Thom blinked, then considered the way Rand had looked. That coat had surely been fine enough for a lord. He was growing old, letting things like that slip by him. Ruefully, he realized he was considering whether to tell Zera the truth or let her continue thinking as she did. All it takes is to think about the Great Game, and I start playing it. “The boy is a shepherd, Zera, from the Two Rivers.”
She laughed scornfully. “And I'm the Queen of Ghealdan. I tell you, the Game has grown dangerous in Cairhien the last few years. Nothing like what you knew in Caemlyn. There are murders done, now. You'll have your throat cut for you, if you don't watch out.”
“I tell you, I am not in the Great Game any longer. That's all twenty years in the past, near enough.”
“Aye.” She did not sound as if she believed it. “But be that as it may, and young outland lords aside, you've begun performing at the lords' manors.”
“They pay well.”
“And they'll pull you into their plots as soon as they see how. They see a man, and think how to use him, as naturally as breathing. This young lord of yours won't help you; they will eat him alive.”
He gave up on trying to convince her he was out of it. “Is that what you came up to say, Zera?”
“Aye. Forget playing the Great Game, Thom. Marry Dena. She'll take you, the more fool her, bony and whitehaired as you are. Marry her, and forget this young lord and Daes Dae'mar.”
“I thank you for the advice,” he said dryly. Marry her? Burden her with an old husband. She'll never be a bard with my past hanging around her neck. “If you don't mind, Zera, I want to be alone for a while. I perform for Lady Arilyn and her guests tonight, and I need to prepare.”
She gave him a snort and a shake of her head and banged the door shut behind her.
Thom drummed his fingers on the table. Coat or no coat, Rand was still only a shepherd. If he had been more, if he had been what Thom once suspected — a man who could channel — neither Moiraine nor any other Aes Sedai would ever have let him walk away ungentled. Horn or no Horn, the boy was only a shepherd.
“He is out of it,” he said aloud, “and so am I.”
Chapter 27
(Horned Skull)
The Shadow in the Night
“I do not understand it,” Loial said. “I was winning, most of the time. And then Dena came in and joined the game, and she won it all right back. Every toss. She called it a little lesson. What did she mean by that?”
Rand and the Ogier were making their way through the Foregate, The Bunch of Grapes behind them. The sun sat low in the west, a red ball half below the horizon, throwing long shadows behind them. The street was empty save for one of the big puppets, a goathorned Trolloc with a sword at its belt, coming toward them with five men working the poles, but sounds of merriment drifted still from other parts of the Foregate, where the halls of entertainment and the taverns stood. Here, doors were already barred and windows shuttered.
Rand stopped fingering the wooden flute case and slung it on his back. I suppose I couldn't expect him to throw over everything and come with me, but at least he could talk to me. Light, I wish Ingtar would show up. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and felt Selene's note.
“You don't suppose she ...” Loial paused uncomfortably. “You don't suppose she cheated, do you? Everybody was grinning as if she were doing something clever.”
Rand shrugged at his cloak. I have to take the Horn and go. If we wait for Ingtar, anything can happen. Fain will come sooner or later. I have to stay ahead of him. The men with the puppet were almost to them.
“Rand,” Loial said suddenly, “I don't think that's a —”
Abruptly the men let their poles clatter to the packed dirt street; instead of collapsing, the Trolloc leaped for Rand with outstretched hands.
There was no time to think. Instinct brought the sword out of its sheath in a flashing arc. The Moon Rises Over the Lakes. The Trolloc staggered back with a bubbling cry, snarling even as it fell.
For an instant everyone stood frozen. Then the men — the Darkfriends, they had to be — looked from the Trolloc lying in the street to Rand, with the sword in his hands and Loial at his side. They turned and ran.
Rand was staring at the Trolloc, too. The void had surrounded him before his hand touched hilt; saidin shone in his mind, beckoning, sickening. With an effort, he made the void vanish, and licked his lips. Without the emptiness, fear crawled on his skin.
“Loial, we have to get back to the inn. Hurin's alone, and they—” He grunted as he was lifted into the air by a thick arm long enough to pin both of his to his chest. A hairy hand grabbed his throat. He caught sight of a tusked snout just over his head. A rank smell filled his nose, equal parts sour sweat and pigsty.
As quickly as it had seized him, the hand at his throat was torn away. Stunned, Rand stared at it, at the thick Ogier fingers clutching the Trolloc's wrist.
“Hold on, Rand.” Loial's voice sounded strained. The Ogier's other hand came around and took hold of the arm still holding Rand above the ground. “Hold on.”
Rand was shaken from side to side as Ogier and Trolloc struggled. Abruptly he fell free. Staggering, he took two steps to get clear and turned back with sword raised.
Standing behind the boarsnouted Trolloc, Loial had it by wrist and forearm, holding its arms spread wide, breathing hard with the effort. The Trolloc snarled gutturally in the harsh Trolloc tongue, throwing its head back in efforts to catch Loial with a tusk. Their boots scuffled across the dirt of the street.
Rand tried to find a place to put his blade in the Trolloc without hurting Loial, but Ogier and Trolloc spun in their rough dance so much that he could find no opening.
With a grunt, the Trolloc pulled its left arm free, but before it could loose itself completely, Loial snapped his own arm around its neck, hugging the creature close. The Trolloc clawed at its sword; the scythelike blade hung on the wrong side for lefthanded use, but inch by inch the dark steel began sliding out of the scabbard. And still they thrashed about so that Rand could not strike without risking Loial.
The Power. That could do it. How, he did not know, but he knew nothing else to try. The Trolloc had its sword half unsheathed. When the curved blade was bare, it would kill Loial.
Reluctantly, Rand formed the void. Saidin shone at him, pulled at him. Dimly, he seemed to recall a time when it had sung to him, but now it only drew him, a flower's perfume drawing a bee, a midden's stench drawing a fly. He opened himself up, reached for it. There was nothing there. He could as well have been reaching for light in truth. The taint slid off onto him, soiling him, but there was no flow of light inside him. Driven by a distant desperation, he tried again and again. And again and again