The great hunt - By Robert Jordan Page 0,199

have sense enough to keep it secret. If you hadn’t, it would be all over the Foregate by now, and half of Cairhien would be lying in wait to take it away. Half the world.”

“Oh, we’ve kept it secret, Thom. And I have to bring it back to Fal Dara without Darkfriends or anyone else taking it away. That’s story enough for you right there, isn’t it? I could use a friend who knows the world. You’ve been everywhere; you know things I can’t even imagine. Loial and Hurin know more than I do, but we’re all three floundering in deep water.”

“Hurin . . . ? No, don’t tell me how. I do not want to know.” The gleeman pushed back his chair and went to stare out of the window. “The Horn of Valere. That means the Last Battle is coming. Who will notice? Did you see the people laughing in the streets out there? Let the grain barges stop a week, and they won’t laugh. Galldrian will think they’ve all become Aiel. The nobles all play the Game of Houses, scheming to get close to the King, scheming to gain more power than the King, scheming to pull down Galldrian and be the next King. Or Queen. They will think Tarmon Gai’don is only a ploy in the Game.” He turned away from the window. “I don’t suppose you are talking about simply riding to Shienar and handing the Horn to—who?—the King? Why Shienar? The legends all tie the Horn to Illian.”

Rand looked at Loial. The Ogier’s ears were sagging. “Shienar, because I know who to give it to, there. And there are Trollocs and Darkfriends after us.”

“Why does that not surprise me? No. I may be an old fool, but I will be an old fool in my own way. You take the glory, boy.”

“Thom—”

“No!”

There was a silence, broken only by the creaking of the bed as Loial shifted. Finally, Rand said, “Loial, would you mind leaving Thom and me alone for a bit? Please?”

Loial looked surprised—the tufts on his ears went almost to points—but he nodded and rose. “That dice game in the common room looked interesting. Perhaps they will let me play.” Thom eyed Rand suspiciously as the door closed behind the Ogier.

Rand hesitated. There were things he needed to know, things he was sure Thom knew—the gleeman had once seemed to know a great deal about a surprising number of things—but he was not sure how to ask. “Thom,” he said at last, “are there any books that have The Karaethon Cycle in them?” Easier to call it that than the Prophecies of the Dragon.

“In the great libraries,” Thom said slowly. “Any number of translations, and even in the Old Tongue, here and there.” Rand started to ask if there was any way for him to find one, but the gleeman went on. “The Old Tongue has music in it, but too many even of the nobles are impatient with listening to it these days. Nobles are all expected to know the Old Tongue, but many only learn enough to impress people who don’t. Translations don’t have the same sound, unless they’re in High Chant, and sometimes that changes meanings even more than most translations. There is one verse in the Cycle—it doesn’t scan well, translated word for word, but there’s no meaning lost—that goes like this.

“Twice and twice shall he be marked,

twice to live, and twice to die.

Once the heron, to set his path.

Twice the heron, to name him true.

Once the Dragon, for remembrance lost.

Twice the Dragon, for the price he must pay.”

He reached out and touched the herons embroidered on Rand’s high collar.

For a moment, Rand could only gape at him, and when he could speak, his voice was unsteady. “The sword makes five. Hilt, scabbard, and blade.” He turned his hand down on the table, hiding the brand on his palm. For the first time since Selene’s salve had done its work, he could feel it. Not hurting, but he knew it was there.

“So they do.” Thom barked a laugh. “There’s another comes to mind.

“Twice dawns the day when his blood is shed.

Once for mourning, once for birth.

Red on black, the Dragon’s blood stains the rock of Shayol Ghul.

In the Pit of Doom shall his blood free men from the Shadow.”

Rand shook his head, denying, but Thom seemed not to notice. “I don’t see how a day can dawn twice, but then a lot of it doesn’t really make much sense.