A rooster crowing jerked him awake in the morning. He lay there, watching dawn lighten the window, and wondered if he dared sleep a little longer. Sleep during daylight, when they could be moving. A yawn made his jaws crack.
“Hey,” Mat exclaimed, “I can see!” He sat up on his bed, squinting around the room. “Some, anyway. Your face is still a little blurry, but I can tell who you are. I knew I'd be all right. By tonight I'll see better than you do. Again.”
Rand sprang out of bed, scratching as he scooped up his cloak. His clothes were wrinkled from drying on him while he slept, and they itched. “We're wasting daylight,” he said. Mat scrambled up as fast as he had; he was scratching, too.
Rand did feel good. They were a day away from Four Kings, and none of Gode's men had showed up. A day closer to Caemlyn, where Moiraine would be waiting for them. She would. No more worrying about Darkfriends once they were back with the Aes Sedai and the Warder. It was strange to be looking forward so much to being with an Aes Sedai. Light, when I see Moiraine again, I'll kiss her! He laughed at the thought. He felt good enough to invest some of their dwindling stock of coins in breakfast — a big loaf of bread and a pitcher of milk, cold from the springhouse.
They were eating in the back of the common room when a young man came in, a village youth by the look of him, with a cocky spring to his walk and twirling a cloth cap, with a feather in it, on one finger. The only other person in the room was an old man sweeping out; he never looked up from his broom. The young man's eyes swept jauntily around the room, but when they lit on Rand and Mat, the cap fell off his finger. He stared at them for a full minute before snatching the cap from the floor, then stared some more, running his fingers through his thick head of dark curls. Finally he came over to their table, his feet dragging.
He was older than Rand, but he stood looking down at them diffidently. “Mind if I sit down?” he asked, and immediately swallowed hard as if he might have said the wrong thing.
Rand thought he might be hoping to share their breakfast, though he looked able to buy his own. His bluestriped shirt was embroidered around the collar, and his dark blue cloak all around the hem. His leather boots had never been near any work that scuffed them that Rand could see. He nodded to a chair.
Mat stared at the fellow as he drew the chair to the table. Rand could not tell if he was glaring or just trying to see clearly. In any case, Mat's frown had an effect. The young man froze halfway to sitting, and did not lower himself all the way until Rand nodded again.
“What's your name?” Rand asked.
“My name? My name. Ah ... call me Paitr.” His eyes shifted nervously. "Ah . . . this is not my idea, you understand. I have to do it. I didn't want to, but they made me. You have to understand that. I don't—“
Rand was beginning to tense when Mat growled, “Darkfriend.”
Paitr gave a jerk and half lifted out of his chair, staring wildly around the room as if there were fifty people to overhear. The old man's head was still bent over the broom, his attention on the floor. Paitr sat back down and looked from Rand to Mat and back uncertainly. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. It was accusation enough to make anyone sweat, but he said not a word against it.
Rand shook his head slowly. After Gode, he knew that Darkfriends did not necessarily have the Dragon's Fang on their foreheads, but except for his clothes this Paitr could have fit right in Emond's Field. Nothing about him hinted at murder and worse. Nobody would have remarked him twice. At least Gode had been ... different.
“Leave us alone,” Rand said. “And tell your friends to leave us alone. We want nothing from them, and they'll get nothing from us.”
“If you don't,” Mat added fiercely, “I'll name you for what you are. See what your village friends think of that.”
Rand hoped he did not really mean it. That could cause as much trouble for the two of them as it did for Paitr.
Paitr seemed to take the threat seriously. His face grew pale. “I ... I heard what happened at Four Kings. Some of it, anyway. Word travels. We have ways of hearing things. But there's nobody here to trap you. I'm alone, and ... and I just want to talk.”
“About what?” Mat asked at the same time that Rand said, “We're not interested.” They looked at each other, and Mat shrugged. “We're not interested,” he said.
Rand gulped the last of the milk and stuffed the heel of his half of the bread into his pocket. With their money almost gone, it might be their next meal.
How to leave the inn? If Paitr discovered that Mat was almost blind, he would tell others ... other Darkfriends. Once Rand had seen a wolf separate a crippled sheep from the flock; there were other wolves around, and he could neither leave the flock nor get a clear shot with his bow. As soon as the sheep was alone, bleating with terror, hobbling frantically on three legs, the one wolf chasing it became ten as if by magic. The memory of it turned his stomach. They could not stay there, either. Even if Paitr was telling the truth about being alone, how long would he stay that way?
“Time to go, Mat,” he said, and held his breath. As Mat started to stand, he pulled Paitr's eyes to himself by leaning forward and saying, “Leave us alone, Darkfriend. I won't tell you again. Leave—us—alone.”
Paitr swallowed hard and pressed back in his chair; there was no blood left in his face at all. It made Rand think of a Myrddraal.
By the time he looked back at Mat, Mat was on his feet, his awkwardness unseen. Rand hastily hung his own saddlebags and other bundles around him, trying to keep his cloak over the sword as he did. Maybe Paitr already knew about it; maybe Gode had told Ba'alzamon, and Ba'alzamon had told Paitr; but he did not think so. He thought Paitr had only the vaguest idea of what had happened in Four Kings. That was why he was so frightened.
The comparatively bright outline of the door helped Mat make a beeline for it, if not quickly, then not slow enough to seem unnatural, either. Rand followed closely, praying for him not to stumble. He was thankful Mat had a clear, straight path, with no tables or chairs in the way.
Behind him Paitr suddenly leaped to his feet. “Wait,” he said desperately. “You have to wait.”
“Leave us alone,” Rand said without looking back. They were almost to the door, and Mat had not put a foot wrong yet.
“Just listen to me,” Paitr said, and put his hand on Rand's shoulder to stop him.
Images spun in his head. The Trolloc, Narg, leaping at him in his own home. The Myrddraal threatening at the Stag and Lion in Baerlon. Halfmen everywhere, Fades chasing them to Shadar Logoth, coming for them in Whitebridge. Darkfriends everywhere. He whirled, his hand balling up. “I said, leave us alone!” His fist took Paitr flush on the nose.
The Darkfriend fell on his bottom and sat there on the floor staring at Rand. Blood trickled from his nose. “You won't get away,” he spat angrily. “No matter how strong you are, the Great Lord of the Dark is stronger. The Shadow will swallow you!”
There was a gasp from further into the common room, and the clatter of a broom handle hitting the floor. The old man with the broom had finally heard. He stood staring wideeyed at Paitr. The blood drained from his wrinkled face and his mouth worked, but no sound came out. Paitr stared back for an instant, then gave a wild curse and sprang to his feet, darting out of the inn and down the street as if starving wolves were at his heels. The old man shifted his attention to Rand and Mat, looking not a whit less frightened.