(A/N - Disgusting, isn't it? I've nothing to put here but an apology….and to say a teeny addendum awaits you. Come on – you didn't really think I'd keep it that short, do you.)

Disclaimer: I wrote Knife of Dreams. That's why it took me so long to post this. It's true. Ask that man over there, the one in the white coat. (Man in White Coat: 'Liar!'). Fair enough. (Man in White Coat: 'And you're rubbish!'). Right, that's it….

Chapter Twenty-Two

Some problems aren't meant to be solved. The girl is one of them.

He should be laughing. It was ridiculous, a fool's joke. But the smile wouldn't come.

'Looks like you need some tea in your belly.'

He blinked and Wern's fat, frowning face snapped into focus. Mat cupped his hands around his full mug. It was cold. 'Yes.' Manners, Matrim. Always remember your manners. 'Please, that is.'

'Perhaps it's best you couch a while, hm?' said Wern gently, waving Arli in the direction of the hearth. 'Crowds won't clear 'til past noon.'

'Noon.' Mat echoed. It seemed there was something terribly important about that word.

'Don't worry. Neither me nor Arli are going to watch. Don't have the stomach for that sort of thing.'

Light, why couldn't he think? Ride to camp, haul up, leave. He could pretend everything was all right. As long as he didn't look at her eyes.

'Surprised they got her,' Wern mused, rubbing his jaw. 'Right out from under a bloody army too. Ach, the Wheel metes justice as it sees fit.'

Mat twitched a smile. 'They're going to kill her.' He shot to his feet, making the cup spin to shatter on the floor. 'They're going to bloody kill her.'

'Light, boy, what do you expect them to do?' Wern snapped, sopping spilt tea with his sleeve. 'Wave her off to the White Tower?'

Mat clutched the table-edge. A town full of Whitecloaks, his Band five leagues West with no way of getting word and….Light, they're going to kill her.

Wern squinted up at him. 'If I didn't know wiser I'd say you were hatching something. Hope you know better than to do anything stupid.'

'No. Nothing stupid.'

'Nothing heroic either.'

'I'm no bloody hero.' Two in his sleeves, two in his boots, a few planted around his coat and one sheathed at his nape. Not enough blades for half a dozen opponents. Not enough by far. He could use their weapons if….wait, Whitecloaks carried swords. He hated bloody swords.

'I don't much like that look in your eyes, boy. Not much at all.'

'You have to let me go.'

'I'll not spill my blood to write her pardon.'

'No bloodshed. Just let me go.'

Wern shared a look with Arli then nodded.

'Thank you, I….' Arli had put down the kettle and was walking to the door, carefully avoiding his gaze. 'Where is she going?'

'Move girl,' Wern snarled.

'Arli. Don't.'

She paused in the doorway, sunlight firing her hair to fierce copper. Tears glinted as she threw a long look over her shoulder. Then she was gone.

As though the door slamming were some kind of signal, Wern seized Mat by the arm. A vicious cudgel, ominously stained at its thickest end, swung in his other hand.

'Don't know how sorry I am to do this, lad. Now sit down.'

His fingers tingled, telling him they were ready to draw steel and would be bloody quick about it. Instead, Mat hooked a chair with his foot, dragged it, and sat. He threw an offensive 'happy now?' grin and folded arms across his chest. 'I'll kill her.'

'What?' Wern sputtered.

Mat was almost as astonished himself. 'Arli - as soon as she opens that door—' He mimed a cool underhand throw.

'You'd sooner slit your own throat.'

'Or yours,' he agreed. 'But I'd do it all the same.'

'Liar.'

Mat leaned forward in the chair. 'Try me.'

Snarling, Wern stepped closer then froze as Mat flicked a shirt-sleeve to show a wink of steel. 'You kill me, they kill you. Bad deal. Time to throw down your cards, friend.'

A flicker, a stutter of shadow beneath the door.

No hesitation now - Mat seized a knife. The blade threw back his pale, distorted face.

'She's my daughter—'

'Last chance.'

The handle creaked.

Wern's eyes darted between him and the door, tongue wetting his lip. 'There's no need for this.'

'There's every flaming need – burn you, back down!'

But it was too late for that now. His hand moved with terrible slowness, raised the knife to his cheek. It was going to happen. The blade's gleam pricked his pupils, rasped stubble on his cheek he had a sudden, confused thought -

need to shave

- before the door burst wide with a confetti of splinters.

It was not Arli. It didn't matter. The knife sagged then slid from Mat's slack fingers, struck the floor with a dull chime.

A figure stepped through the doorway, spurs ringing with his slow advance. 'I warned you,' came a gentle and oh so familiar voice. 'You always were too trusting.'

The Whitecloak stopped before him, one hand tucked in his swordbelt, the other hefting a vicious sun-gold crossbow.

With a groan of plate steel, he crouched level with Mat's slack face.

'Hullo, General,' Cal said.

---

In a dark, cold cellar, Malori D'Aubren stopped falling.

'Merle,' she croaked in a voice clotted with screams. 'Get your hands off me you son of a whore.'

'Welcome back, Malori.' Merle leaned close, the needle a deadly jut under her jaw. 'Confess your misdeeds,' he crooned. 'Confess. End it, child.'

Her smile is a slither in the dark.

'Wielder of the aberration.'

Her voice stronger now.

'Destroyer of Farwell.'

Mocking, almost.

'Murderer of ten bastards just like you.' The smile split wide. 'It should have been eleven.'

Merle thumbed sweat and blood from her cheek. 'Good girl'.

Then blackness reaches for her again. Malori falls….

….and awakens to memories like hornets after the long, sluggish dream of autumn. They rise, blur and buzz; a girl-child, hair like flying crimson. A wooden chest. The man with hands like slabs. A feather, a doll. Torn paper, her etched face split in two. Then the boy – and, oh, that one is clearest of all – his fine, lithe form black against the last sunset.

my name is malori

Wrong, wrong. All wrong. You don't have to do this.

but i said i must

Some problems aren't meant to be solved.

i am

You are Ma-

lor

-i

Falling again, falling, falling….

….into a sigh of apple-blossom, a crooked grin, wine and lightening and dancing in the long, low hours of morning….

No! I won't let her!

Then fall.

'Come with me.'

She spun. He was within reach, narrow chest heaving.

A hand, calloused but fine, tremored then rose, as though to stroke her hair. Instead it seized her arm. She froze.

'I don't want to hurt you.'

'Either way,' he panted. 'Down there or right here. Either way I get hurt.'

'Then run.'

'Not without you.'

She tore her gaze from his narrow, twisted face. Below them the village smoked and seethed.

'It's too late. Please, Malori.'

She snarled, lashed with her free hand. A ribbon of blood unwound across his cheek.

'Please.'

She lashed again, but with the other this time.

Ty grunted and fell back, arms locked to his gut.

A cry rode the wind. She was already heading towards it, towards her home.

Ty had staggered to his feet, nothing but a thin, boy-shape against a blood sky.

He had not the breath to cry her name, or if he did it was swept away by the spark-swirled wind that lashed her hair. Her eyes slitted when she heard a final, plaintive scream.

Snarling, Malori called the other and raised her hand….

The village wavers, fades as she falls….

Malori blinked at the girl stepping into the dim cellar light.

'Hullo.' The girl's lips curl in an almost-smile. 'I seem to be lost.'

'I'm awake now.' Why had she said that? A quick, terrible pain spiked her head like when she and Ty drank from the ice-skinned spring.

The girl did look lost, as though she had been on her way to a feastday. A pale dress clung to her tiny waist, curls the colour of hot cocoa glistened.

'Awake? Of course you are.' Silk whispered as the girl came closer. Perfume like sickly apple-blossom hung about her. 'But I'm lost. I—' The girl paused, face stricken. 'I have to get back. I have to….'

She cocked her head, paled. 'I'm sorry. For all of it. Burn you, back down….'

Skirts hiked, the girl fled. Her final sob was almost a word; 'Ma-' something. Perhaps the girl wanted her mother. Perhaps she

i

was

is

crazy

Pain bolts through her limbs. Somewhere is the idiot drip drip of water. Her wrists are bound and bloodied, her back sobs with agony, and she knows her descent has stilled at last. Above her swims a face like a grinning moon. The face of Henrich Thrayne.

Malori hawked and spat blood.

'Now now,' Thrayne chided, smearing the clot from his breastplate. 'You needed to confess, to purge that last seed of Dark.'

'I'll see you dead.'

Shock cooled the man's smile. When he spoke, his voice was too soft. 'There has been much discussion on you, a whole study in fact. Our….investigations suggested you would no longer be afflicted with the abomination.' Now Thrayne's beam was radiant as his armour. 'The Creator is great in His mercy. You have been blessed.'

Hope, weak but eager, winnowed through the pain. 'Then you will let me go?'

'There are people, Malori.' His eyes were still fringed with incongruously black lashes, still handsome despite the creases at their corners. 'People who have come to see you.'

'No.'

Thrayne sighed as she thrashed. 'The Creator allowed you to forget. What of those who remember?'

Forget? Her moan was almost a laugh. She twisted her head, pressed a hot cheek to cold, wet wood.

'Those people, those poor souls, have lived without mercy. Don't you think that they deserve something? Don't they deserve the mercy of justice?'

She panted, reaping air that stank of rot and corruption with each fevered breath, remembered her hand in his, the sweat mingling on their palms. Him running, hair flung in the smoke-choked wind, legs working as he pulled her up the tor. The dread lurch as she wrenched her hand free. He knew what she had meant to do. He knew….

'There's a good girl. You were always a good girl, Malori.' A snarl of pain as someone freed her wrists. 'Be very brave now. It's time to go home.'

She shrieked - Merle had hiked her by the waist, hauled her after Thrayne.

She was as nothing in his arms, floating towards a notch of pure light that hitched closer and closer with every rise. They hauled her into a rage of red and yellow. Banners licking flame, screaming, baying, ears whining and the creak of armour hot in the air.

Thrayne reared, a creature of sapphire and silver and pale glinting teeth, the crowd a storm of howling triumph.

Spinning now to face the jeering mass. Faces spat and hissed, hands clawing so she shrank against her captor and found herself alone in that raging sea. Grey murked the nightmare and she prayed for darkness, saw only Thrayne smiling down at her with the sun a sickled orb about his head. His arms rose, wafted a calming gesture. The howls rippled into silence.

'Friends of the Light, behold your retribution.'

---

Mat had been soothing his knuckles when the crowd roared, crouched in the corner with nothing but a steady weep of water for company.

He stood, head cocked as though in polite enquiry of the din. Then he launched a fresh assault on the door. The baying from above was deafening, pure bloodlust not even the pounding of his boots and fists could muffle.

Curses had given way to pleas, threats to promises. All he had left now was fury and his pointless, one-sided battle with the cellar door.

He paced, bloodied hands flexing and curling. Often he would give a violent shake of his head, his pace faltering. These wanings followed a single thought. Cal.

Cal. Blue-eyed Cal, who looked like goosefat wouldn't melt in that prissy mouth of his.

Liar.

Traitor.

Executioner.

Burn him.

Mat booted a scroll then slumped against the wall, crushing old parchment beneath him. The crowd loosed another round of jeers, but quieter - no, that wasn't right. Fainter. For some reason, that made the coiled barb in his chest unwind a little.

His only ally, a small, lumpen candle, bobbed then guttered. He was nearly in full dark now.

He toyed with a furl of parchment, brought it to his face. It was a map. Scribed amid a gentle roll of hill was a single word; Farwell.

Mat grasped the candle, heedless of the molten wax dribbling on his skin, and kissed paper to dying flame.

The parchment caught, flared, the bottom quickly crumbling into ash. Mat thought he might be smiling. He was, a feral grin tainted red by flame.

Somewhere above a door swung open. The candle crackled and drowned in its own tallow. The parchment see-sawed to the floor, its confetti of ash rising in the draught.

Mat didn't even yelp when gauntleted hands grasped him.

His eyes stuttered shut against the light as they yanked him up the screeching stairs. He felt a meaty thud at the end of his flailing fist before a kick slammed him to the boards, dust whirling with the impact. He grunted as they wrenched his arms behind his back. A flurry of footsteps and Arli dropped at his side, her fingers twisting into his hair as she lunged to press a kiss to his snarl.

''Ope it's a good 'un, filth.' Rough hands hauled him afoot, tearing Arli's mouth from his. The one-eyed man grinned as he pressed close enough for Mat to see the grime in his pores. 'Last one ye're ginta get.'

'Actually, I was saving my last for you.'

He grunted as the man dealt a blow that had him clutching his gut.

'Decorum, Merrick, decorum.'

Mat straightened, armed a drool of blood from his lip, and smiled at the speaker. 'My saviour.'

Cal didn't even blink. 'Make your peace, Dragonsworn.'

As one, the circle of Whitecloaks followed Cal's lead and bowed their heads. Arli gazed at him with beseeching eyes. Light, the fool woman couldn't even pray for him properly. Wern was staring at the floor, his drooping shoulders making him look tired, old.

Neither moved when they seized and hauled him from the small, darkened house and into the square. Mat squinted against splintering sunlight. He longed to keep his eyes closed, certain he would see a slender, lifeless shape swinging from a fall of rope. But open them he did. The empty noose was twitching in a playful breeze.

The grip on his arms tightened as his knees buckled.

'Where is she?'

Cal didn't answer the question. A pity, for Mat had several others; Where was the crowd? Why was it so quiet? And why in the name of bloody, flaming Ba'alzamon was he being led to the gallows?

He glared at the armoured men making a tight knot around him (and something about that made him smirk deep inside – whatever plan of his escape they had in mind, he'd be glad to hear it) but none spoke.

One or two looked a little stunned, true, and another kept twitching an awed smile in a way that had Mat wishing he could bloody up his fists a little more. One-Eye looked neither shocked nor amused. He looked as though he would gladly slit Mat's throat where he stood.

There was a definite air of ceremony about the way the fat, beardless Whitecloak plucked a scroll from his belt and unfurled it with his baby-plump fingers. Mat's gaze twitched to the half-dozen Whitecloaks, to the gallows, to Cal.

'You're not going to—?' He broke off in a wheeze. Oh, they were.

And Mat doubled up, breathless with mirth as they marched him, that little procession, across the empty square.

The wind keened, a mocking accompaniment to his laughter, stirred a tail of torn ribbon – it was blue, Mat noticed, and something about that was both sweet and terrible – rocked abandoned tankards and flurried dirt into spiralled eddies he had always known as dust-bullies .

And now he was going to die. Die in a strange place where dust-bullies had a different name and the people had the pale blue eyes of cracked steel.

Better than Rhuidean, he thought wildly, and that was something. Light, that had to be something.

A treacled apple lay at the bottom of the gallows steps, its white, exposed flesh spackled with ants. His boot sent it spinning at they hauled him upwards and shoved him towards the rope.

'Poor turnout,' he drawled as they stopped him above the trapdoor, or rat-catch, or Ba'alzamon's Eye, depending on which long-dead voice you heeded. A twitter in the far reaches of his mind advised it might not be wise to be so flip. He squashed that voice. It was either this or mindless, blithering panic.

The fat Whitecloak began reciting from his scroll. Mat ignored his sonorous drone.

'Where have you taken her?'

Not even sparing him a glance, Cal grasped the rope in both hands and yanked the noose wide.

'Because the others will find her whether you tell me or not.'

A lie, or at least as good as. Ferrell was probably snoozing against a tree stump somewhere, waiting for his return. At least he'd get a nice, long rest.

'Not in the mood for conversation?' he asked Cal lightly.

The noose rasped over his head with a smug hiss. It settled on the black scarf and tightened. Mat took a deep breath as something hot awakened to squirm in his gut.

Formalities accorded, the fat man furled his scroll and raised his jowled, expectant face. Mat grinned at him. The Wheel had turned and dealt him a low hand. No luck today, my boy. No win. No dice.

It was an effort to look Cal in the eye. But he had to. And not for his sake. 'You harm her—'

'By order of the Council of the Light—' Cal intoned.

'So much as a bruise—'

'I condemn you for crimes against the Creator—'

'I will see you dead. I swear it.'

'Children of the Light—'

'Burn you, Delaine.'

'I bring your retribution.'

Mat squeezed his eyes shut, dimly aware that his last sight would be his old worn boots before they danced the hangman's jig.

When it happened it happened fast. A click and then a snap on its heels, like a whip-crack.

Last chance for the impossible to occur, for Rand to leap through a gateway or Perrin to charge in, axe hewing, for Moiraine to step daintily from a doorway and channel them out of this flaming midden.

The rope buzzed like an angry hornet, the noose jerked then hugged his throat. Mat fell, a near-wordless cry torn from his lips.

That mortal cry ended in a yelp. Ear ringing, Mat lifted his head from whatever had smacked him senseless and from a giddy, side-skewed angle saw something white leap from the platform.

Mat heaved to his knees. His cheek throbbed from where it had smacked the gallows floor. Light, his whole head throbbed. That didn't stop him reaching for a knife or spoil his aim. The Whitecloak charging up the steps stumbled and sagged, the blade a cruel glister at his throat. He hit the deck as Mat scrabbled to the edge of the platform and saw Cal dispatching a goggle-eyed comrade with frightening ease.

Mat fell back on his rump, hands pressed to his head, the very picture of someone who had been whacked with an irresistible, irrefutable revelation. This was one improbable rescue he didn't see coming.

'When you're done grinning, maybe you could lend a hand.' Dripping sword aloft, Cal scowled up at him from a knot of advancing men. 'If you're not too busy, of course.'

Mat whicked a blade from his boot-top, aimed, threw. A heartbeat later it winked in the dirt. A Whitecloak glanced at his still thrumming breastplate and sneered. Knives and armour. Not a good combination.

'I hate bloody swords,' Mat muttered, afoot at last and gazing with disgust at the Whitecloak slumped over the steps – the man was gurgling crimson onto his white cloak, fingers twitching on his sword-hilt.

Grimacing, Mat yanked the thing from the dying man's hand. The hilt felt cold and clammy. His calluses were in all the wrong places. Some dim memory told him the thing was well-balanced as he hefted it. Little comfort. A sword is a sword. Mat would have given much for a farmboy weapon right then.

'Carai an Caldazar,' he murmured, not knowing why. Then his fingers tightened on the sword-hilt and he understood. A sick feeling crawled in his belly.

Still - and the thought came with a pale, weak smile – it was high time they repaid him for hogging all those gaps in his head. He closed his eyes. They answered fast. A stabbing pain low in his side then a tide of midnight, falling….

….kill them, all of them, kill them first, o aye, blood will flood these fields, these crops, they hunger…. o my love, my heart i'm so sorry i never meant….i'm sorry….i love….i

Worse still than the visions, this voice of a dying man.

Mat clutched his hand to a wound that didn't exist, that cry pricking his brain like a forgotten stitch.

Slowly at first, he began the walk from the gallows. His throat ached, his legs shook, his eyes burned from the dust thrown up by the hot wind. He paid them no mind. Sword held at his side, Mat headed for the fray, wondering how in the Light a dead man was going to help him.

He found out when the first Whitecloak spied him. Young, obviously not relishing bloodshed, even that of Lightless filth, the man charged with sword held low.

A moment of panic then Mat spun to almost negligently flick the man's blade off course. Muscles used to lighter, quicker spear-play worked in perfect unison to jam the sword squarely into the man's chest. Two quick twists to bring quick death and Mat had freed the blade before the man could drag it down with him.

Still walking, Mat flicked blood from steel and offered a smile.

'Mordren Cale,' he drawled, weaving the sword in a form that was pure showmanship. 'Soldier, blade-bearer and youngest master of the cutlass, first honour.' The fat Whitecloak stepped back apace, jowls quivering, as the blade completed a vicious, jabbing form and wove seamlessly into the next. 'Last stand at the mouth of the Aringil, killed by a rat-faced half-breed while his wife lay birthing their child. He had much to fight for.' He paused, one brow cocked, sword flat and arrowed at his foes. 'Would you like to meet him?'

Naturally, they gaped like dapped fish. His mother always said his mouth would be his death or his saviour. Right now, the odds on either were flat even.

The fat one moved first. From the way he handled his sword, Mat half expected the others to yank him back. But they watched. They watched like hounds sending the litter-runt to greet a wolf. He hated them even more for it.

Edging forward, holding his sword like a hock of mutton, the fat man cried out when a wind-flurry slapped his cape into his sweating face. Someone – maybe himself - laughed. It was funny but it was bad-funny, the kind that huddled in laced wine and the whore's bed, in the feral, mirthless grin that sent men to shallow graves.

That made the big man advance hard, not looking nearly so soft or stupid now. A bad time for the fellow to splint his spine.

Mat had the blade under his chin so fast the man yipped.

Mat ignored him, turned his gaze on those watching the scene unfold like a feastday play. 'Leave and I won't kill him. Tell me where she is and I'll let all of you live.'

A snort from the one-eyed man. 'Boy, let 'im go an' we'll kill ya nice an' quick. Tha's th'best offah ye're ginta get. As fer yer cully…..well, she ginta get a very warm 'omecoming.'

Mat was so startled he let the blade-tip slip halfway to the fat man's paunch. 'What the flaming Light are you talking about?'

'Take the Creator's good in vain and I'll kill you myself,' spluttered the fat man, eyes livid, and Mat understood this one believed these fool's tenets, actually believed.

He pressed so the sword dented the fellow's chins. 'Hush, now,' he said softly before turning to the smirking man.

'I believe he would like you to enunciate,' Cal said, positioning the tip of his knife just above One-Eye's earlobe. 'My friend is very interested in these plans of yours.'

'Then you tell 'im.'

'You think I'm simple, Gethen? You think I don't know how you've been keeping secrets?'

'Traitor,' Gethen spat. 'Filthy, whore-begotten—'

That was as far as he got. Howling, the man fell to his knees, palm clapped to the place his ear should be.

Cal smiled as he bent over him. 'Shut up.'

Gethen shut up. Blood was gouting between his fingers now.

'It's amazing how many things can be flicked,' Cal demonstrated with a playful twitch of his blade. 'From a man's body.'

Gethen's eyes were fixed on a pinkish nub in the dirt. It looked like something found on a butcher's floor.

'Now be a good man and tell us.'

'T-tell you wha'?'

'Haven't you been listening? Perhaps I should try the other one—'

'Th' town.' Gethen shrieked, shrinking from Cal's blade. 'She's at th' town.'

'Farwell.' Cal looked up at him, startled. Mat closed his eyes. 'They've taken her home.'

That was when one of them charged, veins bulging in his neck.

Mat stepped back, touched blade to his lips in some long-dead salute, and opened the man's throat. He had time to see the man's spine, white teeth in some obscene, lipless grin, and then the rest were upon him.

Some part of him screamed, the same part that yammered and gabbled what the bloody flaming Light he thought he was doing, that he would slit his own throat, that he was going to get his stupid, luckless hide killed. But some part belonging, for now at least, to a shade of a shade stepped and turned and parried and thrust in arcs and sweeps and jabs.

Light! No wonder Rand calls it dancing….

And Mat Cauthon was gone again, in thrall of some long-dead soldier of Manetheren who had died with an apology on his lips.

He was laughing when the last one was beneath him, the one twisting and snarling and yelling a name over and over again, a name that stilled the blade long enough for the opponent to wrench it from his fingers.

But he had his hands, hands that could crush that maddening word right out this fool's throat. He pressed and squeezed and was finally dealt a blow so stunning he fell back, constellations spinning in his head….

the bull, the serpent, i see the fox

….with thoughts that spun words like Emond's Field and Two Rivers and Dell's Common and….

malori

Except that wasn't right either.

mai

Ah, this one.

This one brought him back to a place where his blonde opponent was screaming. Screaming a very familiar word….

'Mat! Mat!'

Mat heaved the weight off his chest, rolled onto hands and knees.

Hands clutched to his throat, Cal sat slumped like one of Bode's cloth-dollies. 'What do you think you're doing?'

'Fighting?' he ventured.

'Them, Mat, them – not me!'

He followed Cal's finger to a sprawl of figures. More of Bode's cloth-dollies, these ones torn and bloodied, sightless eyes fixed on the burning sun.

Muttering, Cal staggered to his feet.

'What?'

'I said did you bring a horse?'

'Yes,' he murmured, vaguely remembering the ride to this hateful place, pressed to the creature's neck, heels pounding its flanks.

'Good - you'll need it. If they've got her at that town, the one she….'

'Destroyed?' He managed a smile at Cal's stunned look. 'How long?'

'Before the Draghkar, before the Tinkers. I can't remember a time I didn't know.' The blonde man faltered, then smiled. 'Knowing when it's time to toss the dice. That's what you say isn't it? That's what it's all about.'

Mat's stomach reeled. Would he have been able to meet those eyes? Smile at her? Dance with her? Lie under the same blankets? He had a feeling he wouldn't like the answer.

'I took her apple-picking, for Light's sake!' he blurted, trotting to keep up with Cal who was now heading from the square.

Cal eyed him askance. 'And your point is….?'

'I took her up a tree and you knew all along what she'd done.'

'What did you think she was going to do? Bludgeon you with fruit?'

'I almost broke my neck. I should have known it was her.'

Cal was looking at him, a small, almost sad smile on his lips.

'Tell me.' Mat ducked his head as they loped past Arli's den. 'Tell me I'm being stupid. Irrational. Childish.'

'You're being stupid, irrational and childish. Is your horse around back?'

'She didn't know, you know,' he blurted. 'What she did, I mean. She can't remember.'

'I thought you just said she pushed you out of a tree.'

Mat raked a hand through his hair. Light, he missed his hat. 'I fell.'

'Yes.' Cal was wearing that odd half-smile again. 'You did.'

Both men spun at the soft scuffling sound.

Arli, pale and fretful, glanced fearfully at them before settling her gaze on Mat. No sign of Wern. A pity – Mat would have welcomed a little chat with the man. Arli took a few steps from the shelter of her doorway. 'You forgot—'

Her voice cracked as she held out what was in her hand. Mat seized the hat, as though snatching a bone from a dog's jaws.

'Mat,' she called as he turned away. 'I'm sorry.'

He should be angry - very angry indeed. But found that he was not.

'Arli, get back inside now.'

'Mat?'

He turned once more, jaw set.

'Would you really have killed me?'

Mat stared at the girl as two fat tears slid down her cheeks, and smiled.

His last sight of Arli was her standing outside the dusty porch, mouth pinched with fury.

'Truly?' Cal murmured at his side, brow quirked as though he already knew the answer.

'Just a tot of her own medicine.' That brought the memory of Mai trying to pour some vile tincture down his throat amid protests that he hadn't a cough, that he was fine, that he had only swallowed a tuft of bloody silky-down. Mat clapped on his hat and quickened his step.

The showy white stallion whickered as they rounded the corner of Arli's den, a disdainful sound. Three or four other mounts dithered nearby, seeking comfort with their own. Instinctively Mat sized the prime beast; a sparse, roan gelding with a flat, resigned looking face.

Cal was already at the white hotblood's side, palms testing its sleek legs. 'How long to Farwell?'

Mat squinted at the sun. 'I make it before dusk.'

'With this fellow one of us will make it within the hour.' Cal's eyes were appreciative when he straightened. 'How did you get him?'

'Willing mare, prime racing horseflesh, unguarded stable - long story. I'll go,' he snapped when the man made to interrupt. 'I'm lighter.'

'And supposedly dead.'

'So?'

'So it's not much of a ruse if you go charging in covered in blood. They know me. They trust me. A slight advantage, wouldn't you say?'

Mat swore. For some reason, he wanted to argue. With good reason, he couldn't think of an alternative. 'Fine – I'll take that bludger,' The flat-faced dun looked up with mild reproach. 'Ride to camp when I could probably walk faster and rally the troops. And get rid of this bloody sword,' he added.

His friend – Mat supposed he could call him that again and the thought was a little warming – had already swung into the saddle.

'Delaine.'

Cal turned, blue eyes questioning.

'You saved my life – for that you have my thanks.' Mat made a salute that had died with the last soldiers of Manetheren, but something in his face made Cal's smile wither. 'Harm her, and I'll kill you.'

And despite the snug of friendship he felt for the man, Mat knew he would make good on that threat with no hesitation whatsoever.

Cal nodded then thumped the mount's flanks, his white cloak flying wide.

Mat turned to the dun beast, the sound of the hotblood's fading gallop rattling his nerves.

'Ho there, glue-pot.' He kept his voice low as he reached for the reigns but the beast yielded easily enough. 'Any trouble and you're on the road to the knackers.'

For know, though, the road to Farwell was trouble enough.

---

All right – so review responses are banned. But let's say I wrote these before the rule came into play. I think that's fair enough, don't you?

For all I know the following may have weighed anchor and sailed from these fair shores. They may have fallen off the face of the earth. But I'm going to thank them anyway – that's the kind of splendid chap I am :P

Trickster's Lulaby: You officially begged me to update. I officially let you down. Please accept my humblest apologies and profuse thanks for the review. I'll try to be better, honest I will.

Durvasha: I got pretty dizzy too. And I understand if you've withdrawn the proffered thanks due to me failing to uphold the proviso. Other stories? Yes, there are others but I'm not telling. Too shy :)

sphinx12: I'm glad the secret's out, and hope it didn't disappoint you. Twisted? I'm the type who'll take that as a compliment - so thanks!

CassSpaz: Aw, look at your reviews – so small yet perfectly formed, like little stocking fillers. I'm glad you think Mat's in character, that Cal makes you smile, and my story oozes enough to keep you satisfied. Argh - mind control flees.

VercisIsolde: To you I owe the deepest apology. I am very, very sorry. Up until last October, you knew the story better than I knew it myself. Naturally, you've probably forgotten what the holy-hey happened in the previous chapters (I know I have), but here are some responses to your simply stupendous review.

Farwell - Couldn't agree more - it's a dive. Menna is under Cillah's protection, so to speak. And who is Tris? Yes, he is the keeper of Mai - I mean, Malori. I've confused myself.

Ty & Co. – A mirror of the Emonds Field trinity? – spot on. The poem, the loversknot, the drawing – all tied in with one of these boys. Did you mention one of them bears a resemblance to a certain charming rogue? You ain't wrong, kiddo.

Bloody bowls of blood – The Farwell 'prank' (a big nod to Carrie) is so fresh in Mai's mind it convinces her that Merle's unique method of rehydration is also blood-based. I've always seen Mai as a symbol of something sinister; the leeches, the blood-letting, the nocturnal wakefulness, the black cape, her pallor, as though she is herself bloodless. She drains people both physically and spiritually. She is, in a word, vampiric. I guess that makes her obsessed with blood, then :)

Find the Lady – I actually described the card game here except someone told me it ruined something called 'pacing' glares at beta. Mat originally found the female Ruler of Winds even though the game was clearly a scam no one could ever win. I guess the version in the actual chapter is better because it seems his luck has abandoned him. Oh well – we live and learn.

The play – A bit o' baroque pre-execution burlesque. I though the W/C's would tolerate it because it's a crowd-rouser and could gain them support. Thrayne's the commander and he's cleverer than the average zealot. He knows how to handle a crowd. You're probably right, though – they'd be pretty cheesed off. Oh, and the puppet is Malori – nothing like a bit of Whitecloak propaganda.

Arli, Wern and sprog – Yep, if in doubt, cry taveren. Wern's made an effort to get on the good side of the bad guys – he may not like the Whitecloaks but he knows which side his bread's buttered. His daughter is their record-keeper and Wern's been deigned worthy of a few of their secrets. That's about it really.

Mat's morphs – I toyed around with this idea for a while then went with it. Your question is one I've been dreading - how can Mai possibly know of Mat's previous incarnations? I try to give fluff a wide berth, but here goes.

What happens when two people who are never supposed to meet, who are fated never to be together, are half-way to making a connection? It's a glitch that the pattern is trying to mend, to pick up those two dropped stitches and knit them back into their separate weaves.

Except Mat's a ta'veren and Mai doesn't exist – she's the construct of a living dead girl. She's unraveling and she's taking Mat with her. It's all a little existential and, oh yes, pretentious, but that's the best way I can explain it; unnatural bonds, against all the odds, and to the n'th degree. There. My brain hurts now.

The Records – I loved writing those! Lots of stupidly wrought and clumsy words to toy with – I was happier than a pig in a poke. It's very much like what happened at Salem – I like to pillage :)

Cillah and Cael were both hanged by the Whitecloaks and Menna and Malori are both 'children' of the man called Tris D'Aubren. Good work on figuring all that out. I get confuddled myself.

Twisteroo – Couldn't make people wade though all this without giving them a twist now, could I? I'm glad it worked out all right for you. Unfortunately, when I said I had the last scene in my head the whole time that was the one. And it isn't the end yet.

Again, thanks for the encouragement. Now post something so I can return the favour, will ya?

deathtraps: The story is confusing. It could be completely revised with the irrelevant parts (of which there are many) lopped off. But that would mean work, and work and I are scarcely on nodding terms. But thanks for the feedback - it's always appreciated.

A Lurking Reviewer (aka The Zorpisuttle): Hullo there! Nice to see you in this neck of the woods. The rowan-tree scene is my favourite in the whole fic. As for the flashback, I think the distressing side of Mat's memories are grossly underused (I've played on them in this chapter as well). And I don't think I've ever made anyone 'squee' before – I'm quite chuffed :)

Thanks to all the above, and also to those who took the time to have a peek (if the 'hit' counter is telling the truth, that is). Here's to getting my arse in gear and writing the next installment – cheers!