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In the deeps towards the North Wall, there were no palaces, only shops and taverns. The streets were crowded with people, including pickpockets and thieves. Lan and Bukama struggled to find a place to stay until they stumbled upon an inn where the innkeeper, Russell, greeted them warmly. However, things took a turn when Russell kissed Bukama twice, and Lan's friend Rhyne joined them at their table. They discussed their recent experiences and Lan learned that Lady Aral had raised the golden crane in his name, gathering followers. Lan felt a sense of unease and went to tend to his horse in the stable. He encountered a groom who seemed fearful of him, and as he paced, he became aware of his own tension and the grip on his sword. CHAPTER 16 THE DEEPS No palaces rose in the hollows toward the North Wall, only shops and taverns, inns and stables and wagon-yards. Bustle surrounded the factor's long warehouses, but no carriages came to the deeps, and most streets were barely wide enough for carts. They were just as jammed with people as the wideways, though, and every bit as noisy. Here the street performer's finery was tarnished, yet they made up for it by being louder, and buyers and sellers alike bellowed as if trying to be heard in the next street. Likely some of the crowd were cutpurses, slip-fingers, and other thieves, finished with the morning's business higher up, or headed there for the afternoon. It would have been a wonder otherwise, with so many merchants in town. The second time Unseen Fingers brushed his coat in the crowd, Land tucked his purse under his shirt. Any banker would advance him more against the shinar and estate he had been granted on reaching manhood, but loss of the gold on hand meant accepting the hospitality of stag-stand. At the first three inns they tried—slate-roofed cubes of gray stone with bright signs out front—the innkeepers had not a cubby-hole to offer. Lesser traders and merchants' guards filled them to the attics. Bukama began to mutter about making a bed in a hayloft, yet he never mentioned the feather mattresses and linens waiting on the stand. Riding their horses with hostlers in a fourth inn, the blue rose. Lan entered determined to find some place for them if it took the rest of the day. Inside, a graying woman, tall and handsome, presided over a crowded common-room where talk and laughter almost drowned out the slender girl singing to the music of her zither. Pipe-smoke wreathed the ceiling beams, and the smell of roasting lamb floated from the kitchens. As soon as the innkeeper saw Lan and Bukama, she gave her blue-striped apron a twitch and strode toward them, dark eyes sharp. Before Lan could open his mouth, she seized Bukama's ears, pulled his head down, and kissed him. Kandori women were seldom retiring, but even so it was a remarkably thorough kiss in front of so many eyes. Pointing fingers and snickering grins flashed among the tables. It's good to see you again, too, Russell, Bukama murmured with a small smile when she finally released him. I didn't know you had an inn here. Do you think—? He lowered his gaze, rather than meeting her eyes rudely, and that proved a mistake. Russell's fist caught his jaw so hard that his hair flailed as he staggered. Six years without a word, she snapped. Six years! Grabbing his ears again, she gave him another kiss, longer this time. Took it rather than gave. A sharp twist of his ears made every attempt to do anything besides standing bent over and letting her do as she wished. At least she would not put a knife in his heart if she was kissing him. Perhaps not. I think Mistress Harafni might find Bukama a room somewhere, a man's familiar voice said dryly behind Lan. And you, too, I suppose. Turning, Lan clasped forearms with the only man in the room beside Bukama of a height with him, Rhyne Venomar, his oldest friend except for Bukama. The innkeeper still had Bukama occupied as Rhyne led Lan to a small round table in the corner. Five years older, Rhyne was no carey, too, but his hair fell in two long bell-laced braids, and more silver bells lined the turned-down tops of his boots and ran up the sleeves of his yellow coat. Bukama did not exactly dislike Rhyne—not exactly—yet in his present mood only Nazar Kuranin could have had a worse effect. While the pair of them were settling themselves on benches, a serving-maid in a striped apron brought hot-spiced wine. Apparently Rhyne had ordered it as soon as he saw Lan. Dark-eyed and full-lipped, she stared Lan up and down openly as she set his mug in front of him, then whispered her name, Lyra, in his ear, and an invitation if he was staying the night. All he wanted that night was sleep, so he lowered his gaze, murmuring that she honored him too much. Lyra did not let him finish. With a raucous laugh she bent to bite his ear hard. By tomorrow, she announced in a throaty voice and loudly, I'll have honored you till your knees won't hold you up. Raucous laughter flared at the tables around them. Rhyne forestalled any possibility of writing matters, tossing her a fat coin and giving her a slap on the bottom to send her off. Lyra offered him a dimpled smile as she slipped the silver into the neck of her dress, but she left sending smoky glances over her shoulder at Lan that made him sigh. If he tried to say no now, she might well pull a knife over the insult. So your luck still holds with women, too. Rhyne's laugh had an edge. Perhaps he fancied her himself. The light knows they can't find you handsome. You get uglier every year. Maybe I ought to try some of that coy modesty. Let women lead me by the nose. Lan opened his mouth, then took a drink instead of speaking. He should not have to explain, but it was too late for explanation with Rhyne in any case. His father had taken him to RFL the year Lan turned ten. The man wore a single blade on his hip instead of two on his back, yet he was RFLing to his toenails. He actually started conversations with women who had not spoken to him first. Lan, raised by Bukama and his friends in Shinar, had been surrounded by a small community who held the Malkyrie ways. If Lyra did share his bed tonight, as seemed certain, she would discover there was nothing shy or retiring about him once there were a bed. Yet the woman chose when to enter that bed and when to leave. A number of people around the room were watching their table, sidelong glances over mugs and goblets. A plump, copper-skinned woman, wearing a much thicker dress than Domani women usually did, made no effort to hide her stares as she spoke excitedly to a fellow with curled mustaches and a large pearl in his ear, probably wondering whether there would be trouble over Lyra, wondering whether a man wearing the Hadori really would kill at the drop of a pin. I didn't expect to find you in Candlewom, Lan said, setting the wine mug down. Guarding a merchant train, Bukama and the innkeeper were nowhere to be seen. Rhyne shrugged. "'Out of Sho'ar Bella, the luckiest trader in Arafel,' they say, said. Much good it did him. We arrived yesterday and last night footpads slid his throat two streets over. No return money for me this trip.' He flashed a rueful grin and took a deep pull at his wine, perhaps to the memory of the merchant, or perhaps to the lost half of his wages. "'Burn me if I thought to see you here, either.' You shouldn't listen to rumors, Rhyne. I've not taken a wound worth mentioning since I rode south." Lan decided to twit Bukama, if they did get a room, about whether it was already paid for and how. Indignation might take him out of his darkness. "'The Aiel,' Rhyne snorted. I never thought they could put paid to you.' He had never faced Aiel, of course. "'I expected you to be wherever Eddaen Aral is. Chaachin, now I hear.' That name snapped Lan's head back to the man across the table. "'Why should I be near the Lady Aral?' he demanded softly. Softly but emphasizing her proper title. "'Easy, man,' Rhyne said. "'I didn't mean—' Wisely he abandoned that line. "'Burn me. Do you mean to say you haven't heard? She's raised the golden crane. In your name, of course. Half the year turned, she's been from Felmoran to Maradan, and coming back now.' Rhyne shook his head, the bells in his braids chiming faintly. "'There must be two or three hundred men right here in Canlum ready to follow her. You, I mean. Some you'd not believe.' Old Curonan wept when he heard her speak. "'All ready to carve Malkia out of the Blight again.' "'What dies in the Blight is gone,' Lan said wearily. He felt more than cold inside. Suddenly Seroku's surprise that he intended to ride north took on new meaning, and the young guard's assertion that he stood ready. Even the looks here in the common room seemed different. Auntie Dain was part of it. Always she liked standing in the heart of the storm. "'I must see to my horse,' he told Rhyne, scraping his bench back. Rhyne said something about making a round of the taverns that night, but Lan hardly heard. He hurried through the kitchens, hot from iron stoves and stone ovens and open hearths, into the cool of the stable-yard, the mingled smells of horse and hay and wood-smoke. A greylark warbled on the edge of the stable-roof. Greylarks came even before robins in the spring. Greylarks had been singing in Falmoran when a Dain first whispered in his ear. The horses had already been stabled, bridles and saddles and pack-saddle atop saddle-blankets on the stall-doors, but the wicker-hampers were gone. Plainly Mistress Aurovne had sent word to the Ostlers that he and Bukama were being given accommodation. There was only a single groom in the dim stable, a lean, hard-faced woman mucking out. Silently she watched him check Cat-Dancer and the other horses as she worked, watched him begin to pace the length of the straw-covered floor. He tried to think, but a Dain's name kept spinning through his head, a Dain's face surrounded by silky black hair that hung below her waist, a beautiful face with large dark eyes that could drink a man's soul even when filled with command. After a bit the groom mumbled something in his direction, touching her lips and forehead, and hurriedly shoved her half-filled barrow out of the stable, glancing over her shoulder at him. She paused to shut the doors, and did that hurriedly too, sealing him in shadow broken only by a little light from open hay-doors in the loft. Last motes danced in the pale golden shafts. Land grimaced. Was she that afraid of a man wearing the hadori? Did she think his pacing a threat? Abruptly he became aware of his hands running over the long hilt of his sword, aware of the tightness in his own face. Pacing? No, he had been in the walking stance called Leopard in High Grass, used when there were enemies on all sides. He needed calm. Finding himself cross-legged on a bale of straw, he assumed the codi and floated in calm emptiness, one with the bale beneath him, the stable, the scabbarded sword folded behind him. He could feel the horses cropping at their mangers, and flies buzzing in the corners. They were all part of him, especially the sword. This time, though, it was only the motionless void that he saw it. From his belt pouch he took a heavy gold signet-ring, worked with a flying crane, and turned it over and over in his fingers. The ring of Malkyrie Kings, worn by men who had held back the Shadow nine hundred years and more. Countless times it had been remade as time wore it down. Always the old ring melted to become part of the new. Some particle might still exist in it of the ring worn by the rulers of Ramdashar that had lived before Malkyr, and Aramael that had been before Ramdashar. That piece of metal represented over three thousand years fighting the Blight. It had been his almost as long as he had lived, but he had never worn it. Even looking at the ring was a labor usually, one he disciplined himself to every day. Without the emptiness, he did not think he could have done so today. In Kodi, thought floated free, and emotion lay beyond the horizon. In his cradle he had been given four gifts—the ring in his hands, and the locket that hung around his neck, the sword on his hip, and an oath sworn in his name. The locket, containing the painted images of the mother and father he could not remember seeing in life, was the most precious, the oath the heaviest. To stand against the shadow so long as iron is hard and stone abides, to defend the Malkyri while one drop of blood remains, to avenge what cannot be defended. And then he had been anointed with oil, and named Daishan, consecrated as the next king of Malkyr, and sent away from a land that knew it would die. Nothing remained to be defended now, only a nation to avenge, and he had been trained to that from his first step. With his mother's gift at his throat and his father's sword in his hand, with the ring branded on his heart, he had fought from his sixteenth nameday to avenge Malkyr. But never had he led men into the Blight. Bukhama had ridden with him and others, but he would not lead men there. That war was his alone. The dead could not be returned to life, a land any more than a man. Only now Hedane Arrow wanted to try. Her name echoed in the emptiness within him. A hundred emotions loomed like stark mountains, but he fed them into the flame until all was still, until his heart beat time with the slow stamping of the stalled horses, and the fly's wings beat rapid counterpoint to his breath. She was his karnayira, his first lover. A thousand years of tradition shouted that, despite the stillness that enveloped him. He had been fifteen, Hedane more than twice that, when she gathered the hair that had still hung to his waist in her hands and whispered her intentions. Women had still called him beautiful then, enjoying his blushes, and for half a year she had enjoyed parading him around on her arm and tucking him into her bed. Until Bukhama and the other men gave him the hadori, the gift of his sword on his tenth name-day had made him a man by custom along the border, though years early for it. Yet among Malkyari that band of braided leather had been more important. Once that was tied around his head, he alone decided where he went and when and why, and the dark song of the blight had become a howl that drowned every other sound. The oath that had murmured so long in his heart became a dance his feet had to follow. Ten years passed now that Hedane had watched him ride away from Thalmoran and been gone when he returned, yet he still could recall her face more clearly than that of any woman who had shared his bed since. He was no longer a boy to think that she loved him just because she had chosen to become his first lover. Yet there was an old saying among Malkyari men. Your kani-ira wears part of your soul as a ribbon in her hair forever. Custom strong as law made it so. By the stable doors creaked open, to admit Bukama, coatless, shirt tucked raggedly into his breeches. He looked naked without his sword. As if hesitant, he carefully opened both doors wide before coming all the way in. What are you going to do? he said finally. Rassel told me about—about the Golden Crane. Lann tucked the ring away, letting emptiness drain from him. Hedane's face suddenly seemed everywhere, just beyond the edge of sight. Rhine says even Nazar Kiranen is ready to follow, he said lightly. Wouldn't that be a sight to see? An army could die trying to defeat the Blight. Armies had died trying. But the memories of Malkyar already were dying. A nation was memory as much as land. That boy at the gates might let his hair grow and ask his father for the Hadori. People were forgetting, trying to forget. When the last man who bound his hair was gone, the last woman who painted her forehead would not care truly be gone too. Why Rhine might even get rid of those braids. Any trace of mirth dropped from his voice as he added. But is it worth the cost? Some seemed to think so. Ukama snorted, yet there had been a pause. He might be one of those who did. Striding to the stall that held some lance, the older man began to fiddle with his roan's saddle on the stall door, as though suddenly forgetting why he had moved. There's always a cost for anything, he said, not looking up. But there are costs and costs. Lady Udain, he glanced at Lan, then turned to face him. She was always one to demand every right and require the smallest obligation be met. Custom ties strings to you, and whatever you choose, she will use them like a set of reins unless you find a way to avoid it. Carefully, Lan tucked his thumbs behind his sword belt. Ukama had carried him out of Malkyar tied to his back. The last of the five who survived that journey. Ukama had the right of a free tongue even when it touched Lan's carneiera. How do you suggest I avoid my obligations without shame? He asked more harshly than he had intended. Taking a deep breath, he went on in a milder tone. Come, the common room smells much better than this. Ryan suggested a round of taverns tonight, unless Mistress Aravni has claims on you. Oh yes, how much will our rooms cost? Good rooms? Not too dear, I hope. Ukama joined him on the way to the doors, his face going red. Not too dear, he said hastily. You have a pallet in the attic, and I—I'm in Rassel's rooms. I'd like to make a round, but I think Rassel—I don't think she means to let me. I— Young whelp, he growled. There's a lass named Lyra in there who's letting it be known you won't be using that pallet tonight or getting much sleep, so don't think you can— He cut off as they walked into the sunlight, bright after the dimness inside. The greylark still sang of spring. Six men were striding across the otherwise empty yard—six ordinary men, with swords at their belts, like any men on any street in the city. Yet Lann knew before their hands moved, before their eyes focused on him and their steps quickened. He had faced too many men who wanted to kill him not to know. And at his side stood Bukama, bound by oaths that would not let him draw, even had he been wearing his blade. Bare hands were poor weapons against swords, especially at these odds. If they both tried to get back inside the stable, the men would be on them before they could haul the doors shut. Time slowed, flowed like cool honey. "'Inside and bar the doors,' Lann snapped as his hand went to his hilt. "'Obey me, armsman!' Never in his life had he given Bukama a command in that fashion, and the man hesitated a heartbeat, then bowed formally. "'My life is yours, Daishan,' he said in a thick voice. "'I obey.' As Lann moved forward to meet his attackers, he heard the bar drop inside with a muffled thud. Relief was distant. He floated in Kodi, one with the sword that came smoothly out of its scabbard, one with the men rushing at him, boots thudding on the hard-packed ground as they bared steel. A lean heron of a fellow darted ahead of the others, and Lann danced the forms. Time like cool honey. The greylark sang, and the lean man shrieked as cutting the clouds removed his right hand at the wrist, and Lann flowed to one side so the rest could not all come at him together. Flowed from form to form. Soft rain at sunset laid open a fat man's face, took his left eye, and a ginger-haired young splinter drew a gash across Lann's ribs with black pebbles on snow. Only in stories did one man face six without injury. The rose unfolds, sliced down a bald man's left arm, and ginger hair nicked the corner of Lann's eye. Only in stories did one man face six and survive. He had known that from the start. Duty was a mountain, death a feather, and his duty was to Bukama, who had carried an infant on his back. For this moment he lived, oh, so he fought, ticking ginger hair in the head, dancing his way toward death, danced and took wounds, bled and danced the razor's edge of life. Time like cool honey, flowing from form to form, and there could only be one ending. Thought was distant. Death was a feather. Dandelion in the wind slashed open the now one-eyed fat man's throat. He had barely paused when his face was ruined. A fork-bearded fellow with shoulders like a blacksmith gasped in surprise as kissing the adder put Lann's steel through his heart. And suddenly Lann realized that he alone stood, with six men sprawled across the width of the stable-yard. The ginger-haired youth thrashed his heels on the ground one last time, and then only Lann of the Seven still breathed. He shook blood from his blade, bent to wipe the last drops off on the blacksmith's too-fine coat. He sheathed his sword as formally as if he were in the training-yard under Bukama's eye. Abruptly, people flooded out of the inn—cooks and stablemen, maids and patrons—shouting to know what all the noise was about, staring at the dead men in astonishment. Rhyne was the very first, sword already in hand, his face blank as he came to stand by Lann. "'Sex,' he muttered, studying the bodies. "'You really do have that Dark One's own flaming luck.' Dark-eyed Lyra reached Lann only moments before Bukama, the pair of them gently parting slashes in his clothes to examine his injuries. She shivered delicately as each was revealed, but she discussed whether an aes Sedai should be sent forth to give healing, and how much stitching was needed in as calm a tone as Bukama, and disparagingly dismissed his hand on the needle in favor of her own. Mistress Aravne stalked about, holding her skirts up out of patches of bloody mud, glaring at the corpses littering her stable-yard, complaining in a loud voice that gangs of footpads would never be wandering in daylight if the Watch were doing its job. The Demoni-woman who had stared at Lann inside agreed just as loudly, and for her pains received a sharp command from the innkeeper to fetch the Watch, along with a shove to start her on her way. It was a measure of Mistress Aravne's shock that she treated one of her patrons so, a measure of everyone's shock, that the Demoni-woman went running without complaint. The innkeeper began organizing men to drag the bodies out of sight. Rhyne looked from Bukama to the stable as though he did not understand. Perhaps he did not at that, but what he said was, "'Not footpads, I think,' he pointed to the fellow who looked like a blacksmith. That one listened to Edain Aral when she was here, and he liked what he heard. One of the others did too, I think.' Bells chimed as he shook his head. "'It's peculiar. The first she said of raising the golden crane was after we heard you were dead outside the Shining Walls. Your name brings men, but with you dead she could be El Edain.' He spread his hands at the looks Lann and Bukama shot him. "'I make no accusations,' he said hastily. 'I'd never accuse the Lady Edain of any such thing. I'm sure she is full of all of a woman's tender mercy.' Mistress Aravni gave a grunt hard as a fist, and Lyra murmured half under her breath that the pretty Arafelan knew little about women. Lann shook his head. Not in denial. Edain might decide to have him killed if it suited her purposes. She might have left orders here and there in case the rumors about him proved false. But if she had, that was still no reason to speak her name in connection with this, especially in front of strangers." Bukama's hands stilled, holding open a slash down Lann's sleeve. "'Where do we go from here?' he asked quietly. "'Chachin,' Lann said after a moment. There was always a choice, but sometimes every choice was grim. "'You'll have to leave Sunlance. I mean to depart at first light tomorrow. His gold would stretch to a new mount for the man.' "'Six,' Rhyne growled, sheathing his sword with considerable force. "'I think I'll ride with you. I'd as soon not go back to Shol Arbella until I'm sure Silene Norriman doesn't lay her husband's death at my boat. And it will be good to see the Golden Crane flying again.' Lann nodded. To put his hand on the banner and abandon what he had promised himself all those years ago, or to stop her if he could. Either way he had to face, Edain. The Blight would have been much easier."
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