“Whatever it is,” she said, looking at her juggling, “leave it on the table. Thom will pay you when he comes back.”
“Are you Dena?” Rand asked.
She snatched the balls out of the air and turned to regard him. She was only a handful of years older than he, pretty, with fair Cairhienin skin and dark hair hanging loose to her shoulders. “I do not know you. This is my room, mine and Thom Merrilin's.”
“The innkeeper said you might let us wait here for Thom,” Rand said. “If you're Dena?”
“Us?” Rand moved into the room so Loial could duck inside, and the young woman's eyebrows lifted. “So the Ogier have come back. I am Dena. What do you want?” She looked at Rand's coat so deliberately that the failure to add “my Lord” had to be purposeful, though her brows went up again at the herons on his scabbard and sword hilt.
Rand hefted the bundle he carried. “I've brought Thom back his harp and his flute. And I want to visit with him,” he added quickly; she seemed on the point of telling him to leave them. “I haven't seen him in a long time.”
She eyed the bundle. “Thom always moans about losing the best flute and the best harp he ever had. You would think he was a courtbard, the way he carries on. Very well. You can wait, but I must practice. Thom says he will let me perform in the halls next week.” She rose gracefully and took one of the two chairs, motioning Loial to sit on the bed. “Zera would make Thom pay for six chairs if you broke one of these, friend Ogier.”
Rand gave their names as he sat in the other chair — it creaked alarmingly under even his weight — and asked doubtfully, “Are you Thom's apprentice?”
Dena gave a small smile. “You might say that.” She had resumed her juggling, and her eyes were on the whirling balls.
“I have never heard of a woman gleeman,” Loial said.
“I will be the first.” The one big circle became two smaller, overlapping circles. “I will see the whole world before I am done. Thom says once we have enough money, we will go down to Tear.” She switched to juggling three balls in each hand. “And then maybe out to the Sea Folk's islands. The Atha'an Miere pay gleemen well.”
Rand eyed the room, with all the chests and trunks. It did not look like the room of someone intending to move on soon. There was even a flower growing in a pot on the windowsill. His gaze fell on the single big bed, where Loial was sitting. This is my room, mine and Thom Merrilin's. Dena gave him a challenging look through the large wheel she had resumed. Rand's face reddened.
He cleared his throat. “Maybe we ought to wait downstairs,” he began when the door opened and Thom came in with his cloak flapping around his ankles, patches fluttering. Cased flute and harp hung on his back; the cases were reddish wood, polished by handling.
Dena made the balls disappear inside her dress and ran to throw her arms around Thom's neck, standing atiptoe to do it. “I missed you,” she said, and kissed him.
The kiss went on for some time, so long that Rand was beginning to wonder if he and Loial should leave, but Dena let her heels drop to the floor with a sigh.
“Do you know what that lackwit Seaghan's done now, girl?” Thom said, looking down at her. “He's taken on a pack of louts who call themselves 'players.' They walk around pretending to be Rogosh Eagleeye, and Blaes, and Gaidal Cain, and... Aaagh! They hang a scrap of painted canvas behind them, supposed to make the audience believe these fools are in Matuchin Hall, or the high passes of the Mountains of Dhoom. I make the listener see every banner, smell every battle, feel every emotion. I make them believe they are Gaidal Cain. Seaghan will have his hall torn down around his ears if he puts this lot on to follow me.”
“Thom, we have visitors. Loial, son of Arent son of Halan. Oh, and a boy who calls himself Rand al'Thor.”
Thom looked over her head at Rand, frowning. “Leave us for a while, Dena. Here.” He pressed some silver coins into her hand. “Your knives are ready. Why don't you go pay Ivon for them?” He brushed her smooth cheek with a gnarled knuckle. “Go on. I'll make it up to you.”
She gave him a dark look, but she tossed her cloak around her shoulders, muttering, “Ivon better have the balance right.”
“She'll be a bard one day,” Thom said with a note of pride after she was gone. “She listens to a tale once — once only, mind! — and she has it right, not just the words, but every nuance, every rhythm. She has a fine hand on the harp, and she played the flute better the first time she picked it up than you ever did.” He set the wooden instrument cases atop one of the larger trunks, then dropped into the chair she had abandoned. “When I passed through Caemlyn on the way here, Basel Gill told me you'd left in company with an Ogier. Among others.” He bowed toward Loial, even managing a flourish of his cloak despite the fact that he was sitting on it. “I am pleased to meet you, Loial, son of Arent son of Halan.”
“And I to meet you, Thom Merrilin.” Loial stood to make his bow in return; when he straightened, his head almost brushed the ceiling, and he quickly sat down again. “The young woman said she wants to be a gleeman.”
Thom's head shake was disparaging. “That's no life for a woman. Not much of a life for a man, for that. Wandering from town to town, village to village, wondering how they'll try to cheat you this time, half the time wondering where your next meal is coming from. No, I'll talk her around. She'll be Courtbard to a king or a queen before she's done. Aaaah! You didn't come here to talk about Dena. My instruments, boy. You've brought them?”
Rand pushed the bundle across the table. Thom undid it hurriedly — he blinked when he saw it was his old cloak, all covered with colorful patches like the one he wore — and opened the hard leather flute case, nodding at the sight of the goldandsilver flute nestled inside.
“I earned my bed and meals with that after we parted,” Rand said.
“I know,” the gleeman replied dryly. “I stopped at some of the same inns, but I had to make do with juggling and a few simple stories since you had my — You didn't touch the harp?” He pulled open the other dark leather case and took out a goldandsilver harp as ornate as the flute, cradling it in his hands like a baby. “Your clumsy sheepherder's fingers were never
