The Path of Daggers

Rand did not see. Torean had a flask in his saddlebags, no doubt brandy, or maybe several flasks, because he drank steadily and never appeared to run dry. Semaradrid and Marcolin and Tihera each appeared in front of Rand to protest the numbers with somber faces. A few years before, close on six thousand men would have been army enough for any war, but they had seen armies in the tens of thousands, now, hundreds of thousands, as in Artur Hawkwing’s day, and to go against the Seanchan, they wanted far more. He sent them away disgruntled. They did not understand that fifty-odd Asha’man were as big a hammer as anyone could wish for. Rand wondered what they would have said had he told them he was hammer enough by himself. He had considered doing this by himself. It might come to that yet.

Weiramon came; he did not like having to take orders from Bashere, or the fact that they were going into mountains — very hard to mount a decent charge in mountains — or several other things — Rand was certain there were at least several more — that Rand did not let him utter.

'The Saldaean seems to believe I should ride on the right flank,' Weiramon muttered disparagingly. He twisted his shoulders as though the right flank were a great insult, for some reason. 'And the foot, my Lord Dragon. Really, I think —'

'I think you should get your men ready,' Rand said coldly. Part of the chill was the effect of floating in emotionless emptiness. 'Or you won’t be on any flank.' He meant that he would leave the man behind if he was not ready in time. Surely such a fool could not make much trouble left in this remote spot with only a few armsmen. Rand would be back before he could ride to anything larger than a village.

Blood drained from Weiramon’s face, though. 'As my Lord Dragon commands,' he said, briskly for him, and was whirling his horse away before the words were well out of his mouth. His mount was a tall deep-chested bay, today.

The pale Lady Ailil reined to a stop in front of Rand, accompanied by the High Lady Anaiyella, a strange pair to be in company, and not just because their nations hated one another. Ailil was tall for a Cairhienin woman, if only for a Cairhienin, and everything about her was dignity and precision, from the arch of her eyebrow to the turn of her red-gloved wrist to the way her pearl-collared rain cape lay spread across the rump of her smoke-gray mare. Unlike Semaradrid or Marcolin, Weiramon or Tihera, she did not so much as blink at the sight of raindrops sliding down nothing around him. Anaiyella did blink. And gasp. And titter behind her hand. Anaiyella was willowy and darkly beautiful, her rain cape collared with rubies and embroidered with gold besides, but there any resemblance to Ailil ended. Anaiyella was all mincing elegance and simpers. When she bowed, her white gelding did, too, bending its forelegs. The prancing animal was showy, but Rand suspected it had no bottom. Like its mistress.

'My Lord Dragon,' Ailil said, 'I must make one more protest against my inclusion in this… expedition.' Her voice was coolly neutral, if not exactly unfriendly. 'I will send my retainers where you command and when, but I have no desire at all to be in the thick of a battle.'

'Oh, no,' Anaiyella added, with a delicate shudder. Even her tone simpered! 'Nasty things, battles. So my Master of the Horse says. Surely you won’t really make us go, my Lord Dragon? We’ve heard you have a particular care for women. Haven’t we, Ailil?'

Rand was so astonished that the Void collapsed, and saidin vanished. Raindrops began to trickle through his hair and seep through his coat, but for a moment, clutching his saddle’s high pommel to hold himself upright, seeing four women instead of two, he was too stunned to notice. How much did they know? They had heard? How many people knew? How did anyone know? Light, rumor had him killing Morgase, Elayne, Colavaere, a hundred women probably, and each in a worse way than the last! He swallowed against the urge to sick up. That was only partly saidin’s fault. Burn me, how many spies are there watching me? The thought was a growl.

The dead watch, Lews Therin whispered. The dead never close their eyes. Rand shivered.

'I do try to be careful of women,' he told them when he could speak. Faster than a man, and for half the reason. 'That’s why I want keep you close the next few days. But if you really dislike the idea so much, I could tell off one of the Asha’man. You’d be safe at the Black Tower.' Anaiyella squeaked prettily, but her face went gray.

'Thank you, no,' Ailil said after a moment, absolutely calm. 'I suppose I had best confer with my lance- captain about what to expect.' But she paused in turning her mare away, and regarded Rand with a sidelong look. 'My brother Toram is… impetuous, my Lord Dragon. Even rash. I am not.'

Anaiyella smiled much too sweetly at Rand, and actually wriggled slightly before following, but once she faced away from him, she dug in her heels and worked her jewel-handled quirt, quickly passing the other woman. That white gelding showed a surprising turn of speed.

At last all was ready, the columns formed, snaking back over the low hills.

'Begin,' Rand told Gedwyn, who wheeled his horse and began barking orders to his men. The eight Dedicated rode forward and dismounted on the ground they had memorized, facing the mountains. One of them looked familiar, a grizzled fellow whose pointed Tairen beard appeared odd on his wrinkled countryman’s face. Eight vertical lines of sharp blue light turned and became openings that showed slightly different views of a long, sparsely wooded mountain valley rising to a steep pass. In Altara. In the Venir Mountains.

Kill them, Lews Therin wept pleadingly. They’re too dangerous to live! Without thought, Rand suppressed the voice. Another man channeling often brought that reaction from Lews Therin, or even a man who could. He no longer wondered why.

Rand muttered a command, and Flinn blinked in surprise before hurrying to join the line and weave a ninth gateway. None was as large as Rand could make, but any would pass a cart, if closely. He had intended to do that himself, but he did not want to chance seizing saidin again in front of everyone. He noticed Gedwyn and Rochaid watching him, wearing identical knowing smiles. And Dashiva as well, frowning, lips moving as he talked to himself. Was it his imagination, or was Narishma eyeing him askance too? And Adley? Morr?

Rand shivered before he could stop himself. Mistrust of Gedwyn and Rochaid was simple sense, but was he coming down with what Nynaeve had called the dreads? A kind of madness, a crippling dark suspicion of everyone and everything? There had been a Coplin, Benly, who thought everybody was scheming against him. He had starved to death when Rand was a boy, refusing to eat for fear of poison.

Ducking low on Tai’daishar’s neck, Rand heeled the gelding through the largest gateway. Flinn’s, as it happened, but he would have ridden through one made by Gedwyn right then. He was the first onto Altaran soil.

The others followed quickly, the Asha’man first of all. Dashiva stared in Rand’s direction, frowning, and Narishma, too, but Gedwyn immediately began directing his Soldiers. One by one, they rushed forward, opened a gateway and darted through, dragging their mounts behind them. Ahead up the valley, bright flashes of light told of gateways opening and closing. The Asha’man could Travel short distances without first memorizing the ground they left from, and cover ground far faster than riding. In short order, only Gedwyn and Rochaid remained, aside from the Dedicated holding the gateways. The others would be fanning out westward, searching for Seanchan. The Saldaeans were through from Illian, and mounting. Legionmen spread into the trees at a trot, crossbows held ready. In this country, they could move as fast afoot as men on horseback.

As the rest of the army began emerging, Rand rode up the valley in the direction the Asha’man had gone. Mountains rose high behind him, a wall fronting the Deep, but west the peaks ran almost to Ebou Dar. He quickened the gelding’s pace to a canter.

Bashere caught him before he reached the pass. The man’s bay was small — most of the Saldaeans rode small horses — but quick. 'No Seanchan here, it seems,' he said almost idly, stroking his mustaches with a knuckle. 'But there could have been. Tenobia’s likely to have my head on a pike soon enough for following a live Dragon Reborn, much more a dead one.'

Rand scowled. Maybe he could take Flinn, to watch his back, and Narishma, and… Flinn had saved his life; the man had to be true. Men could change, though. And Narishma? Even after…? He felt cold at the risk he had taken. Not the dreads. Narishma had proved true, but it still had been a mad risk. As mad as running from stares he was not even sure were real, running to where he had no notion what was waiting. Bashere was right, but Rand did not want to talk about it further.

The slopes leading up into the pass were bare stone and boulders of all sizes, but among the natural stone