“This must have cost . . . Aviendha, how could you pay for it?”
“It cost little,” she said, so defensively that she might as well have added that she lied.
“A sword. How did you ever come by a sword? How did any Aiel come by a sword? Don’t tell me Kadere had this hidden in his wagons.”
“I carried it in a blanket.” She sounded even more touchy now than she had about the price. “Even Bair said that would make it all right, so long as I did not actually touch it.” She shrugged uncomfortably, shifting and reshifting her shawl. “It was the treekiller’s sword. Laman’s. It was taken from his body as proof that he was dead, because his head could not be brought back so far. Since then it has passed from hand to hand, young men or fool Maidens who wanted to own the proof of his death. Only, each began to think of what it was, and soon sold it to another fool. The price has come down very far since it first was sold. No Aiel would lay hand to it even to remove the stones.”
“Well, it is very beautiful,” he said, as tactfully as he could manage. Only a buffoon would carry something this gaudy. And that ivory hilt would twist in a hand slippery with sweat or blood. “But I cannot let you . . .” He trailed off as he bared a few inches of the blade, out of habit, to examine the edge. Etched into the shining steel stood a heron, symbol of a blademaster. He had carried a sword marked like that once. Suddenly he was ready to bet that this blade was like it, like the raven-marked blade on Mat’s spear, metal made with Power that would never break and never need sharpening. Most blademasters’ swords were only copies of those. Lan could tell him for certain, but he was sure already in his own mind.
Pulling the scabbard off, he leaned across the firepit to place it in front of her. “I will take the blade to cancel the debt, Aviendha.” It was long and slightly curved, with a single edge. “Just the blade. You can have the hilt back, too.” He could have a new hilt and scabbard made in Cairhien. Maybe one of Taien’s survivors was a decent bladesmith.
She stared wide-eyed from the scabbard to him and back, mouth open, stunned for the first time that he had ever seen. “But those gems are worth much, much more than I—You are trying to put me in your debt again, Rand al’Thor.”
“Not so.” If this blade had lain untouched, and untarnished, in its scabbard for over twenty years, it had to be what he thought. “I did not accept the scabbard, so it has been yours all along.” Tossing one of the silk cushions into the air, he executed the seated version of the form called Low Wind Rising; feathers rained down as the blade sliced neatly through. “And I don’t accept the hilt, either, so that’s yours, too. If you have made a profit, it’s your own doing.”
Instead of looking happy at her good fortune—he suspected she had given everything that she had for the sword, and likely gotten back a hundred times as much or more in the scabbard alone—instead of seeming glad, or thanking him, she glared through the feathers as indignantly as any goodwife in the Two Rivers seeing her floor littered. Stiffly, she clapped, and one of the gai’shain appeared, immediately going to her knees to begin cleaning up the mess.
“It is my tent,” he said pointedly. Aviendha sniffed at him in perfect imitation of Egwene. Those two women were definitely spending too much time together.
Supper, when it came at full dark, consisted of the usual flat pale bread, and a spicy stew of dried peppers and beans with chunks of nearly white meat. He only grinned at her when he learned that it was the bloodsnake; he had eaten snake and worse since coming to the Waste. Gara—the poisonous lizard—was the worst in his estimation; not for the taste, which was rather like chicken, but because it was lizard. It sometimes seemed that there must be more poisonous things—snakes, lizards, spiders, plants—in the Waste than in the rest of the world combined.
Aviendha appeared disappointed that he did not spit the stew out in disgust, though sometimes it was difficult to tell what she was feeling. At times she seemed to take great pleasure in discomfiting him. Had he been trying to pretend that he was Aiel, he would have thought she was trying to prove he was not.
Tired and eager for sleep, he only took off his coat and boots before crawling into his blankets and turning his back to Aviendha. Aielmen and-women might take sweatbaths together, but a short time in Shienar, where they did something much the same, had convinced him that he was not made for that sort of thing, not without going so red in the face that he died of it. He tried not to listen to the rustle of her undressing beneath her own blankets. At least she had that much modesty, but he kept his back turned anyway, just in case.
She claimed she was supposed to sleep there to continue his lessons on Aiel ways and customs, since he spent so much of his days with the chiefs. They both knew that was a lie, though what the Wise Ones thought she could find out this way, he could not imagine. She gave little grunts every now and then as she tugged at something, and muttered to herself.
To cover the sounds, and stop himself thinking of what they must mean, he said, “Melaine’s wedding was impressive. Did Bael really know nothing about it until Melaine and Dorindha told him?”
“Of course not,” she replied scornfully, pausing for what he thought was a stoc
king coming off. “Why should he know before Melaine laid the bridal wreath at his feet and asked him?” Abruptly she laughed. “Melaine nearly drove herself and Dorindha to distraction finding segade blossoms for the wreath. Few grow so close to the Dragonwall.”
“Does that mean something special? Segade blossoms?” That was what he had sent her, the flowers she had never acknowledged.
“That she has a prickly nature and means to keep it.” Another pause, broken by mutters. “Had she used leaves or flowers from sweetroot, it would have meant she claimed a sweet nature. Morning drop would mean she would be submissive, and . . . There are too many to list. It would take me days to teach all the combinations to you, and you do not need to know them. You will not have an Aiel wife. You belong to Elayne.”
He nearly looked at her when she said “submissive.” A word less likely to describe any Aiel woman he could not conceive. Probably means she gives warning before she stabs you.
There had been more of a muffled sound to her voice at the end. Pulling her blouse over her head, he realized. He wished the lamps were out. No, that would have made it worse. But then, he had been through this every single night since Rhuidean, and every single night it was worse. He had to put an end to it. The woman was going to sleep with the Wise Ones, where she belonged, from now on; he would learn what he could from her as he could. He had thought exactly the same thing for fifteen nights now.
Trying to chase the pictures out of his head, he said, “That bit at the end. After the vows were said.” No sooner had half a dozen Wise Ones pronounced their blessings than a hundred of Melaine’s blood kin had rushed in to surround her, all carrying their spears. A hundred of Bael’s kin had rallied to him, and he had fought his way to her. No one had been veiled, of course—it was all part of custom—but blood had still been shed on both sides. “A few minutes before, Melaine was vowing that she loved him, but when he reached her, she fought like a cornered ridgecat.” If Dorindha had not punched her in the shortribs, he did not think Bael would ever have gotten her over his shoulder to carry off. “He still has the limp and the black eye she gave him.”
“Should she have been a weakling?” Aviendha said sleepily. “He had to know the worth of her. She was not a trinket for him to put in his pouch.” She yawned, and he heard her nestling deeper into her blankets.
“What does ‘teaching a man to sing’ mean?” Aielmen did not sing, not once they were old enough to take up a spear, except for battle chants and laments for the dead.
“You are thinking of Mat Cauthon?” She actually giggled. “Sometimes, a man gives up the spear for a Maiden.”
“You’re making that up. I never heard of anything like that.”
“Well, it is not really giving up the spear.” Her voice held a thick muzziness. “Sometimes a man desires a Maiden who will not give up the spear for him, and he arranges to be taken gai’shain by her. He is a fool, of course. No Maiden would look at gai’shain as he hopes. He is worked hard and kept strictly to his place, and the first thing that is done is to make him learn to sing, to entertain the spear-sisters while they eat. ‘She is going to teach him to sing.’ That is what Maidens say when a man makes a fool of himself over one of the spear-sisters.” A very peculiar people.
“Aviendha?” He had said he was not going to ask her this again. Lan said it was Kandori work, a pattern called snowflakes. Probably loot from some raid up north. “Who gave you that necklace?”
“A friend, Rand al’Thor. We came far today, and you will start us early tomorrow. Sleep well and wake, Rand al’Thor.” Only an Aiel would wish you a good night by hoping you did not die in your sleep.
Setting the much smaller if much more intricate ward on his dreams, he channeled the lamps out and tried to sleep. A friend. The Reyn came from the north. But she had had the necklace in Rhuidean. Why did he care? Aviendha’s slow breathing seemed loud in his ears until he fell asleep, and then he dreamed a confused dream of Min and Elayne helping him throw Aviendha, wearing nothing but that necklace, over his shoulder, while she beat him over the head with a wreath of segade blossoms.