Trust is the color of a heart’s blood flowing.

Trust is the color of a soul’s last breath.

Trust is the color of death.

“Aes Sedai?” a plump young woman said contemptuously to his question. She was pretty, and he might have tried for a bit of kiss and cuddle in different circumstances. “Halima’s just Delana Sedai’s secretary. Always teasing the men, she is. Like a child with a new toy; teasing just to see if she can. She’d be in hot water to her neck ten times over if Delana didn’t protect her.”

Give me your trust, said the queen on her throne,

for I must bear the burden all alone.

Trust me to lead and to judge and to rule,

and no man will think you a fool.

But trust is the sound of the grave-dog’s bark.

Trust is the sound of betrayal in the dark.

Trust is, the sound of a soul’s last breath.

Trust is the sound of death.

Maybe he had been mistaken. Maybe she had just been shocked that he walked off. Not many men would walk away from a woman who looked like that, no matter how she teased or danced. That had to be it. But that left the question of who and why. He looked around, at the dancers, and the people watching from the edge of the shadows and waiting their turns. The golden-haired Hunter for the Horn who had seemed familiar went spinning by with a particularly lumpy-faced fellow, her braid almost standing out behind her. Mat could pick out Aes Sedai by their faces—most of them he could—but there was no way to tell which had tried to . . . whatever it was she had tried.

He strode on down the street to the next bonfire as much to get away from that song as anything, before it went on through “the king on high” and “the lady and lord” to “the love of your life” in his head. In that old memory he remembered writing that song, because of the love of his life. Trust is the taste of death. At that next corner a fiddler and a woman with a flute were playing what sounded like “Fluff the Feathers,” a good country dance.

How far could he trust Egwene? She was Aes Sedai now; she must be, if she was Amyrlin, even a ragtag Amyrlin in a ragtag village. Well, whatever she was, she was Egwene; he could not believe she would strike at him out of the dark that way. Of course, Nynaeve might, though not to injure him really. His hip still hurt, though; the bruise had made a knot. And the Light only knew what a woman like Elayne might do. They were still trying to chase him away, he decided. He could probably expect more attempts. The best thing was to ignore them; he almost hoped they did try again. They could not touch him with the Power, and the more they tried and failed, why, the more they would have to see he was not to be budged.

Myrelle came to stand beside him, watching the dancers. He remembered her, vaguely. He did not think she knew anything dangerous about him. He did not think so. She was not as beautiful as Halima, of course, but still much more than merely pretty. Flickering shadows washed her face so he could almost forget she was Aes Sedai.

“A warm night,” she said, smiling, and went on in such a casual way while he enjoyed looking at her that it took him some time to realize what she was getting at.

“I don’t think so,” he said politely when she gave an opening. This was what came of forgetting; Aes Sedai were Aes Sedai.

She only smiled. “There would be many advantages, and I would not try to pin you to my skirts. Many advantages. You’ve chosen a perilous life, or had it chosen for you. A Warder might have a better chance of survival.”

“I really don’t think so. No, but thank you for the offer.”

“Think on it, Mat. Unless. . . . Has the Amyrlin bonded you?”

“No.” Egwene would not do that. Would she? She could not so long as he wore the medallion, but would she if he did not have it? “If you will excuse me?” He gave her a shallow bow and walked quickly to where a pretty, blue-eyed young woman was tapping her foot to the music. She had a sweet mouth, just right for kissing, and he bloody well wanted to enjoy himself. “I saw your eyes, and I couldn’t help coming over. Will you dance?”

Too late he saw the Great Serpent ring on her right hand, and then that sweet mouth opened and a voice he recognized said dryly, “I asked you once whether you’d be there when the house was burning down, boy, but it seems you make a habit of jumping into fires. Now go away and find somebody who wants to dance with you.”

Siuan Sanche! She was stilled and dead! She was glaring at him with some young woman’s face she had stolen, was what she was, and wearing an Aes Sedai ring! He had asked Siuan Sanche to dance!

While he was still staring, a willowy young Domani woman swirled up in a pale green dress thin enough for the light of the bonfire to silhouette her through it. Giving Siuan a frosty look that was returned with interest, the Domani all but snatched him out among the dancers. She was as tall as an Aiel woman, dark eyes actually a little higher than his. “I am Leane, by the way,” she said in a voice like a honeyed caress, “in case you did not recognize me.” Her low laugh was almost a caress too.

He jumped and nearly fumbled the first turn. She also wore the ring. He moved by rote. Tall or not, she was a feather in his hands, a gliding swan, but that was certainly not enough to stop the question that kept popping in his head like an Illuminator’s fireworks. How? How under the Light? To top it all, when the dance was done, she said, “You are a very good dancer,” in that stroking voice, and then kissed him about as thoroughly as he had ever been kissed. He was so shocked he did not even try to get away. Sighing, she patted his cheek. “A very good dancer. Think of it as dancing next time, and you will do better.” And off she went laughing, back into the dance with some fellow she snagged from the onlookers.

Mat decided he had had as much as one man could take in a night. He went back to the stable and went to sleep, with his saddle for a pillow. His dreams would have been pleasant, except that they all involved Myrelle and Siuan and Leane and Halima. When it came to dreams, a man just naturally lacked the sense to pour water out of a boot.

The next day had to be better, he thought, especially when dawn found Vanin in the loft, asleep on his saddle. Talmanes understood and would hold where he was; Warders had been seen watching the Band’s preparations, no doubt letting themselves be seen, but no one had come near the Band. A less pleasant surprise was finding Olver’s gray in the yard behind the stable, and Olver himself curled up in