“I don’t think so, Moiraine,” Thom said, kneeling down, taking her hands. “No, I won’t rob you of anything.”

“But with it I’ll be very strong, stronger in the Power than before I was taken.”

“So be it, then,” he said. He put the bracelet back on her wrist. “I’ll marry you now, if you wish it.”

She smiled deeply.

Mat stared, stunned. “And who’s going to bloody marry you?” he blurted out. “It sure as thunder isn’t going to be me, I’ll tell you that.”

The two glanced at him, Thom with a flat stare, Moiraine with a hint of a smile. “I can see why the Seanchan woman had to have you, Mat,” she noted. “You certainly have a mind for romance.”

“I just…” He pulled off his hat, holding it awkwardly, looking back and forth between them. “I just—burn me! How did I miss this? I was with the two of you most of the time you were together! When did you become affectionate?”

“You weren’t watching very closely,” Thom said. He turned back to Moiraine. “I assume you’ll want me as a Warder, too.”

She smiled. “My previous Gaidin has been appropriated by another by now, I hope.”

“I’ll take the job,” Thom said, “though you’ll have to explain to Elayne why her court-bard is someone’s Warder.” He hesitated. “You think they can make one of those color-changing cloaks with some patches on it?”

“Well, you two have gone bloody insane, I see,” Mat said. “Thom, didn’t you once tell me that the two most painful places for you to be were Tar Valon and Caemlyn? Now you’re running headlong down the hillside that will end with you living in one or the other!”

Thom shrugged. “Times change.”

“I never have spent much of my time in Tar Valon,” Moiraine said. “I think we shall enjoy traveling together, Thom Merrilin. Should we survive the months to come.” She looked at Mat. “You should not spurn the Warder bond so easily, Mat. The blessings it provides will be of great use to men in these days.”

Mat pulled his hat back on. “That may be true, but you’ll never see me bloody trapped by one. No offense, Moiraine. I like you well enough. But to be bonded to a woman? Isn’t going to happen to Matrim Cauthon.”

“Is that so?” Thom asked, amused. “Didn’t we determine that your Tuon would be capable of channeling, should she decide to learn?”

Mat froze. Bloody ashes. Thom was right. But channeling would make her marath’damane. She would not do such a thing. He did not have to worry.

Did he?

He must have made a face at the thought, for Thom chuckled and Moiraine smiled again. The two of them soon lost interest in sporting with Mat, however, and turned to a soft discussion. That affection in their eyes was true. They did love each other. Light! How had Mat missed it? He felt like a man who had brought a hog to a horse race.

He decided to make himself scarce, leaving the two of them alone. He went to scout the area where their gateway was supposed to appear. It had better. They had no supplies, and Mat did not fancy flagging down a ship and riding the long way back to Caemlyn.

It was a short hike across the meadow to the banks of the Arinelle. Once there, he made a small cairn for Noal, then tipped his hat to it and sat down to wait and think.

Moiraine was safe. Mat had survived, though that bloody socket throbbed like nothing else. He still was not certain if the Aelfinn and Eelfinn had strings around him or not, but he had gone into their den and come out unscathed. Mostly, anyway.

One eye lost. What would that do to his ability to fight? That worried him more than anything. He had put on a brave front, but inside he trembled. What would Tuon think of a husband missing an eye? A husband who might not be able to defend himself?

He pulled out a knife, flipping it. Then, on a whim, he tossed it behind him without looking. He heard a soft screech, then turned to see a rabbit slump to the ground, speared by the idly thrown knife.

He smiled, then turned back to the river. There, he noticed something caught between two large river stones along the shore. It was an overturned cooking pot, with a copper bottom, barely used, only dinged on the sides a couple of times. It must have been dropped by a traveler walking up the river.

Yes, he might not be able to judge distance, and he might not be able to see as well. But luck worked better when you were not looking anyway.

He smiled wider, then fetched the rabbit—he would skin that for supper—and plucked the pot out of the river.

Moiraine would get her tea after all.

Epilogue

And After

Graendal hurriedly gathered what she needed from her new palace. From her desk, she took a small angreal Mesaana had traded her in exchange for information. It was in the shape of a small, carved ivory knife; she’d lost her gold ring in al’Thor’s attack.

Graendal tossed it in her pack, then snatched a sheaf of papers from her bed. Names of contacts, eyes-and-ears—everything she’d managed to remember from what had been destroyed at Natrin’s Barrow.

Waves surged against the rocks outside. It was still dark. Only moments had passed since her last tool had failed her, Aybara surviving the battlefield. That was supposed to have worked!

She was in her elegant manor house a few leagues from Ebou Dar. Now that Semirhage was gone, Graendal had begun placing some strings around their new, childlike Empress. She’d have to abandon those schemes now.

Perrin Aybara had escaped. She felt stunned. Plan after perfect plan had fallen in place. And then…he’d escaped. How? The prophecy…it had said…

That fool Isam, Graendal thought, stuffing the papers in her pack. And that idiot Whitecloak! She was sweating. She shouldn’t be sweating.

She tossed a few ter’angreal from her desk into the pack, then rifled her closet for changes of clothing. He could find her anywhere in the world. But perhaps one of the mirror realms of the Portal Stones. Yes. There, his connections were not—

She turned, arms full of silk, and froze. A figure stood in the room. Tall, like a pillar dressed in black robes. Eyeless. Smiling lips the color of death.

Graendal dropped to her knees, throwing aside the clothing. Sweat ran down her temple onto her cheek.

“Graendal,” said the tall Myrddraal. His voice was terrible, like the last whispers of a dying man. “You have