“Would you rather let them rot where they are?” Cadsuane inquired, sounding as if she herself had no preference in the matter. She held her green skirts up so the silk did not trail in the blood-soaked mud or the offal that littered the ground, yet she stepped over legs and around heads as casually as did the Maidens. She also had woven a parasol against the rain, as had Alivia, although not until she saw the Green do so. Rand had tried to make the sisters sworn to him teach the Seanchan woman more about the Power, but to their minds, that had nothing to do with their oaths of fealty. She was safe to herself and seemed safe to others, and they were content to leave matters as they were. Nynaeve had refused, too, because of Min’s viewing. Cadsuane had coolly informed him that she was not in the business of instructing wilders.
“This truly would be a charnel house then,” Min said. Her walk had a fetching sway to it, though she was plainly trying not to think of what lay underfoot while avoiding planting a heeled blue boot on any of it at the same time, and that made her stumble now and again. She was getting wet, too, her ringlets beginning to cling to her head, though the bond carried no hint of vexation. Only anger, and that seemed directed at Logain from the sharp stare she was giving him. “Where would the servants go, and the people who work the fields and stables and barns? How would they live?”
“There won’t be another attack,” Rand said. “Not until whoever sent this one learns it failed, and maybe not then. This is all they sent. The Myrddraal wouldn’t have attacked piecemeal.” Logain grunted, but he could not argue with that.
Rand looked back toward the manor house. In some places, dead Trollocs lay right at the foundations. None had made it inside, but. . . . Logain was right, he thought, surveying the carnage. It had been a close-run thing. Minus the Asha’man and Aes Sedai Logain had brought, the end might well have been different. A very close-run thing. And if there was another attack, later. . . ? Plainly someone knew Ishamael’s trick. Or that blue-eyed man in his head really could locate him. Another attack would be larger. That, or come from some unexpected direction. Perhaps he should let Logain bring a few more Asha’man.
You should have killed them, Lews Therin wept. Too late, now. Too late.
The Source is clean now, fool, Rand thought.
Yes, Lews Therin replied. But are they? Am I?
Rand had wondered that about himself. Half of the double wound in his side had come from Ishamael, the other half from Padan Fain’s dagger that carried the taint of Shadar Logoth. They often throbbed, and when they did, they seemed alive.
The circle of Maidens parted slightly to let through a white-haired serving man with a long sharp nose who looked even frailer than Ethin. He was trying to shelter beneath a two-tiered Sea Folk parasol missing half its fringe, of all things, but the aged blue silk had several ragged holes worn in it, so small rivulets fell on his yellow coat and one on his head. His thinning hair clung to his skull and dripped. He seemed wetter than if he had gone without. Doubtless one of Algarin’s forebears had obtained the thing somehow as a memento, but the obtaining must have been a story in itself. Rand doubted the Sea Folk gave up a clan Wavemistress’s parasol lightly.
“My Lord Dragon,” the old man said with a bow that spilled more water down his back, “Verin Sedai instructed me to give this to you straightaway.” From beneath his coat, he produced a paper, folded and sealed.
Rand hastily stuffed it into a pocket of his own coat against the rain. Ink ran easily. “Thank you, but it could have waited till I returned to the house. Best you get back inside before you’re soaked through completely.”
“She did say straightaway, my Lord Dragon.” The fellow sounded offended. “She is Aes Sedai.”
At Rand’s nod, he bowed again and started slowly back toward the manor house, his back stiff with pride, the parasol showering him with streams of water. She was Aes Sedai. Everyone hopped for Aes Sedai, even in Tear, where they were not much liked. What did Verin have to say that she needed to put in a letter? Thumbing the seal, Rand walked on.
His destination was one of the barns, its thatched roof partially blackened. This was the barn the Trollocs had gotten into. A burly fellow in a rough brown coat and muddy boots, leaning against a jamb in the open doors, straightened and for some reason hastily looked inside over his shoulder as Rand approached, the Maidens spreading out to surround the barn.
He stopped dead in the doorway, Min and the others halting beside him. Logain growled an oath. A pair of lanterns hanging from uprights that supported the loft gave a dim light, enough to see that every single surface was thick with crawling flies, even the straw-covered dirt floor. As many more buzzed around in the air, it seemed.
“Where did they come from?” Rand asked. Algarin might not be wealthy, yet his barns and stables were kept as clean as such places could be. The burly man gave a guilty start. He was younger than most of the servants in the house, but his head was bald halfway back, and creases bracketed his wide mouth, fanned out from his eyes.
“Don’t know, my Lord,” he muttered, knuckling his forehead with a grimy hand. He focused on Rand so hard that it was plain he did not want to look into the barn. “I stepped to the door for a breath of fresh, and when I turned around, they was all over everything. I thought. . . . I thought maybe they’s dead flies.”
Rand shook his head in disgust. These flies were all too alive. Not every Saldaean defending this barn had died, but all of the Saldaean dead had been gathered here. Saldaeans disliked burials in rain. None of them could say why, but you just did not bury people while it was raining. Nineteen men lay in a neat row on the floor, as neat as it could be when some were missing limbs or had their heads split open. But they had been laid out carefully by their friends and companions, their faces washed, their eyes closed. They were why he had come there. Not to say goodbye or anything sentimental; he had not known any of these men more than to recognize a face here and there. He had come to remind himself that even what seemed a complete victory had its cost in blood. Still, they deserved better than to be crawling with flies. I need no reminders, Lews Therin growled.
I’m not you, Rand thought. I have to harden myself. “Logain, get rid of these bloody things!” he said aloud.
You’re harder than I ever was, Lews Therin said. Suddenly he giggled. If you’re not me, then who are you?
“Now I’m a flaming fly-whis