Agelmar threw up his hand
s. “It will be as you say, Aes Sedai. Peace, if the real battle is to be at the Eye of the World, I am tempted to take the Black Hawk banner after you instead of to the Gap. I could cut a path for you—”
“That would be disaster, Lord Agelmar. Both at Tarwin’s Gap and at the Eye. You have your battle, and we ours.”
“Peace! As you say, Aes Sedai.”
Having reached a decision, however much he disliked it, the shaven-headed Lord of Fal Dara seemed to put it out of his mind. He invited them to table with him, all the while making conversation about hawks and horses and dogs, but with never a mention of Trollocs, or Tarwin’s Gap, or the Eye of the World.
The chamber where they ate was as stark and plain as Lord Agelmar’s study had been, with little more furnishing it than the table and chairs themselves, and they were severe in line and form. Beautiful, but severe. A big fireplace warmed the room, but not so much that a man called out hurriedly would be stunned by the cold outside. Liveried servants brought soup and bread and cheese, and the talk was of books and music until Lord Agelmar realized the Emond’s Field folk were not talking. Like a good host he asked gently probing questions designed to bring them out of their quiet.
Rand soon found himself competing to tell about Emond’s Field and the Two Rivers. It was an effort not to say too much. He hoped the others were guarding their tongues, Mat especially. Nynaeve alone held herself back, eating and drinking silently.
“There’s a song in the Two Rivers,” Mat said. “ ‘Coming Home From Tarwin’s Gap.’ ” He finished hesitantly, as if suddenly realizing that he was bringing up what they had been avoiding, but Agelmar handled it smoothly.
“Little wonder. Few lands have not sent men to hold back the Blight over the years.”
Rand looked at Mat and Perrin. Mat silently formed the word Manetheren.
Agelmar whispered to one of the servants, and while others cleared the table that man vanished and returned with a canister, and clay pipes for Lan, Loial, and Lord Agelmar. “Two Rivers tabac,” the Lord of Fal Dara said as they filled their pipes. “Hard to come by, here, but worth the cost.”
When Loial and the two older men were puffing contentedly, Agelmar glanced at the Ogier. “You seem troubled, Builder. Not beset by the Longing, I hope. How long have you been away from the stedding?”
“It is not the Longing; I have not been gone such a time as that.” Loial shrugged, and the blue-gray streamer rising from his pipe made a spiral above the table as he gestured. “I expected—hoped—that the grove would still be here. Some remnant of Mafal Dadaranell, at least.”
“Kiserai ti Wansho,” Agelmar murmured. “The Trolloc Wars left nothing but memories, Loial, son of Arent, and people to build on them. They could not duplicate the Builders’ work, any more than could I. Those intricate curves and patterns your people create are beyond human eyes and hands to make. Perhaps we wished to avoid a poor imitation that would only have been an ever-present reminder to us of what we had lost. There is a different beauty in simplicity, in a single line placed just so, a single flower among the rocks. The harshness of the stone makes the flower more precious. We try not to dwell too much on what is gone. The strongest heart will break under that strain.”
“The rose petal floats on water,” Lan recited softly. “The kingfisher flashes above the pond. Life and beauty swirl in the midst of death.”
“Yes,” Agelmar said. “Yes. That one has always symbolized the whole of it to me, too.” The two men bowed their heads to one another.
Poetry out of Lan? The man was like an onion; every time Rand thought he knew something about the Warder, he discovered another layer underneath.
Loial nodded slowly. “Perhaps I also dwell too much on what is gone. And yet, the groves were beautiful.” But he was looking at the stark room as if seeing it anew, and suddenly finding things worth seeing.
Ingtar appeared and bowed to Lord Agelmar. “Your pardon, Lord, but you wanted to know of anything out of the ordinary, however small.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“A small thing, Lord. A stranger tried to enter the town. Not of Shienar. By his accent, a Lugarder. Sometimes, at least. When the South Gate guards attempted to question him, he ran away. He was seen to enter the forest, but only a short time later he was found scaling the wall.”
“A small thing!” Agelmar’s chair scraped across the floor as he stood. “Peace! The tower watch is so negligent a man can reach the walls unseen, and you call it a small thing?”
“He is a madman, Lord.” Awe touched Ingtar’s voice. “The Light shields madmen. Perhaps the Light cloaked the tower watch’s eyes and allowed him to reach the walls. Surely one poor madman can do no harm.”
“Has he been brought to the keep yet? Good. Bring him to me here. Now.” Ingtar bowed and left, and Agelmar turned to Moiraine. “Your pardon, Aes Sedai, but I must see to this. Perhaps he is only a pitiful wretch with his mind blinded by the Light, but. . . . Two days gone, five of our own people were found in the night trying to saw through the hinges of a horse-gate. Small, but enough to let Trollocs in.” He grimaced. “Darkfriends, I suppose, though I hate to think it of any Shienaran. They were torn to pieces by the people before the guards could take them, so I’ll never know. If Shienarans can be Darkfriends, I must be especially careful of outlanders in these days. If you wish to withdraw, I will have you shown to your rooms.”
“Darkfriends know neither border nor blood,” Moiraine said. “They are found in every land, and are of none. I, too, am interested in seeing this man. The Pattern is forming a Web, Lord Agelmar, but the final shape of the Web is not yet set. It may yet entangle the world, or unravel and set the Wheel to a new weaving. At this point, even small things can change the shape of the Web. At this point I am wary of small things out of the ordinary.”
Agelmar glanced at Nynaeve and Egwene. “As you wish, Aes Sedai.”
Ingtar returned, with two guards carrying long bills, and escorting a man who looked like a ragbag turned inside out. Grime layered his face and matted his scraggly, uncut hair and beard. He hunched into the room, sunken eyes darting this way and that. A rancid smell wafted ahead of him.
Rand sat forward intently, trying to see through all the dirt.
“You’ve no cause to be holding me like this,” the filthy man whined. “I’m only a poor destitute, abandoned by the Light and seeking a place, like everyone else, to shelter from the Shadow.”
“The Borderlands are a strange place to seek—” Agelmar began, when Mat cut him off.