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While Rand was idly watching men fold his tent onto a high-wheeled cart, Weiramon appeared on one of his many horses, a prancing white gelding of the finest Tairen bloodstock. The rain had cleared, though gray clouds still veiled the noonday sun and the air felt as if you could squeeze water out of it with your hands. The Dragon Ba
Tairen Defenders had replaced the Companions, and as Weiramon rode through their mounted ring, he frowned at Rodrivar Tihera, a lean fellow, dark even for a Tairen, with a short beard trimmed to a very sharp point. A very minor noble who had had to rise through his abilities, Tihera was punctilious in the extreme. The fat white plumes bobbing on his rimmed helmet added embellishment to the elaborate bow he gave Weiramon. The High Lord’s frown deepened.
There was no need for the Captain of the Stone to be personally in charge of Rand’s bodyguard, but he frequently was, just as Marcolin often commanded the Companions himself. An often bitter rivalry had grown up between Defenders and Companions, centering on who should guard Rand. The Tairens claimed the right because he had ruled longer in Tear, the Illianers because he was, after all, King of Illian. Perhaps Weiramon had heard some of the mutters among the Defenders that it was time Tear had a king of its own, and who better than the man who had taken the Stone? Weiramon more than agreed with the need, but not with the choice of who should wear the crown. He was not the only one.
The man smoothed his features as soon as he saw Rand looking, and swung down from his gold-tooled saddle to offer a bow that made Tihera’s seem simple. Iron-spined as he was, he could puff up and strut in his sleep. Though he did grimace slightly at putting his polished boot into the mud. He wore a rain cape, to keep the mist off his fine clothes, but even that was encrusted with gold embroidery and had a collar of sapphires. For all of Rand’s coat of deep green silk, with golden bees climbing the sleeves and lapels, anyone might have been forgiven for thinking the Crown of Swords belonged on the other’s head, not his.
"My Lord Dragon," Weiramon intoned. "I ca
"Sooner or later it would," Rand said dryly. After a good part of it finished celebrating. "I know how hard you’d cry, Weiramon."
The fellow actually preened, stroking the point of his gray-streaked beard. He heard what he wanted to hear. "Yes, my Lord Dragon, you can be assured of my constancy. Which is why I’m concerned by the orders your man brought me this morning." That was Adley; many of the nobles thought pretending the Asha’man were merely Rand’s servants would somehow make them less dangerous. "Wise of you to send away most of the Cairhienin. And the Illianers, of course; that goes without saying. I can even understand why you limit Gueyam and the others." Weiramon’s boots squelched in the mud as he stepped nearer, and his voice took on a confiding tone. "I do believe some of them – I wouldn’t say plottedagainst you, but I think perhaps their loyalty has not always been without question. As mine is. Without question." His voice shifted again, to strong and confident, a man concerned only with the needs of the one he served. The one who surely would make himthe first King of Tear. "Allow me to bring all of my armsmen, my Lord Dragon. With them, and the Defenders, I can assure the honor of the Lord of the Morning, and his safety."
In all of the individual camps across the heath, wagons and carts were being loaded, horses saddled. Most tents were already down. The High Lady Rosana was riding north, her ba
"Your concern touches me," Rand told Weiramon, "but how many bodyguards does one man need? I’m not off to start a war." A fine point, perhaps, yet this war was well under way. It had begun at Falme, if not before. "Get your people ready."
How many have died for my pride?Lews Therin moaned. How many have died for my mistakes?
"May I at least ask wherewe are going?" Weiramon’s question, not quite exasperated, came right atop the voice in Rand’s head.
"The City," Rand snapped. He did not know how many had died for his mistakes, but none for his pride. He was sure of that.
Weiramon opened his mouth, plainly confused as to whether he meant Tear or Illian, or maybe even Cairhien, but Rand gestured him away with the Dragon Scepter, a sharp stabbing motion that made the green-and-white tassel swing. He half wished he could stab Lews Therin with it. "I don’t intend to sit here all day, Weiramon! Go to your men!"
Less than an hour later he took hold of the True Source and prepared to make a gateway for Traveling. He had to fight the dizziness that gripped him lately whenever he seized or loosed the Power; he did not quite sway in Tai’daishar’s saddle. What with the molten filth floating on saidin, the frozen slime, touching the Source came close to emptying his stomach. Seeing double, even for only a few moments, made weaving flows difficult if not impossible, and he could have told Dashiva or Fli
The City he had meant was Illian, though the gateway opened to the north of that city. Despite Weiramon’s supposed concerns, he hardly went unprotected and alone. Nearly three thousand men rode through that tall square hole in the air, into rolling meadowland not far from the broad muddy road that led down to the Causeway of the Northern Star. Even when every lord had only been allowed a handful of armsmen – to men accustomed to leading a thousand if not thousands, a hundred or so were a handful – they added up. Tairens and Cairhienin and Illianers, Defenders of the Stone under Tihera and Companions under Marcolin, Asha’man heeling Gedwyn. The Asha’man who had come with him, anyway. Dashiva and Fli