The Wandering Woman, Ebou Dar [Still Taisham 14, now evening]
Mat's day didn't look to be ending much better than it had begun. After finally escaping the attention of the queen, he made his way back to the inn only to get jumped in the hallway. And, yes, by that point he'd been spoiling for a fight himself, but that sort of thing just didn't happen in the Wandering Woman, and the innkeeper was in a bit of a state over it.
As were, he was discovering, the serving girls. Or so he assumed. Even Caira, who'd he danced with and kissed on more than one occasion, had nothing but disdainful glares for him tonight. "Cook says she won't fix anything but soup and bread for those as are drowning their tongues in wine," she sniffed at him. "Though why my Lord would want gilded fish when he has a gilded woman waiting in his room, I'm sure I couldn't say."
Mat frowned and headed up the stairs, pausing at his door and listening to the dice. Luck would just have to be with him. With a sigh, he pushed to the open and found himself facing the Hunter Elayne had made her Warder.
"If this is about Olver," he began and suddenly a twist of memory unfolded:
There was no hope, with Seanchan to the west and Whitecloaks to the east, no hope and only one chance, so he raised the curled Horn and blew, not really knowing what to expect. The sound came out golden, and a fog began to rise, appearing from nowhere, obscuring the land as if clouds covered it. And down the clouds they rode, as though down a mountainside, the dead heroes of legend who were called back by the Horn of Valere. Artur Hawkwing himself led, tall and hook-noosed, and behind him came the rest, little more than a hundred. Mikel of the Pure Heart, and Shivan the Hunter, and Paedrig, the golden-tongued peacemaker, and there, carrying the silver bow with which she never missed...
"You are she. Birgitte, for true. Burn my bones to ash," he gaped, "it's impossible. How? How?"
The woman of legend gave a resigned sigh. "I was ripped out untimely, Hornsounder, cast out by Moghedien to die and saved by Elayne's bonding." She spoke slowly, studying him to be sure he understood. "I feared you might remember who I used to be."
Feeling like he'd been punched between the eyes, he flung himself into an armchair and scowled at her. "Elayne and Nynaeve know and kept it from me, true? I weary of secrets, Birgitte, and they harbor secrets as a grain barn harbors rats. They've become Aes Sedai, eyes and hearts. Even Nynaeve is twice a stranger now."
"You have your own secrets." The way she looked at him, you would have thought he was a tavern puzzle. "For one, you've not told them you blew the Horn of Valere. The smallest of your secrets from them, I think."
He blinked. He assumed they had told her. "What secrets do I have? Those women know my toenails and my dreams." He leaned forward. "Make them see reason. You're Birgitte Silverbow. You can make them do as you say. This city has a pit-trap at every crossing and grows more dangerous by the day. Make them come away now before it's too late."
She laughed. "You have the wrong end, Hornsounder. I'm Elayne's Warder. I obey." Her smile became rueful. "Birgitte Silverbow. Faith of the Light, I'm not sure I still am that woman. I'm no hero now, only another woman to make my way. And as for your secrets. What language do we speak, Hornsounder?"
He opened his mouth...and stopped, really hearing what she had just asked. Nosane iro gavane domorakoshi, Diynen'd'ma'purvene? Speak we what language, Sounder of the Horn? The hair on his neck stood up. "The old blood," he said carefully. "An Aes Sedai once told me--why are you bloody laughing?"
"You, Mat," she managed. "Some people speak a few words because of the old blood, usually without understanding what they say. But you...one sentence you're an Eharoni High Prince and the next a First Lord of Manetheren, accent and idiom perfect. No, don't worry, you're secret is safe with me." She hesitated. "Is mine with you?"
He waved a hand, too flabbergasted to be offended. "Do I look like my tongue flaps?" Birgitte! In the flesh! "Burn me, I could use a drink." Before that was out of his mouth, he knew it had been the wrong thing to say. Women never--
"That sounds right to me," she said. "I could use a pitcher of wine myself. Blood and ashes, when you recognized me, I nearly swallowed my tongue."
He stared at her and she winked back. "There's enough noise in the common room, we could talk without being overheard. Besides, I wouldn't mind sitting and looking a bit. Elayne preaches like a Tovan councilor if I ogle a man for longer than a heartbeat."
He nodded before he thought. Other men's memories told him Tovans were a stark and disapproving people, and also that they were a thousand years gone and more. On the one hand, a chance to talk with Birgitte--Birgitte!, but on the other, he doubted he would be able to hear the music downstairs over the rattling in his skull. She must be a key to it, somehow. A man with the brains of a goat would be climbing out the window right now. "A pitcher or two sounds fine to me," he told her instead.
[OOC: And even more Crown of Swords. I swear, Mat only gets two days to do everything in a book. It's insane.]
As were, he was discovering, the serving girls. Or so he assumed. Even Caira, who'd he danced with and kissed on more than one occasion, had nothing but disdainful glares for him tonight. "Cook says she won't fix anything but soup and bread for those as are drowning their tongues in wine," she sniffed at him. "Though why my Lord would want gilded fish when he has a gilded woman waiting in his room, I'm sure I couldn't say."
Mat frowned and headed up the stairs, pausing at his door and listening to the dice. Luck would just have to be with him. With a sigh, he pushed to the open and found himself facing the Hunter Elayne had made her Warder.
"If this is about Olver," he began and suddenly a twist of memory unfolded:
There was no hope, with Seanchan to the west and Whitecloaks to the east, no hope and only one chance, so he raised the curled Horn and blew, not really knowing what to expect. The sound came out golden, and a fog began to rise, appearing from nowhere, obscuring the land as if clouds covered it. And down the clouds they rode, as though down a mountainside, the dead heroes of legend who were called back by the Horn of Valere. Artur Hawkwing himself led, tall and hook-noosed, and behind him came the rest, little more than a hundred. Mikel of the Pure Heart, and Shivan the Hunter, and Paedrig, the golden-tongued peacemaker, and there, carrying the silver bow with which she never missed...
"You are she. Birgitte, for true. Burn my bones to ash," he gaped, "it's impossible. How? How?"
The woman of legend gave a resigned sigh. "I was ripped out untimely, Hornsounder, cast out by Moghedien to die and saved by Elayne's bonding." She spoke slowly, studying him to be sure he understood. "I feared you might remember who I used to be."
Feeling like he'd been punched between the eyes, he flung himself into an armchair and scowled at her. "Elayne and Nynaeve know and kept it from me, true? I weary of secrets, Birgitte, and they harbor secrets as a grain barn harbors rats. They've become Aes Sedai, eyes and hearts. Even Nynaeve is twice a stranger now."
"You have your own secrets." The way she looked at him, you would have thought he was a tavern puzzle. "For one, you've not told them you blew the Horn of Valere. The smallest of your secrets from them, I think."
He blinked. He assumed they had told her. "What secrets do I have? Those women know my toenails and my dreams." He leaned forward. "Make them see reason. You're Birgitte Silverbow. You can make them do as you say. This city has a pit-trap at every crossing and grows more dangerous by the day. Make them come away now before it's too late."
She laughed. "You have the wrong end, Hornsounder. I'm Elayne's Warder. I obey." Her smile became rueful. "Birgitte Silverbow. Faith of the Light, I'm not sure I still am that woman. I'm no hero now, only another woman to make my way. And as for your secrets. What language do we speak, Hornsounder?"
He opened his mouth...and stopped, really hearing what she had just asked. Nosane iro gavane domorakoshi, Diynen'd'ma'purvene? Speak we what language, Sounder of the Horn? The hair on his neck stood up. "The old blood," he said carefully. "An Aes Sedai once told me--why are you bloody laughing?"
"You, Mat," she managed. "Some people speak a few words because of the old blood, usually without understanding what they say. But you...one sentence you're an Eharoni High Prince and the next a First Lord of Manetheren, accent and idiom perfect. No, don't worry, you're secret is safe with me." She hesitated. "Is mine with you?"
He waved a hand, too flabbergasted to be offended. "Do I look like my tongue flaps?" Birgitte! In the flesh! "Burn me, I could use a drink." Before that was out of his mouth, he knew it had been the wrong thing to say. Women never--
"That sounds right to me," she said. "I could use a pitcher of wine myself. Blood and ashes, when you recognized me, I nearly swallowed my tongue."
He stared at her and she winked back. "There's enough noise in the common room, we could talk without being overheard. Besides, I wouldn't mind sitting and looking a bit. Elayne preaches like a Tovan councilor if I ogle a man for longer than a heartbeat."
He nodded before he thought. Other men's memories told him Tovans were a stark and disapproving people, and also that they were a thousand years gone and more. On the one hand, a chance to talk with Birgitte--Birgitte!, but on the other, he doubted he would be able to hear the music downstairs over the rattling in his skull. She must be a key to it, somehow. A man with the brains of a goat would be climbing out the window right now. "A pitcher or two sounds fine to me," he told her instead.
[OOC: And even more Crown of Swords. I swear, Mat only gets two days to do everything in a book. It's insane.]