Verin reined in beside him. A murmur rose from the waiting line, but no one voiced a complaint aloud. “Trouble from the Whitecloaks, guardsman?”
Why are we stopping? Egwene wondered urgently. “Has she forgotten about Mat?”
“Not really, Aes Sedai,” the officer said. “No fighting. They tried to move into Eldone Market, the other side of the river, but we showed them better. The Amyrlin means to make sure they don't try again.”
“Verin Sedai,” Egwene began carefully, “Mat —”
“In a moment, child,” the Aes Sedai said, sounding only halfway absentminded. “I have not forgotten him.” Her attention went right back to the officer. “And the outlying villages?”
The man shrugged uncomfortably. “We can't keep the Whitecloaks out, Aes Sedai, but they move off when our patrols ride in. They seem to be trying to goad us.” Verin nodded, and would have ridden on, but the officer spoke again. “Pardon, Aes Sedai, but you've obviously come from a distance. Have you any news? Fresh rumors come upriver with every trading vessel. They say there's a new false Dragon out west somewhere. Why, they even say he has Artur Hawkwing's armies, back from the dead, following him, and that he killed a lot of Whitecloaks and destroyed a city — Falme, they call it — in Tarabon, some say.”
“They say Aes Sedai helped him!” a man's voice shouted from the waiting line. Hurin breathed deeply, and shifted himself as if he expected violence.
Egwene looked 'round, but there was no sign of whoever had shouted. Everyone appeared to be concerned only with waiting, patiently or impatiently, for their turn to cross. Things had changed, and not for the better. When she had left Tar Valon, any man who spoke against Aes Sedai would have been lucky to escape with a punch in the nose from whoever overheard. Red in the face, the officer was glaring down the line.
“Rumors are seldom true,” Verin told him. “I can tell you that Falme still stands. It isn't even in Tarabon, guardsman. Listen less to rumor, and more to the Amyrlin Seat. The Light shine on you.” She lifted her reins, and he bowed as she led the others past him.
The bridge struck Egwene with wonder, as the bridges of Tar Valon always did. The openwork walls looked intricate enough to tax the best craftswoman at her laceframe. It hardly seemed that such could have been done with stone, or that it could stand even its own weight. The river rolled, strong and steady, fifty paces or more below, and for all that half mile the bridge flowed unsupported from riverbank to island.
Even more wondrous, in its own way, was the feeling that the bridge was taking her home. More wondrous, and shocking. Emond's Field is my home. But it was in Tar Valon that she would learn what she must to keep her alive, to keep her free. It was in Tar Valon that she would learn — must learn — why her dreams disturbed her so, and why they sometimes seemed to have meanings she could not puzzle out. Tar Valon was where her life was tied, now. If she ever returned to Emond's Field — the “if” hurt, but she had to be honest — if she returned, it would be to visit, to see her parents. She had already gone beyond being an innkeeper's daughter. Those bonds would not hold her again, either, not because she hated them, but because she had outgrown them.
The bridge was only the beginning. It arched straight to the walls that surrounded the island, high walls of gleaming white, silverstreaked stone, whose tops looked down on the bridge's height. At intervals, guard towers interrupted the walls, of the same white stone, their massive footings washed by the river. But above the walls and beyond rose the true towers of Tar Valon, the towers of story, pointed spires and flutes and spirals, some connected by airy bridges a good hundred paces or more above the ground. And still only the beginning.
There were no guards on the bronzeclad gates, and they stood wide enough for twenty abreast to ride through, opening onto one of the broad avenues that crisscrossed the island. Spring might barely have come, but the air already smelled of flowers and perfumes and spices.
The city took Egwene's breath as if she had never seen it before. Every square and street crossing had its fountain, or its monument or statue, some atop great columns as high as towers, but it was the city itself that dazzled the eye. What was plain in form might have so many ornaments and carvings that it seemed an ornament itself, or, lacking decoration, used its form alone for grandeur. Great buildings and small, in stone of every color, looking like shells, or waves, or windsculpted cliffs, flowing and fanciful, captured from nature or the flights of men's minds. The dwellings, the inns, the very stables — even the most insignificant buildings in Tar Valon had been made for beauty. Ogier stonemasons had built most of the city in the long years after the Breaking of the World, and they maintained it had been their finest work.
Men and women of every nation thronged the streets. They were dark of skin, and pale, and everything in between, their garments in bright colors and patterns, or drab, but decked with fringes and braids and shining buttons, or stark and severe; showing more skin than Egwene thought proper, or revealing nothing but eyes and fingertips. Sedan chairs and litters wove through the crowds, the trotting bearers crying “Give way!” Closed carriages inched along, liveried coachmen shouting “Hiya!” and “Ho!” as if they believed they might achieve more than a walk. Street musicians played flute or harp or pipes, sometimes accompanying a juggler or an acrobat, always with a cap set out for coins. Wandering hawkers cried their wares, and shopkeepers standing in front of their shops shouted the excellence of their goods. A hum filled the city like the song of a thing alive.
Verin had pulled her cowl back up, hiding her face. No one seemed to be paying them any mind in these crowds, Egwene thought. Not even Mat in his horse litter drew a second glance, though some folk did edge away from it as they hurried past. People sometimes brought their sick to the White Tower for Healing, and whatever he had might be catching.
Egwene rode up beside Verin and leaned close. “Do you really expect trouble now? We are in the city. We are almost there.” The White Tower stood in plain sight now, the great building gleaming broad and tall above the rooftops.
“I always expect trouble,” Verin replied placidly, “and so should you. In the Tower most of all. You must all of you be more careful than ever, now. Your... tricks” — her mouth tightened for an instant before serenity returned — “frightened away the Whitecloaks, but inside the Tower they may well bring you