The great hunt - By Robert Jordan Page 0,104

flock of sheep, Ingtar. They would not follow me anyway. Besides, Moiraine can’t tell you who your second is. It’s Uno.”

“Uno and I were called to Lord Agelmar the morning we left. Moiraine Sedai was there, but it was Lord Agelmar who told me. You are second, Rand.”

“But why, Ingtar? Why?” Moiraine’s hand was bright and clear in it, hers and the Amyrlin’s, pushing him along the path they had chosen, but he had to ask.

The Shienaran looked as if he did not understand it either, but he was a soldier, used to odd commands in the endless war along the Blight. “I heard rumors from the women’s apartments that you were really a. . . .” He spread gauntleted hands. “No matter. I know you deny it. Just as you deny the look of your own face. Moiraine Sedai says you’re a shepherd, but I never saw a shepherd with a heron-mark blade. No matter. I’ll not claim I would have chosen you myself, but I think you have it in you to do what is needed. You will do your duty, if it comes to it.”

Rand wanted to say it was no duty of his, but instead he said, “Uno knows about this. Who else, Ingtar?”

“All the lances. When we Shienarans ride, every man knows who is next in line if the man in command falls. A chain unbroken right down to the last man left, even if he’s nothing but a horseholder. That way, you see, even if he is the last man, he is not just a straggler running and trying to stay alive. He has the command, and duty calls him to do what must be done. If I go to the last embrace of the mother, the duty is yours. You will find the Horn, and you will take it where it belongs. You will.” There was a peculiar emphasis in Ingtar’s last words.

The bundle in Rand’s arms seemed to weigh ten stone. Light, she could be a hundred leagues off, and she still reaches out and tugs the leash. This way, Rand. That way. You’re the Dragon Reborn, Rand. “I don’t want the duty, Ingtar. I will not take it. Light, I’m just a shepherd! Why won’t anybody believe that?”

“You will do your duty, Rand. When the man at the top of the chain fails, everything below him falls apart. Too much is falling apart. Too much already. Peace favor your sword, Rand al’Thor.”

“Ingtar, I—” But Ingtar was walking away, calling to see if Uno had the scouts out yet.

Rand stared at the bundle in his arms and licked his lips. He was afraid he knew what was in it. He wanted to look, yet he wanted to throw it in a fire without opening it; he thought he might, if he could be sure it would burn without anyone seeing what was inside, if he could be sure what was inside would burn at all. But he could not look there, where other eyes than his might see.

He glanced around the camp. The Shienarans were unloading the pack animals, some already handing out a cold supper of dried meat and flatbread. Mat and Perrin tended their horses, and Loial sat on a stone reading a book, with his long-stemmed pipe clenched between his teeth and a wisp of smoke curling above his head. Gripping the bundle as if afraid he might drop it, Rand sneaked into the trees.

He knelt in a small clearing sheltered by thick-foliaged branches and set the bundle on the ground. For a time he just stared at it. She wouldn’t have. She couldn’t. A small voice answered, Oh, yes, she could. She could and would. Finally he set about untying the small knots in the cords that bound it. Neat knots, tied with a precision that spoke loudly of Moiraine’s own hand; no servant had done this for her. She would not have dared let any servant see.

When he had the last cord unfastened, he opened out what was folded inside with hands that felt numb, then stared at it, his mouth full of dust. It was all of one piece, neither woven, nor dyed, nor painted. A banner, white as snow, big enough to be seen the length of a field of battle. And across it marched a rippling figure like a serpent scaled in gold and crimson, but a serpent with four scaled legs, each tipped with five golden claws, a serpent with eyes like the