaks, and they don't care a cuss that we're on the same side! They killed three of us, it's only the Great Lord's luck anyone made it back!"

Arachnae had heard enough. Her eyes narrowed and she clicked her knitting-needles rapidly together three times. Laers shifted nervously. That had sounded like some kind of a signal, but there was only the Tinker behind him – at which point, the Tinker in question stepped soundlessly forward and neatly cut his throat.

Hadnan Kadere looked down at the twitching wagon-driver, a pool of blood spreading over the floorboards. He sighed. The Tinker crouched smoothly next to his victim, watching him until he stopped kicking, slowly wiping a long, wicked blade clean on the fellow's rough coat. His eyes, colder than ice, drifted up to meet Kadere's and for a moment, he almost seemed to smile. Kadere scowled at Ranim, but said nothing. It was strange that one of the Tuatha'an was so adept at killing… Laers should have been more wary, should have heeded the talk of Mistress Kirikil's blue-eyed boy and what he could do with a knife. Oh well. At least it had not been him

"At this rate, I will run-out of wagon-drivers and guards…" Kadere muttered. "I shall have to hire Trollocs, and they will probably just eat the horses… after they have eaten my customers!"

"Tsk. Stupid beasts." Arachnae had returned to her knitting. "I think that you have larger problems than that, Hadnan-dear," she murmured, without looking up.

Kadere was a very dangerous man. But when he glanced at the old lady in the rocking chair, clicking her knitting needles softly against each other, he felt a shiver of fear go down his spine. He was well aware that she would speak in those same pleasant, grandmotherly tones, when she ordered his death.

Ranim, while watching Kadere idly, was thinking that the broken-nosed fellow had been his forty-seventh kill in Mistress Kirikil's service. Only three more to go. Arachnae had said she would give him a present to celebrate his fiftieth killing at her command. Something special, she had promised. He wondered vaguely what it would be... though even without that incentive, he would have killed the remaining three, whoever they would turn out to be, simply because he enjoyed it.

Ranim liked to kill, he liked it very much. The first time had been difficult, of course… he had sworn his Oaths to the Great Lord and then been told to kill… no, he did not want to think about that. Not that it disturbed him, at least not now, but it had been too easy. But by the time he slew his tenth victim, he had already become very good at it. It had surprised other Friends that a Tuatha'an should be so skilled at murder. But it had not surprised him. He had turned his back on the Way of the Leaf in his heart, long before he took that rejection into his hands. A long time before his people declared him Lost and he left the wagons far behind. Killing made him feel powerful. He liked that feeling, even more than he liked to kill.

Kadere went to the door, leaning out into the hall. A muttered command, and after a moment, two of his wagon-guards came in with a rough blanket. They registered little surprise at the corpse that awaited them – such disposal of former comrades was a common enough occurrence – simply rolled the unfortunate Laers in the blanket and carried him away. With a last cautious glance at Arachnae, who smiled sweetly up at him, Kadere followed, closing the door quietly behind him.

Ranim sheathed his knife. "The Black Ajah Warder brought this for you, Dark Mistress," he stated, pulling a waxed packet from his pocket, placing it on the table beside the rocking chair. Arachnae eyed the familiar scrawl on the envelope. Addressed to her, using her real name, which none alive should have known.

"Did he now? Tsk. I have never trusted that Mathwin woman," she muttered, "even less so than the rest of her kind… she plays a dangerous game." Arachnae's small, dark eyes flicked to Ranim's face. "And how was the meeting, my lad? Anything that your old Mistress need concern herself with?" She patted a small, wooden foot-stool set beside the rocking-chair.

Ranim sat, perched at her feet, shaking his head. "I made contact with the Atha'an Miere Friend, as instructed. He received his orders, and will obey, despite what appeared to be a marked unwillingness." For a moment, Ranim's voice took on a note of grudging respect. "The Great Master spoke to me also, briefly… such a one as he is hard to refuse!" He shrugged. "The Sea Folk renegade, who serves the Father of Storms, as he calls him… his ships await your call at Bandar Eban, Mistress. Oh, and there are three village boys not long for this world, I think, but I was given no instructions regarding their disposal, so I think that a task left to others..." His reddish brows drew down, a little. "Strange… one of them had yellow eyes... he 'minded me of a fellow I saw as a boy, when I was still amongst the wagons, a man who it was said could talk to wolves..." Ranim shrugged again, and helpfully pulled a little more wool from the ball at his Mistress's feet, paying it out idly as he considered.

"Wolves! Tut. Nasty, noisy things, always spoiling the lovely quiet nights with their unpleasant howling." Arachnae's tone became more intent. "Tell me, dear… was young Jaichim there?"

Ranim nodded. He did not quite smile, but his voice held a slightly sardonic note, the nearest he ever came to expressing anything approaching humour.

"Yes, Mistress, I saw Carridin... he had attempted to disguise himself with a heavy cloak and a stoop, but clearly, it was him." Ranim scowled slightly. "Had the opportunity presented itself..." He did not trouble to finish the sentence.

Arachnae sighed ruefully, and ruffled Ranim's auburn hair with something almost like affection. "It was good of you to think of it at least, dear... but there are some places where you cannot quite so readily dispose of your enemies, and if I am correct about where that meeting took place..." She shook her head with regret. "A shame, though." She frowned slightly, her voice becoming querulous for a moment.

"That imbecile Carridin cost me my last Grey Man – and they aren't easy to come by! He wasted a useful tool, trying to do away with his superior..." Arachnae scowled. The accursed girl was also to blame – even as a young snip, before she even went to the Tower, the Amadici wench had managed to upset her plans! And then later, in Haddon Mirk... she and her foolish friend had caused the death of her protégé, her most promising student in a century... well, they would pay. The Lady Ellythia first. Arachnae had long planned an unpleasant revenge for her, unpleasant indeed.

Ranim pulled some more wool free, his face placid. He did not need the bond between them to know what Arachnae was thinking about. Sometimes, he wondered if the Mistress was a little obsessed with the young Aes Sedai, with her vengeance. But that was her business. He was thinking that he had almost become a Grey Man himself. After he left the wagons and the Way far behind, after he swore his Oaths and carried-out those first, difficult murders... he had not really cared what became of him. But the Mistress had seen his potential. She had had other plans for him.

"Just think of it," Arachnae continued, "she and her Warder, they were here, in this very room! I could have had them, had that fool sent word in time!"

Ranim frowned slightly. Perhaps 'obsession' was understating it.

"But I think me it is better this way. She has the Key, I am told, and will lead us right to the prize. Unless I am wrong about what it is she seeks… and it has been a long time since I was wrong about something… well…"

Arachnae trailed-off and returned to her knitting, nearly done now.

"Mistress?" Ranim prompted.

"One moment, dear… pearl… thread it through… and… there."

Arachnae had finished. She released the Source with reluctance, letting the dark knitting-needles, woven of Air and Fire, dissipate into nothing… then held what she had made up to the window and beheld the full, hunter's moon through a delicate, lamb's wool spider's web. She smiled, and nodded, satisfied.

"You are caught, Ellythia-dear," Arachnae murmured, "held quite fast… well now, you should have remembered that the Little Spider always catches her fly."


Part III: Darkwood

"So… this is the Darkwood."

"It is dark."

"And a wood."

"Parish Swar!"

"What?"

"I said; 'Parish Swar.' "

"I thought you sneezed. What is Parish Swar?"

"It is what the Darkwood is called in the Old Tongue."

"Parish Swar? Huh. What does it mean?"

"I have no idea, it is just what the Darkwood is called in the-"

"Boys!" snapped Shrinalla Tolamani of the Green Ajah, losing patience, "do stop chattering!" Aebel and Blaek swivelled in their saddles to look back at her with those big brown eyes beneath lovely long- no! She must not lose focus. Shrina clicked her tongue with irritation. She enjoyed looking at her Warders – there were few women, especially (to her annoyance) back in the Tower, who didn't, from squeaking novices up to venerable Aes Sedai who had worn the Shawl close-on two centuries and really should have been setting a better example at their age! Yes, the Twins were fine for looking at. But she did not always enjoy having to listen to them.

Shrina spurred A'vron forward, shouldering the gelding between Mosk and Merk, who shied away, snorting, her Warders struggling with the reins. She smiled sweetly, continuing in a more even tone;

"Lovely lads, perhaps you could dispense with the fascinating discourse for the time being? Your Aes Sedai is trying to think."

"Sorry Shrina," they chanted, in unison.

Shrina nodded approvingly, put the reins between her teeth and, thumping her heels into A'vron's flanks, trotted rapidly past Aebel and Blaek, giving each an affectionate swat on the rump as she did so. She spat the reins out, turning her mount skilfully with her knees and glanced back, raising a finger in admonition.

"Oh, and good boys who spent more time learning their lessons than they did leaping about the practice yard with their shirts off, waving toy swords about," she added, rather unfairly, "might know that it is pronounced Paerish Swar, which means 'the wood that is dark' in the Old Tongue." Shrina gestured at the towering firs clustered to either side of the ancient, forgotten road. Even close to noon, they blotted out most of the sunlight from above. "Or, in other words… the Darkwood?"

The Twins had the good grace to look embarrassed, or at least pretend so. Though there were several terms for 'dark' in the Old Tongue, that differed depending on the consistency of the darkness concerned. It could be a troublesome language.

Shrina sighed, ruefully. "Ignorant, unlettered youths – if you weren't quite so pretty, I should dispense with your services altogether!"

"Yes, Shrina," they chorused loyally, knowing that she would not.

As their Aes Sedai took the lead – which she really was not supposed to do, but there was little use in saying anything – Aebel and Blaek eyed each other. 'When there are squalls ahead, it's best to reef your sails early,' their oilfishing father had always told them. Serving Shrina could certainly be an invigorating experience, but it was often exhausting.

It had certainly been an exhausting few months. Shrina had forced the pace up the Silver Road to Lugard, then across to Jehannah, grudgingly allowing a night at an Inn in each city but certainly nowhere in-between! Not that the Twins particularly cared, there was only one city (with the possible exception of Tar Valon) that held much interest for them, and they were a long way from Mayene. They suspected that one of the reasons they were avoiding Inns was that Shrina had been even more improvident with their dwindling funds than she had grudgingly admitted. But the weather had been clement, the Summer lasting well into Autumn to seemingly make-up for the long Winter and delayed Spring, and there were worse places to sleep than beneath the stars. A span beneath the ground, for example, which was why they had avoided the more direct northerly route, through Amadicia. Then, there had been the dangerous journey along a forgotten pass, that took them up through the Mountains of Mist… and the strange fellow they had encountered just prior to this. Their guide.

The Twins scanned the woods to either side. Where was he? He often disappeared all day, hunting with his… friends. But their gaze moved back to the road, for a clearing had opened up ahead, and it was not an empty clearing. Aebel and Blaek eased their swords in their scabbards and spurred forward a little, falling-in to either side of Shrina, anticipating trouble. A Hunter for the Horn should always expect trouble, over and above whether he was also a Gaidin of the White Tower with an impetuous young Aes Sedai to ward!

A dozen small wagons stood circled beneath a large, spreading oak that had grown right up through the cracked paving stones of the ancient road that traversed the centre of the Darkwood. Shaggy, piebald horses stood patiently in the traces, leaning their heads down to chew at the occasional acorn. As they approached, the Twins released their hilts, feeling foolish. Clearly, they would have no need for their blades here. The wagons, like small, wheeled houses, were painted brightly in garish reds, blues and yellows, colours that clashed rather than complimented. And a score of people, dressed in even brighter, eye-wrenching hues, were busy lashing pots and trestles and other small items to the sides of the wagons, preparatory to being on their way. Several dogs, large mastiffs, lay by one of the wheels – they rose to their haunches at the rider's approach, growling… until one of the Tinkers whistled softly to them, at which they subsided, whining.

Shrina had taken note of the loudly-decorated wagons and Travelling People also, and swiftly draped her cloak over the sword hanging from her pommel – there was no need for the Tinkers to disapprove of all three of them! Odd, to see so few of their wagons… perhaps they had become split-off from the rest of their caravan? Though there could be darker reasons for why this was so small a group of Tuatha'an...

The Tinker who had quieted the dogs, an older woman, moving with grace and assurance despite the grey in her hair, watched them calmly while the others, mostly younger folk, continued about their tasks, perhaps with a touch more haste than before. She held a small basket full of white, Queen's Crown mushrooms that she had clearly been gathering, and stood examining them without fear, simply the wariness that the Travelling People always viewed others with. Even without the wagons and her companions, her bright yellow skirts and brighter red cloak, heavily worked with blue embroidery, declared her to be one of the Tuatha'an.

"A good day to you," the Tinker woman called, in a clear, musical voice, "we would welcome you to our fires, were we not about to leave this place." She sounded genuinely regretful, placed the basket of mushrooms up on the seat of a wagon and turned back to the riders, hands smoothing her garish skirts, dark eyes fixed on them. The other Tuatha'an continued to prepare for departure, though wary eyes drifted to the three riders, shying away from the Warder's swords.

"Your welcome warms my heart even so," Shrina answered, politely. She dismounted, tossing her reins to Blaek, and approached. A couple of the large mastiffs roused and growled again, until the Tuatha'an woman whistled at them in sharper tones – the dogs whined and lay back down with the others.

"Forgive them," apologised the Tinker woman, "they are nervous – I believe there to be wolves in the vicinity."

Shrina smiled. "There could well be," she allowed. But took care not to approach the mastiffs too closely, since they were rather large… and dogs, even well-behaved Tinker-dogs, did not tend to care for Aes Sedai overmuch.

"I am Leya," said the Tinker woman, inclining her head.

"You may call me Mistress Talloriandred if you wish," responded Shrina, skirting the First Oath, and with something of a flourish at that! She nodded to her Warders. "My armsmen answer to Jon and Jef… do forgive their swords, but these are dangerous times. I assure you, we mean you no harm…" She smiled at the Twins. "You are quite harmless, are you not, Jon and Jef?" They scowled.

"We are, Mistress Talloriandred…"

"Yes indeed, Mistress Talloriandred…"

Leya blinked. "That is well to know…" She examined the Twins, taking note of their identical looks, and smiled. "Good day to you… Jon… and Jef…" She was clearly unsure which was which… but then, so were they! Her gaze took in their swords, and she sighed. The Twins sighed also, though less with sadness and more exasperation. If there was one thing they disliked more than being called 'Jon and Jef' – the latest assumed names Shrina had insisted they adopt – it was having to call her 'Mistress Talloriandred.' A ridiculous name, taken from a foolish Romance Shrina had been reading by the fireside, each night!

Supposedly, the absurd book was based on the life of a fabled Aes Sedai Queen of long-dead Almoren, who had defied the customs of her Nation and the horror of her family by bonding and marrying seven Warders… seven! Even the legendary Soldier-Amyrlin herself had only had five! The Sun-Queen, whose name Shrina had appropriated, reputedly had a Gaidin-husband for every day of the week! This was long before the Farede calendar was universally adopted, or she might even have married ten Warders…

Besides, Shrina was far too tall to pass for Cairheinin, as well as way too loud! But would she listen? Would the sun rise twice in the same day? Worst of all, she insisted on using the assumed names whenever possible, which had garnered some odd stares in places where it might have been better to avoid notice. If only she would just choose one set of names, ordinary names, and then stick to them – but Shrina was never happy with her choices for long and tried to improve on them, whilst making matters steadily worse!

"Do your People often travel the Paerish Swar?" Shrina enquired.

Leya nodded. "We try to avoid the places of those who do not follow the Way of the Leaf… it has been long since the Nation of Almoth dwindled and there are few villages left in these parts." She gestured smoothly to the north. "We recently camped at an Ogier stedding two days travel from here, and now mean to go south." She shook her head sadly. "There is trouble on the Plain, men killing men…" Her voice held great regret.

Shrina nodded. "I had heard… Taraboners and Domani squabbling, worse than usual, and one hears of these invaders from across the Ocean…" Her tone became casual. "Mistress Leya, I have something of an interest in old ruins… and relics… I had heard that there were such to be found, to the east of the Darkwood?"

"I believe that to be the case, where the wood borders the Lake of Mists." Leya shrugged, "though we avoid that area of the Paerish Swar, of course…"

"Indeed? Why-ever do you do that?" Shrina enquired innocently, though she already knew why! Their guide had explained that part…

"There is a deep and treacherous bog there, impossible for our wagons to cross, certainly… horses also, I think that none may go there..." Leya looked concerned, as though this reminded her of something. "You came from the south?"

Shrina nodded. "That we did."

"The ford over the Andahar is passable?"

"Oh yes," Shrina confirmed, "the rains have been light, the river should only come half-way up your wheels…"

The other Tinkers were ready now, taking their places in the wagons, the dogs rising to their feet, ready to resume their endless travelling. Leya stepped gracefully up to the seat of the lead wagon, clucked to the horses as she shook the reins.

"Peace be on you, Mistress Talloriandred, and on you also, Jon and Jef," she said in farewell, as the wagon started forward.

"Fare thee well, Mistress Leya," called Shrina, as she passed.

The Twins frowned, though not at the Tuatha'an as they drove their wagons past, but rather at their Aes Sedai. Shrina eyed her Warders, who were clearly sulking. She had masked the bond so that she could not feel their sulkiness (it always upset her stomach) but one look at their faces told her everything.

"Is there a problem?" she enquired, unnecessarily, since there clearly was.

"No, Mistress Tamborliandra…" muttered Aebel, whilst Blaek remained silent. They looked as though they had each been sucking on a lemon!

Shrina scowled. "It's Talloriandred," she hissed, "What is so difficult about that?" Her Warders did not choose to respond. They still looked sulky. She unmasked the bond. Yes, definitely still sulking.

Shrina sighed. "Alright," she muttered, "I'll come up with another name for myself – a shorter name…" 'Jon and Jef' were not mollified by this, however.

"We want different names too, Shrina!"

"Yes, Shrina, names that do not sound stupid!"

"Hmm… how about 'Mann' and 'Darb?' "

"Ha."

"Ha."

Shrina was not the only Hunter using an assumed name – others who had sworn the Oath were doing so as well, in most cases to disguise undistinguished origins, but sometimes for the opposite reason… as she had discovered shortly after their arrival in Illian, when a bold young woman nearly trampled her beneath the hooves of the fiery stallion that she was having some trouble controlling.

The dark-haired girl was clearly an accomplished horsewoman – most riders would have crashed to the cobbles long since. The horse reared again, the girl clinging on somehow.

"Burn you!" she snarled, grabbing a double handful of mane and leaning forward to sink her teeth into the animal's ear! The stallion whinnied loudly, settling and sidestepping, nearly knocking Shrina over before Aebel pulled her to safety and Blaek seized the trailing bridle. The girl ceased biting the snorting animal's flesh and slipped gracefully down from its back. The horse-dealer came running toward them, wringing his grubby hands. The girl smoothed her divided skirts, scowling.

"Forgive me, Mistress," he wailed, "I don't know what got into him!"

"I'll tell you what got into him, you cursed fool – the Dark One did!" The girl glared at seller and stallion both – the horse rolled its eyes at her, baring its teeth and blowing foam over them both, while attempting to kick Blaek. "Burn-you, and your evil livestock! This isn't a horse, it's a bloody four-legged Trolloc!"

Shrina dusted her gown a little, examining the girl shrewdly. Probably Saldaean, with that bold nose, those tilted eyes… and that temper! Although the girl did have cause to be angry. As did she for that matter, innocently walking past a horse-market one moment, nearly lying on her back covered in horseshoe-shaped bruises the next… Blaek dodged a final bite from the stallion, thrust the bridle roughly into the horse-dealer's hand and helped him on his way with a kick. The Saldaean girl glanced at Blaek, as though about to express gratitude, blinked, noticed Aebel, blinked again, before her dark, tilted eyes finally settled on Shrina – still in her Warder's protective embrace, though the young Aes Sedai no longer really needed it, examining her with a penetrating, green-eyed gaze.

The girl spoke in more measured tones. "I hope that you were not hurt?" Definitely a Saldaean accent.

"Not at all," Shrina assured her, "no more than yourself… you controlled the animal well. A fine piece of horsewomanship. Excellent teethwork. But I do believe that your people are famed for their skills in the saddle. You are from Saldaea, are you not?"

"Yes…" The Saldaean girl seemed reluctant to answer, she glanced again at the Twins, but not in the way most women looked at them, more taking note of their dangerous grace. Her attention returned to Shrina. The girl's dark, tilted eyes searched her face for a moment before flicking down to her hands, which were, of course, ringless. Shrina smiled. The girl clearly knew Aes Sedai and Warders when she saw them! She cast her mind back to the last time she was in Maradon…

"You are here to take the Oath, young lady? To Hunt the Horn?"

The Saldaean girl nodded. Shrina smiled, touching her arm lightly.

"Forgive me, where are my manners? You may know me as Mistress Alcahandra, and my attendants answer to Shim and Shaw. Who might you be?"

The girl raised her head proudly, tilted eyes flashing above her bold nose. "My name is Mandarb!"

The Twins had been glowering over mention of their most recent aliases – at this, they abruptly snickered. Lan Gaidin's warhorse! The Saldaean girl glared at them. The Twins' faces became blank again. When in Tar Valon, which was not often, they had spent a deal of time in the Warder's stables. Gaidin preferred to care for their own horses, and Mosk and Merk were loath to let any other than the Twins approach them, anyway.

They had never met the famed Diademed Battle-Lord, Mandragoran, who was seen in the Tower less often even than they, but had heard plenty of tales of him from other Gaidin – naturally, he was something of a legend amongst their fraternity, particularly with the younger Warders. Without trying to make the hero-worship too obvious, the Twins had casually solicited further details of Lan's exploits from Old Quilly, the Head Stableman, who had been tending to the mounts of Aes Sedai and their Warders for nearly forty years and was accustomed to such requests. For example… when Lan Gaidin had fought his way through a Trolloc Fist and then an entire Legion of Whitecloaks whilst bringing Moiraine Sedai back to the Tower to be Healed… had Old Quilly perhaps been present in the stables when he arrived?

Old Quilly had, in point of fact, but since he respected the privacy of Lord Mandragoran, who might not actually say much, but (unlike certain Red Sisters he could mention) always had a silver penny and a kind nod for a hard-working stableman, he neither confirmed nor denied any rumours, always supplying only the same, solitary detail – the name of Lan's horse.

'Mandarb' shifted her glare from the Twins to Shrina. "It means-"

"Blade, yes, a suitable name for a Hunter." Shrina grinned momentarily. If they were a horse! "But what might your true name be, young lady? I know of some Merchant Houses in the west of Saldaea, perhaps your family is familiar to me?" The girl's lip curled slightly. Shrina smiled. It had been nearly five years, she hadn't been quite sure… until now. That Noble-bred arrogance, shuddering at the thought of belonging to a lowly Merchant House who could not trace their line back further than the War of a Hundred Years…

Hah! I knew it was her!

Shrina leant forward slightly, resting a hand on the Saldaean girl's arm. "Tell me, Zarine te Bashere – does your father know that you are in Illian?" she enquired, softly.

Zarine swallowed, yanking her arm away. The Warders drifted to either side of her, blocking a possible escape, but she scowled and made no move to flee. They were surrounded by a huge crowd, a mere tributary of the same vast throng that filled Illian at the moment, only semi-composed of the usual complement of Illianers; merchants, sailors and thieves, because the other half all seemed to be Hunters. As well as no few Gleemen! No-one seemed to be paying much attention to them, but even so, Zarine had the sense to lower her voice when she spat, "what business is it of yours, Aes Sedai?"

Shrina's smile widened. "Oh, everything is our business, like it or not. We're famous for it, I'm afraid. More to the point, my young Hunter, does your mother know that you're here? Now, there is a woman I would not like to cross… they say that even the Trollocs along the Great Blight act meek and speak soft when the Lady Deira is in a foul mood!"

Zarine gulped again, possibly at the thought of her mother, then the fight seemed to go out of her and she sagged a little. "What are you going to do?" she sighed, resignedly.

Shrina was genuinely perplexed at this. "Do? I am not going to do anything. You seemed awfully familiar, for somebody who had just almost crushed me to a paste with the aid of a deranged horse… I merely wished to see if I was right about your identity – and I was! That is all. You have grown somewhat since last I saw you, incidentally." The girl – Zarine! what a vastly unsuitable name for this young firebrand! – was gaping at her. Shrina smiled her sweetest smile, gave her a last gentle pat on the arm. "Still, one can't stand here gossiping all day – my Inn awaits! And I do wish you every fortune with your Hunt – though perhaps it is not necessarily a Horn that you seek?"

A husband, most likely, even if she doesn't know it yet... these Saldaean girls rarely settle down until they've gone out and caught themselves a man!

Shrina turned gracefully away, her Warders moving with her. Zarine stared after Shrina in some surprise, almost forgetting to be angry for a moment. She blinked when the departing Twins muttered darkly over their shoulders;

"Choose your mount with care, Mistress Mandarb, because these Illianers-"

"-are almost as bad as Tairens when it comes to cheating you of your coin!"

"Step lively, my lads, and do stop chattering. Farewell, Zarine!"

Zarine scowled. "Mandarb!" she shouted, "I am called Mandarb!"

Shrina had looked for young Zarine the next day, but suspected she was keeping a low profile. Then again, since there had been several thousand Hunters crammed into the Square of Tammuz, she could have been twenty paces away and Shrina would never even have known. Perhaps she should have done something at least, putting a Finding weave on the girl's belt buckle? Sending a pigeon to Maradon? She was sure Nieda would have obliged… though Ellyth had sworn her to secrecy regarding the woman's allegiance to the Blue Ajah, she seemed to hold Aes Sedai of the Green in equally high regard...

Zarine's parents would be spitting blood over the girl's disappearance, very likely. But everyone had the right to Hunt the Horn. Shrina wished her luck, and was glad that she had let her go on her way. She would save kidnapping spirited young Noblewomen and dragging them back to their families to be married-off to dull young Noblemen for when she was an old, white-haired Aes Sedai with all romantic notions long since flayed out of her boot-leather soul!

The last of the wagons had disappeared from sight, the sound of hooves and wheels on the occasional ancient flagstone dying away into the shadowed stillness of the Darkwood. Shrina watched them go sadly. She had been guested by the Travelling People once before – learning to dance the tiganza had been an interesting experience, though Ellyth had stuffily refused to participate! – and felt great sadness at the way the world viewed and treated them. Their guide did not seem to care for them overmuch, though had said he often encountered the Tuatha'an since he frequented the uninhabited places of the world as much as they. Which reminded her… Shrina glanced at the trees to either side suspiciously, as did her Warders.

"I know you're there!" she called, impatiently, "the scary Tinkers have gone on their way... so it is safe for you to come out now!"

At which, a spare, sun-leathered man stepped soundlessly from the forest. His rough clothes were a patchwork of sewn-together animal skins, his long, greying hair bound back with a rawhide cord, his beard a spray of bristles covering his chest. A long knife hung at his belt, a bow on his back. He smiled, a feral smile. His golden eyes seemed to glow slightly, in the gloom beneath the trees.

"No need to shout," said Elyas Machera, softly. He held up a pair of skinny rabbits and grinned slightly, looking rather… wolfish. "I am done with my hunting... so we can proceed with yours."

The Twins stared at him coldly. The yellow-eyed fellow claimed to know a way through the bog… but they did not have to like their guide. Persecution by the Red Ajah or no, Atual Gaidin had always told them that a Warder's duty should only end when he was dead. This man had turned his back on that duty. But there it was.

Later, with the rabbits and some wood-quail the Twins had brought down with their horse-bows cooked and consumed, they sat about the flickering flames of a small camp-fire. Shrina could smell the peaty aroma of the bog from where they had stopped for the night, at its outskirts. It would be difficult enough to cross it in daylight, so they would wait until dawn rather than attempt the passage by night… She was re-examining the parchment Roth had given her.

Elyas lounged on the other side of the fire. A young wolf lay next to him, tongue lolling, seeming to grin at Shrina whenever she looked up. Apparently, his name was 'Sparks'... the short version of a much longer name… and Sparks certainly liked the young Aes Sedai. Well, he had good reason to. Though it seemed odd – she had never realised that wolves had names!

"You are sure you know a way through this bog, Elyas?" If the Horn truly lay within the Paerish Swar, as Roth's clue seemed to suggest, then it had to be within the impassable east of the Darkwood to have lain hidden for so long – it must be!

Elyas shrugged, picking at his teeth with a splinter of wood. "I don't – I told you, I've not been there before, anymore than you intrepid Hunters have!" He chuckled. The Twins bristled and Elyas grinned at them. "Settle down, lads! I mean your Mistress no disrespect…"

Shrina was glaring at Elyas, something she found herself doing a lot.

"Then..?" she began, but their guide cut her off, gesturing toward the shadows beyond the fire-light, where more pairs of shining, golden eyes – mirrors of his own – stared watchfully from the darkness.

"My friends, remember? There's not much a wolf can't sniff-out. I might not know how to get through this Light-cursed bog… but they do."

Shrina eyed the wolves in the darkness complacently.

"Well, as long as someone does," she muttered. She had always quite liked wolves, she thought that they were rather majestic creatures. She was alone in this, the Twins (as well as the horses) certainly did not want them to come any closer…

"Though I heard a rumour from a Peddler that the Horn of Valere had been found, and was up in Shienar somewhere," Elyas added. "Fal Dara, he said…"

Shrina sniffed, disparagingly. "Nonsense! If a Borderman had found it, he'd already have led the Heroes of the Horn in a second strike on Shayol Ghul! And we'd all have heard more than rumours about that!"

"I suppose…" Elyas shrugged. "Never fear, Shrinalla Sedai, I'll get you there… if there is anything there…" He grinned his wolfish grin. "After all, one good turn deserves another."

He was right. It did.

"Oh, the poor thing!"

"Be careful Shrina!"

"Do not get too close, Shrina!"

There were still only a day's travel into the Mountains of Mist, and not beyond the range of hunters or trappers clearly, since the young wolf had its paw firmly caught in the vicious metal teeth of a spring-trap. It was whining, and biting ineffectually at the cruel iron jaws that held it fast. It raised its head and growled warningly at Shrina as she dismounted and approached.

"Stop that!" she snapped. Surprisingly, the wolf did so.

The Twins hovered behind, holding the bridals of their mounts. Shrina embraced the Source, channeled a weave of air, and the steel trap sprang open, the young wolf pulling its paw free and limping back away from them. The swords of her Warders slid from their sheaths with a simultaneous hiss.

"Leave him alone," protested Shrina, turning to them, "he's had a bad day!"

The Twins were staring at something over her shoulder, and Shrina felt more caution through the bond than could be attributed to a wounded wolf… she turned.

The oddly-dressed, bearded fellow with the yellow eyes who had materialised soundlessly from the bushes glared at her Warders, then seemed to dismiss them. An action even stranger than his appearance, since one did not lightly overlook Gaidin! He thrust his long knife back into its sheath and addressed the young wolf, which had limped up to him and was crouching at his feet. Clearly, the two were acquainted.

"Foolish pup," the man chided the wolf, "you could smell it was there, under the leaves, but you had to go and stick your paw in it anyway!" The wolf whined, licking at the injured foot. Shrina scowled. She hated seeing creatures in pain...

"You with the funny eyes," she snapped, "save the recriminations for later and hold the beast still – and if he bites me, I'll flaming-well bite him back!"

With that, despite the protests of her Warders, Shrina strode over, crouched and seized the young wolf on either side of its ears. She channeled. The wolf whined, disconcerted, as the Healing weave shivered through it from nose to tail… but then leant cautiously on its now-uninjured paw, clearly surprised that the pain had gone.

"He'll be tired after that," Shrina told the yellow-eyed fellow, "perhaps you should make him some nourishing barley broth, beard-face?" She glared at the spring-trap. "Nasty things," she muttered, squinting at it – and the snarl-toothed device proceeded to melt into a pile of slag, hissing and steaming. The young wolf yelped, glancing up at the yellow-eyed man, who grinned.

Shrina eyed him. "What?" she demanded. It was almost as though the wolf had spoken to him! Talking to wolves... now what did that make her think of?

"Nothing," responded the strange fellow. Shrina continued to stare at him, suspiciously. He glanced at the Twins in their colour-shifting cloaks, then at the sword hanging from Shrina's pommel, seeming to smile slightly behind his beard.

"Green Ajah?" he enquired. He knew she was Aes Sedai, but seemed as much curious as cautious… odd.

Shrina nodded. Yellow eyes... she was wondering about a story Alanna had once told her… the Reds trying to gentle a Warder who claimed he could hear wolves... surely there couldn't be that many yellow-eyed men in the world?

"Shrinalla Sedai, saviour of distressed wolf-pups, at your service!"

The man did not trouble to give her his name in return, was eyeing her with some of the wariness of a wild beast... of the two, he seemed more that way inclined than the young wolf, who appeared to be grinning at Shrina, his tongue lolling out!

"Back at the Tower, Shrinalla Sedai... do you happen to know a Battle-Sister by the name of… Rina?" the man enquired, casually, keeping half a gold-burnished eye on the Twins, who had not yet sheathed their swords, and were hovering uncertainly in the background.

"Rina Hafden?" Shrina exclaimed. "I do indeed… though 'Battle-Axe' might be a better description!" The formidable old Aes Sedai had been one of those who had practically made her crawl over hot-coals before accepting her into the Green Ajah… she had accompanied her to Maradon shortly after being raised to the Shawl and had been treated much like a maid-servant!

The man chuckled, shaking his head. "Dear old Rina… she hasn't changed much then, I take it?"

"Aes Sedai rarely do, I am afraid... Elyas."

The disconcerting, yellow eyes narrowed slightly.

"It is Elyas, isn't it? Elyas… Machera?"

Elyas did not move, but Shrina got the impression that he was either on the verge of fleeing… or attacking. Through the bond, she felt the Twins tense.

"Oh, calm down!" Shrina exclaimed, exasperated, before waving at Aebel and Blaek. "You too, boys – sheathe your swords and cease scowling!" They half-obeyed, the blades reluctantly returning to scabbards. Well, one-out-of-two wasn't bad... "We're all friends here!" She turned back to Elyas. "At least, I would like to think so. If it is you, then whether or not you used to be a Warder, you were never my Warder, and therefore what you do with yourself is none of my concern!"

Elyas seemed to relax somewhat, though he gave the Twins a narrow glance, which they returned. "Yes, I am Elyas Machera," he grudgingly admitted.

"Though I hear that if Rina ever gets her claws on you…" Shrina left that unfinished. She was sure Elyas could imagine the rest. "But by all accounts, the Red Ajah like you even less than she, which is an excellent reason for me to approve of your continued existence! Besides…" Shrina glanced at the young wolf sitting at her feet, and gave his ears a stroke. The wolf sniffed her hand, then gave it an approving lick. "…I have always rather liked wolves. Whether they walk on four legs or two!"

The yellow-eyed ex-Warder's opinion of this was somewhat brusque. "You are one bloody odd Aes Sedai!" Elyas growled, though with perhaps a hint of approval. The Twins' scowls intensified, like two identical storm-clouds.

"I'm odd? Look who's talking!" Shrina examined the former Gaidin for a moment, speculatively. "This exchange of frank opinion is all very well, but… I don't suppose you happen to know a way through these accursed mountains? We've been going back and forth for nearly a week, nothing but seemingly-promising passes that then peter-out after half a day so you have to backtrack – the map I acquired in Jehannah clearly isn't worth the paper it's scrawled on!"

Elyas eyed her, consideringly, for a long moment. Shrina did her best to exude serenity, though that yellow-eyed gaze was distinctly disconcerting. Eventually, the man shrugged. "A pass? I might do," he allowed.

Thus, the intrepid Hunters found themselves with a guide.

"It's awfully good of you to accompany us this far," Shrina commented, lowering the parchment for a moment. Elyas glanced up, his eyes shining in the darkness.

"I tend to go where my feet take me," he commented. "Besides, young Sparks says you have a good heart. For a two-legs, at least..." Shrina blinked.

The Twins eyed each other. They talked to their horses occasionally, but didn't expect them to talk back!

"I don't suppose your feet have taken you out west, lately?" Shrina enquired, casually, "one hears these strange stories, from Toman Head..?"

Elyas shook his head. "I was last up north of Andor… now I've come back down south, probably for good…" He smiled, bitterly. "Too many bloody ravens up there, for my liking!"

"Ravens?" Shrina enquired. 'I see the Ravens put to flight...' "You mean, Shadow-spies?"

"Aye, accursed things. Whitecloaks too... I'm not sure which is worse." Elyas rubbed at his side a moment, scowling. He had taken a wound there, though had refused her offer of Healing, saying that it no longer troubled him. Elyas shook his head.

"We'll get you through the bog tomorrow, then I believe I'll be heading back down to Ghealdan... good hunting there, better than round here... and there's a fellow in Jarra who… well, no matter." His voice lowered and he added, speaking more to himself, "strange, to find another one, though… truly, the old barriers must be breaking…" Elyas trailed-off, those burnished, golden eyes narrowing slightly. "By-the-by, Shrinalla Sedai... there's something on that bit of parchment you keep looking at, apart from the verse... very faint, looks almost like a watermark..."

"Really?" Shrina held the parchment up to the firelight, excitedly. There did seem to be something on it, a circular design imprinted into the ancient, yellowed page... she had not noticed it before. "It's very difficult to make-out..."

"I've got good eyes." Elyas grinned. "Try holding it nearer to the flames – not too near, mind..."

"Something-something-something Sages," the Twins muttered, under their breath.

Shrina glared at them – "silence!" – and crawled closer to the fire, letting the warmth of the flickering flames invest the parchment. Slowly, a dark circle appeared in the centre – the bottom half taken up with the curving squiggles of numerous waves, a round hill-shape rising above them and, in the centre... a slender tree!

"Hah!" she crowed, "Roth was right – for once! Guaire-bloody-Amalasan!"

The Twins exchanged confused glances, and Elyas seemed none the wiser.

"The False Dragon?" he asked, "the one the Hawkwing defeated?"

"The Hill above the Waves, emblazoned with the Tree of Life! His personal sigil! He must have hidden the Horn here, and left this clue!"

Despite their mutual antipathy, Aebel and Blaek found themselves sharing a doubtful look with Elyas.

"But Shrina," protested Aebel, "if the False Dragon possessed-"

"-the Horn of Valere," added Blaek, "why would he not-"

"Why wouldn't he have just sounded the bloody thing and got the Heroes of the Horn to trounce Artur Hawkwing instead?" demanded Elyas. The Twins glared at him – Aebel was meant to have finished that sentence, not he! Elyas grinned at them.

"I don't know!" exclaimed Shrina, "he was a bloody male-channeller, as in 'mad as a male-channeller' – do you expect what he did to make sense?"

Elyas and the Twins considered this. Shrina smiled triumphantly. Much as men loved to object and poke holes in sound theories, the inherent sensible logic of a woman would defeat them every time. "Time for bed, boys," she announced, including Elyas in this. Their guide smiled, wryly, which Shrina chose to ignore.

"We have a busy day tomorrow – the Horn won't find itself, you know!"


Elyas Machera tied a final strip of crimson silk (all that was left of a garish shift Shrina had reluctantly contributed) to a sapling and gestured at the low piles of stone rising from the mist ahead. There were similar brightly coloured strips leading back through the treacherous bog that they had spent half the day traversing, often having to dismount and lead the horses. The Twin's boots and britches were muddy, though not so much as the hem of Shrina's divided skirts.

"That should get you back to dry land," Elyas commented.

"Won't you be joining us in our search?" Shrina's eyes were on the ruins.

The taciturn huntsman shook his head emphatically.

"I didn't swear any bloody oaths in Illian! I believe I'll be heading south again, if it's all the same to you." Elyas did not trouble to mention that he preferred the company of his friends, to people... his pack… though it had been pleasant enough to spend time with the exuberant young Aes Sedai, if not her Warders.

"Well... I thank you for your aid, Elyas." Shrina held out her hand and Elyas hesitated, then gripped it lightly for a moment. The Twins crossed their arms. They would not be shaking hands with the fellow anytime soon! Not that he cared...

"It isn't everyone who would go out of their way to help a foolish young pup..." Sparks whined softly from the undergrowth, thick clumps of tall heather growing out of the dampness on all sides. Elyas grinned. "My young friend wishes a successful hunt to the 'two-legged She who touches the wind that moves the sun and calls fire to melt the painful biting thing like frost at noon!' "

Shrina blinked, and glanced at the young wolf. "Did he just say all that?"

Elyas shrugged. "It's not exactly saying, more a bundle of sensations and images… wolves always have long names for people, almost as long as the names they have for each other..." Sparks tilted his head to one side and whuffed. "Though he is just plain confused about why you would want to chase after an inedible hunk of metal rather than a nice fat deer!"

Shrina gave Sparks a last caress on the ears. "Tell him that a nice deer, however fat, cannot call the Heroes of the Ages to fight in the Last Battle!"

Elyas nodded. "The Final Hunt, they call it. The wolves think it won't be long now…"

"Do they?" Shrina exclaimed. "Well, I'm glad your friends agree with me on that point, mine certainly never have!" Shrina sighed, momentarily wishing that she could talk to wolves… provided such an ability did not necessitate her eyes changing colour, though she supposed it must. She was of the Green Ajah, not the Yellow, after all!

Without further farewell, Elyas paced away, back through the misty bogland, heeled by Sparks, the shaggy shapes of his other friends drifting from the mist to fall in around him. Shrina watched them wend their way through the treacherous bog, traversing the hidden path that the wolves had sniffed-out, until they were out of sight.

"I think I'm going to miss him," Shrina sighed. The Twins snorted. She scowled. "I was talking about Sparks! You never like any of my friends!" she complained, then turned her attention to the ruins. They were clearly old... very old.

Leaving the horses picketed in the remains of an ancient courtyard, surrounded by tumbled stones, they explored further. It seemed to be the ruins of an ancient palace and its outbuildings, tall pines growing up through fallen walls, shards of ancient tile under a layer of dead needles crunching beneath their feet. A low hill seemed to loom from the mist – on closer examination, it proved to be a mound of rubble, perhaps the vestiges of a massive dome. Beneath a partly-collapsed archway to one side, there appeared to be stairs leading down. But it was the faded, moss-encrusted sigil inscribed into the keystone above that caught their attention. The sigil from the parchment – a tree-emblazoned hill above rolling waves.

Shrina cackled triumphantly, then embraced the Source, filling herself with as much saidar as she could safely hold, perhaps even a touch more. Squinting with concentration, she wove thick tendrils of Air, extending them into the rubble, shifting the massive blocks of fallen stone aside. It took some time and no little effort, and she staggered from the strain towards the end, her Warders supporting her to either side, but eventually a way lay open – a wide staircase, leading down into gloom.

After getting her breath back, Shrina stepped forward. Her Warders made as if to follow, but a raised, commanding hand stopped them. They protested.

"You should not go in there alone, Shrina…"

"We do not know what is down there, Shrina…"

"The Horn of Valere, with any luck! Stay-put, my handsome Gaidin – your Aes Sedai knows best!"

"But..."

"But..."

"But me no buts – you both know why you cannot come any further – it pains me to say it (for I love you dearly) but your hearts are not pure enough!" The Twins gaped. Shrina patiently explained her reasoning further.

"As well you know, the Horn may only be found by one who has the correct attitude! 'Let whomsoever sounds me think not of Glory, but only of Salvation.' I fear that you pretty fellows would only confound my quest with your covert lust for fame and notoriety, whereas I..." but at this point the Twins had ceased listening, exchanging disconsolate and wounded glances, shaking their heads slowly back and forth. Even compared with Shrina's typically unfair assessment of their behaviour and character, this was outrageous! "...so as you can see, only one who has the correctly selfless motivation for discovering the Horn of Valere could possibly succeed in this situation."

Shrina nodded, firmly. Seeing from their regretful and penitent expressions that her Warders had got the message, and conveniently ignoring the far-differing sensations that came through the bond, Shrina turned and made her way carefully into the narrow, gloomy mouth of the archway, the Twins loitering above. They looked at each other and snorted, with some disgust. Aebel stalked off to tend to the horses whilst Blaek angrily began to collect what little firewood was not too dampened by the perpetual mist that hung over the bog. They should be going down there with Shrina, not attending to such mundane tasks – it was not fair! But then, it rarely was, with one's Aes Sedai, as far as they could tell – perhaps that turncoat Machera had the right idea? Running-off to roam about with a bunch of flea-ridden wolves might even be preferable to this callous treatment!

Trying not to think of glory (at least not too much) and still holding the Source, Shrina channelled a sphere of pale light above her head as she made her cautious way down the uneven steps, descending into the gloom. The air smelled musty and there were a few too many spiderwebs getting caught in her hair for her liking – but a Hunter for the Horn had to be prepared to face any trial or challenge, even those with eight-legs... the denizens of this ancient ruin could not be any worse than Renn's accursed pet, at least!

As the staircase ended, a large, circular chamber opened up before her, beneath a high-vaulted ceiling choked with dead vines... and in the centre stood a man, with his back to her. Shrina cursed under her breath, preparing weaves of Air in case he should prove troublesome – what was he doing down here? Another Hunter? But at her approach, the tall figure made no movement and she soon saw why – not a man, but a statue of a man! Life-size, and cunningly, skilfully worked in time-blackened marble, wearing long, flowing robes of an antique design. The arms of the statue were slightly raised, and seemed to be holding something... Shrina circled cautiously, booted feet crunching on the remains of an ancient mosaic.

The statue wore a coronet atop curling locks of hair, shaped like a sinuous creature curled about the skull, the lion-maned head snarling above the tip of a serpentine tail at the centre of the smooth, marbled brow. The face suggested power and pride – a strong profile with deep-set eyes, a thin-lipped mouth set in a slightly sneering smile and, cradled in those carven hands... something definitely not made of marble, but of metal.

Shrina's eyes widened, her mouth fell open... surely it could not be this easy? But there it was, hidden for an Age and now... found! Shining dimly in the pale light, beautifully-wrought, curling in a double spiral, a slender mouthpiece tapering out to a wide bell... Her fingers hesitantly traced the script inlaid around it, the words that had been imprinted in her mind since the age of three, when her grandfather had first told her the story...

Tia mi aven Moridin isainde vadin.

There it was, outlined in the white light of saidar – the fabled Horn of Valere!


The Twins watched expectantly as Shrina emerged from the archway, besmirched with ancient dust and cobwebs – and smiling, triumphantly. They eyed each other doubtfully... surely not? Had the Horn really been down there?

"Are you ready?" Shrina demanded of her Warders, adding, "brace yourselves!" and thrust her hand under her cloak, where she was clearly concealing something large and bulbous beneath her arm. Triumphantly, Shrina revealed the Horn of Valere, displaying it to them. The Twins stared for a long moment, their mouths open. But when they finally spoke, instead of rapturous congratulations for her success, they… they quibbled!

"But Shrina... should not the Horn-"

"-of Valere be... golden?"

There was not a single story, out of a great many, that did not specify that the Horn of Valere was fashioned of this particular precious metal, and no other.

Shrina blinked, and re-examined her miraculous find. It had been very dark down there… the pale, white glow of saidar she had been using for illumination had made everything look rather washed-out. It had certainly seemed to reflect a yellowish gleam, but... in the cold light of day, she took her first really good look at her discovery and stared, pop-eyed. The Horn – it… was… made… of … brass! Brass! Just like the one the shifty Peddler had tried to sell her in Jehannah, at least until Aebel scraped off a section of the gold paint and Blaek scared him away with dire threats! No… no, it was not even brass, it was forged of that other, less shiny metal –

"It looks to be cast in bronze, Shrina?" speculated Aebel.

"It is cast in bronze, Shrina," confirmed Blaek.

"But... but..." Shrina managed to splutter... "it's bloody got 'the grave is no bar to my call' bloody engraved on it! Bloody, burning, flaming ashes!" Though come to think of it, the one in Jehannah had too, though several of the words had been spelt wrong... Shrina held the bronze horn up to the dim sunlight and glared at it speechlessly awhile. The twin Gaidin shifted, uncomfortably. They did not need the bond to sense that their Aes Sedai was far from happy.

Shrina shook her head in wordless denial. The artefact was clearly ancient and well-wrought – if only Ellyth were here to tell her if it was a ter'angreal or not! What if… what if the Horn of Valere was made out of bronze? Yes, that must be it, the legends were all… wrong! But the Twins made awkward, throat-clearing sounds.

"We do not think that is-"

"-the Horn of Valere, Shrina."

"Shut-up pretty-boys, or I'll spank you till next Sun Day!" Shrina snarled, then gave the dusty mouthpiece a quick wipe with the edge of her cloak and raised the bronzen Horn to her lips. There was only one sure way to tell, after all… so she blew it, as hard as she could!

"Wait, Shrina!" the Twins objected, but it was too late – the ungolden Horn had been sounded. A single, beautiful note echoed through the ancient ruins, a sound that was certainly not brassy... a sustained, shivering call, evocative and mystical. Immediately, a dense, white fog boiled from about their feet and up into the sky, eclipsing the mere mist of the boglands until they were surrounded on all sides by a thick dome of white blankness.

Shrina lowered the bronze horn and looked up, uncertainly. There seemed to be shapes above her, descending slowly. People. Drifting silently down through the fog as though they were leaves and not… people. Quite simply the strangest collection of people Shrina had ever seen. They alighted soundlessly all around, their feet touching the ground and settling… feet clad in oddly-pointed velvet slippers, elaborately-worked boots and intricate, gilded leather sandals, as well as feet that were just plain bare. Perhaps one-hundred of them in all, many wearing brightly-hued gowns and robes that swirled about them, but some in odder garb that she had never seen the like of... a short tunic and tight leggings here, a cloak that seemed to be made out of multi-coloured feathers there... one wearing a dark fur pelt, the head of some strange beast falling over his brow, numerous swirling tattoos covering his pale body... and another with very dark skin who, apart from a long red scarf wound into a round headpiece, wore only a bit of threadbare rag about his waist! There was even one fellow in a bright orange robe and spiked yellow mantle, the upper half of his face obscured by a large golden mask in the shape of a fiery sun, curvilinear rays radiating out from it, his jaw and chin painted gold to match.

The strange collection of folk settled to the ground on all sides, standing, watching. Eyes of all shades and hues were fixed on Shrina, eyes that seemed to hold great wisdom, ancient knowledge. There seemed to be a sense of... expectancy to them.

Not knowing what else to do, Aebel and Blaek drew their swords and stood with their backs to either side of Shrina as she stared in confusion, wondering if her impulsive action had been the right course to take – well, it was too late now! It usually was… She embraced the Source as a precaution, though the strangers did not seem dangerous, exactly… none of them were armed, certainly, which made the likelihood of their being the Heroes bound to the Horn of Valere somewhat distant.

So, the three Hunters stood, faced by a great throng, arrayed in a semi-circle against the backdrop of white fog. Though she could see no-one moving their lips, straining her ears Shrina thought that she could hear distant voices speaking quietly, amplified and given an echoing quality by the thick atmosphere, talking, though in no language she understood. Indeed, the voices seemed to speak in many different tongues, formal and clipped, fluid and melodic, all ancient and indiscernible. A soft babble of conversation and argument, declamation, dialogue and debate.

"Who are you people?" Shrina demanded, finally.

At which, the assemblage fell silent and a short, stout man stepped forward. Spreading his hands wide, palms open, bowing low. He straightened, observing Shrina and the Twins quietly, a small, gentle smile curving his lips. His skull was completely bereft of hair and he lacked eyebrows also, while his skin was the colour of butter, stretched taught over his plump frame. He wore a plain, saffron-coloured robe that left one fleshy shoulder bare, falling in folds down to his knees, as well as a simple, yet finely-worked pair of rope sandals, his chubby toes poking from the ends. A string of polished wooden beads were hung about his thick neck. His dark eyes were so narrow that they almost disappeared when he smiled, which he did with some constancy. In addition to wisdom and good-humour, he seemed to exude… patience. In fact, he appeared the most patient person who ever lived – and in company with Shrina, might well need to be!

"Who are we, Hornsounder?" the bald man responded, his voice oddly-accented with a sing-song quality to it, rising and falling with his words, "we are, in truth, humble servants of the Pattern."

He bowed again, as did the others arrayed behind him, each performing their obeisance in a different way, some of the women amongst them lifting their skirts slightly and curtsying.

"You're not a Hero!" Shrina declared, accusingly, not troubling to mask her disappointment, then gestured at the rest of the strange folk, standing against the white fog, "and they certainly don't look like Heroes either!" The non-Heroes turned to each other, the low mutter of voices resuming, as they considered her words.

The bald fellow held up a hand and the others fell respectfully silent. He shook his head, slowly. "Heroes, Hornsounder?" he exclaimed, with a note of wry apology, "oh dear-me no, of a certainty we are not Heroes..." He laughed a little at the idea, a soft, mellow sound that seemed to invite others to share in the humour, though Shrina was certainly in no mood for mirth! Some of those behind him smiled, while others looked a little confused. The robed man leant forward, raising a hand to shade his mouth, and whispered loudly, "that is the other Horn!"

"The other... how many bloody Horns are there, then?" The Twins winced at Shrina's tone, but the bald man did not take offence, simply blinked slowly.

"Why, if you mean the Horns which summon those bound to them whilst the Great Wheel turns, bound throughout the Ages... then there are three, Hornsounder."

Three? Ridiculous!

"Why do you keep calling me that?" Shrina demanded.

"It is your title, Hornsounder... it would be ill, I think, not so to address you." The bald man smiled beatifically, and touched one of his large, pendulous earlobes.

"I... that is to say... what..?" Shrina shook her head. "Who are you?" she enquired finally, for want of anything else to ask. The bald man's face became temporarily solemn.

"Myself? I am honoured that you ask, Hornsounder. I have had many names through the Ages, one for each life that I have lived, a great many names indeed, dear-me, yes! But I think, perhaps, that you might know me best as… Ghoetam."

Ghoetam's smile resumed. He had a very pleasant smile.

Shrina stared. "Ghoetam? Who sat beneath Avendesora for forty years to gain wisdom? And birds... the birds brought you food?"

They must have brought him quite a lot of food, by the looks of it...

Ghoetam chuckled, as though he knew her thoughts… perhaps he did?

"Birds! Little birds, bringing nuts and berries to me, each and every day, whilst I sought enlightenment... I have always liked that story!" He chuckled again, though Shrina noted that he neither confirmed nor denied the veracity of the tale.

One of the others in the throng stepped forward, a tall, gaunt fellow swathed in brown, hooded robes the colour and texture of bark, his eyes so dark-green as to be almost obsidian, craggy face obscured by a long, white beard. He grinned.

"Thou art lucky, good Ghoetam, that the birds of the air didst not bring thee worms!" he called out, in a rough, burring voice. A few of the others laughed softly at the idea. Ghoetam turned slightly, a finger raised in benevolent admonition.

"Ah, but worms would be forbidden to me, Derwuaad," he responded, "for are we not all companions on the Path of Light? People, birds, worms – it is marvellous to behold!" And he laughed again.

Shrina stared at Ghoetam in some confusion – he thinks people are the same as worms? well, I suppose that I have met one or two who were good candidates for wormhood! but even so...

Shrina sighed, releasing the Source, then noticed that the Twins had their blades out... she had been somewhat distracted. "Put up your swords, boys," she hissed, "everyone knows Ghoetam is a man of peace! You don't want to offend him! Or his… his friends." The Twins eyed each other as they sheathed their swords – they were not the offensive ones!

Ghoetam smiled. "Peace? That I am!" He pressed his palms together flat before his chest, addressing the Twins. "A blessing upon those who defend the Hornsounder."

Aebel and Blaek glanced at each other as they sheathed their blades. "Thank-you, Ghoetam," they muttered, self-consciously.

Ghoetam and the bearded fellow, Derwuaad, were joined by another of the strange folk, as a tall, majestic-looking woman draped in a shimmering grey gown swayed gracefully forward. Her jet-black hair was coiled in intricate braids, piled atop her head, adding to her height. Her eyes shone with a strange, silvery light. She raised an elegant hand as she spoke, her voice somewhat nasal.

"I believe that the Hornsounder specified Heroes," she stated, "so perhaps deeds rather than words are her requirement?"

"She is due a sore disappointment, in that wise," muttered Derwuaad.

"But High-Counsel," responded Ghoetam, turning to the tall, silver-eyed woman, "surely if-"

"Excuse me!" Shrina interjected, and Ghoetam turned back to her. She raised the bronze Horn, waving it for emphasis. "Sorry to interrupt, but… if this is not the Horn of Valere…" – she scowled, she had not wished to entertain the possibility, even now – "then which Horn is it?"

Ghoetam gestured at the bronze instrument with great respect. "It is the Horn of T'oph," he intoned. He spoke the first syllable of this name very strangely.

"The Horn of what?"

"T'oph." Ghoetam pronounced the word more distinctly this time, but it seemed… unpronounceable!

"Th… th'poth?"

"No, Hornsounder; T'oph."

"Th… thp… I can't possibly say that word! If indeed, it is a word!"

"Oh, it is, Hornsounder. Decidedly. More of a name than a word, the name of a place… a place that has not existed in a very long time, in an Age or more…"

"I don't care about that! I can pronounce 'Valere.' I know how to say that!"

"Technically, Hornsounder, it is spoken as Va'le're…" Ghoetam shrugged apologetically.

"Bah!" The Twins flinched, but Ghoetam did not seem to mind. His placid features assumed a note of query.

"Hornsounder… would I be right in thinking that the sounding of the Horn of Valere was your true intent?" A small smile creased Ghoetam's lips, and he took care to pronounce it the way Shrina did this time.

"Yes!" Shrina confirmed, "of course it was!" She waved at the rest of the throng, from whence again arose a low mutter of speech as they considered this. "So who are all of you people, then? Apart from being humble servants of the Pattern, I mean."

Ghoetam looked over his bare shoulder, then turned back, smiling.

"We are all of us Sages, bound to the Horn of T'oph..."

"Sages?" spluttered Shrina. Well, that was what her stupid clue had stated, after all. Curse Roth – this was all his fault!

Ghoetam sighed. "Forgive me, Hornsounder, but it might take some time to properly introduce all of us. I am something of a spokesman for my fellows... they may speak, as needed." Shrina shook her head. It was all rather a lot to take in…

"You are all Sages?" Ghoetam nodded. "What do you do, then?"

"We advise, Hornsounder. There are those who have been good enough to call us wise... we provide suggestion, as opposed to action. That is our function."

"Do you mean that, your role is to talk, rather than do something useful as the Heroes of the Horn of Valere might, like… like attacking Shayol Ghul, for example!" The Twins groaned softly… Ghoetam did not seem to be offended, though. He shook his head, sadly.

"I fear that I would not be certain how to go about... attacking that place, or indeed anywhere else, for that matter. But perhaps we may not prove entirely useless. How may we advise you, Hornsounder?"

"I know exactly how you can bloody advise me!" Shrina took a deep breath. "Tell me where the Horn of Valere is! Advise me as to its location right now!"

Some of the Sages frowned at this, a few shook their heads in wordless disapproval, but Ghoetam merely smiled his patient smile and pointed a plump finger in a westerly direction. Shrina listened to his words intently.

So, the fall of dusk saw Shrina galloping A'vron from the outskirts of the Paerish Swar, one of her saddlebags bulging oddly and bouncing with the motion of her running gelding, the Twins digging their heels into Mosk and Merk's heaving flanks, hastening in her incautious wake.

Shrina's face wore a fixed expression of grim determination… she had absolutely no idea who this 'High-Lord Turak' was, or what he thought he was doing living in the old Governor's residence in the town of her birth, but that would not stop her – if he got in-between Shrinalla Tolamani and her rightful Horn, then he would find himself kissing the wrong end of a lightning bolt! Shadowspawn or not… though these 'Shornshans' certainly sounded like creatures of the Shadow, by all accounts… perhaps they were the 'Ravens' mentioned in the Prophecy? Well, if not, she could always leave this foreign Lord the Horn of Th- Thp- the other Horn, in recompense! But whatever the outcome, one thing was for sure… she was going home to Falme, to visit grandpa and (more importantly) to fulfil the Miereallen Prophecy. She was a gambler, was she not? She would stake her life on it, then!


"There is a Whitecloak coming, Shrina."

Aebel's voice held wariness, but not that much, since there only seemed to be the one Whitecloak. Nonetheless, his blade slid from its scabbard at the same time as Blaek's and they all reined-in, watching cautiously. In the week since they had left the Paerish Swar, they had seen no sign of the Children of the Light, but presumed evidence in a small, isolated village, of the grim handiwork of their Questioners.

The Whitecloak rode his horse rather oddly, slumped forward against its neck, the barren flat terrain of Almoth Plain a backdrop to his steady approach. His mount, a tall, roan gelding, came to an abrupt stop before them and its rider promptly slumped to one side and fell to the ground in a boneless heap, laying in an untidy sprawl atop his once-white cloak, which looked extremely grimy. The front of his filthy tabard was stained with dark blood, apparently his own. He was young, with a single golden knot of rank beneath the sunburst on the breast of his cloak.

Shrina sighed and dismounted, her Warders following-suit. There was an abandoned barn nearby, so the Twins dragged the wounded Whitecloak over to it – not being particularly careful about it either – and dumped him inside, while Shrina held the horses. The Twins looked enquiringly at her as they came back. Should they cut the Whitecloak's horse loose or take it with them as a pack-animal? He would not need it for much longer, the state he was in… the beast snorted and tossed its head as Blaek reached for its bridle, then trotted over to the barn of its own accord. A fine-looking blade hung sheathed from a saddle-strap.

"I suppose that I should take a look at his injuries…" Shrina did not sound particularly enthusiastic. The Twins glanced at each other, shaking their heads slightly. In addition to having a great deal of respect for her Warder, they both liked Ellythia Sedai very much, they thought that she was every bit as courageous as their own Aes Sedai – and less fool-hardy with it, though they kept this to themselves, for Shrina had told them emphatically, fairly early on in their relationship, that she only liked to be told 'nice' things about herself! But the Lady Desiama had fine manners and charm – which, though they loved her very much and would die for her without hesitation, they occasionally felt were a little lacking in Shrina.

As far as the twin Warders were concerned, when it came to their Aes Sedai's best friend, it was not her fault the kind of family she had been born into… but that did not mean that they had a great liking for anyone else who came from an old House of Amadicia, especially when they wore a white cloak emblazoned with the golden sunburst. As the dying young man they had just dragged into the barn clearly was – he had groaned something about 'Heroes and monsters…' that they had not really understood, and his refined, clipped accents had been pure Amador. He had sounded an awful lot like Ellythia Sedai, in fact…

Shrina shrugged. "He might at least be able to tell us something of Falme, since he was riding from that direction," she pointed-out.

Leaving the Twins to follow-on with the horses, Shrina strode into the dilapidated barn. The Whitecloak lay on a pile of straw, his horse nuzzling at his shoulder. His eyes were now open, staring up at the sagging roof, his blood-flecked lips moving... Shrina strained her ears, examining the fellow as she did so. He was younger than she had thought, she realised, with blonde hair and blue eyes... perhaps from Andor?

"Come to... to fight for the Light..." the Whitecloak muttered deliriously, then groaned softly. No, definitely not an Andoran accent...

Shrina knelt beside him, pushing his horse's nose away, careful not to get her green woollen gown too close to his blood-stained garments. Should she Heal him? He probably would not thank her for doing so, would be as likely to stick his dagger in her rather than give gratitude... With this in mind, Shrina whisked the weapon in question from the young Whitecloak's belt and passed it to Blaek, who had appeared to hover protectively behind her, a hand on his hilt. Aebel led the horses into the barn. It would be best not to stay on the road, there might be more Whitecloaks in the vicinity, or former soldiers turned brigand, as Tarabon and Arad Doman appeared to be fighting yet another of their pointless wars over Almoth... or battling against the invaders, it was hard to say. They had encountered scattered groups of refugees babbling wild stories, often over their shoulders whilst fleeing in the opposite direction.

The young Child-officer's eyes stared, unseeing. "I saw him..." he moaned, "in the sky over Falme... he duels with the Dark One... may the Light preserve us all..."

"Who did you see?" asked Shrina. Clearly, the fellow was close to death, and raving. But if he had come from Falme, he might have news of her home-town?

"The one foretold! He is reborn... he… Heron… Heron wading in the Rushes… father told me never to… never use that, except in practice…" The young Whitecloak's eyes fluttered shut as he lapsed into unconsciousness, his wounded chest rising and falling raggedly. He coughed weakly, blood flecking his lips. Shrina stared a moment, then growling angry imprecations under her breath, embraced the Source, seized the fellow's head between her hands and cast a Healing weave. The young man's body arched, before subsiding back into the straw. His eyes slowly reopened, looking clearer and more aware than they had. He examined his saviour closely, then the Twins who stood behind her.

Shrina wiped at her brow, feeling an ache rising behind her eyes. It had taken all of her strength to mend the injuries the Whitecloak had taken… she hoped it was worth it. Aebel and Blaek were scowling darkly. They did not like Whitecloaks – in fact, their various dislikes comprised a rather long list, but the Children of Light were certainly close to the top of it, just below Trollocs and Tairens.

Shrina noted the young Whitecloak's eyes on her. "What was that you said?" she demanded, "about Falme?" Enemy or not, he might have valuable information about what lay ahead of them…

The Whitecloak did not answer, simply took an experimental breath, moving his arms a little. "You Healed me?" he enquired, wonderingly. Shrina nodded, curtly. Oddly, he seemed neither angry nor suspicious, more… curious.

"Yes, I Healed you... with the One Power," Shrina snapped, pointedly.

"So... that is what Healing is like, yes?" the Whitecloak commented. "A strange sensation… I always imagined it would be more… painful. Not pleasant, certainly, but not entirely unpleasant either… rather like taking a cold plunge into a..." he shook his head, letting his head fall back.

The Twins were not pleased. If the fellow wished for a painful experience, they would be happy to oblige…

"Why did you Heal him, Shrina?"

"Wolves are bad enough, Shrina, but Whitecloaks…"

Shrina waved for her Warders to be silent, still eyeing the Whitecloak closely.

"Falme?" she prompted.

"You are… Aes Sedai..." The Whitecloak glanced at the Twins. "Those two... who look so alike... did they call you 'Shrina?' "

"Shrinalla happens to be my name, though you may feel free to append 'Sedai' to it, young man. Now answer the burning question, Whitecloak! What happened in Falme?"

"Falme? Yes, Falme... we charged the invaders... I heard a strange sound... their captive witches threw fire into our ranks, blasted the stones beneath our feet with the Power... the Legion... destroyed! I lay there with Muadh's dead horse atop me, bits of Muadh too, I believe… poor fellow, though I never much cared for him… lay waiting for the end... and then... I saw them! They threw the invaders back into the Ocean, whilst in the sky above... The Dragon! He fought with the Dark One!"

The Whitecloak's eyes were wide, held a fanatical light.

Shrina scowled. "You are clearly still delirious. No-doubt as a result of your wounds, which have just been Healed by a Tar Valon witch, I might add!"

The Whitecloak smiled, infuriatingly. "Oh, that does not concern me, overmuch... Shrinalla Sedai…" He spoke her name slowly, as though testing the way it sounded on his lips. "I thank you for giving my life back to me, by the way..." He eyed the Twins levelly. "If your Warders wish to try and take it, perhaps one of them would be so good as to pass me my sword first… I should prefer to die with it in my hand, the men of my House rarely relinquish it whilst still alive, yes?"

"You are unusual for a Whitecloak, aren't you?" Shrina muttered.

"Mmm? Well, I suppose I am a little unusual… for a… White… Cloak." Shrina frowned. That interrogative sound, with the head tilted forward slightly, eyebrows raised – it seemed an oddly familiar mannerism. Come to think of it, there was something very familiar about this Whitecloak, not the way he looked – but… something. The way he spoke..? How could that be? "After all," the young fellow added, "there are not many in the Legions who have a sister who is, as you put it, a Tar Valon witch!" The Whitecloak blinked as he was pointed at, accusingly.

"Now I know who you must be! You are Ellyth's brother – Thadeus!"

The young Whitecloak inclined his head gravely, managing to make the motion elegant despite being sprawled on his back in filthy straw.

"Guilty! Though it is actually Thaeus… I did have an ancestor named Thadeus, however, a wicked man, by all accounts… he came to a bad end." Thaeus sat upright, gingerly. "I would not have cared to be Healed by most Aes Sedai, you understand… but my sister has often spoken of you in her letters, over the years," he explained, "I am sure that if you were a Darkfriend, she would have mentioned it by now..."

"I thought that the Children regarded all Aes Sedai as Darkfriends?"

"No, Shrinalla Sedai, it is just the stupid ones who do! Let us say… 'most?' "

While Shrina stared, the young fellow turned his head slightly – he was a confident one, and no mistake! – and nodded to her Warders.

"And you two must be Aebel and… Blaek..? I am sorry that I do not know which is which! Ellyth has spoken of you also, yes?" The fair-haired fellow, who did not physically resemble Ellyth in the slightest, turned his dark blue eyes back to her and held out his gauntleted hand politely to the Aes Sedai who had just saved his life.

"Thaeus, of House Desiama." Shrina had taken his hand before she could think of an adequate reason not to and the Twins glowered as he pressed it briefly to his lips, which were pleasingly soft (if sticky with blood) she could not help but notice. "I am pleased to meet you, Shrinalla Sedai, primarily perhaps, because had I not, I would be dead, yes? But even so, it is always nice to be able to put a face to a name. And I would like to thank you for having been so good a friend to my sister these last years, I feared that she would have none in the Tower."

Shrina retrieved her hand and knelt back on her booted heels.

"Yes, well… I was an only-child, and an orphan, to-boot! Ellyth is the sister I never had, growing-up." Shrina squinted at Thaeus. "You sound a lot like her, but there isn't much in the way of family resemblance, I must say!"

"I favour our mother… she hailed from Andor." Thaeus glanced at the horses, then the Twins again, who were looking uncertain, though they had not sheathed their blades. "Though I did not really need to hear your name, since there cannot be many Aes Sedai of the White Tower with a sword hung over their pommel and matching Warders!"

The Twins growled… they were not shoes! They did not match, they were individuals, who just happened to look like each other… and liked the things each other did, Shrina for example… most of the time. Shrina stared for a moment… then threw back her head and laughed! Her ringing, melodic laughter held a note of genuine amusement. The Twins scowled. Whose side was she on?

"Matching Warders? I like that! But do not poke fun at my sword for I know how to use it… I'll go and get it and poke you back!" Shrina frowned at the Twins. "Stop scowling at him, my handsome lads! Are you planning on stabbing Ellyth's younger brother? She wouldn't like that, since he was always her favourite – she would set your feet afire and send you dancing all the way back to Mayene!" The Whitecloak seemed to find this an amusing image also, and chuckled softly. The Twins made grumbling noises under their breaths, but put-up their blades.

"My sister is not with you, then?" Thaeus enquired.

"No…" Shrina sighed. It seemed that everyone she met expected them to be journeying together, it simply reinforced her feelings of guilt that they were not! She wished she could have convinced Ellyth to come Hunting with her, though she never would have – but her friend would have better known how to deal with those infuriating Sages! "Ellyth has her Cause, which takes her elsewhere…"

Thaeus blinked, a shadow of concern passing over his features for a moment, then shook his head with resignation.

"That she does… and you, I would presume, your Hunt." Thaeus rose unsteadily, Shrina helping him. He swayed a little, rubbing at his brow.

"You presume correctly… Thaeus." Well, she couldn't go on calling him 'Whitecloak' after all. He had rather beautiful eyes, she considered… Ellyth had always said her brother was a handsome fellow, but to see him in the flesh, despite his being somewhat soiled and malodorous from his recent ordeals… Shrina scowled. This was hardly the time or place for such admiration!

Thaeus glanced uncertainly at her, while the Twins hovered by the horses, frowning. "With regard to that, Shrinalla Sedai… I regret to inform you…" He paused, looking uncertain of himself for the first time.

Shrina frowned. "What?" But her heart sunk. In a way, she already knew.

"I owe you my life, and to be the bearer of ill-tidings is poor recompense, but… that which you seek… it is found. The Horn of Valere has been sounded!"

"The Legion will advance at a trot."

Responding to the Lord-Captain's order, Lord-Lieutenant Thaeus of House Desiama drew his sword and tapped his heels into the flanks of Rahien, his tall roan gelding. His company fell-in to either side, beginning their fatal advance. The echoes of that strange note he had heard still seemed to hang in the air, as did the thick streamers of white mist that had arisen from nowhere. Though he was well aware that he was riding to his death, Thaeus felt no fear, as such… for some days now, he had been in a place that put him beyond that. In a way, falling in battle would almost come as a relief, he considered, a reprieve from the other manner of doom that surely awaited him. He would not particularly welcome it, however. He had always loved life, after all.

When the ground ahead and then around them began to erupt, blooms of destruction emptying saddles, tearing holes in the ranks of the Legion, Thaeus responded by digging in his spurs. Best to get it over with…

"The Legion will charge!" Lord-Captain Bornhald's final order was all-but drowned-out by the screams of the dying, the thunderous explosions that spelled their destruction. Thaeus had only been with the Legion since Amador, leader of the reinforcements… he had seen more of war in the last five weeks than in the five years preceding it. He had seen things which had sickened him. And, as one of the few survivors of a brief, vicious skirmish with these invaders, he knew exactly what to expect from this final, desperate charge. Death.

Up ahead through the strange white fog, Thaeus briefly glimpsed the invaders waiting beneath a banner that depicted a golden hawk clutching bolts of lightning in its claws, their brightly-coloured, overlapping plates of armour catching the light… and more of those women, connected each to each by the dull, silvery leashes. Thaeus did not think that they were Aes Sedai, as others of the Legion had darkly muttered, but had kept this to himself. Clearly, they were something worse. When the ground exploded beneath Rahien's hooves and he was thrown, a savage pain in his chest, he lay awhile, his legs pinned by something, staring up at the thick white fog that occluded the sun. He imagined he could see riders up there, descending. He was seeing visions! So this was death… interesting. Not what he had expected… not at all. The pain in his chest was a distant thing, his mind seeming to drift from his body.

Thaeus sighed, feeling a distant regret that he would never see his family again. But at least he had done his best, he always had, even when duty had put him in company with those he detested. Child Byar, for example… he wished that fellow were here to die alongside him! For he must be dead, or why else would he be seeing dead Heroes?

Artur Hawkwing, his sword Justice shining in his hand, too bright to look upon. Gaidal Cane, a sword in each hand… silver-bowed Birgitte… golden-tongued Paedrig. And there – mounted on a snow-white charger, his burnished armour gleaming mirror-bright, his tall helm topped with a crest depicting a dove in flight – it could only be Mikel of the Pure Heart, who out of all the Heroes bound to the Horn, had always been his favourite! Mikel glanced down at him incuriously as he cantered past, seeming to nod in acknowledgement before lowering his visor, setting his long lance and charging the invaders. Thaeus coughed blood, and grinned… if this was death, then it wasn't so bad, better than a Gleeman's tale, even!

More hooves galloping by… a curly-haired, wide-shouldered youth, with yellow eyes – the Darkfriend the others had spoken of, who talked to wolves? Surely not? The young man held a banner, tied to a sapling… it depicted a long, sinuous creature with a lion's mane, five golden claws on each foot. Thaeus blinked. He knew whose banner that was… and beside him, a tall, skinny youth, guiding his horse with his knees, something golden and curled in his hands… he blew it and again, that strange, shivering note sounded across the battlefield.

Thaeus fell back, not noticing as Rahien returned to his side, nuzzling at his shoulder… for up above, emblazoned in the sky… he began to laugh, feeling slightly unhinged, as he watched the tall young man with the red hair face the Dark One… duelling back and forth, first one ascendant, then the other, and finally… Heron Wading in the Rushes… Sheathing the Sword! Lord Guye had always warned him to never use that sword-form in a duel… perhaps the Dragon's father had neglected to do so? Thaeus watched the outcome of the battle in the sky, then, despite the pain, pushed himself slowly to his feet, leaning heavily on his sword, then scrambled up and onto his horse. The Legion might be dead, but he was still alive, for a short time at least. If he was going to die, then he would do so somewhere else, he had decided.

Shrina scowled darkly at the news. And promptly went to her saddlebags. The Twins objected;

"No, Shrina, please do not do it again!"

"At least think about your questions first!"

Shrina scowled. "I've only got one question for those Sages this time," she snapped, "and I do not need to think about what it is!"

Thaeus of House Desiama watched in bemusement as his sister's peculiar-yet-pretty friend pulled a large bronze hunting horn out of a saddle-bag and proceeded, despite her Warder's protests, to blow it. A quivering, bronzen note sounded all around… feeling light-headed, Thaeus sat down hard on a hay bale, staring as a thick, white fog arose on all sides. Just as it had before, at Falme.

"There is another Horn?" Thaeus gasped, with some shock, but the others ignored him. How many were there?


"Back so soon, Hornsounder?" Ghoetam's features were as placid as ever, but even without eyebrows, he managed to look… quizzical.

"Yes! Is that a problem?" Shrina was in no mood to deal with obstreperous Sages! She waved the Horn of T'oph at them, to remind them who was in charge, and gave them all a glare, for good measure. She then fixed an accusing gaze on Ghoetam. "I have a bone to pick with you, Ghoetam! You said that the Horn was in the possession of this Lord Tulak, or whatever he was called, and that he had no intention of sounding it!"

Ghoetam spread his hands in a regretful gesture. "It was… and truly, he did not, Hornsounder," he responded, in tones of profound regret. "Unfortunately, following his violent demise, the Horn of Valere was taken up by one Matrim Cauthon of the Two Rivers, who sounded it several days ago…" Ghoetam shook his head, sadly.

"Matrim Cauthon? Who in the Black Pit is he?"

"Ta'veren," muttered Derwuaad, with a shrug.

"An interesting young man, by all accounts," observed the tall, majestic woman, who Ghoetam had referred to as 'High-Counsel.' "One who might dice with the Dark One – and win!"

Shrina scowled. The Gambler! "Tell me what happened," she sighed, resignedly.

Ghoetam blinked. "Tell you, Hornsounder?" He smiled. "I am not one of those bound to the Silver Horn! I have no aptitude for the telling of tales, the singing of songs!" Shrina took a deep breath, but Ghoetam forestalled her, raising his hands in placation. "I can do better than merely telling – I can show you!" He gestured at the wall of white fog that surrounded them and its surface shimmered, mounted figures out of Legend appearing, displayed upon it.

The Heroes of the Horn; the Hawkwing himself… Rogosh Eagle-eye… Calian the Chooser and her brother, Shivan the Hunter… Amaresu, with her Sword of the Sun… a hundred others, Heroes of Legend, all answering the call of… Shrina stared at the tall, skinny fellow. And what he held. It shone in his hands, golden and beautiful… and by rights, it should have been hers!

Thaeus gasped. "That is what I saw!"

The Heroes of the Horn charged the invaders, glorious and resplendent.

Ghoetam sighed, gustily. "Impressive, are they not? Oh, to be a Hero of Legend, and not a mere Sage! Few are the stories told of our exploits!" And he chuckled, shaking his head wryly, Derwuaad and some of the other Sages smiling.

The elegant, silvery-eyed woman in the grey robe took issue with this. "Speak for yourself, Ghoetam!" the High-Counsel drawled, though in good-humoured tones.

"Forgive me, Anla!" responded Ghoetam, "the Thousand Tales – I was forgetting!" Thaeus and the Twins stared at her in shock, and she smiled at them.

"I see that they have heard of me!" remarked Anla the Wise Counsellor.

Shrina did not notice. She scowled up at Matrim Cauthon. The grinning fellow looked rather gaunt and pale – doubtless the result of a dissolute lifestyle, too many late nights spent carousing… and gambling! He was clearly one of those young men who considered himself the Creator's gift to women – a winning smile, a silver tongue, a confident step on the dance floor… and she took an instant dislike to him! This might not have been the case under other circumstances, but the curling, golden Horn in his hands made her more than a little prejudicial.

When no more demands for information were forthcoming from the Hornsounder, the images faded, as did the white fog itself, the Sages dissipating with it, and the four of them were left alone in the barn once more.

"Can we go back to Tar Valon now, Shrina?" the Twins enquired, though without much hope.

Shrina shook her head curtly. "We ride for Falme," she told them, coldly. And without further ado, led A'vron out of the barn, mounting gracefully and digging in her heels, leaving her Warders little option but to mount and trot after her.

They paused a moment before doing so, addressing Thaeus.

"Well, Whitecloak?" enquired Aebel. Blaek elbowed him, and frowned. Aebel frowned back. "Lord Thaeus," he qualified, grudgingly.

Thaeus was stroking the nose of Rahien, he glanced up at them. "You can compromise on 'Lord Whitecloak' if you like," he said, with a grin. The Twins did not grin back. Thaeus sighed. "Well what?" he enquired, raising an eyebrow – just like his sister always did!

"Are you coming with us?" Blaek asked, expanding on his brother's query.

"Back to Falme," Aebel added, unnecessarily.

From up ahead came the unmistakeable sound of a bolt of lightning sizzling through the air, though the sky was cloudless. The Twins winced.

Thaeus considered a moment. "It is as good a place to take ship from as any," he said, "there may even be a few craft left in the harbour…" He grinned again. "If Birgitte of the Silver-bow has not destroyed them all!"

The Twins eyed him, uncertainly. Was he making a joke? More lightning from up ahead, the rending sound of a tree branch snapping and falling with a crash. The twin Warders flinched, clearly itching to hurry after their Aes Sedai.

Thaeus shook his head, wondering about the lightning, then shrugged. "Besides, I owe your Mistress my life… father always taught me to repay like with like, so perhaps an extra sword at her back would be only proper, the Plain and Toman Head being unusually dangerous places at the moment." Thaeus waved them on. "I will catch up to you," he called, "there is something I must attend to first."

The Twins nodded. They could not help but respect the fellow a little, despite his cloak – there did not seem to be much he could not take in his stride.

"You are much like your sister," Aebel stated, Blaek nodding. Thaeus blinked.

"We mean that as a compliment," Blaek explained.

Thaeus watched as the Twins spurred away, racing after Shrina. Then, he removed his once-white cloak, and held it up, looking at it for a long moment. No longer pure and unblemished. Stained. Much as the once-honourable motives of the Children of the Light had been besmirched, by the actions of the hated Questioners, the over-zealous behaviour of men such as Byar, the political manoeuvrings of the Lord-Captain Commander. He let the cloak fall, spread in the straw at his feet, staring down at it.

"He breaks all bonds, he unbinds all ties," Thaeus whispered, softly. He gazed upon the cloak for a long moment… wondering. Would it happen again? He had always been lucky, fortunate where other men were not… but in recent weeks, strange things had happened, that could no longer be attributed to mere luck. The invader who had drawn a bow on him in the skirmish, an easy shot, too close to miss, too far for Thaeus to cut him down – yet the man's bowstring had snapped. He still recalled the look on the archer's face as he closed the distance, striking with his blade - not fear. Surprise. And a week later, the sudden fever that had struck him down, the camp's hedge-doctor baffled by his quick recovery from near death... and at Falme, where he had been more concerned for Rahien's safety than his own – the roan gelding had come through the destruction without a scratch.

Thaeus took a long, shuddering breath, his mind seeming to lift from his body, floating in a calm and tranquil void… and slowly, wisps of smoke arose from the soiled white cloak, followed by licks of orange fire. Abruptly, the garment burst aflame. Thaeus sighed. He had not been sure… but there it was. The golden sunburst charred and blackened in the sudden heat. In a few instants, dirty white cloth and gold embroidery were reduced to grey ash.

Thaeus smiled grimly. It had almost come as a relief, to know that what he had seen at Falme had been real – he had feared that the madness had come upon him already. It would, soon enough, he supposed. His mother had studied at Tar Valon as a girl, before returning to her family estates in Andor, deemed too weak in the Power to attain the Shawl, though she had always worn her Great Serpent Ring with pride, at least until she met Lord Guye. She had died giving birth to him, but her legacy lived on. First his sister… now him. Thaeus mounted Rahien, setting out after the others. For a dead man, it seemed as good a course of action to take as any. In the cold stillness of the barn, three bleak words seemed to hang in the air in his wake.

"The family curse."


* here ends Book I of He Sleeps Under the Hill *

GB