The great hunt - By Robert Jordan Page 0,237

foolish, to his ear, but Verin had said act as he had with the Amyrlin Seat, and that was the answer Lan had given him. A Borderman considered the day he was given his sword to be his nameday.

“So. An Andorman, and yet Borderland-trained. Or is it Warder-trained?” Barthanes’s eyes narrowed, studying Rand. “I understand Morgase has only one son. Named Gawyn, I have heard. You must be much like him in age.”

“I have met him,” Rand said cautiously.

“Those eyes. That hair. I have heard the Andoran royal line has almost Aiel coloring in their hair and eyes.”

Rand stumbled, though the floor was smooth marble. “I’m not Aiel, Lord Barthanes, and I’m not of the royal line, either.”

“As you say. You have given me much to think on. I believe we may find common ground when we talk again.” Barthanes nodded and raised his glass in a small salute, then turned to speak to a gray-haired man with many stripes of color down his coat.

Rand shook his head and moved on, away from more conversation. It had been bad enough talking to one Cairhienin lord; he did not want to risk two. Barthanes appeared to find deep meanings in the most trivial comments. Rand realized he had just now learned enough of Daes Dae’mar to know he had no idea at all how it was played. Mat, Hurin, find something fast, so we can get out of here. These people are crazy.

And then he entered another room, and the gleeman at the end of it, strumming his harp and reciting a tale from The Great Hunt of the Horn, was Thom Merrilin. Rand stopped dead. Thom did not seem to see him, though the gleeman’s gaze passed over him twice. It seemed that Thom had meant what he said. A clean break.

Rand turned to go, but a woman stepped smoothly in front of him and put a hand on his chest, the lace falling back from a soft wrist. Her head did not quite come to his shoulder, but her tall array of curls easily reached as high as his eyes. The high neck of her gown put lace ruffles under her chin, and stripes covered the front of her dark blue dress below her breasts. “I am Alaine Chuliandred, and you are the famous Rand al’Thor. In Barthanes’s own manor, I suppose he has the right to speak to you first, but we are all fascinated by what we hear of you. I even hear that you play the flute. Can it be true?”

“I play the flute.” How did she . . . ? Caldevwin. Light, everybody does hear everything in Cairhien. “If you will excuse—”

“I have heard that some outland lords play music, but I never believed it. I would like very much to hear you play. Perhaps you will talk with me, of this and that. Barthanes seemed to find your conversation fascinating. My husband spends his days sampling his own vineyards, and leaves me quite alone. He is never there to talk with me.”

“You must miss him,” Rand said, trying to edge around her and her wide skirts. She gave a tinkling laugh as if he had said the funniest thing in the world.

Another woman sidled in beside the first, and another hand was laid on his chest. She wore as many stripes as Alaine, and they were of an age, a good ten years older than he. “Do you think to keep him to yourself, Alaine?” The two women smiled at each other while their eyes threw daggers. The second turned her smile on Rand. “I am Belevaere Osiellin. Are all Andormen so tall? And so handsome?”

He cleared his throat. “Ah . . . some are as tall. Pardon me, but if you will—”

“I saw you talking with Barthanes. They say you know Galldrian, as well. You must come to see me, and talk. My husband is visiting our estates in the south.”

“You have the sublety of a tavern wench,” Alaine hissed at her, and immediately was smiling up at Rand. “She has no polish. No man could like a woman with a manner so rough. Bring your flute to my manor, and we will talk. Perhaps you will teach me to play?”

“What Alaine thinks of as subtlety,” Belevaere said sweetly, “is but lack of courage. A man who wears a heron-mark sword must be brave. That truly is a heron-mark blade, is it not?”

Rand tried backing away from them. “If you will just excuse