The Dragon Reborn - By Robert Jordan Page 0,64

his head. No one who really knew them needed a Great Serpent ring to identify Aes Sedai. “Good morrow to you, Aes Sedai,” he said, bowing with a hand to his heart. “Good morrow. Go right across, if it please you.”

Verin reined in beside him. A murmur rose from the waiting line, but no one voiced a complaint aloud. “Trouble from the Whitecloaks, guardsman?”

Why are we stopping? Egwene wondered urgently. “Has she forgotten about Mat?”

“Not really, Aes Sedai,” the officer said. “No fighting. They tried to move into Eldone Market, the other side of the river, but we showed them better. The Amyrlin means to make sure they don’t try again.”

“Verin Sedai,” Egwene began carefully, “Mat—”

“In a moment, child,” the Aes Sedai said, sounding only halfway absentminded. “I have not forgotten him.” Her attention went right back to the officer. “And the outlying villages?”

The man shrugged uncomfortably. “We can’t keep the Whitecloaks out, Aes Sedai, but they move off when our patrols ride in. They seem to be trying to goad us.” Verin nodded, and would have ridden on, but the officer spoke again. “Pardon, Aes Sedai, but you’ve obviously come from a distance. Have you any news? Fresh rumors come upriver with every trading vessel. They say there’s a new false Dragon out west somewhere. Why, they even say he has Artur Hawkwing’s armies, back from the dead, following him, and that he killed a lot of Whitecloaks and destroyed a city—Falme, they call it—in Tarabon, some say.”

“They say Aes Sedai helped him!” a man’s voice shouted from the waiting line. Hurin breathed deeply, and shifted himself as if he expected violence.

Egwene looked ’round, but there was no sign of whoever had shouted. Everyone appeared to be concerned only with waiting, patiently or impatiently, for his turn to cross. Things had changed, and not for the better. When she had left Tar Valon, any man who spoke against Aes Sedai would have been lucky to escape with a punch in the nose from whoever overheard. Red in the face, the officer was glaring down the line.

“Rumors are seldom true,” Verin told him. “I can tell you that Falme still stands. It isn’t even in Tarabon, guardsman. Listen less to rumor, and more to the Amyrlin Seat. The Light shine on you.” She lifted her reins, and he bowed as she led the others past him.

The bridge struck Egwene with wonder, as the bridges of Tar Valon always did. The openwork walls looked intricate enough to tax the best craftswoman at her lace-frame. It hardly seemed that such could have been done with stone, or that it could stand even its own weight. The river rolled, strong and steady, fifty paces or more below, and for all that half mile the bridge flowed unsupported from riverbank to island.

Even more wondrous, in its own way, was the feeling that the bridge was taking her home. More wondrous, and shocking. Emond’s Field is my home. But it was in Tar Valon that she would learn what she must to keep her alive, to keep her free. It was in Tar Valon that she would learn—must learn—why her dreams disturbed her so, and why they sometimes seemed to have meanings she could not puzzle out. Tar Valon was where her life was tied, now. If she ever returned to Emond’s Field—the “if” hurt, but she had to be honest—if she returned, it would be to visit, to see her parents. She had already gone beyond being an innkeeper’s daughter. Those bonds would not hold her again, either, not because she hated them, but because she had outgrown them.

The bridge was only the beginning. It arched straight to the walls that surrounded the island, high walls of gleaming white, silver-streaked stone, whose tops looked down on the bridge’s height. At intervals, guard towers interrupted the walls, of the same white stone, their massive footings washed by the river. But above the walls and beyond rose the true towers of Tar Valon, the towers of story, pointed spires and flutes and spirals, some connected by airy bridges a good hundred paces or more above the ground. And still only the beginning.

There were no guards on the bronze-clad gates, and they stood wide enough for twenty abreast to ride through, opening onto one of the broad avenues that crisscrossed the island. Spring might barely have come, but the air already smelled of flowers and perfumes and spices.

The city took Egwene’s breath as if she had never