Robert Jordan - The Wheel of Time 02 - The Great Hunt

About the Author:

Robert Jordan

Note! Robert Jordan is a pseudonym. His real name is James Oliver Rigney Jr!!!

A lifelong resident of Charleston, South Carolina, Jordan was born in 1948. With a brother 12 years his

senior, Robert began his education at an early age, and his future interest in fantastic literature was

inevitable. "When my parents couldn't get a baby-sitter, they'd get my brother," he recalls. "He would

read to me, not kids' books, but things he was interested in, like Jules Verne, H.G. Wells and Mark

Twain, so I was exposed to a lot of great fiction."

Jordan served two tours of duty in Vietnam (1968-70), earning the Distinguished Flying Cross and the

Bronze star. The Vietnamese twice awarded him with their Cross of Gallantry. After Vietnam, he entered

the Citadel, the military college of South Carolina, where he received a degree in physics. In retrospect,

Robert Jordan feels that physics is not such an unusual background for a fantasy writer. "You can't study

quantum mechanics without a feel for fantasy," he recently reflected, "Schrodinger's Cat alone will kill any

logical person dead." After attaining his degree, he was employed by the Navy as a nuclear engineer. He

was hospitalized for an injury which gave him a great deal of time to catch up on his reading. Jordan

quickly ran out of satisfactory material, and in exasperation, thought he could probably write as well as

the authors he had been reading. The Wheel of Time is the happy result.

Robert Jordan has now been writing for 13 years, and he has been married for ten. He and his wife live

in the Old Historic District of Charleston, in a house dating from 1797. A history buff, he is particularly

interested in Charleston's past, and in military history. An outdoors man, Jordan enjoys hunting fishing

and sailing, and the indoor sports of poker, chess and pool, and collecting pipes. .

About this book . . .

The Great Hunt

Book Two of the Wheel of Time

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For centuries traveling gleemen have told the tales of The Great Hunt of the Horn. So many tales about

each of the Hunters, and so many Hunters to tell of. . .

Now the Horn itself is found: the Horn of Valere long thought only legend, the Horn which will raise the

dead heroes of the ages.

And it is stolen.

Rand al'Thor, the farmboy who is thought to be the Dragon Reborn—the leader long prophesied who

will save the world, but in the saving destroy it; the savior who will run mad and kill all those dearest to

him—refuses to accept his fate. Even facing the dreaded Amrylin, the leader of the Aes Sedai who may

intend to "gentle" him, Rand fiercely denies his Power. He will have none of it—no matter what

Myrddraal and Trollocs, Aes Sedai and dreams stand in his way.

But with the Horn another object is stolen: a dagger from the terrible ruins of Shadar Logoth. Unless the

dagger is recovered, Mat Cauthon's life will end. And Mat is Rand's oldest friend. Unwillingly, distrusting

everyone, Rand is drawn into the Hunt.

As Egwene, the innkeeper's lovely daughter, and Nynaeve, the young village Wisdom, set out for Tar

Valon's White Tower, seat of the Aes Sedai, Rand and the ogier Loial, accompanied by Perrin Aybara,

the Wolfbrother who was once a blacksmith, track the Horn and dagger through Shienar—and enter a

world stranger than time itself. But Rand cannot escape his Power. The Dark One is stirring in Shayol

Ghul. The Dark One wants the Horn. The Dark One wants Rand.

Chapter 1

The Flame of Tar Valon

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass leaving memories that become legend, then fade to

myth, and are long forgot when that Age comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age

yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Dhoom. The wind was not the beginning.

There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.

Born among black, knife-edged peaks, where death roamed the high passes yet hid from things still

more dangerous, the wind blew south across the tangled forest of the Great Blight, a forest tainted and

twisted by the touch of the Dark One. The sickly sweet smell of corruption faded by the time the wind

crossed that invisible line men called the border of Shienar, where spring flowers hung thick in the trees.

It should have been summer by now, but spring had been late in coming, and the land had run wild to

catch up. New-come pale green bristled on every bush, and red new growth tipped every tree branch.

The wind rippled farmers' fields like verdant ponds, solid with crops that almost seemed to creep upward

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visibly.

The smell of death was all but gone long before the wind reached the stone-walled town of Fal Dara on

its hills, and whipped around a tower of the fortress in the very center of the town, a tower atop which

two men seemed to dance. Hard-walled and high, Fal Dara, both keep and town, never taken, never

betrayed. The wind moaned across wood-shingled rooftops, around tall stone chimneys and taller

towers, moaned like a dirge.

Stripped to the waist, Rand al'Thor shivered at the wind's cold caress, and his fingers flexed on the long

hilt of the practice sword he held. The hot sun had slicked his chest, and his dark, reddish hair clung to

his head in a sweat-curled mat. A faint odor in the swirl of air made his nose twitch, but he did not

connect the smell with the image of an old grave fresh-opened that flashed through his head. He was

barely aware of odor or image at all; he strove to keep his mind empty, but the other man sharing the

tower top with him kept intruding on the emptiness. Ten paces across, the tower top was, encircled by a

chest-high, crenellated wall. Big enough and more not to feel crowded, except when shared with a

Warder.

Young as he was, Rand was taller than most men, but Lan stood just as tall and more heavily muscled, if

not quite so broad in the shoulders. A narrow band of braided leather held the Warder's long hair back

from his face, a face that seemed made from stony planes and angles, a face unlined as if to belie the tinge

of gray at his temples. Despite the heat and exertion, only a light coat of sweat glistened on his chest and

arms. Rand searched Lan's icy blue eyes, hunting for some hint of what the other man intended. The

Warder never seemed to blink, and the practice sword in his hands moved surely and smoothly as he

flowed from one stance to another.

With a bundle of thin, loosely bound staves in place of a blade, the practice sword would make a loud

clack when it struck anything, and leave a welt where it hit flesh. Rand knew all too well. Three thin red

lines stung on his ribs, and another burned his shoulder. It had taken all his efforts not to wear more

decorations. Lan bore not a mark.

As he had been taught, Rand formed a single flame in his mind and concentrated on it, tried to feed all

emotion and passion into it, to form a void within himself, with even thought outside. Emptiness came. As

was too often the case of late it was not a perfect emptiness; the flame still remained, or some sense of

light sending ripples through the stillness. But it was enough, barely. The cool peace of the void crept

over him, and he was one with the practice sword, with the smooth stones under his boots, even with

Lan. All was one, and he moved without thought in a rhythm that matched the Warder's step for step and

move for move.

The wind rose again, bringing the ringing of bells from the town.Somebody's still celebrating that

spring has finally come . The extraneous thought fluttered through the void on waves of light, disturbing

the emptiness, and as if the Warder could read Rand's mind, the practice sword whirled in Lan's hands.

For a long minute the swiftclack-clack-clack of bundled lathes meeting filled the tower top. Rand made

no effort to reach the other man; it was all he could do to keep the Warder's strikes from reaching him.

Turning Lan's blows at the last possible moment, he was forced back. Lan's expression never changed;

the practice sword seemed alive in his hands. Abruptly the Warder's swinging slash changed in

mid-motion to a thrust. Caught by surprise, Rand stepped back, already wincing with the blow he knew

he could not stop this time.

The wind howled across the tower . . . and trapped him. It was as if the air had suddenly jelled, holding

him in a cocoon. Pushing him forward. Time and motion slowed; horrified, he watched Lan's practice

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sword drift toward his chest. There was nothing slow or soft about the impact. His ribs creaked as if he

had been struck with a hammer. He grunted, but the wind would not allow him to give way; it still carried

him forward, instead. The lathes of Lan's practice sword flexed and bent — ever so slowly, it seemed to

Rand — then shattered, sharp points oozing toward his heart, jagged lathes piercing his skin. Pain lanced

through his body; his whole skin felt slashed. He burned as though the sun had flared to crisp him like

bacon in a pan.

With a shout, he threw himself stumbling back, falling against the stone wall. Hand trembling, he touched

the gashes on his chest and raised bloody fingers before his gray eyes in disbelief.

"And what was that fool move, sheepherder?" Lan grated. "You know better by now, or should unless

you have forgotten everything I've tried to teach you. How badly are you — ?" He cut off as Rand

looked up at him.

"The wind." Rand's mouth was dry. "It — it pushed me! It . . . It was solid as a wall!"

The Warder stared at him in silence, then offered a hand. Rand took it and let himself be pulled to his

feet.

"Strange things can happen this close to the Blight," Lan said finally, but for all the flatness of the words

he sounded troubled. That in itself was strange. Warders, those half-legendary warriors who served the

Aes Sedai, seldom showed emotion, and Lan showed little even for a Warder. He tossed the shattered

lathe sword aside and leaned against the wall where their real swords lay, out of the way of their practice.

"Not like that," Rand protested. He joined the other man, squatting with his back against the stone. That

way the top of the wall was higher than his head, protection of a kind from the wind. If it was a wind. No

wind had ever felt . . . solid . . . like that. "Peace! Maybe not evenin the Blight."

"For someone like you .. . ." Lan shrugged as if that explained everything. "How long before you leave,

sheepherder? A month since you said you were going, and I thought you'd be three weeks gone by

now."

Rand stared up at him in surprise.He's acting like nothing happened! Frowning, he set down the

practice sword and lifted his real sword to his knees, fingers running along the long, leather-wrapped hilt

inset with a bronze heron. Another bronze heron stood on the scabbard, and yet another was scribed on

the sheathed blade. It was still a little strange to him that he had a sword. Any sword, much less one with

a blademaster's mark. He was a farmer from the Two Rivers, so far away, now. Maybe far away

forever, now. He was a shepherd like his father —I wasa shepherd. What am I now? — and his father

had given him a heron-marked sword.Tam ismy father, no matter what anybody says . He wished his

own thoughts did not sound as if he was trying to convince himself.

Again Lan seemed to read his mind. "In the Borderlands, sheepherder, if a man has the raising of a child,

that child is his, and none can say different."

Scowling, Rand ignored the Warder's words. It was no one's business but his own. "I want to learn how

to use this. I need to." It had caused him problems, carrying a heron-marked sword. Not everybody

knew what it meant, or even noticed it, but even so a heron-mark blade, especially in the hands of a

youth barely old enough to be called a man, still attracted the wrong sort of attention. "I've been able to

bluff sometimes, when I could not run, and I've been lucky, besides. But what happens when I can't run,

and I can't bluff, and my luck runs out?"

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"You could sell it," Lan said carefully. "That blade is rare even among heron-mark swords. It would

fetch a pretty price."

"No!" It was an idea he had thought of more than once, but he rejected it now for the same reason he

always had, and more fiercely for coming from someone else.As long as I keep it, I have the right to

call Tam father. He gave it to me, and it gives me the right . "I thought any heron-mark blade was

rare."

Lan gave him a sidelong look. "Tam didn't tell you, then? He must know. Perhaps he didn't believe.

Many do not." He snatched up his own sword, almost the twin of Rand's except for the lack of herons,

and whipped off the scabbard. The blade, slightly curved and single-edged, glittered silvery in the

sunlight.

It was the sword of the kings of Malkier. Lan did not speak of it — he did not even like others to speak

of it — but al'Lan Mandragoran was Lord of the Seven Towers, Lord of the Lakes, and uncrowned

King of Malkier. The Seven Towers were broken now, and the Thousand Lakes the lair of unclean

things. Malkier lay swallowed by the Great Blight, and of all the Malkieri lords, only one still lived.

Some said Lan had become a Warder, bonding himself to an Aes Sedai, so he could seek death in the

Blight and join the rest of his blood. Rand had indeed seen Lan put himself in harm's way seemingly

without regard for his own safety, but far beyond his own life and safety he held those of Moiraine, the

Aes Sedai who held his bond. Rand did not think Lan would truly seek death while Moiraine lived.

Turning his blade in the light, Lan spoke. "In the War of the Shadow, the One Power itself was used as a

weapon, and weapons were made with the One Power. Some weapons used the One Power, things that

could destroy an entire city at one blow, lay waste to the land for leagues. Just as well those were all lost

in the Breaking; just as well no one remembers the making of them. But there were simpler weapons,

too, for those who would face Myrddraal, and worse things the Dreadlords made, blade to blade.

"With the One Power, Aes Sedai drew iron and other metals from the earth, smelted them, formed and

wrought them. All with the Power. Swords, and other weapons, too. Many that survived the Breaking of

the World were destroyed by men who feared and hated Aes Sedai work, and others have vanished

with the years. Few remain, and few men truly know what they are. There have been legends of them,

swollen tales of swords that seemed to have a power of their own. You've heard the gleemen's tales. The

reality is enough. Blades that will not shatter or break, and never lose their edge. I've seen men

sharpening them — playing at sharpening, as it were — but only because they could not believe a sword

did not need it after use. All they ever did was wear away their oilstones.

"Those weapons the Aes Sedai made, and there will never be others. When it was done, war and Age

ended together, with the world shattered, with more dead unburied than there were alive and those alive

fleeing, trying to find some place, any place, of safety, with every second woman weeping because she'd

never see husband or sons again; when it was done, the Aes Sedai who still lived swore they would

never again make a weapon for one man to kill another. Every Aes Sedai swore it, and every woman of

them since has kept that oath. Even the Red Ajah, and they care little what happens to any male.

"One of those swords, a plain soldier's sword" — with a faint grimace, almost sad, if the Warder could

be said to show emotion, he slid the blade back into its sheath — "became something more. On the other

hand, those made for lord-generals, with blades so hard no bladesmith could mark them, yet marked

already with a heron, those blades became sought after."

Rand's hands jerked away from the sword propped on his knees. It toppled, and instinctively he

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grabbed it before it hit the floorstones. "You mean Aes Sedai made this? I thought you were talking

aboutyour sword."

"Not all heron-mark blades are Aes Sedai work. Few men handle a sword with the skill to be named

blademaster and be awarded a heron-mark blade, but even so, not enough Aes Sedai blades remain for

more than a handful to have one. Most come from master bladesmiths; the finest steel men can make, yet

still wrought by a man's hands. But that one, sheepherder . . . that one could tell a tale of three thousand

years and more."

"I can't get away from them," Rand said, "can I?" He balanced the sword in front of him on scabbard

point; it looked no different than it had before he knew. "Aes Sedai work."But Tam gave it to me. My

fathergave it to me . He refused to think of how a Two Rivers shepherd had come by a heron-mark

blade. There were dangerous currents in such thoughts, deeps he did not want to explore.

"Do you really want to get away, sheepherder? I'll ask again. Why are you not gone, then? The sword?

In five years I could make you worthy of it, make you a blademaster. You have quick wrists, good

balance, and you don't make the same mistake twice. But I do not have five years to give over to

teaching you, and you do not have five years for learning. You have not even one year, and you know it.

As it is, you will not stab yourself in the foot. You hold yourself as if the sword belongs at your waist,

sheepherder, and most village bullies will sense it. But you've had that much almost since the day you put

it on. So why are you still here?"

"Mat and Perrin are still here," Rand mumbled. "I don't want to leave before they do. I won't ever — I

might not see them again for — for years, maybe." His head dropped back against the wall. "Blood and

ashes! At least they just think I'm crazy not to go home with them. Half the time Nynaeve looks at me

like I'm six years old and I've skinned my knee, and she's going to make it better; the other half she looks

like she's seeing a stranger. One she might offend if she looks too closely, at that. She's a Wisdom, and

besides that, I don't think she's ever been afraid of anything, but she . . ." He shook his head. "And

Egwene. Burn me! She knows why I have to go, but every time I mention it she looks at me, and I knot

up inside and . . ." He closed his eyes, pressing the sword hilt against his forehead as if he could press

what he was thinking out of existence. "I wish . . . I wish . . ."

"You wish everything could be the way it was, sheepherder? Or you wish the girl would go with you

instead of to Tar Valon? You think she'll give up becoming an Aes Sedai for a life of wandering? With

you? If you put it to her in the right way, she might. Love is an odd thing." Lan sounded suddenly weary.

"As odd a thing as there is."

"No." It was what he had been wishing, that she would want to go with him. He opened his eyes and

squared his back and made his voice firm. "No, I wouldn't let her come with me if she did ask." He could

not do that to her.But Light, wouldn't it he sweet, just for a minute, if she said she wanted to? "She

gets muley stubborn if she thinks I'm trying to tell her what to do, but I can still protect her from that." He

wished she were back home in Emond's Field, but all hope of that had gone the day Moiraine came to

the Two Rivers. "Even if it means she does become an Aes Sedai!" The corner of his eye caught Lan's

raised eyebrow, and he flushed.

"And that is all the reason? You want to spend as much time as you can with your friends from home

before they go? That's why you're dragging your feet? You know what's sniffing at your heels."

Rand surged angrily to his feet. "All right, it's Moiraine! I wouldn't even be here if not for her, and she

won't as much as talk to me."

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"You'd be dead if not for her, sheepherder," Lan said flatly, but Rand rushed on.

"She tells me . . . tells me horrible things about myself" — his knuckles whitened on the sword.That I'm

going to go mad and die! — "and then suddenly she won't even say two words to me. She acts as if I'm

no different than the day she found me, and that smells wrong, too."

"You want her to treat you like what you are?"

"No! I don't mean that. Burn me, I don't know what I mean half the time. I don't want that, and I'm

scared of the other. Now she's gone off somewhere, vanished . . ."

"I told you she needs to be alone sometimes. It isn't for you, or anyone else, to question her actions."

". . . without telling anybody where she was going, or when she'd be back, or even if she would be back.

She has to be able to tell me something to help me, Lan. Something. She has to. If she ever comes back."

"She's back, sheepherder. Last night. But I think she has told you all she can. Be satisfied. You've

learned what you can from her." With a shake of his head, Lan's voice became brisk. "You certainly

aren't learning anything standing there. Time for a little balance work. Go through Parting the Silk,

beginning from Heron Wading in the Rushes. Remember that that Heron form is only for practicing

balance. Anywhere but doing forms, it leaves you wide open; you can strike home from it, if you wait for

the other man to move first, but you'll never avoid his blade."

"Shehas to be able to tell me something, Lan. That wind. It wasn't natural, and I don't care how close to

the Blight we are."

"Heron Wading in the Rushes, sheepherder. And mind your wrists."

From the south came a faint peal of trumpets, a rolling fanfare slowly growing louder, accompanied by

the steadythrum-thrum-THRUM-thrum of drums. For a moment Rand and Lan stared at each other,

then the drums drew them to the tower wall to stare southward.

The city stood on high hills, the land around the city walls cleared to ankle height for a full mile in all

directions, and the keep covered the highest hill of all. From the tower top, Rand had a clear view across

the chimneys and roofs to the forest. The drummers appeared first from the trees, a dozen of them,

drums lifting as they stepped to their own beat, mallets whirling. Next came trumpeters, long, shining

horns raised, still calling the flourish. At that distance Rand could not make out the huge, square banner

whipping in the wind behind them. Lan grunted, though; the Warder had eyes like a snow eagle.

Rand glanced at him, but the Warder said nothing, his eyes intent on the column emerging from the

forest. Mounted men in armor rode out of the trees, and women on horseback, too. Then a palanquin

borne by horses, one before and one behind, its curtains down, and more men on horseback. Ranks of

men afoot, pikes rising above them like a bristle of long thorns, and archers with their bows held slanted

across their chests, all stepping to the drums. The trumpets cried again. Like a singing serpent the column

wound its way toward Fal Dara.

The wind flapped the banner, taller than a man, straight out to one side. As big as it was, it was close

enough now for Rand to see clearly. A swirl of colors that meant nothing to him, but at the heart of it, a

shape like a pure white teardrop. His breath froze in his throat. The Flame of Tar Valon.

"Ingtar's with them." Lan sounded as if his thoughts were elsewhere. "Back from his hunting at last. Been

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gone long enough. I wonder if he had any luck?"

"Aes Sedai," Rand whispered when he finally could. All those women out there . . . Moiraine was Aes

Sedai, yes, but he had traveled with her, and if he did not entirely trust her, at least he knew her. Or

thought he did. But she was only one. So many Aes Sedai together, and coming like this, was something

else again. He cleared his throat; when he spoke, his voice grated. "Why so many, Lan? Why any at all?

And with drums and trumpets and a banner to announce them."

Aes Sedai were respected in Shienar, at least by most people, and the rest respectfully feared them, but

Rand had been in places where it was different, where there was only the fear, and often hate. Where he

had grown up, some men, at least, spoke of "Tar Valon witches" as they would speak of the Dark One.

He tried to count the women, but they kept no ranks or order, moving their horses around to converse

with one another or with whoever was in the palanquin. Goose bumps covered him. He had traveled with

Moiraine, and met another Aes Sedai, and he had begun to think of himself as worldly. Nobody ever left

the Two Rivers, or almost nobody, but he had. He had seen things no one back in the Two Rivers had

ever laid eyes on, done things they had only dreamed of, if they had dreamed so far. He had seen a

queen and met the Daughter-Heir of Andor, faced a Myrddraal and traveled the Ways, and none of it

had prepared him for this moment.

"Why so many?" he whispered again.

"The Amyrlin Seat's come in person." Lan looked at him, his expression as hard and unreadable as a

rock. "Your lessons are done, sheepherder." He paused then, and Rand almost thought there was

sympathy on his face. That could not be, of course. "Better for you if you were a week gone." With that

the Warder snatched up his shirt and disappeared down the ladder into the tower.

Rand worked his mouth, trying to get a little moisture. He stared at the column approaching Fal Dara as

if it really were a snake, a deadly viper. The drums and trumpets sang, loud in his ears. The Amyrlin Seat,

who ordered the Aes Sedai.She's come because of me . He could think of no other reason.

They knew things, had knowledge that could help him, he was sure. And he did not dare ask any of

them. He was afraid they had come to gentle him.And afraid they haven't, too , he admitted reluctantly.

Light, I don't know which scares me more .

"I didn't mean to channel the Power," he whispered. "It was an accident! Light, I don't want anything to

do with it. I swear I'll never touch it again! I swear it!"

With a start, he realized that the Aes Sedai party was entering the city gates. The wind swirled up

fiercely, chilling his sweat like droplets of ice, making the trumpets sound like sly laughter; he thought he

could smell an opened grave, strong in the air.My grave, if I keep standing here .

Grabbing his shirt, he scrambled down the ladder and began to run.

Chapter 2

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The Welcome

The halls of Fal Dara keep, their smooth stone walls sparsely decorated with elegantly simple tapestries

and painted screens, bustled with news of the Amyrlin Seat's imminent arrival. Servants in

black-and-gold darted about their tasks, running to prepare rooms or carry orders to the kitchens,

moaning that they could not have everything ready for so great a personage when they had had no

warning. Dark-eyed warriors, their heads shaven except for a topknot bound with a leather cord, did not

run, but haste filled their steps and their faces shone with an excitement normally reserved for battle.

Some of the men spoke as Rand hurried past.

"Ah, there you are, Rand al'Thor. Peace favor your sword. On your way to clean up? You'll want to

look your best when you are presented to the Amyrlin Seat. She'll want to see you and your two friends

as well as the women, you can count on it."

He trotted toward the broad stairs, wide enough for twenty men abreast, that led up to the men's

apartments.

"The Amyrlin herself, come with no more warning than a pack peddler. Must be because of Moiraine

Sedai and you southerners, eh? What else?"

The wide, iron-bound doors of the men's apartments stood open, and half jammed with top-knotted

men buzzing with the Amyrlin's arrival.

"Ho, southlander! The Amyrlin's here. Come for you and your friends, I suppose. Peace, what honor for

you! She seldom leaves Tar Valon, and she's never come to the Borderlands in my memory."

He fended them all off with a few words. He had to wash. Find a clean shirt. No time to talk. They

thought they understood, and let him go. Not a one of them knew a thing except that he and his friends

traveled in company with an Aes Sedai, that two of his friends were women who were going to Tar

Valon to train as Aes Sedai, but their words stabbed at him as if they knew everything.She's come for

me .

He dashed through the men's apartments, darted into the room he shared with Mat and Perrin . . . and

froze, his jaw dropping in astonishment. The room was filled with women wearing the black-and-gold, all

working purposefully. It was not a big room, and its windows, a pair of tall, narrow arrowslits looking

down on one of the inner courtyards, did nothing to make it seem larger. Three beds on black-and-white

tiled platforms, each with a chest at the foot, three plain chairs, a washstand by the door, and a tall, wide

wardrobe crowded the room. The eight women in there seemed like fish in a basket.

The women barely glanced at him, and went right on clearing his clothes — and Mat's and Perrin's —

out of the wardrobe and replacing them with new. Anything found in the pockets was put atop the chests,

and the old clothes were bundled up carelessly, like rags.

"What are you doing?" he demanded when he caught his breath. "Those are my clothes!" One of the

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women sniffed and poked a finger through a tear in the sleeve of his only coat, then added it to the pile on

the floor.

Another, a black-haired woman with a big ring of keys at her waist, set her eyes on him. That was

Elansu,shatayan of the keep. He thought of the sharp-faced woman as a housekeeper, though the house

she kept was a fortress and scores of servants did her bidding. "Moiraine Sedai said all of your clothes

are worn out, and the Lady Amalisa had new made to give you. Just keep out of our way," she added

firmly, "and we will be done the quicker." There were few men theshatayan could not bully into doing as

she wished — some said even Lord Agelmar — and she plainly did not expect any trouble with one man

young enough to be her son.

He swallowed what he had been going to say; there was no time for arguing. The Amyrlin Seat could be

sending for him at any minute. "Honor to the Lady Amalisa for her gift," he managed, after the Shienaran

way, "and honor to you, Elansu Shatayan. Please, convey my words to the Lady Amalisa, and tell her I

said, heart and soul to serve." That ought to satisfy the Shienaran love of ceremony for both women. "But

now if you'll pardon me, I want to change."

"That is well," Elansu said comfortably. "Moiraine Sedai said to remove all the old. Every stitch.

Smallclothes, too." Several of the women eyed him sideways. None of them made a move toward the

door.

He bit his cheek to keep from laughing hysterically. Many ways were different in Shienar from what he

was used to, and there were some to which he would never become accustomed if he lived forever. He

had taken to bathing in the small hours of the morning, when the big, tiled pools were empty of people,

after he discovered that at any other time a woman might well climb into the water with him. It could be a

scullion or the Lady Amalisa, Lord Agelmar's sister herself — the baths were one place in Shienar where

there was no rank — expecting him to scrub her back in return for the same favor, asking him why his

face was so red, had he taken too much sun? They had soon learned to recognize his blushes for what

they were, and not a woman in the keep but seemed fascinated by them.

I might be dead or worse in another hour, and they're waiting to see me blush!He cleared his

throat. "If you'll wait outside, I will pass the rest out to you. On my honor."

One of the women gave a soft chortle, and even Elansu's lips twitched, but theshatayan nodded and

directed the other women to gather up the bundles they had made. She was the last to leave, and she

paused in the doorway to add, "The boots, too. Moiraine Sedai said everything."

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His boots, at least, were certainly still good, made by Alwyn

al'Van, the cobbler back in Emond's Field, and well broken in and comfortable. But if giving up his boots

would make theshatayan leave him alone so he could go, he would give her the boots, and anything else

she wanted. He had no time. "Yes. Yes, of course. On my honor." He pushed on the door, forcing her

out.

Alone, he dropped onto his bed to tug off his boots — they were still good, a little worn, the leather

cracked here and there, but still wearable and well broken-in to fit his feet — then hastily stripped off,

piling everything atop the boots, and washed at the basin just as quickly. The water was cold; the water

was always cold in the men's apartments.

The wardrobe had three wide doors carved in the simple Shienaran manner, suggesting more than

showing a series of waterfalls and rocky pools. Pulling open the center door, he stared for a moment at

what had replaced the few garments he had brought with him. A dozen high-collared coats of the finest

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Robert Jordan - The Wheel of Time 02 - The Great Hunt

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