Ordeith moved to the table and took up one of the drawings. As he unrolled it enough to reveal the young man's face, his smile deepened to nearly a grimace.
Niall was still irritated that the man had come unsummoned. “You find a false Dragon funny, Ordeith. Or does he frighten you?”
“A false Dragon?” Ordeith said softly. “Yes. Yes, of course, it must be. Who else could it be.” And he barked a shrill laugh that grated on Niall's nerves. Sometimes Niall thought Ordeith was at least halfmad.
But he is clever, mad or not. “What do you mean, Ordeith? You sound as if you know him.”
Ordeith gave a start, as though he had forgotten the Lord Captain Commander was there. “Know him? Oh, yes, I know him. His name is Rand al'Thor. He comes from the Two Rivers, in the backcountry of Andor, and he is a Darkfriend so deep in the Shadow it would make your soul cringe to know the half.”
“The Two Rivers,” Niall mused. “Someone else mentioned another Darkfriend from there, another youth. Strange to think of Darkfriends coming from a place like that. But truly they are everywhere.”
“Another, Great Lord?” Ordeith said. “From the Two Rivers? Would that be Matrim Cauthon or Perrin Aybara? They are of an age with him, and close behind in evil.”
“His name was given as Perrin,” Niall said, frowning. “Three of them, you say? Nothing comes out of the Two Rivers but wool and tabac. I doubt if there is another place men live that is more isolated from the rest of the world.”
“In a city, Darkfriends must hide their nature to one extent or another. They must associate with others, with strangers come from other places and leaving to take word of what they have seen. But in quiet villages, cut off from the world, where few outsiders ever go... What better places for all to be Darkfriends?”
“How is it you know the names of three Darkfriends, Ordeith? Three Darkfriends from the far end of forever. You keep too many secrets, Wormwood, and pull more surprises from your sleeve than a gleeman.”
“How can any man tell all that he knows, Great Lord,” the little man said smoothly. “It would be only prattle, until it becomes useful. I will tell you this, Great Lord. This Rand al'Thor, this Dragon, has deep roots in the Two Rivers.”
“False Dragon!” Niall said sharply, and the other man bowed.
“Of course, Great Lord. I misspoke myself.”
Suddenly Niall became aware of the drawing crumpled and torn in Ordeith's hands. Even while the man's face remained smooth except for that sardonic smile, his hands twitched convulsively around the parchment.
“Stop that!” Niall commanded. He snatched the drawing away from Ordeith and smoothed it as best he could. “I do not have so many likenesses of this man that I can allow them to be destroyed.” Much of the drawing was only a smudge, and a rip ran across the young man's breast, but miraculously the face was untouched.
“Forgive me, Great Lord.” Ordeith made a deep bow, his smile never slipping. “I hate Darkfriends.”
Niall studied the face in chalks. Rand al'Thor, of the Two Rivers. “Perhaps I must make plans for the Two Rivers. When the snows clear. Perhaps.”
“As the Great Lord wishes,” Ordeith said blandly.
The grimace on Carridin's face as he strode through the halls of the Fortress made other men avoid him, though in truth few sought the company of Questioners. Servants, hurrying about their tasks, tried to fade into the stone walls, and even men with golden knots of rank on their white cloaks took side corridors when they saw his face.
He flung open the door to his rooms and slammed it behind him, feeling none of the usual satisfaction at the fine carpets from Tarabon and Tear in lush reds and golds and blues, the beveled mirrors from Illian, the goldleaf work on the long, intricately carved table in the middle of the floor. A master craftsman from Lugard had worked nearly a year on that. This time he barely saw it.
“Sharbon!” For once his body servant did not appear. The man was supposed to be readying the rooms. “The Light burn you, Sharbon! Where are you?”
A movement caught the corner of his eye, and he turned ready to shrivel Sharbon with his curses. The curses themselves shriveled as a Myrddraal took another step toward him with the sinuous grace of a serpent.
It was a man in form, no larger than most, but there the resemblance ended. Dead black clothes and cloak, hardly seeming to stir as it moved, made its maggotwhite skin appear ever paler. And it had no eyes. That eyeless gaze filled Carridin with fear, as it had filled thousands before.
“Wha...” Carridin stopped to work moisture back into his mouth, to try bringing his voice back down to its normal register. “What are you doing here?” It still sounded shrill.
The Halfman's bloodless lips quirked in a smile. “Where there is shadow, there may I go.” Its voice sounded like a snake rustling through dead leaves. “I like to keep a watch on all those who serve me.”
“I ser...”
It was no use. With an effort Carridin jerked his eyes away from that smooth expanse of pale, pasty face and turned his back. A shiver ran down his spine, having his back to a Myrddraal. Everything was sharp in the mirror on the wall in front of him. Everything but the Halfman. The Myrddraal was an indistinct blur. Hardly soothing to look at, but better than meeting that stare. A little strength returned to Carridin's voice.
“I serve the...” He cut off, suddenly aware of where he was. In the heart of the Fortress of the Light. The rumor of a whisper of the words he was about to say would have him given to the Hand of the Light. The lowest of the Children would strike him down on the spot if he heard. He was alone except for the Myrddraal, and perhaps Sharbon — Where is that cursed man? It would be good to have someone to share the Halfman's stare, even if the other would have to be disposed of afterwards — but still he lowered his voice. “I serve the Great Lord of the Dark, as you do. We both serve.”
“If you wish to see it so.” The Myrddraal laughed, a sound that made Carridin's bones shiver. “Still, I will know why you are here instead of on Almoth Plain.”
“I was commanded here by word of the Lord Captain Commander.”
The Myrddraal grated, “Your Lord Captain Commander's words are dung! You were commanded to find the human called Rand al'Thor and kill him. That before all else. Above all else! Why a