The Tipsy Gelding
Mat didn’t escape the camp without the Aes Sedai, of course. Bloody women.
He rode down the ancient stone roadway, no longer followed by the Band. He was, however, accompanied by the three Aes Sedai, two Warders, five soldiers, Talmanes, a pack animal and Thom. At least Aludra, Amathera and Egeanin hadn’t insisted on coming. This group was too big as it was.
The three-needle pines guarded the road, smelling of pine sap, and the air was melodic with mountain finches’ calls. It was still several hours until sundown; he’d halted the Band near noon. He rode slightly ahead of the clustered Aes Sedai and Warders. After he’d refused Joline horses and funds, they hadn’t been about to let him win another point. Not when they could force him to take them down to the village, where they could spend at least one night in an inn with soft beds and warm baths.
He didn’t argue too loudly. He hated to have more tongues wagging about the Band, and women did gossip, even Aes Sedai. But there was little chance of the Band passing without causing a stir in the village anyway. If any Seanchan patrols made it through these twisting mountain paths. . . . Well, Mat would just have to keep the Band on a steady pace northward and that was that. No use crying about it.
Besides, he was beginning to feel right again, riding Pips down that road, spring breeze crisp in the air. He’d taken to wearing one of his older coats, red with brown trim, unbuttoned to show his old tan shirt beneath.
This was what it was about. Traveling to new villages, throwing dice in the inns, pinching a few barmaids. He would not think of Tuon. Flaming Seanchan. She’d be all right, wouldn’t she?
No. His hands almost itched to be at the dicing. It had been far too long since he’d sat down in a corner somewhere and thrown with the ordinary sort. They’d be a little dirtier of face and coarser of language, but as good of heart as any man. Better than most lords.
Talmanes rode just ahead. He’d probably wish for a nicer tavern than Mat, a place to join a game of cards rather than throwing dice. But they might not have much of a choice. The village was of decent size, probably worthy of being called a town, but was unlikely to have more than three or four inns. Their choices would be limited.
Decent size, Mat thought, grinning to himself as he took off his hat and scratched at the back of his head. Hinderstap would only have three or four inns, and that made it a “small” town. Why, Mat could remember when he’d thought Baerlon a large city, and it probably wasn’t much larger than this Hinderstap!
A horse pulled up beside him. Thom was looking at that blasted letter again. The lanky gleeman’s face was thoughtful, his white hair stirring in the breeze, as he stared down at the words. As if he hadn’t read them a thousand times already.
“Why don’t you put that away?” Mat said. Thom looked up. It had taken some talking to get the gleeman to come down to the village, but Thom needed it, needed some distraction.
“I mean it, Thom,” Mat said. “I know you’re eager to go for Moiraine. But it’ll be weeks before we can break away, and reading over those words won’t do anything but make you anxious.”
Thom nodded and folded the paper with reverent fingers. “You’re right, Mat. But I’d been carrying this letter for months. Now that I’ve shared it, I feel. . . . Well, I just want to be on with it.”
“I know,” Mat said, looking up toward the horizon. Moiraine. The Tower of Ghenjei. Mat almost felt as if he could see the building out there, looming. That’s where his path pointed, and Caemlyn was just a stepping-stone along the way. If Moiraine was still alive . . . Light, what would that mean? How would Rand react?
The rescue was another reason Mat felt he needed a good night dicing. Why had he agreed to go with Thom into the tower? Those burning snakes and foxes—he had no desire to see them again.
But . . . he also couldn’t let Thom go alone. There was an inevitability to it. As if a part of Mat had known all along that he had to go back and face those creatures again. They’d gotten the better of him twice now, and the Eelfinn had tied strings around his brain with those memories in his head. He had a debt to settle with them, that was for certain.
Mat had little love for Moiraine, but he wouldn’t leave her to them, no matter that she was Aes Sedai. Bloody ashes. He’d probably be tempted to ride in and save one of the Forsaken themselves if they were trapped there.
And . . . maybe one was. Lanfear had fallen through that same portal. Burn him, what would he do if he found her there? Would he really rescue her as well?
You’re a fool, Matrim Cauthon. Not a hero. Just a fool.
“We’ll get to Moiraine, Thom,” Mat said. “You have my word, burn me. We’ll find her. But we have to see the Band someplace safe, and we need information. Bayle Domon says he knows where the tower is, but I won’t be comfortable until we can go to some large city and sniff for rumors and stories about this tower. Someone has to know something. Besides, we’ll need supplies, and I doubt we’ll find what we need in these mountain villages. We need to reach Caemlyn if possible, though maybe we’ll stop at Four Kings on the way.”
Thom nodded, though Mat could see he chafed at leaving Moiraine trapped, being tortured or who knows what. Thom’s brilliant blue eyes got a far-off look to them. Why did he care so much? What was Moiraine to him but another Aes Sedai, one of those who had cost the life of Thom’s nephew?
“Burn it,” Mat said. “We’re not supposed to be thinking about things like this, Thom! We’re going to have a good night of dice and laughter. There’ll probably be some time for a song or two as well.”
Thom nodded, face growing lighter. He had his harp case strapped to the back of his horse; it would be good to see him open it again. “You plan to try juggling for your supper again, apprentice?” Thom asked, eyes twinkling.
“Better than trying to play that blasted flute,” Mat grumbled. “Never was very good at that. Rand took to it right fine, though, didn’t he?”
Colors swirled in Mat’s head, resolving to an image of Rand, sitting alone in a room by himself. He sat splay-legged in a richly embroidered shirt, a coat of black and red tossed aside and crumpled next to the log wall beside him. Rand had one hand to his forehead as if trying to squeeze away the pain of a headache. His other was . . .
That arm ended in a stump. The first ti
me Mat had seen that—a few weeks back—it had shocked him. How had Rand lost the hand? The man barely seemed alive, propped up like that, unmoving. Though his lips did seem to be moving, mumbling or muttering. Light! Mat thought. Burn you, what are you doing to yourself?
Well, at least Mat wasn’t near him. Count your fortunes in that, Mat told himself. Life hadn’t been so easy lately, but he could have been stuck near Rand. Sure, Rand was a friend. But Mat didn’t mean to be there when Rand went insane and killed everyone he knew. There was friendship, and then there was stupidity. They’d fight together at the Last Battle, of course, no helping that. Mat just hoped to be on the other side of that battlefield from any saidin-wielding madmen.
“Ah, Rand,” Thom said. “That boy could have made a life for himself as a gleeman, I warrant. Maybe even a proper bard, if he’d started when he was younger.”