Mandarb's hooves sent clouds of dust into the air as he galloped down the
road. If Lan did not know his destination, his speed did nothing to
suggest it. His mind ran along side the horse, faster and faster, away
from the Two Rivers, away from Nynaeve.
Last night had been the longest of his life. He had left the women in Elayne's chambers to plan for the morning. None had wanted the task of delivering the news to Egwene, but in the end, it was decided that it should be Elayne that would travel to Tel'aran'rhiod to meet with the Amyrlin. While Nynaeve had been a close friend to all, she was also Aes Sedai, a position that would be treated with respect. Horses had been readied for travel at sunrise and there were supplies to be gathered.
Lan sat in Queen Tylin's private garden. Surprisingly, it had been Mat who had seen to this arrangement. His clothes were only damp now, but the night's breeze chilled him to the bone.
Cold. He wanted to drink it in. He wanted to become a part of it. He wanted to be as cold as Nynaeve was, to let his breathing and heartbeat slow. He wanted to just lie down beside her and let sleep take him. His Mashiara. Only now she really was lost.
They had traveled to the Two Rivers at first light, a group like had never before been seen in those parts. Egwene and Elayne rode side by side. Egwene's hair fell in dark waves down her shoulders over her seven-striped stole. Elayne wore a dress fitting of royalty, her strawberry hair in rings beneath the rose coronet of the daughter heir.
There had been five Aes Sedai in the palace at the time, and they rode behind the Amyrlin. Each wore a shall fringed with the color of their Ajah and the flame of Tar Valon embroidered on the back.
Aviendha looked every bit the Wise Woman. She too had a shall looped loosely over her shoulders covering her white blouse. She rode stiffly and a bit cautious if not badly. Both she and Birgette scanned the surroundings continually for signs of attack.
Mat had been unable to convince Tylin the necessity of his return home without her, so she rode at his side complete with the full guard necessary to escort a queen. He slouched in his saddle. Those around him saw this as a sign of grief, not of the embarrassment he felt. With the news of the Queen's plans, the Red Arms had also seen need to provide an escort, Olver in tow.
Even Thom had insisted on coming. He said he felt an obligation to see the girl home. His eyes had misted over as he spoke but he covered it quickly with a snuff of his long white moustache. Now he rode with his gleeman's cloak flapping in the breeze, his flute and harp securely attached to the saddle.
Lan rode at the point, for once his eyes stared straight ahead at his destination. He had no fear of attack. Fear was not the right word. He had no care of an attack. Nynaeve was lost. That was all that mattered.
As anxious as both Mat and Egwene were to see home again, the column broke free of the road before the town came into view. They had to see to Nynaeve first. Egwene had spent the night thinking of the proper way to carry this out. Nynaeve's mother had died while she was still a child, and then her father several years later. She would have to tell the Women's Circle of course. This should be done before she went to see her family. She still hadn't decided what to do about the Village Council. Technically, finding a Wisdom was the Women's Circle's business, but this was Nynaeve.
If they had ridden within sight of Edmond's Field they would have seen the changes. The trees were now cleared for several miles around the edge. A ring of pikes fenced in the village, where lookouts were posted on rooftops. The strangest thing they would have seen was a banner of a red and white, a wolf guarding the village green. They would have seen these things and known of the danger, but they broke free of the road and headed south.
Egwene had chosen the spot. They wound their way into a small clearing just south of the village. She had come here often when she had seen a different path for her future. As an apprentice to the wisdom she had come to pick a variety of wild flowers that proved key ingredients for poultices and potions.
The grass was brown now this late in the season, but come springtime it would be lush and green, dotted with flowers of many shades. Tall oaks had left a blanket of leaves on the ground, and a fine layer of mist filled the air that the midmorning sun had yet to bake off. The sound of running water could be heard not too far off, and several birds sang to one another in the trees.
The ceremony was short. Thom played his harp. Egwene felt it was her duty to say something, but her throat was tight, and when she tried to speak her voice cracked and the tears she had been holding back began to fall.
Lan watched as several Red Arms began shoveling dirt into the grave. He could smell the dark and musty aroma of the earth. He breathed it in. He imagined it covering him. He could feel the comforting weight of it on his body, the smell of it filling his nostrils, his throat. He imagined the darkness blanketing his sight with each shovel full of dirt. And the cold. He could feel the cold settle into his skin, his bones, his soul. The cold sank in as he was buried beside her. His Mashiara. His lost love. His Nynaeve.
Now he rode hard and fast, away from the Two Rivers. Even now he could feel the pull of his bond, willing him to return to the Aes Sedai's camp and Myrelle. He could feel her, that tiny bundle of emotions in the back of his head. She was frightened. She would be pacing now, wringing her hands, her brows knotted in concentration.
She was tugging at the bond, as you would do a leash on some errant hound. She was pulling him, urging him to return; yet she could feel the distance between them grow. So now she paced, and he rode on.
Moghedien. How do you hunt the Forsaken? How do you find someone who does not exist? He would see her dead or die trying. He closed his eyes.
His blade slid smoothly into her stomach, and he thrust until her skin met the hilt. He could feel her blood on his hands, warm and wet. And then he twisted the blade, tearing all it touched. Moghedien let out a grunt and a strange gurgling sound left her lips. She dropped to her knees, hands grasping at the blade that pinned her like some strange insect. She stared up into his cold blue eyes. Fear, and the knowledge of her own death filled hers.
Lan had replayed this scene over and over in his mind a hundred times. Sometimes Moghedien would plead for her life. Sometimes she would whimper and cry like a wounded animal. He would smile at these images, a cold heartless smile. A dead smile.
These images came unbidden, not just of Moghedien. Sometimes he would see Nynaeve, her body cold and lifeless. Her hair was sticking up in places where it had come free of her braid. Her lips were blue and slightly parted. She was so pale and fragile.
There were others as well: Nynaeve when she was still the village Wisdom, Nynaeve beside the fire in the blight, Nynaeve in his arms, kissing him passionately. These images made his heart ache until he thought it would burst. So he forced himself to think of Moghedien, of how her blood would feel as it washed over his hands, how she would look up with him with those eyes filled with fear and the knowledge of her own death.
He rode on that way until sunset, stopping only to rest Mandarb. He was forced to set up camp in the growing twilight, or risk injury to the horse. Dinner was cold meat and dry bread, eaten only out of necessity. When sleep came it was fitful, and full of dreams that made him wake in a cold sweat. And so he rose early, as the first hint of gray began to creep into the night sky.
He had ridden this path before in a time that felt a lifetime ago. They had fled into the night, he and Moiraine, in the company of a gleeman, a young girl who was to become the Amyrlin Seat, and three boys, one of whom was the Dragon Reborn. But at that time, a lifetime a go, they were merely four scared travelers, no more than children.
He followed the path that would take him to Taren Ferry, and eventually to Baerlon. She had found them there, at the Stag and Lion. Not much more than a girl herself, she had followed the path he had been so careful to hide. Possessed with a determination he had not seen the likes of before, she had matched the Aes Sedai stare for stare.
The road would then lead to Camelyn, where he had seen the healer in her. Fierce as a warrior she had been, but now gentle too.
If followed long enough, the road would wind north and west into the Borderlands. The Blight was where he had first known that he loved her. Where he had caused her pain. Each tear she had shed had made him curse his soul to the shadow.
So many memories on this path, too many. He jerked the reigns hard to the right, pulling Mandarb off the road. He dug his heels into the horse's flanks, urging him to a gallop. Faster and faster he rode, but how do you outrun a ghost.
He forced himself to focus. He still had no idea how to find Moghedien. He had tried not to think about it until now, but he could run the horse to death, and still be no closer to finding her.
He had faced the Forsaken three times now. Once, at the Eye of the World, Aginor, and Balthamel had been confronted and destroyed. Again, at the Heart of the Stone they had battled and defeated Bel'lal and triumphed. They had faced the Forsaken one other time. Lanfear and Moraine had both been lost then.
They had never before tried to seek out the Forsaken. They had always been the hunted in this game of cat and mouse. He needed to find Moghedien. He needed to make her pay.
Three days past in much the same way. The countryside rushed by in a blur. He replayed each encounter with the Forsaken in his mind. He searched through every detail. He needed to remember every action taken, every word spoken.
Aginor and Balthamel in the Blight. Bel'lal in Tear. Lanfear in Cairhien. Always the Forsaken had found them. How? They had always known where they were. Always they had been there to meet them.
Lan pulled reign so hard that Mandarb reached back and tried to take a bite out of Lan's heels once they had skidded to a stop. The answer was so simple. It had been staring him in the face for all of this time. The Forsaken had always found them. Ta'veren. They had the ability to shape the pattern around them. He had always been with at least one, if not all of the boys when the Forsaken had struck.
He would use the pull of the ta'vern to find Moghedien. But not just any ta'vern. The Dragon Reborn was the greatest of these. Lan had seen the strange occurrences that had followed him. He had seen chance bend itself for him. To find Moghedien, he would need Rand. He started off again at a gallop.
Last night had been the longest of his life. He had left the women in Elayne's chambers to plan for the morning. None had wanted the task of delivering the news to Egwene, but in the end, it was decided that it should be Elayne that would travel to Tel'aran'rhiod to meet with the Amyrlin. While Nynaeve had been a close friend to all, she was also Aes Sedai, a position that would be treated with respect. Horses had been readied for travel at sunrise and there were supplies to be gathered.
Lan sat in Queen Tylin's private garden. Surprisingly, it had been Mat who had seen to this arrangement. His clothes were only damp now, but the night's breeze chilled him to the bone.
Cold. He wanted to drink it in. He wanted to become a part of it. He wanted to be as cold as Nynaeve was, to let his breathing and heartbeat slow. He wanted to just lie down beside her and let sleep take him. His Mashiara. Only now she really was lost.
They had traveled to the Two Rivers at first light, a group like had never before been seen in those parts. Egwene and Elayne rode side by side. Egwene's hair fell in dark waves down her shoulders over her seven-striped stole. Elayne wore a dress fitting of royalty, her strawberry hair in rings beneath the rose coronet of the daughter heir.
There had been five Aes Sedai in the palace at the time, and they rode behind the Amyrlin. Each wore a shall fringed with the color of their Ajah and the flame of Tar Valon embroidered on the back.
Aviendha looked every bit the Wise Woman. She too had a shall looped loosely over her shoulders covering her white blouse. She rode stiffly and a bit cautious if not badly. Both she and Birgette scanned the surroundings continually for signs of attack.
Mat had been unable to convince Tylin the necessity of his return home without her, so she rode at his side complete with the full guard necessary to escort a queen. He slouched in his saddle. Those around him saw this as a sign of grief, not of the embarrassment he felt. With the news of the Queen's plans, the Red Arms had also seen need to provide an escort, Olver in tow.
Even Thom had insisted on coming. He said he felt an obligation to see the girl home. His eyes had misted over as he spoke but he covered it quickly with a snuff of his long white moustache. Now he rode with his gleeman's cloak flapping in the breeze, his flute and harp securely attached to the saddle.
Lan rode at the point, for once his eyes stared straight ahead at his destination. He had no fear of attack. Fear was not the right word. He had no care of an attack. Nynaeve was lost. That was all that mattered.
As anxious as both Mat and Egwene were to see home again, the column broke free of the road before the town came into view. They had to see to Nynaeve first. Egwene had spent the night thinking of the proper way to carry this out. Nynaeve's mother had died while she was still a child, and then her father several years later. She would have to tell the Women's Circle of course. This should be done before she went to see her family. She still hadn't decided what to do about the Village Council. Technically, finding a Wisdom was the Women's Circle's business, but this was Nynaeve.
If they had ridden within sight of Edmond's Field they would have seen the changes. The trees were now cleared for several miles around the edge. A ring of pikes fenced in the village, where lookouts were posted on rooftops. The strangest thing they would have seen was a banner of a red and white, a wolf guarding the village green. They would have seen these things and known of the danger, but they broke free of the road and headed south.
Egwene had chosen the spot. They wound their way into a small clearing just south of the village. She had come here often when she had seen a different path for her future. As an apprentice to the wisdom she had come to pick a variety of wild flowers that proved key ingredients for poultices and potions.
The grass was brown now this late in the season, but come springtime it would be lush and green, dotted with flowers of many shades. Tall oaks had left a blanket of leaves on the ground, and a fine layer of mist filled the air that the midmorning sun had yet to bake off. The sound of running water could be heard not too far off, and several birds sang to one another in the trees.
The ceremony was short. Thom played his harp. Egwene felt it was her duty to say something, but her throat was tight, and when she tried to speak her voice cracked and the tears she had been holding back began to fall.
Lan watched as several Red Arms began shoveling dirt into the grave. He could smell the dark and musty aroma of the earth. He breathed it in. He imagined it covering him. He could feel the comforting weight of it on his body, the smell of it filling his nostrils, his throat. He imagined the darkness blanketing his sight with each shovel full of dirt. And the cold. He could feel the cold settle into his skin, his bones, his soul. The cold sank in as he was buried beside her. His Mashiara. His lost love. His Nynaeve.
Now he rode hard and fast, away from the Two Rivers. Even now he could feel the pull of his bond, willing him to return to the Aes Sedai's camp and Myrelle. He could feel her, that tiny bundle of emotions in the back of his head. She was frightened. She would be pacing now, wringing her hands, her brows knotted in concentration.
She was tugging at the bond, as you would do a leash on some errant hound. She was pulling him, urging him to return; yet she could feel the distance between them grow. So now she paced, and he rode on.
Moghedien. How do you hunt the Forsaken? How do you find someone who does not exist? He would see her dead or die trying. He closed his eyes.
His blade slid smoothly into her stomach, and he thrust until her skin met the hilt. He could feel her blood on his hands, warm and wet. And then he twisted the blade, tearing all it touched. Moghedien let out a grunt and a strange gurgling sound left her lips. She dropped to her knees, hands grasping at the blade that pinned her like some strange insect. She stared up into his cold blue eyes. Fear, and the knowledge of her own death filled hers.
Lan had replayed this scene over and over in his mind a hundred times. Sometimes Moghedien would plead for her life. Sometimes she would whimper and cry like a wounded animal. He would smile at these images, a cold heartless smile. A dead smile.
These images came unbidden, not just of Moghedien. Sometimes he would see Nynaeve, her body cold and lifeless. Her hair was sticking up in places where it had come free of her braid. Her lips were blue and slightly parted. She was so pale and fragile.
There were others as well: Nynaeve when she was still the village Wisdom, Nynaeve beside the fire in the blight, Nynaeve in his arms, kissing him passionately. These images made his heart ache until he thought it would burst. So he forced himself to think of Moghedien, of how her blood would feel as it washed over his hands, how she would look up with him with those eyes filled with fear and the knowledge of her own death.
He rode on that way until sunset, stopping only to rest Mandarb. He was forced to set up camp in the growing twilight, or risk injury to the horse. Dinner was cold meat and dry bread, eaten only out of necessity. When sleep came it was fitful, and full of dreams that made him wake in a cold sweat. And so he rose early, as the first hint of gray began to creep into the night sky.
He had ridden this path before in a time that felt a lifetime ago. They had fled into the night, he and Moiraine, in the company of a gleeman, a young girl who was to become the Amyrlin Seat, and three boys, one of whom was the Dragon Reborn. But at that time, a lifetime a go, they were merely four scared travelers, no more than children.
He followed the path that would take him to Taren Ferry, and eventually to Baerlon. She had found them there, at the Stag and Lion. Not much more than a girl herself, she had followed the path he had been so careful to hide. Possessed with a determination he had not seen the likes of before, she had matched the Aes Sedai stare for stare.
The road would then lead to Camelyn, where he had seen the healer in her. Fierce as a warrior she had been, but now gentle too.
If followed long enough, the road would wind north and west into the Borderlands. The Blight was where he had first known that he loved her. Where he had caused her pain. Each tear she had shed had made him curse his soul to the shadow.
So many memories on this path, too many. He jerked the reigns hard to the right, pulling Mandarb off the road. He dug his heels into the horse's flanks, urging him to a gallop. Faster and faster he rode, but how do you outrun a ghost.
He forced himself to focus. He still had no idea how to find Moghedien. He had tried not to think about it until now, but he could run the horse to death, and still be no closer to finding her.
He had faced the Forsaken three times now. Once, at the Eye of the World, Aginor, and Balthamel had been confronted and destroyed. Again, at the Heart of the Stone they had battled and defeated Bel'lal and triumphed. They had faced the Forsaken one other time. Lanfear and Moraine had both been lost then.
They had never before tried to seek out the Forsaken. They had always been the hunted in this game of cat and mouse. He needed to find Moghedien. He needed to make her pay.
Three days past in much the same way. The countryside rushed by in a blur. He replayed each encounter with the Forsaken in his mind. He searched through every detail. He needed to remember every action taken, every word spoken.
Aginor and Balthamel in the Blight. Bel'lal in Tear. Lanfear in Cairhien. Always the Forsaken had found them. How? They had always known where they were. Always they had been there to meet them.
Lan pulled reign so hard that Mandarb reached back and tried to take a bite out of Lan's heels once they had skidded to a stop. The answer was so simple. It had been staring him in the face for all of this time. The Forsaken had always found them. Ta'veren. They had the ability to shape the pattern around them. He had always been with at least one, if not all of the boys when the Forsaken had struck.
He would use the pull of the ta'vern to find Moghedien. But not just any ta'vern. The Dragon Reborn was the greatest of these. Lan had seen the strange occurrences that had followed him. He had seen chance bend itself for him. To find Moghedien, he would need Rand. He started off again at a gallop.