“You will work yourself into a tizzy this way,” she said firmly. “You're not a child. Act like a woman.”
When a serving woman brought her supper of snapbeans and potatoes and fresh baked bread, she made herself eat. It tasted like ashes.
Mat strode through the dimly lit corridors of the palace and flung open the door of the rooms that had been set aside for the young hero of the battle against the Shaido. Not that he had spent much time there; hardly any. Servants had lit two of the standlamps. Hero! He was no hero! What did a hero get? An Aes Sedai patting you on the head before she sent you out like a hound to do it again. A noblewoman condescending to favor you with a kiss, or laying a flower on your grave. He stalked back and forth in his anteroom, for once not pricing the flowered Illianer carpet or the chairs and chests and tables gilded and inlaid with ivory.
The stormy meeting with Rand had gone on till the sun set, him dodging, refusing, Rand following as doggedly as Hawkwing after the rout at Cole Pass. What was he to do? If he rode out again, Talmanes and Nalesean would surely follow with as many men as they could put in the saddle, expecting him to find another battle. And he probably would; that was what really put a chill on it. Much as he hated to admit it, the Aes Sedai was right. He was drawn to battle or it to him. Nobody could have tried harder to avoid one on the other side of the Alguenya. Even Talmanes had commented on it. Until the second time his careful creeping away from one lot of Andorans took them where there was no choice but to fight another. And every time he could feel the dice rolling in his head; it was almost like a warning that a fight was just over the next hill, now.
There was always a ship, or might be, down at the docks beside the grain barges. Hard to find yourself in a battle on a ship in the middle of a river. Except the Andorans held one bank of the Alguenya for half its length or more below the city. The way his luck was running, the ship would run aground on the west bank with half the Andoran army camped there.
That left doing what Rand wanted. He could just see it.
“Good morrow, High Lord Weiramon, and all you other High Lords and Ladies. I'm a gambler, a farmboy, and I'm here to take command of your bloody army! The bloody lord Dragon Reborn will be with us as soon as he flaming takes care of one bloody little matter!”
Snatching his blackhafted spear from the corner, he hurled it the length of the room. It struck a wall hanging — a hunting scene — and the stone wall behind with a loud clang, then dropped to the floor, leaving the hunters neatly sliced in two. Swearing, he hurried to pick it up. The twofoot swordblade was not chipped or marred. Of course not. Aes Sedai work.
He fingered the ravens on the blade. “Will I ever be free of Aes Sedai work?”
“What was that?” Melindhra asked from the door.
He eyed her as he propped the spear against the wall, and for a change it was not spungold hair or clear blue eyes or a firm body that he thought of. It seemed that every Aiel went to the river sooner or later, to stare silently at so much water in one place, but Melindhra went every day, just about. “Has Kadere found ships yet?” Kadere would not be going to Tar Valon on grain barges.
“The peddler's wagons are still there. I do not know about... ships.” She pronounced the unfamiliar word awkwardly. “Why do you wish to know?”
“I'm going away for a while. For Rand,” he added hastily. Her face was too still. “I'd take you with me if I could, but you wouldn't want to leave the Maidens.” A ship, or his own horse? And to where? That was the question. He could reach Tear quicker on a fast river ship than on Pips. If he was fool enough to make that choice. If he had any choice.
Melindhra's mouth tightened briefly. To his surprise, it was not over his leaving her. “So you slip back into Rand al'Thor's shadow. You have gained much honor of your own, among the Aiel as well as the wetlanders. Your honor, not honor reflected from the Car'a'carn.”
“He can keep his honor and take it to Caemlyn or the Pit of Doom for all I care. Don't you worry. I'll find plenty of honor. I will write you about it. From Tear.” Tear? He would never escape Rand, or Aes Sedai, if he made that choice.
“He is going to Caemlyn?”
Mat suppressed a wince. He was not supposed to say anything about that. Whatever he decided about the rest, he could do that much. “Just a name pulled from my pocket. Because of the Andorans down south, I suppose. I wouldn't know where he's — ”
He had no warning. One instant she was just standing there, the next her foot was in his middle, driving out breath, doubling him over. Eyes bulging, he fought to keep his feet, to straighten, to think. Why? She spun like a dancer, backwards, and her other foot against the side of his head drove him staggering. Without a pause she leaped straight up, kicking out, her soft bootsole taking him hard flush in the face.
When his eyes cleared enough to see, he was on his back, halfway across the room from her. He could feel blood on his face. His head seemed stuffed with wool, and the room seemed to rock. That was when he saw her take a knife from her pouch, slim blade not much longer than her hand, gleaming in the lamplight. Winding the shoufa around her head in a quick motion, she raised the black veil across her face.
Groggily, he moved by instinct, without thinking. The blade came out of his sleeve, left his hand as if floating through jelly. Only then did he realize what he had done and stretch out desperately, trying to snatch it back.
The hilt bloomed between her breasts. She sagged to her knees, fell back.
Mat pushed himself up, wavering on hands and knees. He could not have stood if his life hung on it, but he crawled to her, muttering wildly. “Why? Why?”
He jerked her veil aside, and those clear blue eyes focused on him. She even smiled. He did not look at the knifehilt. His knifehilt. He knew where the heart was in a body. “Why, Melindhra?”
“I always liked your pretty eyes,” she breathed, so faint he had to strain to hear.
“Why?”
“Some oaths are more important than others, Mat Cauthon.” The slimbladed knife came up swiftly, all her remaining strength behind it, the point driving the dangling foxhead against his chest. The silver medallion should not have stopped a blade, but the angle was just that much wrong, and some hidden flaw in the steel snapped the blade off right at the hilt just as he caught her hand. “You have the Great Lord's own luck.”
“Why?” he demanded. “Burn you, why?” He knew there would be no answer. Her mouth remained open, as though she might say something more, but her eyes were a
