The apprentices barely straightened enough to follow him, gazing roundeyed at Rand even more than at the Aiel as they vanished down the ladder. Cail was a year older than he, Jol two. Both had been born in bigger towns than he had imagined before leaving the Two Rivers, had visited Cairhien and seen the king and the Amyrlin Seat, if at a distance, while he was still tending sheep. Very likely, they still knew more of the world than he in some ways. Shaking his head, he bent to the new looking glass.
Cairhien leaped into view. The forests, never particularly thick to one used to Two Rivers' woods, stopped completely well short of the city, of course. High gray, squaretowered walls in a perfect square against the river mocked the hills' flowing curves. Within, more towers rose in precise pattern, marking the points of a grid, some twenty times as high as the walls or more, yet all surrounded by scaffolding. The legendary topless towers were still being rebuilt after their burning in the Aiel War.
When last he had seen the city, another city had surrounded it from riverbank to riverbank — Foregate, a rabbit warren as raucous as Cairhien was solemn, all in wood. Now only a wide stretch of ash and charred timbers bordered the walls. How that fire had been kept from spreading into Cairhien itself, he could not understand.
Banners decked every tower in the city, too distant to make out clearly, but scouts had described them to him. Half bore the Crescents of Tear; the other half, perhaps not surprisingly, duplicated the Dragon banner he had left flying over the Stone of Tear. Not one bore the Rising Sun of Cairhien.
Moving the looking glass only a little swept the city from his sight. On the far side of the river still stood the blackened stone shells of the granaries. Some of the Cairhienin Rand had talked to claimed the torching of the granaries had led to riots and then King Galldrian's death, and thus to the civil war. Others said Galldrian's assassination had caused the riots and the burning. Rand doubted that he would ever know which was the truth, or whether either was.
A number of burnedout hulks dotted both banks of the wide river, but none lay close to the city. Aiel had an uneasiness — fear might be too strong a word — about bodies of water they could not step across or wade, but Couladin had managed to put barriers of floating logs across the Alguenya both above and below Cairhien, along with enough men to see they were not cut. Firearrows had done the rest. Nothing except rats and birds could get into or out of Cairhien without Couladin's leave.
The hills around the city showed little sign of a besieging army. Here and there vultures flapped heavily, no doubt feasting on the remains of some attempt to break out, but no Shaido were visible. Aiel seldom were unless they wanted to be.
Wait. Rand swung the looking glass back to a treeless hilltop perhaps a mile from the city walls. Back to a cluster of men. He could not discern faces, or much else aside from the fact that they all wore the cadin'sor. One thing more. One of those men had bare arms. Couladin. Rand was sure it must be imagination, but he thought that when Couladin moved he could see sunlight glittering off the metallic scales encircling the man's forearms in imitation of his own. Asmodean had put those there. Just an attempt to divert Rand's attention, to occupy him while Asmodean worked his own plans, but without that, how much would have turned out differently? Certainly, he would not be standing on this tower, watching a besieged city and awaiting a battle.
Suddenly, something streaked through the air on that distant hilltop, a long blur, and two of the men there went down thrashing. Staring at the fallen men, both apparently transfixed with the same spear, Couladin and the others seemed as stunned as Rand. Twisting the looking glass, Rand scanned for the man who had thrown with such force. He had to be brave — and a fool — to get close enough. Rand's search widened quickly, beyond any possible range of a human arm. He was beginning to think of Ogier — not likely; it took a great deal to rouse an Ogier into violence — when another streaking blur caught his eye.
Startled, he halfstraightened before jerking the glass back to Cairhien's walls. That spear — or whatever it was — had come from there. He was certain of it. How was another matter entirely. At this distance it was all he could do to make out an occasional someone moving on the wails or atop a tower.
Raising his head, Rand found Rhuarc just stepping away from the other looking glass, giving up his place to Han. That was the whole reason for the tower and the glasses. Scouts brought back what word they could of how the Shaido were deployed, but this way the chiefs could see for themselves the terrain on which the battle would be fought. They had worked out a plan between them already, but one more look at the land could never go amiss. Rand did not know much about battles, but Lan thought their plan a good one. At least, Rand did not know much in his own mind; sometimes those other memories crept in, and then he seemed to know more than he wanted.
“Did you see that? Those... spears?”
Rhuarc looked as puzzled as Rand knew he himself must, but the Aiel nodded. “The last took another Shaido, but he crawled away. Not Couladin, worse luck.” He gestured to the looking glass, and Rand let him take his place.
Was it such bad luck? Couladin's death would not end the threat to Cairhien, or to anywhere else. Now they were this side of the Dragonwall, the Shaido would not tamely return just because the man they thought was the true Car'a'carn died. It might well shake them, but not enough for that. And after all Rand had seen, he did not think Couladin deserved so easy a way out. I can be as hard as I must, he thought, stroking his sword hilt. For him, I can.
Chapter 42
(Dice)
Before the Arrow
The inside of a tent roof had to be the most boring sight in the world, but lying back in his shirtsleeves on scarlettasseled cushions that Melindhra had acquired, Mat studied the graybrown cloth intently. Or rather, he stared beyond it. One arm curled behind his head, he swirled a hammeredsilver goblet full of good wine from the south of Cairhien. A small cask had cost him as much as two good horses would — as much as two horses would have if the world and everything in it had not been stood on its head — but he counted it a small price for something decent. Sometimes a drop or two splashed over onto his hand, but he never noticed and he never took a drink.
By his book, matters had long since gone beyond merely serious. Serious was being stuck in the Waste with no idea of the way out. Serious was Darkfriends popping up when you least expected, Trolloc attacks in the night, the odd Myrddraal freezing your blood with an eyeless stare. That sort of thing came quickly, and usually was done before you had much chance to think. It was certainly not what you would seek out, yet if you had to, you could live with it if you could live through it. But for days he had known where they were heading, and why. Nothing quic
