"Well, son," Thom said, pouring some ale, "some just don't find the world particularly humorous lately."

"Nonsense," Mat said. "The world's plenty humorous. The whole bloody place has been laughing at me, lately. I'm telling you, Perrin. With those drawings of us about, you need to keep your head low."

"I don't see how I can," Perrin said. "I've got an army to lead, people to care for."

"I don't think you're taking Verin's warning seriously enough, lad," Thom said, shaking his head. "You ever heard of the Banath people?"

"No," Perrin said, looking at Mat.

"They were a group of savages who roamed what is now Almoth Plain," Thom said. "I know a couple fine songs about them. See, their various tribes always painted the skin of their leader red to make him stand out."

Mat took another bite of his cheese. "Bloody fools. Painted their leader red? That would make him a target for every soldier on the field!"

"That was the point," Thom said. "It was a challenge, you see. How else would their enemies be able find him and test their skill against him?"

Mat snorted. "I'd have painted a few decoy soldiers red to distract them from me, then had my archers feather their leader with arrows while everyone was trying to hunt down the fellows they thought were leading my army."

"Actually," Thom said, taking a sip of his ale, "that's exactly what Villiam Bloodletter did during his first, and last, battle with them. 'The Song of a Hundred Days' talks about it. Brilliant maneuver. I'm surprised you've heard of that song—it's very obscure, and the battle happened so long ago, most history books don't even remember it."

For some reason, the comment made Mat smell nervous.

"You're saying that we're making ourselves targets," Perrin said.

"I'm saying," Thom replied, "that you boys are getting harder and harder to hide. Everywhere you go, banners proclaim your arrival. People talk about you. I'm half-convinced you have only survived this long because the Forsaken didn't know where to find you."

Perrin nodded, thinking of the trap his army had nearly fallen into. Assassins in the night would come. "So what should I do?"

"Mat's been sleeping in a different tent each night," Thom said. "And sometimes in the city. You should try something like that. Grady can make gateways, right? Why not have him make one for you into the middle of your tent each night? Sneak out and sleep someplace else, then Travel back in the morning. Everyone will assume you're in your tent. If assassins strike, you won't be there."

Perrin nodded thoughtfully. "Even better, I could leave five or six Aiel inside, on alert, waiting."

"Perrin," Mat said, "that's downright devious." He smiled. "You've changed for the better, my friend."

"From you, I'll try to accept that as a compliment," Perrin said. He paused, then added, "It will be difficult."

Thom chuckled. "He's right, though. You've changed. What happened to the soft-spoken, unsure boy I helped escape the Two Rivers?"

"He passed through the blacksmith's fire," Perrin said softly.

Thom nodded, seeming to understand.

"And you, Mat?" Perrin said. "Can I do something to help you? Maybe let you Travel between tents?"

"No. I'll be fine."

"How are you going to protect yourself?"

"With my wits."

"Planning to find some of those, then?" Perrin said. "About time."

Mat snorted. "What is it with everyone and my wits lately? I'll be fine trust me. Remind me to tell you about the night when I first figured out I could win whatever dice game I wanted to. It's a good story. Involves falling off bridges. One bridge, at least."

"Well… you could tell us now," Perrin said.

"Not the right time. Anyway, it doesn't matter. See, I'm leaving soon."

Thom smelled excited.

"Perrin, you will lend us a gateway, won't you?" Mat asked. "Hate to leave the Band. They'll be inconsolable without me. At least they have those dragons to blow things up."

"But where are you going?" Perrin asked.

"Suppose I should explain it," Mat said. "That was the reason for meeting with you, aside from the amiable discourse and all." He leaned in. "Perrin, Moiraine is alive."

"What?"

"Its true," Mat said. "Or, well, we think it is. She sent Thom a letter, claiming she'd foreseen the battle with Lanfear, and knew that she would… Well, anyway, there's this tower west of here on the River Arinelle. It's made all of metal. It—"

"The Tower of Ghenjei," Perrin said softly. "Yes, I know of it."

Mat blinked. "You do? Burn me. When did you get to be a scholar?"

"I've merely heard some things. Mat, that place is evil."

"Well, Moiraine is inside," Mat said. "Captured. I mean to get her back. I have to beat the snakes and the foxes. Bloody cheats."

"Snakes and foxes?" Perrin said.

Thom nodded. "The children's game is named after the things that live in the tower. So we think."

"I've seen them," Mat said. "And… well, there's really not time for that now."

"If you're going to rescue her," Perrin said, "perhaps I could come. Or at least send one of the Asha'man."

"I'll take a gateway gladly," Mat said. "But you can't come, Perrin.

Moraine explained it in her letter. Only three can come, and I know already who they have to be." He hesitated. "Olver is going to bloody kill me for not taking him, you know."

"Mat," Perrin said, shaking his head. "You're not making any sense."

Mat sighed. "Let me tell you the whole story, then." He eyed the pitcher of ale. "We're going to need more of that, and you'd better tell Grady you'll be some time yet…"

CHAPTER 48

Aviendha took one final step and was out of the forest of glass pillars. She took a deep breath, then glanced back at the path she had taken.

The central plaza of Rhuidean was an awe-inspiring sight. Smooth white flagstones carpeted the entire square save for the absolute center. There stood an enormous tree, branches spread wide like arms reaching to embrace the sun. The massive tree had a perfection she could not explain. It had a natural symmetry—no missing branches, no gaping holes in its leafy upper reaches. It was particularly impressive since, when she'd last seen it, it had been blackened and burned.

In a world where other plants were dying without explanation, this one healed and flourished faster than ever should have been possible. Its leaves rustled soothingly in the wind, and its gnarled roots poked through the ground like the aged fingers of a wise elder. The tree made her want to sit and bask in the simple peace of the moment.

It was as if this tree were the ideal, the one after which all other trees were patterned. In legend it was called Avendesora. The Tree of Life.

To the side sat the glass columns. There were dozens of them, perhaps hundreds, forming concentric rings. Spindly and thin, they reached high into the sky. As purely—even superlatively—natural as Avendesora was, these columns were equally natural. They were so thin and tall, logic said that the first gust of wind should have toppled them. It wasn't that they were aberrant, merely artificial.