“I want a promise from you,” Nynaeve said quietly as they waited. Mandarb danced in circles so that the plump fellow trying to lift the saddle onto the stallion’s back had to run trying to catch up. “An oath. I mean it, Lan Mandragoran. We aren’t alone any longer.”

“What do you want my oath on?” he asked warily. The balding groom called for two more men to help.

“That you’ll ride to Fal Moran before you enter the Blight, and that if anyone wants to ride with you, you’ll let him.”

His smile was small, and sad. “I’ve always refused to lead men into the Blight, Nynaeve. There were times men rode with me, but I would not-”

“If men have ridden with you before,” she cut in, “men can ride with you again. Your oath on it, or I vow I’ll let you ride the whole long way to Shienar.” The woman was fastening the cinches on Lovers-knot’s saddle, but the three men were still struggling to get Man-darb’s saddle on his back, to keep him from shaking off the saddle blanket.

“How far south in Shienar do you mean to leave me?” he asked. When she said nothing, he nodded. “Very well, Nynaeve. If that’s what you want. I swear it under the Light and by my hope of rebirth and salvation.”

It was very hard not to sigh with relief. She had managed it, and without lying. She was trying to do as Egwene wanted and behave as though she had already taken the Three Oaths on the Oath Rod. but it was very hard dealing with a husband if you could not lie even when it was absolutely necessary.

“Kiss me,” she told him. adding hastily, “That wasn’t an order. I just want to kiss my husband.” A goodbye kiss. There would be no time for one later.

“In front of everyone?” he said, laughing. “You’ve always been so shy about that.”

The woman was nearly done with Loversknot. and one of the grooms was holding Mandarb as steady as he could while the other two hurriedly buckled the cinches.

“They’re too busy to see anything. Kiss me. or I’ll think you’re the one who’s-” His lips on hers shut off words. Her toes curled.

Some time later, she was leaning on his broad chest to catch her breath while he stroked her hair. “Perhaps we can have one last night together in Shienar.” he murmured softly. “It may be some time before we’re together again, and I’ll miss having my back clawed.”

Her face grew hot. and she pushed away from him unsteadily. The grooms were done, and staring very pointedly at the straw-covered floor, but they might well be close enough to overhear! “I think not.’ She was proud that she did not sound breathless. “I don’t want to leave Rand alone with Alivia that long.”

“He trusts her. Nynaeve. I don’t understand it, but there it is, and that’s all that matters.”

She sniffed. As if any man knew what was good for him.

Her stout mare whickered uneasily as they rode among dead Trol-locs to a patch of ground not far from the stable that she knew well enough to weave a gateway. Mandarb, a trained warhorse, reacted not at all to the blood and the stench and the huge corpses. The black stallion seemed as calm as his rider, now that Lan was on his back. She could understand that. Lan had a very calming effect on her, too. Usually. Sometimes, he had exactly the opposite effect. She wished they could have one more night together. Her face grew hot again.

Dismounting, she drew on saidar without using the angreal and wove a gateway just tall enough for her to lead Loversknot through onto grassland dotted with thickets of black-spotted beech and trees she did not recognize. The sun was a golden ball only a little down from its peak, yet the air was decidedly cooler than in Tear. Cold enough to make her gather her cloak, in fact. Mountains topped with snow and clouds rose to the east and north and south. As soon as Lan was through, she let the weave dissipate and immediately wove another gateway, larger, while she climbed into her saddle and settled the cloak around her again.

Lan led Mandarb a few steps westward, staring. Land ended abruptly in what was obviously a cliff no more than twenty paces from him, and from there ocean stretched to the horizon. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, turning back. “This isn’t Shienar. It’s World’s End, in Saldaea, as far from Shienar as you can get and still be in the Botderlands.”

“I told you I would take you to the Borderlands, Lan, and I have. Remember your oath, my heart, because I surely will.” And with that she dug her heels in the mare’s flanks and let the animal bolt through the open gateway. She heard him call her name, but she let the gateway close behind her. She would give him a chance to survive.

Only a few hours past midday, less than half a dozen tables were occupied in the large common room of The Queen’s Lance. Most of the well-dressed men and women, with clerks and bodyguards standing attentively behind them, were there to buy or sell ice peppers, which grew well in the foothills on the landward side of the Banikhan Mountains, called the Sea Wall by many in Saldaea. Weilin Aldragoran had no interest in peppers. The Sea Wall had other crops, and richer.

“My final price,” he said, waving a hand over the table. Every finger bore a jeweled ring. Not large stones, but fine. A man who sold gems should advertise. He traded in other things as well-furs, rare woods for cabinetmakers, finely made swords and armor, occasionally other things that offered a good return-but gems brought in the greater part of his profit in any year. “I’ll come no lower.” The table was covered with a piece of black velvet, the better to show off a good portion of his stock. Emeralds, firedrops, sapphires, and best of all, diamonds. Several of those were large enough to interest a ruler, and none was small. None held a flaw, either. He was known throughout the Borderlands for his flawless stones. “Accept it. or someone else will.”

The younger of the two dark-eyed Illianers across from him, a clean-shaven fellow named Pavil Geraneos, opened his mouth angrily, but the older, Jeorg Damentanis. his gray-streaked beard practically quivering, laid a fat hand on Geraneos’ arm and gave him a horrified look. Aldragoran made no effort to conceal his smile, showing a little tooth.

He had been only a toddler when the Trollocs swept down into Malkier, and he had no memories of that land at all-he seldom even thought of Malkier; the land was dead and gone-yet he was glad he had let his uncles give him the badori. At another table, Managan was in a shouting match with a dark Tairen woman wearing a lace ruff and rather inferior garnets in her ears, the pair of them nearly drowning out the young woman playing the hammered dulcimer on the low platform beside one of the tall stone fireplaces. That lean young man had refused the badori, as had Gorenellin, who was near Aldragoran’s age. Gorenellin was bargaining hard with a pair of olive-skinned Altarans, one of whom had a nice ruby in his left ear, and there was sweat on Gorenellin’s forehead. No one shouted at a man who wore the badori and a sword, as Aldragoran did, and they tried to avoid making him sweat. Such men carried a reputation for sudden, unpredictable violence. If he had seldom been forced to use the sword at his hip, it was widely known that he could and would.

“I do accept, Master Aldragoran,” Damentanis said, giving his companion a sidelong glare. Not noticing. Geraneos bared his teeth in what he probably hoped Aldragoran would take for a smile. Aldragoran let it pass. He was a merchant, after all. A reputation was a fine thing when it enhanced your bargaining power, but only a fool went looking for fights.

The Illianers’ clerk, a weedy, graying fellow and also Illianer, unlocked their iron-strapped coin box under the watchful eyes of their two bodyguards, bulky men with those odd beards that left the upper lip bare, in leather coats sewn with steel discs. Each carried a sword and stout cudgel at his belt. Aldragoran had a clerk at his own back, a hard-eyed Saldaean who did not know one end of a sword from the other, but he never used bodyguards. Guards on his premises, to be sure, but not bodyguards. That only added its bit to his reputation. And of course, he had no need of them.