"It used to be popular around these parts," she said, frowning. "A hundred years ago or so."
"You sound offended."
"It was a good story," she said.
"If I survive, I'll have Thom compose a bloody ballad about it, Birgitte. Tell me about the dust. Did your plan work?"
She shook her head. "I still got lost. I don't know if they blew away the dust somehow, or if the place is so huge that I never repeated myself. I ended up cornered, my fire going out, my lyre broken, my bowstring snapped, Gaidal unconscious behind me. He could walk some of the days in there, but was too dizzy on others, so I pulled him on the litter I'd brought."
"Some of the days?" Mat said. "How long were you in there?"
"I had provisions for two months," Birgitte said, grimacing. "Don't know how long we lasted after those ran out."
"Bloody ashes!" Mat said, then took a long swig of his ale.
"I told you not to go in," Birgitte said. "Assuming you do reach your friend,
you'll never get back out. You can wander for weeks in that place and never turn right or left, keep going straight, passing hallway after hallway. All the same. The grand hall could be minutes away, if you knew which direction to take. But you'll keep missing it."
Mat stared into his mug, perhaps wishing he'd ordered something more potent.
"You reconsidering?" she asked.
"No," he said. "But when we get out, Moiraine better bloody appreciate this! Two months?" He frowned. "Wait. If you both died in there, how did the story get out?"
She shrugged. "Never did find out. Perhaps one of the Aes Sedai used their questions to ask. Everyone knew I'd gone in. I was called Jethari Moondancer then. You're sure you've never heard the story?"
He shook his head again.
She sighed, settling back. Well, not every one of the tales about her could live on forever, but she'd thought that one would stand for a few more generations.
She raised her mug to drink the last of her milk. The mug never got there. She froze when she felt a jolt of emotion from Elayne. Anger, fury, pain.
Birgitte slammed the mug down on the table, then threw coins down and stood up, cursing.
"What?" Mat said, on his feet in an eyeblink.
"Elayne. In trouble. Again. She's hurt."
"Bloody ashes," Mat snapped, grabbing his coat and staff as they ran for the exit.
CHAPTER 23
Foxheads
Elayne turned the strange medallion around in her fingers, tracing the fox's head worked into the front. As with many ter'angreal, it was difficult to tell exactly what kind of metal had been used to create it originally. She suspected silver, with the senses of her Talent. However, the medallion was no longer silver. It was something else, something new.
The songmistress of the Lucky Man's Theater Troop continued her song. It was beautiful, pure and high. Elayne sat on a cushioned chair on the right side of the hall, which had been repurposed with a raised area at the front for the players. A pair of Birgitte's Guards stood behind her.
The room was dim, lit only by a line of small flickering lamps set behind blue glass in alcoves on the walls. The blue light was overwhelmed by the burning yellow lanterns set around the front of the platform.
Elayne was barely paying attention. She had often listened to "The Death of Princess Walishen" as a ballad, and didn't really see the point of adding words to it and different players, instead of just having one bard do the entire thing. But it was Ellorien's favorite ballad, and the favorable news out of Cairhien about these players which nobles there had recently discovered had many of the nobles in Andor buzzing.
Hence this evening. Ellorien had come at Elayne's invitation; likely she was intrigued. Why had Elayne been so audacious as to invite her? Soon, Elayne would take advantage of having Ellorien here. But not quite yet. Let the woman enjoy the production first. She'd be expecting a political ambush.
She'd wait for Elayne to walk over and sit in one the seats near her, or perhaps send a servant with an offer.
Elayne did neither, instead sitting and regarding the foxhead ter'angreal. It was a complex work of art, despite being only a single, solid piece of metal. She could feel the weaves that had been used to create it. Its intricacy was far beyond the simplicity of the twisted dream rings.