Ten Songs to Reforge A Sword
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1) Mat is lucky. Mat knows that heÆs lucky. MatÆs luck is evident in all he does û dice, cards, battle (and especially women, for ga cuebiyar es dovieÆdaemar û all love is a game of luck). Most of his endeavors just seem to fall his way. But Mat knows better than anyone not to grow complacent, because luck is a horse to ride û (sene sovya cabaÆdonde ain dovienya) û like any other, and Matrim Cauthon knows that if you ride a horse too long, too hard, it will always throw you to the ground.
He just wishes his would give him a little warning once in a while.
2) Mat is not surprised when Moiraine does what no other has done, cowing the people of the Two Rivers with naught but a story. Well, okay, maybe the Aei Sedai giant illusion thing was a mite startling (ôGo kiss a goat, Rand, I was not crying!ö), but the tale of Manetheren does not enrapture him like the other villagers. Throughout the telling, Mat listens with only one ear, the other held fast by the stirring whispers in his center, the murmurs of the old blood coursing through his veins. It sang to him, far more truly than the Blue û or anyone for that matter û would ever know. It had only spoken so strongly in one other place.
Rand and Perrin always wondered why Mat, the most adventurous of all three of them, shied away from the Mountains of Mist.
3) The tale of Manetheren was a tragic one, to be sure. Betrayal had never struck the old world so hard as them. King Aemon was a white beacon in the dark times of the Trolloc Wars, a paragon of the Light, and had never refused help to an ally before. So, when the Dark OneÆs forces turned upon the Red Eagle, Aemon sent out emissaries to every nation, knowing that ShaiÆtanÆs fury would fall unrepentant upon Mantheren, so long a thorn to his foot and bramble to his hand. Reinforcements were promised, help assured. And yet, no one came, not until afterwards, when the armies finally arrived to find the great horde lying cold and dead, unmarked by any wound, in the Valley of Aemon û which later, passing across many tongues and accents, became EmondÆs Field.
Historians have long speculated on this point. Many agree that with the Compact of the Ten Nations falling apart at the seams, what with Aridhol falling to the Dark and creatures beyond the pale, darkness itself given form, ravaging the land, that the Nations simply could not muster the help needed to save the noble Manetheren people from drowning under the black tide. Many have speculated, but none know.
Siuan Sanche knows. Elaida knows. The Amyrlin Seat, each one and all others with access to the secret Thirteenth Depository of the great White Tower library know. Tetsuan, the Amyrlin Seat of the days of ManetherenÆs fall, ordered the nations to stay their hand and blades. Tetsuan feared that such a movement of troops, especially from those countries surrounding Tar Valon, would leave the White Tower bare and open to an attack from the Blight. It was cowardice in a time of fear, and in the eyes of the Aei Sedai, an unacceptable show of weakness, one to be learned from and shortly thereafter buried. Would they have known of the TetsuanÆs vendetta against Eldrene, the Queen of Manetheren, the affair between them, Eldrene scorning the Amrylin herself in favor of wedding Aemon, then they might have burned the history altogether.
Siuan Sanche knows. And staring into the eyes of Mat Cauthon, old blood snarling in his veins, awoken by Padan FainÆs cursed blade and enraged by the gathering of witches before him, she realizes with no small amount of horror that he knows too.
ôInde muaghde Aei Sedai misain ye!ö Mat roars defiantly, thrashing still under bindings crafted by the power of creation and time itself. I am no Aei Sedai meat, he tells them, and the Aei Sedai frown, some being translators, and Siuan recoils, being the only one who understands.
Before Manetheren was taken, Aemon knew that aid would not come. He was no fool. Yet the King let loose no pleading cries, no begging missives. Aemon sent a single letter, one of utmost defiance, to Tetsuan herself. He does not threaten, does not curse or rage. The King of Manetheren makes a vow, one that no man ever made in the history of the Aei Sedai itself.
I will survive you, White Tower. I am no Aei Sedai meat.
It is seen as madness, of course, and Tetsuan simply deposits it along with the rest in the secret archives. After all, it arrives near two days after Manetheren falls, the Sword That Could Not Be Broken crumbling to dust under the waves of the Shadow, Aemon and his Heart Guard dying glorious, bloody deaths along with the rest of the original Shen An Calhar. Nothing but a broken vow.
With Matrim Cauthon bellowing at her in the Old Tongue with the wrath of a dead king glimmering behind his eyes, Siuan considers that perhaps the vow stands unbroken yet. Then she considers that perhaps agreeing to Heal such a man was not the smartest idea.
4) The old blood is not silent. It burns, it growls, it thrashes in MatÆs veins like a thing alive. Rand describes the sensation of channeling to him once, and is the only thing about the One Power that he ever understands. The old blood calls, and it demands battle.
Mat isnÆt a fighter. A fighter is the last thing heÆll describe himself as. A trickster, sure, a gambler, all the time, a lover, absolutely! A Two Rivers man (ôAnd you very well know it, Nynaeve!ö). Never a fighter. It isnÆt that he canÆt fight û of course he can, and heÆs bloody well good at it. But a fighter is one who chooses to fight. Mat does not have a choice. Battle is what he was born for.
ThereÆs a reason why the wrestling prizes at Bel Tine always went to him, despite the many bigger and burlier men who were slotted up against him. It was just the manner in which he faced them, his obstacles and difficulties. Rand never stopped rising above them, Perrin never stopped crushing them down.
Mat just never stopped.
5) HeÆs always heard the old bloodÆs voice, but it is not until after the Waste, after Rhuidean and his impromptu hanging from the Tree of Life that it truly sings to him, guiding his hands and ways. Out of all the things he brings out of that doorway, it is the one that he wants the most. The ashandarei? Nifty. The medallion? Dead useful to be sure. But the memories, theyÆre the worst and best of what he brought out.
When Mat gets back to camp, when they travel and are accepted by wife of Rhuarc, the Roofmistress, he knows the ceremonyÆs every word. And when theyÆve been accepted in and taken tea, Mat realizes theyÆve bastardized custom down to the brass tacks û from how the cups are supposed to laid down with tea already in them, a test of the hostÆs knowledge and the guestÆs grace, to jiÆeÆtoh and gaiÆshain, mockeries and ghosts of the Daishain AielÆs ways.
Then Mat realizes that none of these memories, none of this knowledge spinning inside his head is his. And then he sits quiet for a very long time.
He makes a few attempts to befriend them, purely to spite these conflicting prejudices that are not his. It doesnÆt turn out well. Mat nearly gets assassinated, and still canÆt get rid of the niggling urge to berate and decry the Aiel every time he sees them veil and fight, spilling blood against traditions they have no idea they should be following.
Mat comes to hate these memories that flash and whirl inside his skull, dead memories of dead men whose lives he has no business remembering. And yet, when the old blood sings and the ashandarei takes to his hands like a long forgotten friend, he canÆt do anything but let ManetherenÆs song rage through him, AemonÆs fury take hold of his body and use it to strike down the enemies that present themselves so much like the cotton back on the farm. ItÆs terrifying. ItÆs glorifying. ItÆs a drug that he canÆt escape (ôBloody taÆveren!ö).
Mat hates the Aelfinn and Eelfinn, with all of his owned soul. Now that heÆs tasted the memories of battles and kings long dust, he knows he can never escape them, and for that he hates them. But he canÆt stop himself from wanting the memories, and canÆt keep himself from them, either û you might as well go cold turkey on air.
Mat hates the memories, but the monsters more. And Matrim Cauthon, the last remnant Manetheren, is Manetheren, and Sword That Cannot Be Broken does not forgive.
The residents of the Tower of Ghenjei learn this quickly.
(ôNow, are you going to put tell me where Moiraine is? Or am I going to have to burn your friendÆs bloody face off?ö)
6) The fact that Couladin dies by MatÆs hand is not a mistake.
The customs of war in the time of the Ten Nations are not well remembered. The Green Ajah interred some in the histories, a few obscure books float around noblesÆ libraries, and the Borderlanders emulate their pragmatic and honorable spirit, if not the exact word and letter. But Mat remembers, and Aemon does as well. A strong custom in the KingÆs time, one that even killed some who broke it, was that a general only died by a generalÆs hand. Exceptions were made in the heat of battle and for honorable suicides, of course, but it was followed as a matter of status û generals were generally nobles, and no blueblood wished to die by a peasantÆs hand.
Mat planned the defense of Cairhien. Advisors may have taken over and modified the plans, but Mat had put them forward, and Rand, the highest influence in Cairhien, had accepted and implemented them, and by Manetheren custom that made Mat general of the forces of Cairhien, whether he was in his tent or fleeing the city as he planned.
It is the last true attempt to fight the old blood that Mat makes. Manetheren rages in his blood, orders him to turn around, and the strings of the Pattern itself pull at him, tugging him back towards the path of destiny. But Mat is of the Two Rivers, of those who teach stones patience and mules stubbornness. If it were nothing but the blood and Wheel, Mat would have overcome and defied them both, improbable and impossible as it may have been.
It is the Cairhienian soldiers that stop him, running into an ambush that even he can see coming. Their looming death is the leverage the Pattern gives the blood, which Aemon uses to pull Mat down and take him, for while Manetheren may retreat, it never surrenders, and it certainly never abandons an ally in need. The old blood sings and demands victory, and Mat Cauthon, not-a-bloody-fighter answers.
And when Manetheren sings for CouladinÆs head, General Matrim Cauthon answers and delivers. For while Couladin may claim to be chief of chiefs, Mat is the hope and fury of Manetheren given flesh and purpose. And while Couladin may have been born with a spear in his hand, Mat was born with a war being fought in his blood.
Couladin picks him at random on the field.
Couladin dies a dozen seconds later.
(ôSix up and half a dozen down. Got any more of that rum, Talmanes?ö)
Mat still claims he was drunk when he named his newfound army the Band of the Red Hand. And to anyone who doesnÆt know he still claims it wasnÆt him who named them.
7) Mat never becomes quite aware of the air he starts to put off, when in command.
Or maybe the word for it isnÆt air û maybe its presence, or mood. Whatever it is, it draws people to him like flies.
Talmanes and the Cairhienian lordlings see it. ItÆs the same thing they see when their fathers and military tutors walk into the room. ItÆs the reason they immediately put him in command.
Queen Tylin sees it. ItÆs the same thing she sees in the Ebou Dari court, where the nobles compete for the chance to depose or assassinate her and take the throne. ItÆs the reason she immediately takes measures to leash him to her and eliminate any threat.
The Aei Sedai see it. They canÆt quite decide on a name for it, but itÆs the reason every Aei Sedai that encounters Matrim Cauthon wants him firmly under control. Some want him safely tucked away in the Tower, some others want him Bonded as some forceful GreenÆs Warder. Most would prefer both.
Talmanes once tells him that he could likely dominate a royal court dressed in naught but rags.
Mat calls him an idiot, and asks him why in the CreatorÆs name would he be caught dead in a royal court.
Talmanes says nothing.
Tuon sees it last of all, which is rather ironic considering sheÆs highest in a court where assassination, intrigue and death are as common and well accepted as bread and water. She sees it, and sheÆs the only one who manages to treat him the same way despite it.
Tuon, quite aptly, compares him to a lion. A fierce animal that will destroy those who seek to control it, stand above those who bow to it, and only share his plain with those strong and fast enough to run beside it. Tuon has controlled monsters and men before, and knows when a person is simply too much to bring to heel. And the Daughter of the Nine Moons does not bow before anyone.
Tuon always aspired to pragmatism. And his little army had such interesting men, as well.
(ôA new nation? Tell me more, Master Talmanes.ö)
8) TheyÆre in Arad Doman, tracking down Rodel Ituralde to join the newly formed Army of the Light, when the song of the old blood comes to him, completely unannounced, and stronger than it ever has before. It screams, rattling his bones and searing his skin. Mat doesnÆt have much of a choice. He orders an immediate march eastwards, riding over their confusion and worries over the Lord DragonÆs anger. The old blood sings, and Mat dances.
Mat knows on some level where theyÆre going from the moment the blood calls him up the slopes of the Mountains of Mist. The commanders and soldiers complain, but follow. His luck has won them fame and victory more times than they can count, now, and theyÆre loath to deny him one detour.
Vanin stares at him as they march. Maybe he recognizes the look on MatÆs face, one of definitive goal and purpose, the face of a man who knows exactly where heÆs going û Mat doesnÆt know he wears it, so focused is he. Whatever it is convinces Vanin to be his strongest supporter behind his back, as the soldiers and commanders worry for his sanity and health as he leads them ever onwards into the inscrutable mountain range, where many traders and travelers have been lost to the mist and shaky ground.
They suffer losses. One squad looses their footing and falls from a cliff. Another takes a patrol out into the fog and never returns. The Redhands begin to feel fear, trepidation, remembering the tales of the deadly mist that left nothing but corpses behind. Why has their general brought them here?
They come across a ruin, a collapsed fortress with old stone walls. The soldiersÆ mood instantly reverses, and Talmanes asks if he should give permission to loot the place. Mat shrugs.
(ôGo ahead. ItÆs just an outpost.ö)
Talmanes gives him a strange look û a fortress of this size, a mere outpost? û but gives the order. ItÆs by large a bust, save for some old golden kitchenware in the captains quarters. Some men find a few old swords in a strange, sealed box, and other trinkets besides. The Aei Sedai demand the trinkets for some reason.
Mat tells them never to order him around again-
(ôà-caballien misain ye, Aei Sedai-àö)
-and that if they ever do, heÆll have their knuckle bones carved into dice for his cups. One of them understands the Old Tongue, and translates, roughly. His medallion frosts over.
They retire to their carriage.
They reach the outskirts of the city by sunrise. The walls are crumbling, the buildings and gardens overrun with moss and lichens, but that doesnÆt change it one whit. It is home. It is Manetheren.
(ôàMatàthis isàMat, how did you know? How did you know?ö)
The Band of the Red Hand loots the legendary hidden city. It isnÆt defilement or betrayal, not with the Last Battle so close at hand û Manetheren and her citizens would have gladly given up every last sword, crown and bread stick to aid the fight against the Shadow. Mat orders them to leave the palace alone, at least until heÆs had a crack at it, he tells them.
The Royal Palace of Manetheren is just as great and glorious as the stories claim. Ogier built, with the One Power used to make the bricks used into one great seamless piece of stone, whose only sign of decay are the rotted banners and furniture inside. Talmanes and Thom follow him in û no one else. AemonÆs blood burns in his veins, singing a song terrible and beautiful enough to make him weep. Mat knows the exact way through the silent halls as he enters the Palace.
The Throne Room is exactly as Mat remembers it. The two thrones proudly, gold still shining faintly. There are no cushions. Aemon always believed that a ruler should never sit comfortably upon his throne. Mat stares at them. One throne is empty.
(ôCarai al caldazar-ô)
One throne is not.
A strange plant curls around the smaller throne, not like any vine Mat has ever seen, with leaves the size of his hand. The vine grows into a stalk too strong for a vine. At the apex droops a fat golden blossom, yellow like the sun shining through the mist of the mountains. At the foot of the golden chair lies a crown, dusty and forgotten.
Thom and Talmanes watch him. ThatÆs all theyÆve been doing for a while. Watching Mat. Vanin tells him theyÆve been talking about his odd mood for a while. Mat ignores them doing so, and steps forward, picking up the crown. There are sapphires and diamonds inlaid in it. Mat feels like it would look perfect perched upon golden hair.
(ôCarai al Ellisande-!ö)
Mat whispers her name. Thom and Talmanes exchange glances, and ask if heÆs alright. Mat says he is, before he sits in AemonÆs chair. Then, he remembers.
Then, he remembers everything.
(ôAl Ellisande.ö)
Matrim Cauthon dies. The old blood sings.
9) The man once known as Matrim Cauthon cannot decide on whose name to take. There are too many of them û every man in his family including Aemon himself, all their lifetimes, clear as the daylight in his mind. The man inhabiting Matrim CauthonÆs body realizes that the Aelfinn and Eelfinn werenÆt giving him memories, but pulling them to the surface. He decides to keep his old name, as he does not want to alarm Thom or Talmanes, and add the traditional third name at the end, to honor Matrim CauthonÆs sacrifice and great courage. Matrim Cauthon TaiÆsharan, he would be. Matrim Cauthon of the True Blood.
The new Shen An Calhar (A strange idea, the Aemon in him says) strips the city dry of its valuables quickly. Mat makes special sure to keep the terÆangreal safe û some of them are extremely useful even to non-channelers, and more importantly, his. The half-trained girl Aei Sedai protest, and Mat tells them theyÆll have to walk or fly back to the White Tower if they keep complaining on his carriage. They get very frustrated, but the fox-head medallion (funny thing, that û one of his lord ancestorÆs sigils was a grey fox) stays at the same temperature. They have learned better than to try to channel at him.
They make it down the Mountains of Mist to spook the outermost sentries of IturaldeÆs army. Rodel Ituralde is a respectable general, and if Mat thinks him inexperienced, then he has no right to voice it û after all, the man only has had one lifetime. Apparently the Band has arrived just in time to join their march, right back through the Mountains of Mist and towards Tar Valon. A great army of Dreadlords and Shadowspawn has taken the White Tower and Tar Valon from the inside, and the Lord Dragon was calling all of his generals to him in order to take it back. Whispers are heard of Aei Sedai manipulation, and of the famous Amyrlin in Exile, Egwene AlÆVere, and her connection to him. Whispers are heard, and a dead king laughs.
The siege of the city is brutal and merciless. The AshaÆman of the Black Tower rain the destruction of the Creator himself down upon the Shining Walls, riding atop the great winged beasts of the Seanchan, while the forces of Light and Shadow make battle amongst the plains outside the city, leaping to and from gateways crafted by the Dreadlords. Ghoulish creatures never before seen outside the heart of the Blight rip through the unprepared Army of the Light. And for once, the old blood does not sing.
No, it need not sing. For Matrim Cauthon had become the song itself.
AludraÆs Dragons do battle fiercely, ripping through the air and exploding in screeching conflagrations of crimson and gold. The Band of the Red Hand lives up to the honor of their name, their repeating crossbows and long pikes turning great swaths of Trollocs into so many corpses that the cavalry of the armies soon must dismount, their horses unable to brave the climb up the bolt-ridden flesh. The Shadowspawn die thousands at a time û his ambushes are simply too well placed, his offense simply too ruthless and effective, his defense, nigh impregnable. His mind spins with the strategies and tactics of every Age that ever passed, of every general and officer that his family, his blood ever birthed. The Shining Walls for the first time in all of the White TowerÆs history crumble before an enemy army, and the city is taken by storm.
The Forsaken strike as Rand takes the Tower itself, Graendal, AranÆgar and Mesaana nearly ambushing him as they trap him inside, and if not for Egwene at his back, they would have surely succeeded. The very Tower itself shakes with the force of their battle.
The moratÆraken is not pleased about surrendering his mount, especially when he learns what Mat intends, but one does not simply say no to the Prince of the Ravens. Mat slips into the Tower from above, through a hole made by one of RandÆs Callandor-charged blasts of balefire.
The inside of the great structure is a maze of Power-wrought traps and hiding Shadowspawn. The fox-head medallion protects him from the traps, but only his strength and wits keep him from detection by the Trollocs that storm through the halls, moving in the direction of what Mat can only assume is the fight between the five channelers. Mat makes to follow, but is halted by a familiar foe.
The gholam seems utterly the same as when they last met, right down to the clothes he wears. The scar on his cheek stands lividly red against the ShadowspawnÆs cheek. The creature snarls (ôYou look well, bastard.ö)(ôYou cannot escape!ö)(ôWhoÆs running?ö) and charges.
The fight is brutally short. Mat snaps the cord of the medallion hanging around his neck just in time for the gholam to seize the arm holding it, grab him by the neck and pin him against the wall with terrifying strength.
(ôI never lose my prey.ö)
Mat smiles, cuts open the monsterÆs bloodless throat with his free arm and drops the real medallion, which he had hidden up his sleeve ever since the Aei Sedai started giving it hungry looks, down the creatureÆs esophagus.
(ôBut you do lose to them.ö)
After several minutes of ear-wrenching howls and pain, the gholam dies. Mat cuts open its stomach to retrieve the terÆangreal and finds nothing but a molten pile of silver. He takes a moment to rethink his strategy and moves onward.
Mat sticks to the shadows. He had walked with a cloak and dagger one lifetime or another, enough to know how to keep out of sight and to recognize just how dangerous Thom truly was, if one knew how to look. The evidence of the Dragon, Amyrlin and ForsakenÆs battle becomes evident before long, the halls of the Tower slowly degenerating into a madhouse of damage wrought by saidin and saidar. Spikes jutting upwards and outwards and downwards and from everywhere, great gashes in the hardened stone too neat for a blade, burning and uprooted tapestries and furniture and even stranger things Mat had no name for at all (ôIs that a kitchen sink!?ö).
He finds the five channelers in a deadlock, a quick dance of twitching fingers and fast movement that to any outward observer would seem as nothing more than a glaring contest.
But wait, there! A great outcry of distress as a terrible wound was gouged in stone. The carpet shifting, before being crushed hard into the floor by some invisible godÆs fist. Lightning and fire, flying from the hand in a unnatural storm. AranÆgar favors the great slashing attacks and elemental furies, while Graendal and Mesaana pace behind, looking for a place to work their subtler weavings. Rand waves his stump of a hand in sharp, flat motions, as if arguing fiercely and silently, and Egwene moves in tandem, floating sinuously from one step to the next like an underwater dance, her arms sweeping like willow branches conducting an orchestra. Their faces are red with strain.
Mat watches, and Mat waits.
And then! There! Rand abruptly snarls in triumph, reversing a stride and spinning to impale Mesaana with a bar of balefire that burns her from the inside out. The carpet suddenly sits perfectly pristine, as it was before. AranÆgar loses one crucial second glancing nervously back and Egwene takes her, flows of Air lifting the Forsaken up and bringing her down, dashing her brains against the stone.
But Graendal has been waiting the entire time. Callandor is swatted from RandÆs hands, and as if by some invisible switch, Dragon and Amyrlin drop like cut marionettes, screaming and clutching their skulls. Graendal advances languidly, gown shimmering, like some golden-haired panther, playing with her kill.
Saidar lets the Forsaken hear it coming, but doesnÆt save her as she whips around just in time to receive MatÆs dagger in the side of the throat. The hedonist woman collapses to the ground, clawing at her throat and dying shortly of one flaw both Aei Sedai of new and old share û their inability to Heal themselves. Rand recovers first, and looks at Mat with unashamed shock in his eyes.
(ôMatà!ö)
Mat grins and lends him a hand up.
(ôWomen, am I right?ö)
Egwene chooses that moment to moan, in pain or protest û the latter wouldnÆt have surprised Mat, her being a Two Rivers woman and all û bringing their attention back to the situation at hand.
Rand makes Mat the lead general of his army the very next day. In a week, they receive word of a massive horde massing and moving towards TarwinÆs Gap, of Blight monsters charging past the lines of their accursed land and assaulting the Borderlands. Both the Dragon and his general understand.
The Last Battle has come.
Chaos, entropy, madness incarnate takes the world. The shadows themselves vanish, leaving the land a stranger to its inhabitants. Where the ShadowÆs armies walk is engulfed by this darkness, only death remaining in their wake.
But the Dragon is Reborn, and he calls the world to take up arms, to fight for their salvation. The world answers.
Men, young and old, some women better left at home, children û all answer the call. Anyone who can hold a spear does so, or finds a quarterstaff to carve. The people of the wetlands, of the Borderlands, of the Waste, of the Sea Folk, of the Seanchan, all unite against their common foe. Mortal enemies fight side by side û The Aei Sedai spearheading the Whitecloak charge, Illianers playinig the hammer for the TairensÆ anvil, the Sea Folk armada conglomerating with the Seanchan to invade the Blight from the Dead Sea. Even those never seen before come. Shara through the Aiel Waste, ambushing the forces at TarwinÆs Gap with their Ayyad and routing them, savages from the Land of Madmen far to the south, brought by the Sea Folk, screaming as they overwhelm the Trollocs, kicking, biting, eating.
Mat is in charge of men he never thought he would see in his lifetime. Gareth Bryne, Rodel Ituralde, Davram Bashere. The Aiel chieftans join them, along side the SeanchanÆs generals, and the Ogier representatives, and SharaÆs Shbotan and Shbotay, and the Captain-Commander of the Children of Light, Galad Trakand, and then the Captain-General of the Green Ajah, Cadsuane. Egwene AlÆVere, farmgirl turned Amyrlin Seat. AlÆLan Mandragoran, Lord of the Seven Towers. Logain Ablar, MÆHael of the Black Tower. His wife, the Empress. More and more until the tent is filled with enough amassed political and literal power that a nod could be considered an ultimatum and a handshake an invasion. Rand stands at his right, and Perrin next to Rand, wearing the crown of Saldaea, having taken the throne with BashereÆs help after TenobiaÆs assassination. Never in any of his lifetimes had he been a part of anything like this.
Rand stops talking and looks at him. Then everyone else does too. Mat realizes that everyone is waiting for him to talk. For a moment, his throat closes up. Then he sees the map, sighs, and wryly grins as he tosses a pair of dice on the table. One and one.
(ôAnyone care for a gamble?ö)
The plan is madness.
(ôWhat about our land?ö)
Bryne starts objecting as soon as heÆs done speaking, with Ituralde right on his heels. Bashere clenches the table edge and digs in like a mule.
(ôLeave it.ö)
The moment of shock soon passes and everyone is up in arms. Rand is clutching his shoulder, speaking hard and urgently, eyes shining feverishly, and Perrin is shouting beside him to be heard over the ruckus.
(ôWhat about our homes?ö)
The fear and indecision on their faces disgusts him. Mat grabs the heavy-bladed dagger from his hip and slams it up to the hilt through the wood of the table, which breaks straight down the middle through some imperfection in the wood and collapses, spilling the maps and parchment to the floor. The uproar quiets.
(ôLeave it all!ö)
A candle catches the edge of a piece of parchment and begins to burn. No one spares it a glance.
(ôNone of that matters! None of it is worth anything unless we win! The Shadow must be broken for good, or the Wheel will just keep turning, Ages will just keep passing, all up until all our bones are turned to ash, and some bloody idiot makes a mistake, lets the Dark One win and then everything weÆve worked and fought for is damned to the Pit of Doom!ö)
The paper, through some twist of fate, burns into a long twisted line, opening up into a fiery maw that looks almost like a dragon if you squint right. The dice sit in the middle of the æheadÆ, two pips. The Dark OneÆs Eyes.
Bryne looks taken aback. Ituralde looks a mite ashamed. Bashere bites his lip. Everyone else stares, a silent mass.
(ôItÆs risky.ö)
Mat tilts his head challenging.
(ôIsnÆt it always?ö)
Then, he leaves. The plan goes into motion the next day. It is the simplest of tactics û a full charge, straight into the heart of the Blight. The untrained soldiers and conscripts act as insulation to the real army, taking the brunt of the damage as the Blight comes alive with darkness, Myrddraal leaping from the shadows and Drakhgar swooping overhead. Monsters with no name but evil come at them, and men die like flies, as the formation of their massive force tightens as the trained warriors take the place of the citizen soldiers. Gray Men strike at night, taking the lives of officers, Aei Sedai, kings, peasants. Soldiers do not wake at times, killed by strange, horrific sicknesses or simply cold and dead in their beds. Skirmishers bite constantly at their flanks, and Darkfriends make themselves known in the ranks. Ituralde dies of poison. Bashere and his wife take four of the seven assassins sent with them to their grave. Lan gets his throat sloppily cut in his sleep, strangles the Darkfriend who did it and miraculously manages to live thanks to NynaeveÆs skills and proximity.
(Mat always liked Lan, and Aemon did as well. After all, they were both AanÆAllein.)
Mat strikes back just as hard. Trollocs charge into walls of crossbows and dragon-eggs. Wolves patrol the camp, striking down Gray Men and hunting Darkhounds. Their group grows tighter and tighter until only the hardest of them remain. And then, they reach their destination, on the morning of the thirteenth week. Shayol Ghul.
No words may describe the things that meet them there.
Rand raises Callandor, and the Sword That Is Not A Sword shines impossibly bright, piercing the heavens, the sun peeking through the gaps in the clouds for the first time in centuries.
(ô I am the Lord of the Morning! I am He Who Comes With The Dawn! I am the Shield of the Light, the Sword of the Creator! I am Rand AlÆThor! King of the World! Dragon Reborn! Your heart is mine, ShaiÆtan!ö)
Mat raises the Horn of Valere to his lips for the second and last time. The ephemeral note seems to invade his very soul, making his heart surge and his body tremble. A white fog blasts from the mouth of the Horn, and the Army of the Light charges along side it as from the mist charges the long dead heroes of all the Ages. Rand brings the crystal sword up high into the air and brings it down with a scream.
(ôI AM RAND ALÆTHOR!ö)
10) Eventually, the world begins to right itself. People start to rebuild. The Seanchan make a few trade treaties and alliances and leave for their homeland. The Aiel go back to the Waste û which will likely soon be called something else, with the green explosion moving out of Rhuidean û and the Sea Folk get in their ships and sail away.
MatÆs work seems to be never over. The Band of the Red Hand is one big masonÆs banner now, moving from city to city, town to town, doing nothing but help rebuild. And why not? ThereÆs no wars going on, and the Blight is silent. Some people claim to have seen growth on the edges.
Rand leaves. He doesnÆt tell Mat or anyone except Min, Aviendha and Elayne. Mat barely has time to shake his hand before he steps into the gateway leading to only the Creator knows where.
(ôWatch them for me, Mat. Watch them.ö)
Mat shoots a dubious glance at him, then back at his three wivesÆ û and Mat thought he was lucky û pregnant stomachs.
(ôIÆm not your bloody nursemaid. Come back and watch them yourself.ö)
Rand AlÆThor laughs, and the Dragon Reborn leaves.
Perrin leaves the Two Rivers û truly leaves it, this time. As the King of Saldea, and the last monarch of the Borderlands left alive, most of his time is taken up, but he finds some time to see Mat every once in a while. They joke, they laugh û they never forget. PerrinÆs eyes are still golden, and every once in a while Mat reaches up to scratch the patch over his eye, the one he traded for Moiraine.
Talmanes and the other nobles in the Band donÆt return to their countries. Instead, they make off east. Mat doesnÆt suspect a thing until they send him a missive two years later, inviting him to a coronation party, in the Two Rivers, of all places. Mat (ôBurn you, Thom, stop bloody laughing!ö), suspecting some uppity noble trying to set himself up in his home, marches right off to set things straight.
The Two Rivers is now beginning to look like a small city, with all the houses being built, and all the trade flowing in. Rand never had any problems telling people where he came from, nor did Mat or Perrin. With the fog seemingly disappearing from the Mountains of Mist, bringing dozens of new ruin sites and hidden iron veins to light, Mat wonders if they might even be seeing a taxman from Caemlyn soon.
Mat finds the coronation being held in Manetheren. The place is looking downright respectable, with the Ogier lending stonemasons to help rebuild. Everyone from the Two Rivers is there in the Royal Palace û old Bran AlÆVere, Master and Mistress Luhhan. Mat starts smelling something fishy once he sees Perrin there, talking with Elayne. Then, Talmanes spots him, and Thom blows a horn, looking strange out of his gleemanÆs cloak, and in the tabard ofà
(ôEntering now, the King of Manetheren, Matrim Cauthon, High Seat of House Cauthon!ö)
Mat says some very un-kingly things, punches Talmanes in the jaw, and would have escaped entirely if not for Tuon restraining him with her damane.
ItÆs not as horrible as Mat first suspects. While he knows all there is to know about ruling a kingdom, particularly Manetheren, they donÆt know that, and Tuon hires a tutor to instruct him. The little woman brooks no argument in the matter, then, to top it off, leaves on the next ship for Seanchan. Part of Mat canÆt help but admire her sheer gall. But then, as the tutor soon explains, marriages are much different in Seanchan custom.
Since Manetheren is still being rebuilt, and his presence isnÆt likely to quicken anything, Mat rides off with two masonÆs banners, to help rebuild. The nobles in him are more than ready to take the throne, but they bow their head to Mat Cauthon, who is not a bloody lord, no matter who says so, and is nowhere near ready to stop adventuring.
His semi-charitable travels take him around. Rand replaced Callandor in the Stone before he left, and it hangs there in the Heart of the Stone, silent and immovable as ever. Mat pays a visit to Mayene, where Berelain greets him with great courtesy û sheÆs been in a good mood ever since she sneakily annexed half of TearÆs peninsula in the aftermath. The people are carefree, and the customs, wine and rugs are fantastic. Mat pays a visit to the stedding nearby, and a few Ogier stonemasons join them for the trip.
A year passes. Talmanes is sounding pretty annoyed in his letters, though to be fair, making Mat his King does mean that he canÆt order Mat to return. But just last month, Mat got a letter from Tuon, his wife, and he just knows that sheÆll hop on a ship right over the Aryth Ocean if she has to, Crystal Throne be damned.
Mat strides through the streets of Tar Valon. A few years ago, he would have been terrified of being anywhere near the place. Now? The White Tower is a ruin, having collapsed soon after the Army of the Light moved away towards the Borderlands, wards failing under the Dark OneÆs power. Egwene requested help from a few stedding, Shangtai being one of them, and Mat tagged along, because really, what else did he have to do?
A raven swoops out of the sky and lands on his ashandarei. Mat stares into its beady eyes, and gives his weapon a good shake. The raven clings on tight, caws loudly into MatÆs face before taking off. Mat watches it fly off, before scratching his eye patch absentmindedly.
Bringing his eyes back down, they alight upon the broken, dilapidated Tower. Mat grins.
(ôTold you so.ö)
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I can't tell you how much trouble this shit gave me getting out. I know it needs a beta lookie-loo, so would someone mind so I can post it on FFN?
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1) Mat is lucky. Mat knows that heÆs lucky. MatÆs luck is evident in all he does û dice, cards, battle (and especially women, for ga cuebiyar es dovieÆdaemar û all love is a game of luck). Most of his endeavors just seem to fall his way. But Mat knows better than anyone not to grow complacent, because luck is a horse to ride û (sene sovya cabaÆdonde ain dovienya) û like any other, and Matrim Cauthon knows that if you ride a horse too long, too hard, it will always throw you to the ground.
He just wishes his would give him a little warning once in a while.
2) Mat is not surprised when Moiraine does what no other has done, cowing the people of the Two Rivers with naught but a story. Well, okay, maybe the Aei Sedai giant illusion thing was a mite startling (ôGo kiss a goat, Rand, I was not crying!ö), but the tale of Manetheren does not enrapture him like the other villagers. Throughout the telling, Mat listens with only one ear, the other held fast by the stirring whispers in his center, the murmurs of the old blood coursing through his veins. It sang to him, far more truly than the Blue û or anyone for that matter û would ever know. It had only spoken so strongly in one other place.
Rand and Perrin always wondered why Mat, the most adventurous of all three of them, shied away from the Mountains of Mist.
3) The tale of Manetheren was a tragic one, to be sure. Betrayal had never struck the old world so hard as them. King Aemon was a white beacon in the dark times of the Trolloc Wars, a paragon of the Light, and had never refused help to an ally before. So, when the Dark OneÆs forces turned upon the Red Eagle, Aemon sent out emissaries to every nation, knowing that ShaiÆtanÆs fury would fall unrepentant upon Mantheren, so long a thorn to his foot and bramble to his hand. Reinforcements were promised, help assured. And yet, no one came, not until afterwards, when the armies finally arrived to find the great horde lying cold and dead, unmarked by any wound, in the Valley of Aemon û which later, passing across many tongues and accents, became EmondÆs Field.
Historians have long speculated on this point. Many agree that with the Compact of the Ten Nations falling apart at the seams, what with Aridhol falling to the Dark and creatures beyond the pale, darkness itself given form, ravaging the land, that the Nations simply could not muster the help needed to save the noble Manetheren people from drowning under the black tide. Many have speculated, but none know.
Siuan Sanche knows. Elaida knows. The Amyrlin Seat, each one and all others with access to the secret Thirteenth Depository of the great White Tower library know. Tetsuan, the Amyrlin Seat of the days of ManetherenÆs fall, ordered the nations to stay their hand and blades. Tetsuan feared that such a movement of troops, especially from those countries surrounding Tar Valon, would leave the White Tower bare and open to an attack from the Blight. It was cowardice in a time of fear, and in the eyes of the Aei Sedai, an unacceptable show of weakness, one to be learned from and shortly thereafter buried. Would they have known of the TetsuanÆs vendetta against Eldrene, the Queen of Manetheren, the affair between them, Eldrene scorning the Amrylin herself in favor of wedding Aemon, then they might have burned the history altogether.
Siuan Sanche knows. And staring into the eyes of Mat Cauthon, old blood snarling in his veins, awoken by Padan FainÆs cursed blade and enraged by the gathering of witches before him, she realizes with no small amount of horror that he knows too.
ôInde muaghde Aei Sedai misain ye!ö Mat roars defiantly, thrashing still under bindings crafted by the power of creation and time itself. I am no Aei Sedai meat, he tells them, and the Aei Sedai frown, some being translators, and Siuan recoils, being the only one who understands.
Before Manetheren was taken, Aemon knew that aid would not come. He was no fool. Yet the King let loose no pleading cries, no begging missives. Aemon sent a single letter, one of utmost defiance, to Tetsuan herself. He does not threaten, does not curse or rage. The King of Manetheren makes a vow, one that no man ever made in the history of the Aei Sedai itself.
I will survive you, White Tower. I am no Aei Sedai meat.
It is seen as madness, of course, and Tetsuan simply deposits it along with the rest in the secret archives. After all, it arrives near two days after Manetheren falls, the Sword That Could Not Be Broken crumbling to dust under the waves of the Shadow, Aemon and his Heart Guard dying glorious, bloody deaths along with the rest of the original Shen An Calhar. Nothing but a broken vow.
With Matrim Cauthon bellowing at her in the Old Tongue with the wrath of a dead king glimmering behind his eyes, Siuan considers that perhaps the vow stands unbroken yet. Then she considers that perhaps agreeing to Heal such a man was not the smartest idea.
4) The old blood is not silent. It burns, it growls, it thrashes in MatÆs veins like a thing alive. Rand describes the sensation of channeling to him once, and is the only thing about the One Power that he ever understands. The old blood calls, and it demands battle.
Mat isnÆt a fighter. A fighter is the last thing heÆll describe himself as. A trickster, sure, a gambler, all the time, a lover, absolutely! A Two Rivers man (ôAnd you very well know it, Nynaeve!ö). Never a fighter. It isnÆt that he canÆt fight û of course he can, and heÆs bloody well good at it. But a fighter is one who chooses to fight. Mat does not have a choice. Battle is what he was born for.
ThereÆs a reason why the wrestling prizes at Bel Tine always went to him, despite the many bigger and burlier men who were slotted up against him. It was just the manner in which he faced them, his obstacles and difficulties. Rand never stopped rising above them, Perrin never stopped crushing them down.
Mat just never stopped.
5) HeÆs always heard the old bloodÆs voice, but it is not until after the Waste, after Rhuidean and his impromptu hanging from the Tree of Life that it truly sings to him, guiding his hands and ways. Out of all the things he brings out of that doorway, it is the one that he wants the most. The ashandarei? Nifty. The medallion? Dead useful to be sure. But the memories, theyÆre the worst and best of what he brought out.
When Mat gets back to camp, when they travel and are accepted by wife of Rhuarc, the Roofmistress, he knows the ceremonyÆs every word. And when theyÆve been accepted in and taken tea, Mat realizes theyÆve bastardized custom down to the brass tacks û from how the cups are supposed to laid down with tea already in them, a test of the hostÆs knowledge and the guestÆs grace, to jiÆeÆtoh and gaiÆshain, mockeries and ghosts of the Daishain AielÆs ways.
Then Mat realizes that none of these memories, none of this knowledge spinning inside his head is his. And then he sits quiet for a very long time.
He makes a few attempts to befriend them, purely to spite these conflicting prejudices that are not his. It doesnÆt turn out well. Mat nearly gets assassinated, and still canÆt get rid of the niggling urge to berate and decry the Aiel every time he sees them veil and fight, spilling blood against traditions they have no idea they should be following.
Mat comes to hate these memories that flash and whirl inside his skull, dead memories of dead men whose lives he has no business remembering. And yet, when the old blood sings and the ashandarei takes to his hands like a long forgotten friend, he canÆt do anything but let ManetherenÆs song rage through him, AemonÆs fury take hold of his body and use it to strike down the enemies that present themselves so much like the cotton back on the farm. ItÆs terrifying. ItÆs glorifying. ItÆs a drug that he canÆt escape (ôBloody taÆveren!ö).
Mat hates the Aelfinn and Eelfinn, with all of his owned soul. Now that heÆs tasted the memories of battles and kings long dust, he knows he can never escape them, and for that he hates them. But he canÆt stop himself from wanting the memories, and canÆt keep himself from them, either û you might as well go cold turkey on air.
Mat hates the memories, but the monsters more. And Matrim Cauthon, the last remnant Manetheren, is Manetheren, and Sword That Cannot Be Broken does not forgive.
The residents of the Tower of Ghenjei learn this quickly.
(ôNow, are you going to put tell me where Moiraine is? Or am I going to have to burn your friendÆs bloody face off?ö)
6) The fact that Couladin dies by MatÆs hand is not a mistake.
The customs of war in the time of the Ten Nations are not well remembered. The Green Ajah interred some in the histories, a few obscure books float around noblesÆ libraries, and the Borderlanders emulate their pragmatic and honorable spirit, if not the exact word and letter. But Mat remembers, and Aemon does as well. A strong custom in the KingÆs time, one that even killed some who broke it, was that a general only died by a generalÆs hand. Exceptions were made in the heat of battle and for honorable suicides, of course, but it was followed as a matter of status û generals were generally nobles, and no blueblood wished to die by a peasantÆs hand.
Mat planned the defense of Cairhien. Advisors may have taken over and modified the plans, but Mat had put them forward, and Rand, the highest influence in Cairhien, had accepted and implemented them, and by Manetheren custom that made Mat general of the forces of Cairhien, whether he was in his tent or fleeing the city as he planned.
It is the last true attempt to fight the old blood that Mat makes. Manetheren rages in his blood, orders him to turn around, and the strings of the Pattern itself pull at him, tugging him back towards the path of destiny. But Mat is of the Two Rivers, of those who teach stones patience and mules stubbornness. If it were nothing but the blood and Wheel, Mat would have overcome and defied them both, improbable and impossible as it may have been.
It is the Cairhienian soldiers that stop him, running into an ambush that even he can see coming. Their looming death is the leverage the Pattern gives the blood, which Aemon uses to pull Mat down and take him, for while Manetheren may retreat, it never surrenders, and it certainly never abandons an ally in need. The old blood sings and demands victory, and Mat Cauthon, not-a-bloody-fighter answers.
And when Manetheren sings for CouladinÆs head, General Matrim Cauthon answers and delivers. For while Couladin may claim to be chief of chiefs, Mat is the hope and fury of Manetheren given flesh and purpose. And while Couladin may have been born with a spear in his hand, Mat was born with a war being fought in his blood.
Couladin picks him at random on the field.
Couladin dies a dozen seconds later.
(ôSix up and half a dozen down. Got any more of that rum, Talmanes?ö)
Mat still claims he was drunk when he named his newfound army the Band of the Red Hand. And to anyone who doesnÆt know he still claims it wasnÆt him who named them.
7) Mat never becomes quite aware of the air he starts to put off, when in command.
Or maybe the word for it isnÆt air û maybe its presence, or mood. Whatever it is, it draws people to him like flies.
Talmanes and the Cairhienian lordlings see it. ItÆs the same thing they see when their fathers and military tutors walk into the room. ItÆs the reason they immediately put him in command.
Queen Tylin sees it. ItÆs the same thing she sees in the Ebou Dari court, where the nobles compete for the chance to depose or assassinate her and take the throne. ItÆs the reason she immediately takes measures to leash him to her and eliminate any threat.
The Aei Sedai see it. They canÆt quite decide on a name for it, but itÆs the reason every Aei Sedai that encounters Matrim Cauthon wants him firmly under control. Some want him safely tucked away in the Tower, some others want him Bonded as some forceful GreenÆs Warder. Most would prefer both.
Talmanes once tells him that he could likely dominate a royal court dressed in naught but rags.
Mat calls him an idiot, and asks him why in the CreatorÆs name would he be caught dead in a royal court.
Talmanes says nothing.
Tuon sees it last of all, which is rather ironic considering sheÆs highest in a court where assassination, intrigue and death are as common and well accepted as bread and water. She sees it, and sheÆs the only one who manages to treat him the same way despite it.
Tuon, quite aptly, compares him to a lion. A fierce animal that will destroy those who seek to control it, stand above those who bow to it, and only share his plain with those strong and fast enough to run beside it. Tuon has controlled monsters and men before, and knows when a person is simply too much to bring to heel. And the Daughter of the Nine Moons does not bow before anyone.
Tuon always aspired to pragmatism. And his little army had such interesting men, as well.
(ôA new nation? Tell me more, Master Talmanes.ö)
8) TheyÆre in Arad Doman, tracking down Rodel Ituralde to join the newly formed Army of the Light, when the song of the old blood comes to him, completely unannounced, and stronger than it ever has before. It screams, rattling his bones and searing his skin. Mat doesnÆt have much of a choice. He orders an immediate march eastwards, riding over their confusion and worries over the Lord DragonÆs anger. The old blood sings, and Mat dances.
Mat knows on some level where theyÆre going from the moment the blood calls him up the slopes of the Mountains of Mist. The commanders and soldiers complain, but follow. His luck has won them fame and victory more times than they can count, now, and theyÆre loath to deny him one detour.
Vanin stares at him as they march. Maybe he recognizes the look on MatÆs face, one of definitive goal and purpose, the face of a man who knows exactly where heÆs going û Mat doesnÆt know he wears it, so focused is he. Whatever it is convinces Vanin to be his strongest supporter behind his back, as the soldiers and commanders worry for his sanity and health as he leads them ever onwards into the inscrutable mountain range, where many traders and travelers have been lost to the mist and shaky ground.
They suffer losses. One squad looses their footing and falls from a cliff. Another takes a patrol out into the fog and never returns. The Redhands begin to feel fear, trepidation, remembering the tales of the deadly mist that left nothing but corpses behind. Why has their general brought them here?
They come across a ruin, a collapsed fortress with old stone walls. The soldiersÆ mood instantly reverses, and Talmanes asks if he should give permission to loot the place. Mat shrugs.
(ôGo ahead. ItÆs just an outpost.ö)
Talmanes gives him a strange look û a fortress of this size, a mere outpost? û but gives the order. ItÆs by large a bust, save for some old golden kitchenware in the captains quarters. Some men find a few old swords in a strange, sealed box, and other trinkets besides. The Aei Sedai demand the trinkets for some reason.
Mat tells them never to order him around again-
(ôà-caballien misain ye, Aei Sedai-àö)
-and that if they ever do, heÆll have their knuckle bones carved into dice for his cups. One of them understands the Old Tongue, and translates, roughly. His medallion frosts over.
They retire to their carriage.
They reach the outskirts of the city by sunrise. The walls are crumbling, the buildings and gardens overrun with moss and lichens, but that doesnÆt change it one whit. It is home. It is Manetheren.
(ôàMatàthis isàMat, how did you know? How did you know?ö)
The Band of the Red Hand loots the legendary hidden city. It isnÆt defilement or betrayal, not with the Last Battle so close at hand û Manetheren and her citizens would have gladly given up every last sword, crown and bread stick to aid the fight against the Shadow. Mat orders them to leave the palace alone, at least until heÆs had a crack at it, he tells them.
The Royal Palace of Manetheren is just as great and glorious as the stories claim. Ogier built, with the One Power used to make the bricks used into one great seamless piece of stone, whose only sign of decay are the rotted banners and furniture inside. Talmanes and Thom follow him in û no one else. AemonÆs blood burns in his veins, singing a song terrible and beautiful enough to make him weep. Mat knows the exact way through the silent halls as he enters the Palace.
The Throne Room is exactly as Mat remembers it. The two thrones proudly, gold still shining faintly. There are no cushions. Aemon always believed that a ruler should never sit comfortably upon his throne. Mat stares at them. One throne is empty.
(ôCarai al caldazar-ô)
One throne is not.
A strange plant curls around the smaller throne, not like any vine Mat has ever seen, with leaves the size of his hand. The vine grows into a stalk too strong for a vine. At the apex droops a fat golden blossom, yellow like the sun shining through the mist of the mountains. At the foot of the golden chair lies a crown, dusty and forgotten.
Thom and Talmanes watch him. ThatÆs all theyÆve been doing for a while. Watching Mat. Vanin tells him theyÆve been talking about his odd mood for a while. Mat ignores them doing so, and steps forward, picking up the crown. There are sapphires and diamonds inlaid in it. Mat feels like it would look perfect perched upon golden hair.
(ôCarai al Ellisande-!ö)
Mat whispers her name. Thom and Talmanes exchange glances, and ask if heÆs alright. Mat says he is, before he sits in AemonÆs chair. Then, he remembers.
Then, he remembers everything.
(ôAl Ellisande.ö)
Matrim Cauthon dies. The old blood sings.
9) The man once known as Matrim Cauthon cannot decide on whose name to take. There are too many of them û every man in his family including Aemon himself, all their lifetimes, clear as the daylight in his mind. The man inhabiting Matrim CauthonÆs body realizes that the Aelfinn and Eelfinn werenÆt giving him memories, but pulling them to the surface. He decides to keep his old name, as he does not want to alarm Thom or Talmanes, and add the traditional third name at the end, to honor Matrim CauthonÆs sacrifice and great courage. Matrim Cauthon TaiÆsharan, he would be. Matrim Cauthon of the True Blood.
The new Shen An Calhar (A strange idea, the Aemon in him says) strips the city dry of its valuables quickly. Mat makes special sure to keep the terÆangreal safe û some of them are extremely useful even to non-channelers, and more importantly, his. The half-trained girl Aei Sedai protest, and Mat tells them theyÆll have to walk or fly back to the White Tower if they keep complaining on his carriage. They get very frustrated, but the fox-head medallion (funny thing, that û one of his lord ancestorÆs sigils was a grey fox) stays at the same temperature. They have learned better than to try to channel at him.
They make it down the Mountains of Mist to spook the outermost sentries of IturaldeÆs army. Rodel Ituralde is a respectable general, and if Mat thinks him inexperienced, then he has no right to voice it û after all, the man only has had one lifetime. Apparently the Band has arrived just in time to join their march, right back through the Mountains of Mist and towards Tar Valon. A great army of Dreadlords and Shadowspawn has taken the White Tower and Tar Valon from the inside, and the Lord Dragon was calling all of his generals to him in order to take it back. Whispers are heard of Aei Sedai manipulation, and of the famous Amyrlin in Exile, Egwene AlÆVere, and her connection to him. Whispers are heard, and a dead king laughs.
The siege of the city is brutal and merciless. The AshaÆman of the Black Tower rain the destruction of the Creator himself down upon the Shining Walls, riding atop the great winged beasts of the Seanchan, while the forces of Light and Shadow make battle amongst the plains outside the city, leaping to and from gateways crafted by the Dreadlords. Ghoulish creatures never before seen outside the heart of the Blight rip through the unprepared Army of the Light. And for once, the old blood does not sing.
No, it need not sing. For Matrim Cauthon had become the song itself.
AludraÆs Dragons do battle fiercely, ripping through the air and exploding in screeching conflagrations of crimson and gold. The Band of the Red Hand lives up to the honor of their name, their repeating crossbows and long pikes turning great swaths of Trollocs into so many corpses that the cavalry of the armies soon must dismount, their horses unable to brave the climb up the bolt-ridden flesh. The Shadowspawn die thousands at a time û his ambushes are simply too well placed, his offense simply too ruthless and effective, his defense, nigh impregnable. His mind spins with the strategies and tactics of every Age that ever passed, of every general and officer that his family, his blood ever birthed. The Shining Walls for the first time in all of the White TowerÆs history crumble before an enemy army, and the city is taken by storm.
The Forsaken strike as Rand takes the Tower itself, Graendal, AranÆgar and Mesaana nearly ambushing him as they trap him inside, and if not for Egwene at his back, they would have surely succeeded. The very Tower itself shakes with the force of their battle.
The moratÆraken is not pleased about surrendering his mount, especially when he learns what Mat intends, but one does not simply say no to the Prince of the Ravens. Mat slips into the Tower from above, through a hole made by one of RandÆs Callandor-charged blasts of balefire.
The inside of the great structure is a maze of Power-wrought traps and hiding Shadowspawn. The fox-head medallion protects him from the traps, but only his strength and wits keep him from detection by the Trollocs that storm through the halls, moving in the direction of what Mat can only assume is the fight between the five channelers. Mat makes to follow, but is halted by a familiar foe.
The gholam seems utterly the same as when they last met, right down to the clothes he wears. The scar on his cheek stands lividly red against the ShadowspawnÆs cheek. The creature snarls (ôYou look well, bastard.ö)(ôYou cannot escape!ö)(ôWhoÆs running?ö) and charges.
The fight is brutally short. Mat snaps the cord of the medallion hanging around his neck just in time for the gholam to seize the arm holding it, grab him by the neck and pin him against the wall with terrifying strength.
(ôI never lose my prey.ö)
Mat smiles, cuts open the monsterÆs bloodless throat with his free arm and drops the real medallion, which he had hidden up his sleeve ever since the Aei Sedai started giving it hungry looks, down the creatureÆs esophagus.
(ôBut you do lose to them.ö)
After several minutes of ear-wrenching howls and pain, the gholam dies. Mat cuts open its stomach to retrieve the terÆangreal and finds nothing but a molten pile of silver. He takes a moment to rethink his strategy and moves onward.
Mat sticks to the shadows. He had walked with a cloak and dagger one lifetime or another, enough to know how to keep out of sight and to recognize just how dangerous Thom truly was, if one knew how to look. The evidence of the Dragon, Amyrlin and ForsakenÆs battle becomes evident before long, the halls of the Tower slowly degenerating into a madhouse of damage wrought by saidin and saidar. Spikes jutting upwards and outwards and downwards and from everywhere, great gashes in the hardened stone too neat for a blade, burning and uprooted tapestries and furniture and even stranger things Mat had no name for at all (ôIs that a kitchen sink!?ö).
He finds the five channelers in a deadlock, a quick dance of twitching fingers and fast movement that to any outward observer would seem as nothing more than a glaring contest.
But wait, there! A great outcry of distress as a terrible wound was gouged in stone. The carpet shifting, before being crushed hard into the floor by some invisible godÆs fist. Lightning and fire, flying from the hand in a unnatural storm. AranÆgar favors the great slashing attacks and elemental furies, while Graendal and Mesaana pace behind, looking for a place to work their subtler weavings. Rand waves his stump of a hand in sharp, flat motions, as if arguing fiercely and silently, and Egwene moves in tandem, floating sinuously from one step to the next like an underwater dance, her arms sweeping like willow branches conducting an orchestra. Their faces are red with strain.
Mat watches, and Mat waits.
And then! There! Rand abruptly snarls in triumph, reversing a stride and spinning to impale Mesaana with a bar of balefire that burns her from the inside out. The carpet suddenly sits perfectly pristine, as it was before. AranÆgar loses one crucial second glancing nervously back and Egwene takes her, flows of Air lifting the Forsaken up and bringing her down, dashing her brains against the stone.
But Graendal has been waiting the entire time. Callandor is swatted from RandÆs hands, and as if by some invisible switch, Dragon and Amyrlin drop like cut marionettes, screaming and clutching their skulls. Graendal advances languidly, gown shimmering, like some golden-haired panther, playing with her kill.
Saidar lets the Forsaken hear it coming, but doesnÆt save her as she whips around just in time to receive MatÆs dagger in the side of the throat. The hedonist woman collapses to the ground, clawing at her throat and dying shortly of one flaw both Aei Sedai of new and old share û their inability to Heal themselves. Rand recovers first, and looks at Mat with unashamed shock in his eyes.
(ôMatà!ö)
Mat grins and lends him a hand up.
(ôWomen, am I right?ö)
Egwene chooses that moment to moan, in pain or protest û the latter wouldnÆt have surprised Mat, her being a Two Rivers woman and all û bringing their attention back to the situation at hand.
Rand makes Mat the lead general of his army the very next day. In a week, they receive word of a massive horde massing and moving towards TarwinÆs Gap, of Blight monsters charging past the lines of their accursed land and assaulting the Borderlands. Both the Dragon and his general understand.
The Last Battle has come.
Chaos, entropy, madness incarnate takes the world. The shadows themselves vanish, leaving the land a stranger to its inhabitants. Where the ShadowÆs armies walk is engulfed by this darkness, only death remaining in their wake.
But the Dragon is Reborn, and he calls the world to take up arms, to fight for their salvation. The world answers.
Men, young and old, some women better left at home, children û all answer the call. Anyone who can hold a spear does so, or finds a quarterstaff to carve. The people of the wetlands, of the Borderlands, of the Waste, of the Sea Folk, of the Seanchan, all unite against their common foe. Mortal enemies fight side by side û The Aei Sedai spearheading the Whitecloak charge, Illianers playinig the hammer for the TairensÆ anvil, the Sea Folk armada conglomerating with the Seanchan to invade the Blight from the Dead Sea. Even those never seen before come. Shara through the Aiel Waste, ambushing the forces at TarwinÆs Gap with their Ayyad and routing them, savages from the Land of Madmen far to the south, brought by the Sea Folk, screaming as they overwhelm the Trollocs, kicking, biting, eating.
Mat is in charge of men he never thought he would see in his lifetime. Gareth Bryne, Rodel Ituralde, Davram Bashere. The Aiel chieftans join them, along side the SeanchanÆs generals, and the Ogier representatives, and SharaÆs Shbotan and Shbotay, and the Captain-Commander of the Children of Light, Galad Trakand, and then the Captain-General of the Green Ajah, Cadsuane. Egwene AlÆVere, farmgirl turned Amyrlin Seat. AlÆLan Mandragoran, Lord of the Seven Towers. Logain Ablar, MÆHael of the Black Tower. His wife, the Empress. More and more until the tent is filled with enough amassed political and literal power that a nod could be considered an ultimatum and a handshake an invasion. Rand stands at his right, and Perrin next to Rand, wearing the crown of Saldaea, having taken the throne with BashereÆs help after TenobiaÆs assassination. Never in any of his lifetimes had he been a part of anything like this.
Rand stops talking and looks at him. Then everyone else does too. Mat realizes that everyone is waiting for him to talk. For a moment, his throat closes up. Then he sees the map, sighs, and wryly grins as he tosses a pair of dice on the table. One and one.
(ôAnyone care for a gamble?ö)
The plan is madness.
(ôWhat about our land?ö)
Bryne starts objecting as soon as heÆs done speaking, with Ituralde right on his heels. Bashere clenches the table edge and digs in like a mule.
(ôLeave it.ö)
The moment of shock soon passes and everyone is up in arms. Rand is clutching his shoulder, speaking hard and urgently, eyes shining feverishly, and Perrin is shouting beside him to be heard over the ruckus.
(ôWhat about our homes?ö)
The fear and indecision on their faces disgusts him. Mat grabs the heavy-bladed dagger from his hip and slams it up to the hilt through the wood of the table, which breaks straight down the middle through some imperfection in the wood and collapses, spilling the maps and parchment to the floor. The uproar quiets.
(ôLeave it all!ö)
A candle catches the edge of a piece of parchment and begins to burn. No one spares it a glance.
(ôNone of that matters! None of it is worth anything unless we win! The Shadow must be broken for good, or the Wheel will just keep turning, Ages will just keep passing, all up until all our bones are turned to ash, and some bloody idiot makes a mistake, lets the Dark One win and then everything weÆve worked and fought for is damned to the Pit of Doom!ö)
The paper, through some twist of fate, burns into a long twisted line, opening up into a fiery maw that looks almost like a dragon if you squint right. The dice sit in the middle of the æheadÆ, two pips. The Dark OneÆs Eyes.
Bryne looks taken aback. Ituralde looks a mite ashamed. Bashere bites his lip. Everyone else stares, a silent mass.
(ôItÆs risky.ö)
Mat tilts his head challenging.
(ôIsnÆt it always?ö)
Then, he leaves. The plan goes into motion the next day. It is the simplest of tactics û a full charge, straight into the heart of the Blight. The untrained soldiers and conscripts act as insulation to the real army, taking the brunt of the damage as the Blight comes alive with darkness, Myrddraal leaping from the shadows and Drakhgar swooping overhead. Monsters with no name but evil come at them, and men die like flies, as the formation of their massive force tightens as the trained warriors take the place of the citizen soldiers. Gray Men strike at night, taking the lives of officers, Aei Sedai, kings, peasants. Soldiers do not wake at times, killed by strange, horrific sicknesses or simply cold and dead in their beds. Skirmishers bite constantly at their flanks, and Darkfriends make themselves known in the ranks. Ituralde dies of poison. Bashere and his wife take four of the seven assassins sent with them to their grave. Lan gets his throat sloppily cut in his sleep, strangles the Darkfriend who did it and miraculously manages to live thanks to NynaeveÆs skills and proximity.
(Mat always liked Lan, and Aemon did as well. After all, they were both AanÆAllein.)
Mat strikes back just as hard. Trollocs charge into walls of crossbows and dragon-eggs. Wolves patrol the camp, striking down Gray Men and hunting Darkhounds. Their group grows tighter and tighter until only the hardest of them remain. And then, they reach their destination, on the morning of the thirteenth week. Shayol Ghul.
No words may describe the things that meet them there.
Rand raises Callandor, and the Sword That Is Not A Sword shines impossibly bright, piercing the heavens, the sun peeking through the gaps in the clouds for the first time in centuries.
(ô I am the Lord of the Morning! I am He Who Comes With The Dawn! I am the Shield of the Light, the Sword of the Creator! I am Rand AlÆThor! King of the World! Dragon Reborn! Your heart is mine, ShaiÆtan!ö)
Mat raises the Horn of Valere to his lips for the second and last time. The ephemeral note seems to invade his very soul, making his heart surge and his body tremble. A white fog blasts from the mouth of the Horn, and the Army of the Light charges along side it as from the mist charges the long dead heroes of all the Ages. Rand brings the crystal sword up high into the air and brings it down with a scream.
(ôI AM RAND ALÆTHOR!ö)
10) Eventually, the world begins to right itself. People start to rebuild. The Seanchan make a few trade treaties and alliances and leave for their homeland. The Aiel go back to the Waste û which will likely soon be called something else, with the green explosion moving out of Rhuidean û and the Sea Folk get in their ships and sail away.
MatÆs work seems to be never over. The Band of the Red Hand is one big masonÆs banner now, moving from city to city, town to town, doing nothing but help rebuild. And why not? ThereÆs no wars going on, and the Blight is silent. Some people claim to have seen growth on the edges.
Rand leaves. He doesnÆt tell Mat or anyone except Min, Aviendha and Elayne. Mat barely has time to shake his hand before he steps into the gateway leading to only the Creator knows where.
(ôWatch them for me, Mat. Watch them.ö)
Mat shoots a dubious glance at him, then back at his three wivesÆ û and Mat thought he was lucky û pregnant stomachs.
(ôIÆm not your bloody nursemaid. Come back and watch them yourself.ö)
Rand AlÆThor laughs, and the Dragon Reborn leaves.
Perrin leaves the Two Rivers û truly leaves it, this time. As the King of Saldea, and the last monarch of the Borderlands left alive, most of his time is taken up, but he finds some time to see Mat every once in a while. They joke, they laugh û they never forget. PerrinÆs eyes are still golden, and every once in a while Mat reaches up to scratch the patch over his eye, the one he traded for Moiraine.
Talmanes and the other nobles in the Band donÆt return to their countries. Instead, they make off east. Mat doesnÆt suspect a thing until they send him a missive two years later, inviting him to a coronation party, in the Two Rivers, of all places. Mat (ôBurn you, Thom, stop bloody laughing!ö), suspecting some uppity noble trying to set himself up in his home, marches right off to set things straight.
The Two Rivers is now beginning to look like a small city, with all the houses being built, and all the trade flowing in. Rand never had any problems telling people where he came from, nor did Mat or Perrin. With the fog seemingly disappearing from the Mountains of Mist, bringing dozens of new ruin sites and hidden iron veins to light, Mat wonders if they might even be seeing a taxman from Caemlyn soon.
Mat finds the coronation being held in Manetheren. The place is looking downright respectable, with the Ogier lending stonemasons to help rebuild. Everyone from the Two Rivers is there in the Royal Palace û old Bran AlÆVere, Master and Mistress Luhhan. Mat starts smelling something fishy once he sees Perrin there, talking with Elayne. Then, Talmanes spots him, and Thom blows a horn, looking strange out of his gleemanÆs cloak, and in the tabard ofà
(ôEntering now, the King of Manetheren, Matrim Cauthon, High Seat of House Cauthon!ö)
Mat says some very un-kingly things, punches Talmanes in the jaw, and would have escaped entirely if not for Tuon restraining him with her damane.
ItÆs not as horrible as Mat first suspects. While he knows all there is to know about ruling a kingdom, particularly Manetheren, they donÆt know that, and Tuon hires a tutor to instruct him. The little woman brooks no argument in the matter, then, to top it off, leaves on the next ship for Seanchan. Part of Mat canÆt help but admire her sheer gall. But then, as the tutor soon explains, marriages are much different in Seanchan custom.
Since Manetheren is still being rebuilt, and his presence isnÆt likely to quicken anything, Mat rides off with two masonÆs banners, to help rebuild. The nobles in him are more than ready to take the throne, but they bow their head to Mat Cauthon, who is not a bloody lord, no matter who says so, and is nowhere near ready to stop adventuring.
His semi-charitable travels take him around. Rand replaced Callandor in the Stone before he left, and it hangs there in the Heart of the Stone, silent and immovable as ever. Mat pays a visit to Mayene, where Berelain greets him with great courtesy û sheÆs been in a good mood ever since she sneakily annexed half of TearÆs peninsula in the aftermath. The people are carefree, and the customs, wine and rugs are fantastic. Mat pays a visit to the stedding nearby, and a few Ogier stonemasons join them for the trip.
A year passes. Talmanes is sounding pretty annoyed in his letters, though to be fair, making Mat his King does mean that he canÆt order Mat to return. But just last month, Mat got a letter from Tuon, his wife, and he just knows that sheÆll hop on a ship right over the Aryth Ocean if she has to, Crystal Throne be damned.
Mat strides through the streets of Tar Valon. A few years ago, he would have been terrified of being anywhere near the place. Now? The White Tower is a ruin, having collapsed soon after the Army of the Light moved away towards the Borderlands, wards failing under the Dark OneÆs power. Egwene requested help from a few stedding, Shangtai being one of them, and Mat tagged along, because really, what else did he have to do?
A raven swoops out of the sky and lands on his ashandarei. Mat stares into its beady eyes, and gives his weapon a good shake. The raven clings on tight, caws loudly into MatÆs face before taking off. Mat watches it fly off, before scratching his eye patch absentmindedly.
Bringing his eyes back down, they alight upon the broken, dilapidated Tower. Mat grins.
(ôTold you so.ö)
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I can't tell you how much trouble this shit gave me getting out. I know it needs a beta lookie-loo, so would someone mind so I can post it on FFN?
