Chapter 8
(Dragon)
Hard Heads
Elayne was not certain Rand realized she was still in the room, the way he stared after Egwene with a halfbewildered expression. Now and again he shook his head as if arguing with himself, or trying to straighten his mind. She was content to wait him out. Anything that put off the moment a while longer. She concentrated on maintaining an outward composure, back straight and head high, hands folded in her lap, a calmness on her face that could have rivaled Moiraine's best. Butterflies the size of hedgehogs frolicked in her stomach.
It was not fear of him channeling. She had let go of saidar as soon as Egwene stood to leave. She wanted to trust him, and she had to. It was what she wanted to happen that had her trembling inside. She had to concentrate not to finger her necklace or fiddle with the strand of sapphires in her hair. Was her perfume too heavy? No. Egwene said he liked the smell of roses. The dress. She wanted to tug it up, but...
He turned — the slight limp in his step tightened her lips thoughtfully — saw her sitting in her chair, and gave a start, eyes widening with what seemed very close to panic. She was glad to see it; the effort of keeping her own face serene had leaped tenfold as soon as his eyes touched her. Those eyes were blue now, like a misty morning sky.
He recovered on the instant and made a quite unnecessary bow, wiping his hands once nervously on his coat. “I did not realize you were still—” Flushing, he cut off; forgetting her presence might be taken as an insult. “I mean... I didn't . . . that is, I...” He took a deep breath and began again. “I am not as much of a fool as I sound, my Lady. It isn't every day someone tells you they don't love you, my Lady.”
She put on a tone of mock severity. “If you call me that again, I shall call you my Lord Dragon. And curtsy. Even the Queen of Andor might curtsy to you, and I am only DaughterHeir.”
“Light! Don't do that.” He seemed uneasy out of all proportion to the threat.
“I will not, Rand,” she said in a more serious voice, “if you call me by my name. Elayne. Say it.”
“Elayne.” He spoke awkwardly, yet, delightfully, as if he were savoring the name, too.
“Good.” It was absurd to be so pleased; all he had done was say her name, after all. There was something she had to know before she could go on. “Did it hurt you very much?” That could be taken two ways, she realized. “What Egwene told you, I mean. ”
“No. Yes. Some. I don't know. Fair is fair, after all.” His small grin took some of the edge off of his wariness. “I sound a fool again, don't I?”
“No. Not to me.”
“I told her the pure truth, but I don't think she believed me. I suppose I did not want to believe it of her, either. Not really. If that isn't foolish, I don't know what is.”
“If you tell me one more time that you are a fool, I may begin to believe it.” He won't try to hold on to her; I won't have to deal with that. Her voice was calm, with a light enough tone to let him know she did not really mean what she said. “I saw a Cairhienin lord's fool, once, a man in a funny striped coat, too big for him and sewn with bells. You would look silly wearing bells.”
“I suppose I would,” he said ruefully. “I will remember that.” His slow grin was wider this time, warming his whole face.
The butterflies' wings flogged her for haste, but she occupied herself with straightening her skirts. She had to go slowly, carefully. If I don't, he'll think I am just a foolish girl. And he will be right. The butterflies in her belly were beating kettle drums, now.
“Would you like a flower?” he asked suddenly, and she blinked in confusion.
“A flower?”
“Yes.” Striding to the bed, he scooped up a double handful of feathers from the tattered mattress and held them out to her. “I made one for the majhere last night. You'd have thought I had given her the Stone. But yours will be much prettier,” he added hastily. “Much prettier. I promise.”
“Rand, I —”
“I will be careful. It takes only a trickle of the Power. Just a thread, and I will be very careful.”
Trust. She had to trust him. It was a small surprise to realize that she did. “I would like that, Rand.”
For long moments he stared at the fluffy mound in his hands, a slow frown on his face. Abruptly he let the feathers fall, dusting his hands. “Flowers,” he said. “That's no fit gift for you.” Her heart went out to him; clearly he had tried to embrace saidin and failed. Masking disappointment in action, he limped hurriedly to the metallic cloth and began gathering it over his arm. “Now this is a proper gift for the DaughterHeir of Andor. You could have a seamstress make...” He floundered over what a seamstress might make from a fourpace length of
goldandsilver cloth, less than two feet wide.
“I am sure a seamstress will have many ideas,” she told him diplomatically. Pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve, she knelt for a moment to collect the feathers he had dropped into the square of pale blue silk.
“The maids will take care of that,” he said as she tucked the small bundle securely into her belt pouch.
“Well, this bit is done.” How could he understand that she would keep the feathers because he had wanted them to be a flower? He shifted his feet, holding the glittering folds as if he did not know what to do with them. “The majhere must have seamstresses,” she told him. “I will give that to one of them.” He brightened, smiling; she saw no reason to tell him she meant it as a gift. Those thundering butterflies would not let her hold back any longer. “Rand, do you... like me?”
“Like you?” he frowned. “Of course, I like you. I like you very much.”