The Great Hunt by Robert Jordan
Rand listened in growing amazement to their tale of the meeting in Kinslayer’s Dagger. Mat told most of it, with Perrin putting in a correcting word now and again when he embellished too much. Mat made a great show of how dangerous the Aielman had been, and how close the meeting had come to a fight.
“And since you’re the only Aiel we know,” he finished, “well, it could be you. Ingtar says Aiel never live outside the Waste, so you must be the only one.”
“I don’t think that’s funny, Mat,” Rand growled. “I am not an Aiel.” The Amyrlin said you are. Ingtar thinks you are. Tam said. . . . He was sick, fevered. They had severed the roots he had thought he had, the Aes Sedai and Tam between them, though Tam had been too sick to know what he was saying. They had cut him loose to tumble before the wind, then offered him something new to hold on to. False Dragon. Aiel. He could not claim those for roots. He would not. “Maybe I don’t belong to anyone. But the Two Rivers is the only home I know.”
“I didn’t mean anything,” Mat protested. “It’s just. . . . Burn me, Ingtar says you are. Masema says you are. Urien could have been your cousin, and if Rhian put on a dress and said she was your aunt, you’d believe it yourself. Oh, all right. Don’t look at me like that, Perrin. If he wants to say he isn’t, all right. What difference does it make, anyway?” Perrin shook his head.
Ogier girls brought water and towels for washing faces and hands, and cheese and fruit and wine, with pewter goblets a little too large to be comfortable in the hand. Other Ogier women came, too, their dresses all embroidered. One by one they appeared, a dozen of them all told, to ask if the humans were comfortable, if they needed anything. Each turned her attentions to Loial just before she left. He gave his answers respectfully but in as few words as Rand had ever heard him use, standing with an Ogier-sized, wood-bound book clutched to his chest like a shield, and when they went, he huddled in his chair with the book held up in front of his face. The books in the house were one thing not sized for humans.
“Just smell this air, Lord Rand,” Hurin said, filling his lungs with a smile. His feet dangled from one of the chairs at the table; he swung them like a boy. “I never thought most places smelled bad, but this. . . . Lord Rand, I don’t think there’s ever been any killing here. Not even any hurting, except by accident.”
“The stedding are supposed to be safe for everyone,” Rand said. He was watching Loial. “That’s what the stories say, anyway.” He swallowed a last bit of white cheese and went over to the Ogier. Mat followed with a goblet in his hand. “What’s the matter, Loial?” Rand said. “You’ve been as nervous as a cat in a dogyard ever since we came here.”
“It is nothing,” Loial said, giving the door an uneasy glance from the corner of his eye.
“Are you afraid they’ll find out you left Stedding Shangtai without permission from your Elders?”
Loial looked around wildly, the tufts on his ears vibrating. “Don’t say that,” he hissed. “Not where anyone can hear. If they found out. . . .” With a heavy sigh, he slumped back, looking from Rand to Mat. “I don’t know how humans do it, but among Ogier. . . . If a girl sees a boy she likes, she goes to her mother. Or sometimes the mother sees someone she thinks is suitable. In any case, if they agree, the girl’s mother goes to the boy’s mother, and the next thing the boy knows, his marriage is all arranged.”
“Doesn’t the boy have any say in it?” Mat asked incredulously.
“None. The women always say we would spend our lives married to the trees if it was left to us.” Loial shifted, grimacing. “Half of our marriages take place between stedding; groups of young Ogier visit from stedding to stedding so they can see, and be seen. If they discover I’m Outside without permission, the Elders will almost certainly decide I need a wife to settle me down. Before I know it, they’ll have sent a message to Stedding Shangtai, to my mother, and she will come here and have me married before she washes off the dust of her journey. She’s always said I am too hasty and need a wife. I think she was looking when I left. Whatever wife she chooses for me . . . well, any wife at all won’t let me go back Outside until I have gray in my beard. Wives always say no man should be allowed Outside until he’s settled enough to control his temper.”
Mat gave a guffaw loud enough to draw every head, but at Loial’s frantic gesture he spoke softly. “Among us, men do the choosing, and no wife can stop a man doing what he wants.”
Rand frowned, remembering how Egwene had begun following him around when they were both little. It was then that Mistress al’Vere had begun taking a special interest in him, more than in any of the other boys. Later, some girls would dance with him on feastdays and some would not, and those who would were always Egwene’s friends, while those who would not were girls Egwene did not like. He also seemed to remember Mistress al’Vere taking Tam aside—And she was muttering about Tam not having a wife for her to talk to!—and after that, Tam and everyone else had acted as if he and Egwene were promised, even though they had not knelt before the Women’s Circle to say the words. He had never thought about it this way before; things between Egwene and him had always just seemed to be the way they were, and that was that.
“I think we do it the same way,” he muttered, and when Mat laughed, he added, “Do you remember your father ever doing anything your mother really didn’t want him to?” Mat opened his mouth with a grin, then frowned thoughtfully and closed it again.
Juin came down the steps from outside. “If you please, will all of you come with me? The Elders would see you.” He did not look at Loial, but Loial still almost dropped the book.
“If the Elders try to make you stay,” Rand said, “we’ll say we need you to go with us.”
“I’ll bet it isn’t about you at all,” Mat said. “I’ll bet they are just going to say we can use the Waygate.” He shook himself, and his voice fell even lower. “We really have to do it, don’t we.” It was not a question.
“Stay and get married, or travel the Ways.” Loial grimaced ruefully. “Life is very unsettling with ta’veren for friends.”
CHAPTER
36
Among the Elders
As Juin took them through the Ogier town, Rand saw that Loial was growing more and more anxious. Loial’s ears were as stiff as his back; his eyes grew bigger every time he saw another Ogier looking at him, especially the women and girls, and a large number of them did seem to take notice of him. He looked as if he expected his own execution.
The bearded Ogier gestured to wide steps leading down into a grassy mound that was bigger by far than any other; it was a hill, for all practical purposes, almost at the base of one of the Great Trees.
“Why don’t you wait out here, Loial?” Rand said.
“The Elders—” Juin began.
“—Probably just want to see the rest of us,” Rand finished for him.
“Why don’t they leave him alone,” Mat put in.
Loial nodded vigorously. “Yes. Yes, I think. . . .” A number of Ogier women were watching him, from white-haired grandmothers to daughters Erith’s age, a knot of them talking among themselves but with all eyes on him. His ears jerked, but he looked at the broad door to which the stone steps led down, and nodded again. “Yes, I will sit out here, and I’ll read. That is it. I will read.” Fumbling in his coat pocket, he produced a book. He settled himself on the mound beside the steps, the book small in his hands, and fixed his eyes on the pages. “I will just sit here and read until you come out.” His ears twitched as if he could feel the women’s eyes.
Juin shook his head, then shrugged and motioned to the steps again. “If you please. The Elders are waiting.”
The huge, windowless room inside the mound was scaled for Ogier, with a thick-beamed ceiling more than four spans up; it could have fit in any palace, for size at least. The seven Ogier seated on the dais directly in front of the door made it shrink a little by their size, but Rand still felt as if he were in a cavern. The somber floorstones were smooth, if large and irregul
Except for a high-backed chair where Verin sat facing the dais, the only furnishings were the heavy, vine-carved chairs of the Elders. The Ogier woman in the middle of the dais sat in a chair raised a little higher than those of the others, three bearded men to her left in long, flaring coats, three women to her right in dresses like her own, embroidered in vines and flowers from neckline to hem. All had aged faces and pure white hair, even to the tufts on their ears, and an air of massive dignity.
Hurin gaped at them openly, and Rand felt like staring himself. Not even Verin had the appearance of wisdom that was in the Elders’ huge eyes, nor Morgase in her crown their authority, nor Moiraine their calm serenity. Ingtar was the first to bow, as formally as Rand had ever seen from him, while the others still stood rooted.
“I am Alar,” the Ogier woman on the highest chair said when they had finally taken their places beside Verin, “Eldest of the Elders of Stedding Tsofu. Verin has told us that you have need to use the Waygate here. To recover the Horn of Valere from Darkfriends is a great need, indeed, but we have allowed none to travel the Ways in more than one hundred years. Neither us, nor the Elders of any other stedding.”
“I will find the Horn,” Ingtar said angrily. “I must. If you will not permit us to use the Waygate. . . .” He fell silent as Verin looked at him, but the scowl remained on his face.
Alar smiled. “Be not so hasty, Shienaran. You humans never take time for thought. Only decisions reached in calm can be sure.” Her smile faded to seriousness, but her voice kept its own measured calm. “The dangers of the Ways are not to be faced with a sword in your hand, not charging Aiel or ravening Trollocs. I must tell you that to enter the Ways is to risk not only death and madness, but perhaps your very souls.”
“We have seen Machin Shin,” Rand said, and Mat and Perrin agreed. They could not manage to sound eager to do it again.
“I will follow the Horn to Shayol Ghul itself, if need be,” Ingtar said firmly. Hurin only nodded as if including himself in Ingtar’s words.
“Bring Trayal,” Alar commanded, and Juin, who had remained by the door, bowed and left. “It is not enough,” she told Verin, “to hear what can happen. You must see it, know it in your heart.”
There was an uncomfortable silence until Juin returned, and it became more uncomfortable still as two Ogier women followed him, guiding a dark-bearded Ogier of middle years, who shambled between them as if he did not quite know how his legs worked. His face sagged, without any expression at all, and his big eyes were vacant and unblinking, not staring, not looking, not even seeming to see. One of the women gently wiped drool from the corner of his mouth. They took his arms to stop him; his foot went forward, hesitated, then fell back with a thump. He seemed as content to stand as to walk, or at least as uncaring.
“Trayal was one of the last among us to go along the Ways,” Alar said softly. “He came out as you see him. Will you touch him, Verin?”
Verin gave her a long look, then rose and strode to Trayal. He did not move as she laid her hands on his wide chest, not even a flicker of an eye to acknowledge her touch. With a sharp hiss, she jerked back, staring up at him, then whirled to face the Elders. “He is . . . empty. This body lives, but there is nothing inside it. Nothing.” Every Elder wore a look of unbearable sadness.
“Nothing,” one of the Elders to Alar’s right said softly. Her eyes seemed to hold all the pain Trayal’s no longer could. “No mind. No soul. Nothing of Trayal remains but his body.”
“He was a fine Treesinger,” one of the men sighed.
Alar motioned, and the two women turned Trayal to lead him out; they had to move him before he began to walk.
“We know the risks,” Verin said. “But whatever the risks, we must follow the Horn of Valere.”
The Eldest nodded. “The Horn of Valere. I do not know whether it is worse news that it is in Darkfriend hands, or that it has been found at all.” She looked down the row of Elders; each nodded in turn, one of the men tugging his beard doubtfully first. “Very well. Verin tells me time is urgent. I will show you to the Waygate myself.” Rand was feeling half relieved and half afraid, when she added, “You have with you a young Ogier. Loial, son of Arent son of Halan, from Stedding Shangtai. He is far from his home.”
“We need him,” Rand said quickly. His words slowed under surprised stares from the Elders and Verin, but he went on stubbornly. “We need him to go with us, and he wants to.”
“Loial’s a friend,” Perrin said, at the same time that Mat said, “He doesn’t get in the way, and he carries his own weight.” Neither of them appeared comfortable at having the Elders’ focus shift to them, but they did not back down.
“Is there some reason he cannot come with us?” Ingtar asked. “As Mat says, he has held his own. I don’t know that we need him, but if he wants to come, why—?”
“We do need him,” Verin broke in smoothly. “Few any longer know the Ways, but Loial has studied them. He can decipher the Guidings.”
Alar eyed them each in turn, then settled to a study of Rand. She looked as if she knew things; all the Elders did, but she most of all. “Verin says you are ta’veren,” she said at last, “and I can feel it in you. That I can do so means that you must be very strongly ta’veren indeed, for such Talents ever run weakly in us, if at all. Have you drawn Loial, son of Arent son of Halan, into ta’maral’ailen, the Web the Pattern weaves around you?”
“I. . . . I just want to find the Horn and. . . .” Rand let the rest of it die. Alar had not mentioned Mat’s dagger. He did not know whether Verin had told the Elders, or held it back for some reason. “He is my friend, Eldest.”
“Your friend,” Alar said. “He is young by our way of thinking. You are young, too, but ta’veren. You will look after him, and when the weaving is done, you will see that he comes safely home to Stedding Shangtai.”
“I will,” he told her. It had the feeling of a commitment, the swearing of an oath.
“Then we will go to the Waygate.”
Outside, Loial scrambled to his feet when they appeared, Alar and Verin leading. Ingtar sent Hurin off at a run to fetch Uno and the other soldiers. Loial eyed the Eldest warily, then fell in with Rand at the rear of the procession. The Ogier women who had been watching him were all gone. “Did the Elders say anything about me? Did she . . . ?” He peered at Alar’s broad back as she ordered Juin to have their horses brought. She started off with Verin while Juin was still bowing himself away, bending her head to talk quietly.
“She told Rand to take care of you,” Mat told Loial solemnly as they followed, “and see you got home safely as a babe. I don’t see why you can’t stay here and get married.”
“She said you could come with us.” Rand glared at Mat, which made Mat chortle under his breath. It sounded odd, coming from that drawn face. Loial was twirling the stem of a trueheart blossom between his fingers. “Did you go picking flowers?” Rand asked.
“Erith gave it to me.” Loial watched the yellow petals spin. “She really is very pretty, even if Mat does not see it.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to go with us after all?”
Loial gave a start. “What? Oh, no. I mean, yes. I do want to go. She only gave me a flower. Just a flower.” He took a book out of his pocket, though, and pressed the blossom under the front cover. As he returned the book, he murmured to himself, barely loud enough for Rand to hear, “And she said I was handsome, too.” Mat let out a wheeze and doubled over, staggering along clutching his sides, and Loial’s cheeks colored. “Well . . . she said it. I didn’t.”
Perrin rapped Mat smartly on the top of his head with his knuckles. “Nobody ever said Mat was handsome. He’s just jealous.”
“That’s not true,” Mat said, straightening abruptly. “Marisa Ayellin thinks I’m handsome. She told me so more than once.”
“Is Marisa pr
“She has a face like a goat,” Perrin said blandly. Mat choked, trying to get his protests out.
Rand grinned in spite of himself. Marisa was almost as pretty as Egwene. And this was almost like old times, almost like being back home, bantering back and forth, and nothing more important in the world than a laugh and twitting the other fellow.
As they made their way through the town, Ogier greeted the Eldest, bowing or curtsying, eyeing the human visitors with interest. Alar’s set face kept anyone from stopping to speak, though. The only thing that indicated when they left the town was the absence of the mounds; there were still Ogier about, examining trees, or sometimes working with pitch and saw or axe where there were dead limbs or where a tree needed more sunlight. They handled the tasks tenderly.
Juin joined them, leading their horses, and Hurin came riding with Uno and the other soldiers, and the packhorses, just before Alar pointed and said, “It is over there.” The banter died.
Rand felt a momentary surprise. The Waygate had to be Outside the stedding—the Ways had been begun with the One Power; they could not have been made inside—but there was nothing to indicate they had crossed the boundary. Then he realized there was a difference; the sense of something lost that he had felt since entering the stedding was gone. That gave him another sort of chill. Saidin was there again. Waiting.
Alar led them past a tall oak, and there in a small clearing stood the big slab of the Waygate, the front of it delicately worked in tightly woven vines and leaves from a hundred different plants. Around the edge of the clearing the Ogier had built a low stone coping that seemed as if it had grown there, suggesting a circle of roots. The look of it made Rand uncomfortable. It took him a moment to realize that the roots suggested were those of bramble and briar, burningleaf and itch oak. Not the sort of plants into which anyone would want to stumble.
The Eldest stopped short of the coping. “The wall is meant to warn away any who comes here. Not that many of us do. I myself will not cross it. But you may.” Juin did not go as close as she did; he kept rubbing his hands on the front of his coat, and would not look at the Waygate.