Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Present Day

Nynaeve rested her chin on her hands, considering the sleeping form of Mat Cauthon.  She’d sent Rand away for something to eat and a bath.  He’d more than earned a rest. The Wisdom knew better than anyone how exhausting it was to care for a sick person for so long.  A month?  To try to care for him while traveling so far across the countryside, no coin, no help, and with who knows what on their heels?  Rand had done very well. He deserved a break. 

But now?  The responsibility was on her.  She had to figure out how to heal Mat.  She frowned as she watched the young Two Rivers man sleep.

Smell was an essential tool for a Wisdom, and before she had even finished embracing Rand, the smell from the sickbed had reached her, a smell completely unknown to her. Unwashed skin and woodsmoke, of course, she knew.  Feversweat and wound rot.  But this was cold, dry, a corpse found frozen in the spring after the winter snows had melted away. All wrong for the fever that glittered in his eyes, the way the muscles in his hands spasmed and he forced them flat again, whimpering an apology. It was a scent of death and decay. A scent of madness.  

Mat’s breath hissed unevenly in his sleep as he huddled under the blankets, his back to her.  

Nynaeve sighed with resignation.  If one of the four stolen away by Moiraine was going to fall sick, it was bound to be Mat Cauthon. He was, without a doubt, the unluckiest boy in the Two Rivers.  And escaping the Two Rivers with Moiraine had clearly done nothing to improve that luck. 

That smell.  If it was a sickness, it was nothing like anything she’d ever encountered.  She would have to treat the symptoms.  Bring down the fever.  Dull a mind that was racing out of control. Try to support the body’s own defenses against whatever had gripped him.  Willowbark. Hogswart. Addertail. 

But if it was channeling, like Rand suggested, the old Wisdom had had only one remedy.

Crimsonthorn Root.

With his luck, of course it would end that way.  Like it began.

Ten Years Ago

“Mat found a sword in the Water Wood!” The excited shouts of the children drew the men and women near the Winespring Inn to the green to see what the commotion was about. Nynaeve, sixteen years old and all gangly limbs, it seemed, trailed after Mistress Barran carrying a basket full of willow branches. 

The village wisdom huffed with exasperation.  “That boy.  We better go take a look.”

Nynaeve nodded and hurried after her. Even at just ten, Mat had begun to develop quite the reputation in the Two Rivers.  He was a bright boy, everyone acknowledged that, with a gift for numbers and quick to serve you lip and ducking away if you didn’t move fast enough.  But he could not sit still or stay on any task for long.  You’d try to teach him which mushrooms were safe to forage for, and he’d stand up after a few minutes to search for crickets or claim he saw one of the Coplins chasing her husband with a frying pan.  You settle him to read, even something as exciting as the Tales of Jain Farstrider, and he’d quickly lose interest, off running on his own or dragging his friends Rand and Perrin into the heart of whatever crack-pated plan he’d just dreamt up.

She wasn’t surprised, therefore, to see not just Mat, but Rand and Perrin, parading into the village green like a pack of loomies.  

Perrin and Rand each had breeches soaked to the knees, carrying their shoes and socks in their hands and grinning like fools.  But Mat…the boy was soaked from head to toe, barefoot with mud smeared across his face and feet.  Duckweed tangled in his flatted brown curls, but his eyes gleamed with triumph. And in his hands he waved what seemed to be a long, muddy cudgel, about which he crowed triumphantly.

“I found it in the pond.  It’s real! It’s kind of rusty, but I bet Master Luhan can fix it. Do you think it belonged to a king, Rand?” 

Some of the other children from around the village had come out to see as well.  Ewin Finngar and Dav Ayellin of course, and some of the even younger ones.  Two of Mat’s little sisters, Delse and Mara, left their stick and hoop to come see.

 Mat caught sight of the girls.  “Look at this, Delse! It’s a sword!”

“They are too young for swords, you woolhead,” Nynaeve snapped, though honestly the two probably couldn’t tell what it was under all the mud and rust.

“Matty’s gonna get in trouble again!” Delse’s singsong voice laughed. She was eight years old and eager to prove that she was the most responsible one in the family, even if Mat was the oldest.

“Should we take it to Da?” Mara asked, reaching up to take Delse’s hand, looking at the rusty metal nervously. “It looks bad.”

Doral Barran pushed the little girls aside and put her hands on her hips. The glare in her eye was enough to bring the three boys short.  “A sword, Mat Cauthon?  What sort of foolishness is this? No boy has reason to be swinging a sword about, and no man, neither, if he knows what’s good for him." 

Rand and Perrin’s faces flushed  from excitement to embarrassment under Mistress Barran’s tongue-lashing, but Mat clung to the rusted-covered rod stubbornly. “But I found it!  Maybe it belonged to a mighty hero…like Arther Hawkwing! Or Birgitte!”

“Birgitte uses a bow, not a sword, silly!”  Nynaeve turned to see Egwene marching up, bold as bright daisies, to put Mat in his place.  The Innkeeper’s daughter had appointed herself the three’s keeper years before. They certainly needed it.  “And you weren’t supposed to go to the Water Wood without me! You promised!”

From his place at Mat’s side, Rand protested, “We didn’t mean to leave without you, but your father said he was boiling the first mash and needed your help with the fires, so you couldn’t come.”

Egwene pouted and turned away from the three without answering.

Old Cenn Buie, sitting on a bench nearby smoking a long stemmed pipe, removed the pipe from his mouth.  “Likely cursed, it is.  Nothing good comes out of the Water Wood.  Who knows what foul deeds that sword did. Maybe murder! Did you think about that?”

Mat yelped and dropped the sword.  “Murder?” he looked at it as if it were a snake, then paused.  “What kind of murder?”

“Murder with a sword, of course,” Nynaeve cut in.  Fools.

“There’s no such thing as curses.  That’s enough about it, all of you.” The village wisdom would brook no more nonsense.  “Get back to your homes…Perrin, you better get a move on if you want to make it back before dark.  Rand, your father is up at the miller’s…you can help him with the flour. And Mat…”

Mat looked down, fascinated and appalled at the rusty sword that lay on the ground between them, but didn’t answer.

“Take your sisters home.”

Mat had the first fever of the autumn.

Nynaeve had been furiously picking out the threads of a hem that she had accidentally sewn in crooked when Abell Cauthon knocked on Wisdom Barran’s door.  

“Excuse me,” he said when the old Wisdom had opened it.  “I know it’s late.”

Doral Barran just smiled. “Is it an emergency?” she asked as she let the lean man in.  

Abell Cauthon was tall and thin, as lean and corded as a Two Rivers longbow.  His hair had gone to gray curls, and his face was deeply carved with dark circles under his eyes.  Unlike most of the Two Rivers men, he kept his face clean shaven, after the style of the merchants in Taren Ferry.  Nynaeve knew he traveled there once a year or so. Sometimes he came back with a horse that he’d stable with his three cows for a month or two, then he’d travel on to Baerlon and return with some extra coin for the family.  The Cauthons weren’t rich, just cropping their cows on the green and selling the milk to the villagers or those farmers who didn’t have the pasture to raise milk cows of their own. And with five children, there was no doubt that Abell needed every coin he could scrape together.  But the seven of them did well enough.  He touched his forehead with a knuckle.

“No, Wisdom.  It’s just Mat. I think he caught something when he was in the Water Wood, and he’s got a bit of a fever. It’s not bad, but Natti is up in Devon’s Ride with her sister and the twins, and we’re out of willowbark.  Would you mind taking a look?”

The wisdom stifled a yawn, but nodded.  “Very well. It’s likely nothing, but we’ll go see.”

Nynaeve had to stifle a chuckle when she reached the Cauthon home. Mat was lying in his narrow cot under a blanket, it was true, but he was trying to fend off Delse and Mara who had clearly decided that, with their mother gone, they were going to nurse him back to health themselves.  

“I made you tea, Matty!” Mara pushed a battered cup into the boy’s face.  It looked like it had grass in it.

“Now put on your socks,” Delse followed her.  “You’re supposed to wear your socks when you are sick…Ma said so, and she’s gone so I say so.” 

Mat pushed Mara’s cup away with a weary smile. “Maybe later, Mar. Don’t want any tea right now.”  His brown curls were damp with sweat, and there was a fever gleam in his eye, but he caught Nynaeve looking at him and gave a resigned smirk.  “With ma out with the twins, it looks like da thought he had to send for reinforcements.”

“You’ll be right as rain soon enough, Mat Cauthon,” Nyneave answered primly, but she was watching Doral Barran closely to make sure.  The Wisdom shooed away the little girls and lay a hand on Mat’s forehead to check.  She nodded, though.  “It’s a fever, but it seems to be stable and it’s not too high.” She looked up at Abell. “Don’t let the girls bother him so he can sleep. I think he’ll be fine.” She frowned for moment, thinking.  “As a precaution though, maybe it’d be best if Natti and the twins stay in Devon Ride for another day or two, just in case it’s catching.  Bodewhin and Eldrin are healthy enough babes, but it seems foolish to take an unnecessary risk. I’m sure you’ve got everything well in hand.  Mistress Al’Vere can send over a pot of stew if you need it.”

“We don’t need any charity from the Al’Veres,” Abell grumbled.  “But I’ll send a message to Natti tomorrow morning and let her know to stay until Mat’s better.”

Nynaeve caught a sigh of disappointment in Delse’s face; Marin Al’Vere’s cooking was always a treat.  “I’ll bring you honeycakes later,” she promised. “If you go to bed and let your brother sleep. He needs it. Now be good, you.” The two girls nodded promptly, and then scrambled up into the loft bed they shared.

Mat gave a crooked, but weary smile. “Me too?”  There was just a hint of mischief in it.

“You too.”

Abell showed the Wisdom and her apprentice to the door.  “Thank you both.  We are fine now.”

The line of light from the shutting door winked out.

The village green was empty, despite the cool sunlight of an autumn morning and a pale clear sky.  A couple of ducks pecked after insects among the roots of the great oak in the center of town, but there were few carts. All the farmers from the surrounding farms had stayed firmly in their homesteads, and all the doors were shut.  When folk did venture forth, they held brandy-soaked handkerchiefs to their noses, and hurried with furtive looks, avoiding others.  Sickness had found The Two Rivers, and no one dared come out unless they must, not until the danger had passed.

For some houses, it was already too late. 

Doral Barran wrapped a cloth soaked with strong spirits around her own face and tied it tightly.  “I’ll will be taking care of the girls.  Nynaeve, check on Mat.  Make sure he’s had something to eat today.”

Nynaeve found the ten-year-old sitting on the ground outside his house, drawing in the dirt with a stick.  He was filthy.

“Mat?”

“Stay away. I’m cursed”

Nynaeve felt a lump in her throat.  “No, Mat. You aren’t cursed. You were sick. Now you are better. Your body learned how to fight the sickness, so you won’t get the same sickness again.  I’ve had it too. You can’t give it to me.”  She drew closer

He looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, but he was not crying.  Somehow, that was worse.

“Did you have anything to eat today?”

He shrugged in response. 

Nynaeve dragged a nearby empty bench from in front of the Winespring towards him, and set down her basket.  “I know your father hasn’t been able to cook.  Come.  I have some bread and cheese, and some apples. We can share.”

She started to unpack the food she had brought as Mat slowly stood and came over.  “Delse’s crying again,” he said.  “Da is arguing with the Wisdom.”  

Nynaeve closed her eyes.  She could hear the sounds of the argument too, but fainter, from here. How long had Mat been sitting there, listening to his sisters’ sobs of pain?  Of course, no one else would take him in, not with the fear of the disease, despite what she had said. She laid out a napkin on the bench between them and set out the simple meal.

“It’s all right, Mat.  Your father and Wisdom Barran are just trying to decide what is the best thing to help take care of  your sisters.  Everybody just wants them to get better and not hurt so much.  They just need to figure it out.”

Mat picked up an apple and started twisting it by the stem, tighter and tighter.  Finally, he said in a small voice, “Did I make them sick?  Is it because I found that sword?  Was it really cursed?”

Nynaeve reached forward to take Mat’s hand.  “Mat.  This was not your fault.” She tried to force as much sincerity as possible into her words, desperate to reach him.   “There are no such things as curses…certainly not in the Two Rivers.  That sword was just a hunk of rusty metal, no different than a barrel stave or pitchfork.”

“But Master Buie said…”

“Master Buie is an old fool who finds ill luck in every shadow, and you shouldn’t listen to a thing he says.”

Mat looked up, and the corner of his mouth crooked in a very slight smirk.  “Don’t think he’d like it if he knew you said that.”

Nynaeve relaxed slightly. It felt good to see even this ghost of a smile on Mat’s face.  “Probably not. I hope you don’t tell him. Go on, eat that apple.”

Mat looked down at his hands. He’d twisted the stem off the apple, but still hadn’t taken a bite. “But why did Delse and Mara get more sick than me? They didn’t do anything wrong.  The Coplins hardly got sick at all.”

Nynaeve shook her head.  “Sickness doesn’t care about right or wrong. It’s…it’s just luck, Mat. Sometimes, people are lucky, and sometimes people are unlucky.  Your family was just unlucky this time. Maybe next time you will be lucky.  In any event, you were strong enough to get over this fever quickly.  Delse and Mara just need some more time.”

Mat listened seriously, and took a bite of his apple, and Nynaeve hoped that what she had told the boy was true, that Delse and Mara really did just need more time.

But it was not.

Nynaeve awoke when the door creaked open and Mistress Barran entered. She set the wick of her lantern to the oil lamp on her crafting table, throwing the wisdom’s house into bright relief, the light flickering over the rafters hung with bunches of drying herbs.  It was very late, two hours or more past midnight, but the Wisdom had not slept.  Rather than preparing to rest, however, Doral Barran sat down at her worktable.

The apprentice swung her feet off the side of the cot and rubbed her eyes.  “How are Delse and Mara Cauthon?” she asked sleepily.  Mistress Barran had been there most of the day.

The Wisdom did not answer right away.  Then, in a strained voice, she said, “Come here, Nynaeve.  I have something to teach you.”

Nynaeve stood, her bare feet on the cold floor, drawing a blanket around her as she came to stand at her mistress’s shoulder as she had done many, many times before.  This close to her, Nynaeve could see her hands trembling, and how she forced herself to steady them.

“The black mortar and pestle. Bring them to me.”

Nynaeve did so.  She had seen them used before, but rarely. She set them on the workbench.

Wisdom Barran then reached up to the shelf of herbs to take down a jar sealed with red wax.  She cracked the seal and opened the lid, carefully removing three large, bright scarlet roots with a pair of sticks so she would not have to touch them, and laying them in the mortar. 

“Do you remember what I told you this is?”

Nynaeve swallowed and nodded, sleep long forgotten. Her father had taught her this, before even Mistress Barran.  “Yes, Mistress.  Those are crimsonthorn roots. They are deadly poison…all poisons are sealed with red wax so they are not used by mistake.”

“Yes.”  The Wisdom lifted the pestle and began to grind the dried roots within the mortar.  “Crimsonthorn root. Goatstongue,” she reached to add some of the herb to the mortar, “Valerian. Sweet gum.”  She added the other dried leaves and resins.  “What will this do if given in tea to a person?”

The lamp flickered.  “Their pain would lessen, if they were suffering. They would relax. Sleep. And then their heart would stop.  I don’t understand.”

“There are only three times you would use this, Nynaeve, but you will be the Wisdom in Two Rivers after I’m gone, and you must be strong. Strong enough to bring forth life, and strong enough to take it when you must.”

Nynaeve nodded, her fists balled.

The Wisdom continued. “Sometimes, the suffering associated with an illness becomes unbearable. There is no hope for recovery, and only death awaits.  You can offer this tea to ease the pain of passing.  It is their choice, but you can offer it.”

Nynaeve shivered.  

The grinding of stone continued as Mistress Barran spoke again. “It has never happened in living memory in the Two Rivers, but sometimes, men are born with the ability to channel.  And they can go mad, destroying those around them.  Generally, the right thing to do is summon the Aes Sedai of the White Tower in Tar Valon.  But if that can’t happen, then this will end them.  Before they can do more harm.”  

Light. May that never happen in the Two Rivers.  That would be terrible! “Yes, Wisdom.”

Doral Barran’s voice grew softer, barely above a whisper.  “And sometimes, someone needs to die for the sake of the community, or else the community will.”

She wouldn’t explain any further.

After the Wisdom had ground the ingredients into a fine powder and packaged it up, she scrupulously cleaned the mortar and pestle. Then she sent Nynaeve back to bed, blowing out the lamp before leaving with the lantern and shutting the door behind her.

It was a long time before Nynaeve could fall asleep.

It rained the day they buried the Cauthon girls.

It had rained most of the week, and the burial had to be rushed because the ground was turning to mud and they couldn’t wait longer.  At least it stopped towards evening, leaving a gray and overcast sky.

Nynaeve had seen many funerals in the Two Rivers.  Normally, the villagers would find a pretty place to lay their loved ones to rest, with flowers for the grave. The body would be wrapped in white and carried by the men of the village.  There would be hugs and tears as the Mayor or the Wisdom or another loved one would find the words to express the community’s mourning, and the family would carry a lantern for the one who had died down to the Winespring to float away in the river’s waters until they are spun out on the Wheel again.  They would all stand together to mourn.

But the sickness had muted hope for that sort of comfort.

Families emerged from their separate doorways to watch Abell Cauthon carry the body of his oldest daughter, Delse, wrapped in bands of white cloth, across the village green.  Mat Cauthon followed, his face set in grim determination, carrying the white-wrapped form of five-year-old Mara in his arms. Nynaeve and Wisdom Barran followed, carrying a pair of lanterns.  Trailing behind at a distance was Natti Cauthon, who had returned from Devon Ride at the news of her daughters’ deaths. She still could not go near because she still needed to take care of the babes, Bodewhin and Eldrin.

Each family held a lamp, to express their sorrow for the Cauthon family, but none dared approach the funeral procession.  The mayor, Bran Al’Vere, was not there, and neither was Marin, head of the Women’s Circle; everyone in the village knew that their daughter, Egwene, lay on the brink of death, and Doral Barran would need to leave right after the funeral to attend her.  

Haral Luhan had dug a single large grave under the great oak outside the village, near where Abell’s parents had been buried many years before. It was a peaceful spot, sheltered from the rain, scattered with a thousand acorns every summer.   The girls loved to play with them, before.

Other villagers had clearly come to the site, leaving bunches of flowers that were drenched in the rain, more signs of their care. There was no one here now.

The ceremony was simple.  Abell laid Delse to rest, then took Mara from Mat’s arms and laid her next to her sister.  Natti sobbed loudly, still unable to approach.  Abell looked over at her, and turned away, head bowed in shame.  Mat drew his coat over his head to hide his face, but he shook off Nynaeve’s arm when she went near to offer him a hug. Mistress Barran spoke of the happiness the girls had brought in their lives and the joy they could find in a future turning of the Wheel.  Then it was over.  Nynaeve gave her lantern to Mat. He wouldn’t look her in the face. Mistress Barran gave hers to Abell.  The three Cauthons disappeared through the trees as they walked towards the Winespring river. Mistress Barran hurried quickly towards town, back to Egwene, but Nynaeve stayed.

She knelt by the grave, kissed her hand, and pressed it to the earth as she said, “Ayend’an Atha’an’shari’a marath allende ‘nesodhin an’ara’rhiod e’fel loviyagae zavilat’a’veren Ba’asa.”  She didn’t know what the words meant, but she wanted the comfort of them, the last words her parents said to her. They seemed right.

Leaves crunched behind her: Rowan Hurn, come to fill the grave. Nynaeve rose and followed the Cauthons at a distance.  As they walked back to town, a voice from the Finngar home began to sing, joined by a voice from the Crawe’s, then another voice joined, and another, each villager watching from separated doorways as the family returned from the Winespring. It was song of comfort, all they could offer.

“We walk the footsteps of our fathers,
On trails blazed by our mothers,
Who bought the land with their blood,
Long ago.”

Chapter Text

Present Day

“Did he wake up?”  

Nynaeve jolted awake at the question, but it was just Rand, looking refreshed, his fiery hair still damp with a good scrubbing.   He offered her a pastry, filled with some sort of dried fruits and nuts.  In his hands, he held another one.  “Here. The cook gave me three.  I was hoping we could get Mat to eat one…”  he trailed off, looking at his sleeping friend.  “I suppose not.”

Nynaeve accepted the pastry herself, but worry made it look less appealing.  “Has he not been eating?”

Rand shook his head.  “He always says he’s not hungry.  I thought…well, he says that when there’s not enough to go around, or he’s feeling guilty about the girls.  And it’s not like there was much for us on the road. But the innkeeper has been generous, and Mat still won’t eat.”

The Wisdom added that to the index of symptoms she was gathering, but it wasn’t tallying up to anything.  “When he wakes up, you can try it.  He always did need a bit more meat on his bones.”

Rand settled on the ground between the two narrow beds, sitting at Nynaeave’s feet. They ate their pastries quietly for a time, and Nynaeve chewed the sweet fruit pastry and reflected back on stolen pies and honeycakes.  Mat did not stir.  After a time, Rand broke the silence between them.

“Why did the Women’s Circle allow it?  Why didn’t you do something about it?”

“About what, Rand?” 

“About the Cauthons.  Mat’s Ma and Pa. And everything.” He gestured at Mat, asleep on the bed, in his threadbare coat. 

Nynaeve sighed.  She was the same age when she had asked the same question of Doral Barran, and while the answers were true, they were still bitter.

“You mean, why didn’t I go up to Abell Cauthon and hit him with a hickory stick and send him back to be a decent father and husband to his wife and children?” She gave a sad smile. “I wish it were that easy.”

Rand rolled his shoulders stiffly, still tired, but interested.  “What stopped you?”

Nynaeve picked a piece off the pastry and looked at it with regret.  “We tried.  But over time, you learn that the things two people are fighting about are not necessarily the real problem. Natti and Abell…it always seemed they were fighting about Abell out womanizing, and Natti’s drinking. But it was never really about that.  It was always about the girls.”

“The girls?”

“Delse and Mara.”

Rand hung his head, looking guilty for having forgotten. “Da and I were up mountain that whole autumn and winter.  We didn’t come back until Beltine.”

Nynaeve judged Rand thoughtfully.  “We don’t talk about it. But I think Natti blamed Abell for,” she hesitated, “for letting the girls die.  And herself for not being there.  Abell blamed Natti for leaving him alone to make those decisions. And himself for how it turned out.”  In a softer voice, she added, “And they both blamed Mat. For living, when the girls did not, and maybe for bringing the sickness in the first place.”

Rand looked like he tasted something terrible, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he looked down at Mat, unable to answer. 

So Nynaeve continued. “They knew it wasn’t true, that they shouldn’t feel that way. But they did.  And nothing was going to just fix that.  Abell dealt with it by trying to escape it, trying to recapture the man he was when he was younger, when he didn’t have the responsibilities of having a wife and children.  When he hadn’t failed.  Avoid it, don’t think about it too deeply, and run if it chases you.  If the Women’s Circle had come after him hard, he would have run right off to Baerlon and out of the Two Rivers for good. And how would that leave Natti and the twins?” 

Rand nodded slowly, seeing the connections. 

“Natti broods on things.  Feeling her wrongs, counting her failures. And she drinks to take the pain of it away.  She would have, if it hadn’t been for the twins.  If the Women’s Circle had gone after her, to cudgle her for drinking too much?  What would it put on Abell and Mat and the girls if she found another way to end that pain?”

“Did they try? The Women’s Circle?”

“They tried.”

Seven Years Ago

“I won’t have it. I won’t!” Leesa Ayellin paced in front of the Women’s Circle, her hands gesturing furiously.  “That boy tricked Dav into releasing a badger in our hen house.  The chickens got out and we’ve been chasing them down for three days.  I’m sure foxes got two of them.”

Alsbet Luhan was also clearly in a temper.  “He covered our dogs with flour and they ran loose in my kitchen! Flour is all over everything, and I caught him laughing about it.”

“I found my clean washing in the mud with a broken line. I’m sure he cut it.”

“Half the biscuits I made are missing. That was supposed to last us for the week!”

Doral Barran raised her hand for silence, and the women of the Circle fell silent.  Nynaeve sat quietly to the side, watching Mistress Barran calm the Women’s circle and assume the authority in the room. She would have to do the same one day.  She hoped that Matrim Cauthon will have finally grown up a bit before that day would happen.

“All right,” the Wisdom said.  “We all know Mat Cauthon tends to go overboard with his tricks.  But he’s a good boy at heart.  What are your thoughts on what to do about it?”

Daise Congar didn’t hesitate.  “His parents don’t discipline at all.  They barely watch him.  You’re too soft on him.  I’d give him a switching that would have him unable to sit for a year.”

“He’s been switched before.”

Jeyne Daughtry offered an indulgent smile. “He is just looking for some attention.  I’m sure I could…”

Alsbet Luhan seemed to relent slightly, but spoke over her.  “Natti and Abell haven’t stopped fighting in three years, and it is worse than ever.  It’s his father’s attention he needs.”

Nynaeve noticed the pall on Mistress Barran’s face…the same pallor that she always wore when the events of three autumns back were mentioned.  

“Maybe you’re right.  Keeping Mat in hand will keep Abell Cauthon honest next time he’s in Taren Ferry, and allay Natti’s worries.  And maybe he can teach his son something of the trade.  He’ll need one soon.”

Sooner rather than later, Nynaeve thought.  The Cauthon’s cows weren’t giving as much milk as they used to.  The family could use another income; last winter had been lean.

The Women’s Circle discussed it for some time, sounding like a bunch of gossips, Nynaeve had to admit.  But the conclusion was foregone. No one really wanted to confront Abell and Natti about Mat’s behavior.  None of them enjoyed watching the young man get beaten on the village green: it had happened before.  Nynaeve hoped it would turn out for the best.

“All right…Rand, Perrin, Elam, Dav…Go ahead and toss the dice. You only need two crowns to take the pot...” Nynaeve could hear the cheerful voice from across the Winespring Inn.  

Gambling?  Here?  She pushed her way across the tavern to see.

Bode and Eldrin were playing playing near the hearth with Jeyne Daughtry and Egwene.  Natti Cauthon was drinking alone on one side of the inn, while Abell was talking with the menfolk on the opposite side of the inn.  And all the village boys of an age had gathered around one of the tables, with Mat Cauthon right in the middle.  She drew closer to listen in on the boy’s conversation.

“Where did you learn all these games?  Was it in Taran Ferry when you were there with your father?” Rand asked as he leaned in close to see.  

Mat gave him an insouciant grin.  “Yep.  From the caravan guards.  They taught me everything.  I thought it was luck, you see, but it’s really just numbers, and I’m good at those.” 

“What do you mean, it’s not luck?” Dav complained. “I thought you said…”

Mat hastened to reassure.  “Well, numbers and luck of course, Dav.  Anybody can be a winner.”

Nynaeve frowned. Something Mat had said… 

Perrin seemed confused.  “I thought you were going there to learn to sell horses.  When did you learn to play dice?”

“Oh, well Da was busy.  He said I couldn’t come along.” Mat continued, not noticing Nynaeve in the excitement of sharing his secret knowledge. “Da gave me two silver marks, see, to stay at the inn, and there were all these caravan guards. And old Pietr Harkan said you should never gamble with less than two if you want to recover your winnings. Not if its a serious game. Coppers doesn’t count. Anyway, old Harkan gave me the dice and showed me all his tricks.” Mat pointed to the dice on the table.”  He leaned forward.  “He even bought me some ale,” he said conspiratorially.

Natti Cauthon, however, did not miss it and drew closer to listen. She finally stood, and the cluster of boys opened around her so she could approach.

“What do you mean, your father left you at the inn, Matrim Cauthon?  You were there for two weeks!  Did he just leave you at the inn for two weeks? By yourself? In Taren Ferry?”

Mat away from his mother nervously.  “No! He came back two or three times to check on me.  It’s not like I was alone.  I had money for the inn, and the guards showed me all kinds of things.  It was fine, Ma! I’m almost a man now anyway.  Nothing bad happened.  I even won some money for us!”

Natti set her mug on the table next to Mat’s new dice and stormed over to her husband, breaking through the men’s conversation.  “Abell Cauthon, you come with me right now! Two weeks? And what were you doing in Taren Ferry without our son….Outside, you!”  

Abell gave the other men a guilty look as he was dragged out into the village green by his wife.  The faint sounds of shouting permeated the inn until the door shut and conversation resumed, much more restrained than it had been before.

Mat seemed to sink into his seat, hiding behind the other boys who were beginning to look around nervously..  “Nothing bad happened…” he said more quietly, a protest.  

Nynaeve squared her shoulders and prepared to intervene, but she was cut off.  

“Oh, my.  Look at the time,” Jeyne Daughtry stood up, sweeping crumbs off her skirt.  Jeyne was a widow, in her middle years, plump with handful of wrinkles and more than a touch of gray in her hair.  Her husband had run the local quarry until his death, and she had one of the nicest houses in the Two Rivers.  She’d been coming to the Winespring more often recently.  

Mat’s sisters looked up at Jeyne as she stood, their hands still gripping the little wooden dolls in play, uncertain who to play with now.

Jeyne gave Nynaeve a nod, as if to indicate she had the matter in hand.  “Mat, it looks like your parents will be a while.  Would you and your sisters like to come over to my house to sleep for the night? Let your parents have the house for the evening to help them work things out?”

Mat seemed uncertain, looking at his friends and the dice game he was just trying to start.  Nynaeve gave an encouraging nod.  “Go on. Your parents will be fine.”

“Oh, fine.  Come on, Eld.”  He picked up his new dicecup and dice and headed over to Eldrin.  “Climb aboard.”  He crouched to give Eldrin a piggy back. “You get the next one on the way back, Bode.”

Nynaeve remembered feeling grateful that Jeyne had stepped in so she didn’t have to.  The truth was, no one wanted to interfere in the fights between Abell and Natti. Hearts were harder to heal than bodies.

Chapter Text

Present Day

The sun had just risen over the streets of Tar Valon. It was surprisingly quiet at dawn; no chickens greeted the pale sky, or impatient cows waiting to be milked.  The cook -- Nynaeve took her to be Mistress Gil, the innkeeper’s wife -- let her in the back door, and offered her a pitcher of milk and a pot of oat porridge to settle over the fire.  A poultice for Mistress Gil’s aching knees had done wonders in winning her good favor.  Nynaeve carried both up to the tiny back room where Rand and Mat were staying.

Rand was near the door, but once he sleepily recognized her he closed his eyes again, clearly, for once, making up for lost time. She was glad to see it.  She set a fresh log on the hearth, settled the porridge in next to it, and set the pitcher of milk on the table.  

Then she went to check on Mat.

She’d given him medicine from her own supplies to bring down his fever and help him sleep, and his fever was gone and he was sleeping.  But there was a shadow in his skin, and he still smelled so very wrong. His breath still rattled in his chest. She was slowly coming to the conclusion that it was not sickness, not really. Sickness did not feel this way.  Puzzle pieces were coming together just outside of her understanding, and she was frightened of the picture they were painting.

---------------------------------------------------------

Six Years Ago

“Mat?  Are you all right?”    Nynaeve had been looking for him, certainly. He’d been disappearing a lot recently. Especially since the family lost the cow.

One of the family’s three cows, supposedly, had all but dried up, but Abell Cauthon had found a woman who wanted it, and a good horse up in Taren Ferry that he could buy, and a buyer for that horse in Devon’s Ride.  The sale would make enough to get a new cow, and maybe some left over, and the Cauthons were excited about the prospect.  Until Abell was robbed of all the money in Taren Ferry and had to return with nothing.  Now the family had only two cows, and no way to get a third.   

It meant lean times, Nynaeve knew.  Two Rivers support was beginning to wear thin. The Coplins swore that a friend’s cousin saw Abell dicing and drinking in Taren Ferry after it happened, while Daise Congar found Natti passed out drunk behind the smokehouse.  And Mat was always looking for a way to multiply the coin he made chopping wood or mucking stables with a game of dice. He won more than he lost, but barely, and it did nothing to make the people of Two Rivers think that lending the Cauthons more coin would serve to help them get out of their situation.  

Fortunately, they didn’t need to.  Jeyne Daughtry had seemed to take a shine to the whole family, and always seemed to manage to have little tasks on hand for Mat to come do for her.  It wasn’t much, but with twins, the Cauthons needed two sets of dresses, two sets of shoes, and everything, and Mat managed to keep the girls in both.

It seemed to be working out.  But Mistress Barran was worried about Mat, for some reason, and asked Nynaeve to go check on the boy.

Nynaeve once again had to admire the Wisdom’s instincts when she found Mat Cauthon throwing up along the side of the road between the Quarry and the village proper.  

Mat looked up, hurriedly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  His face was flushed.  “Oh…Nynaeve.  I was just…I….”

Nynaeve flipped her braid over her shoulder and hurried over to him. “Did you catch the stomach flu?  Or were you eating green apples again?”  

She smelled his breath, expecting the scent of beer -- Mat had started filching some, every now and then, and getting Rand in trouble with it too when he could.  But there was none.  She laid the back of her hand against Mat’s forehead.  No fever.

“Right…Green apples.  You know me.”  He gave an exaggerated shrug that made Nynaeve suspect that some greater mischief had taken place.  

“I do…”  Her eyes narrowed.  “Is everything all right?” she asked again. “You look…” she wasn’t sure how to describe the expression in his eyes.  So she made her best guess. “Did a wolf come down from the mountains and get into the lambs?”

He shook his head. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. I just need to wash up and it will be all right.”  He straightened.  “And you can’t keep treating me like a child, Nynaeve.  I’m not a boy anymore.”  There was anger in that tone.

Fourteen years old was still a boy by Nynaeve’s book, but she let it go.  “If you’re sure.  Here…” she reached into her medicine pouch and pulled out a packet of dried and shredded root.  “Make some tea from this, and it will settle your belly.  And see me if it doesn’t, all right?”

Mat accepted the tea.  “Thank you.” And with that, a look of determination set on his face, he headed up the road to town, leaving Nynaeve feeling like she was only seeing a part of the puzzle, but couldn’t figure out the whole picture.

Winter could be a difficult time in the Two Rivers.  The children of the village were stuck indoors for days, sometimes weeks at a time, and many found their friends isolated on their separate farms.  Wolves attacked the flocks in some of the outer farmsteads. And if the harvest had not been bountiful, or someone had erred in their preservation techniques, food could become very tight for families in the village.  

In the evenings, many of the poorer villagers who lived on the green would find themselves in the Winespring Inn, where the great hearth offered everyone a place to warm up at the cost of only a few coins for drinks -- less than the cost of an evening’s worth of firewood.

The wind was blowing cold and there was snow on the ground, but the inn was fairly busy.  Nynaeve found a spot to settle with a cider while Mistress Barran was discussing the expected length of the snowfall with the Village Council on one side of the inn.  On the other side of the inn,  Jeyne Daughtry had bought a round of drinks for Paet Al’Caar, Harii Coplin and Darl and Bili Congar, and some of the other villagers not on the council, and was laughingly encouraging them share their favorite recipes for drinks to take the cold off.  Sunset was slowly turning the sky outside that window from pale gray to black but for now the inn was cozy.  And calmer, she had to notice, for the absence of Natti and Abell Cauthon.

Egwene was waltzing through the inn, keeping mugs filled and collecting coin for her parents, who were busy preparing meals.

Mat and the girls were there, though.  Bodewhin and Eldrin were each eating a hearty helping of mutton stew that Mat had bought for them earlier, with coin he’d gotten from Light knows where.  They were laughing and using pieces of bread to wipe their bowls clean, talking in that way that young children do about things they could only see in their imagination.  

Nyneave had to chuckle when she looked at Mat.  He was fast asleep by the fireplace, and looked like he’d managed to get himself soaked through and through before coming to the inn. His clothes, threadbare to a fault, were steaming in the warmth of the great fireplace, and he’d taken off his shoes and socks to set them to toast.  He probably had meant to watch the girls, but the warmth of the fire had overwhelmed him, and lying on the stone hearth hadn’t been uncomfortable enough to stop him.

Nynaeve didn’t want to awaken him but thought it best to check on the girls. “You two all right?”

Bodewhin nodded.  “Yes!” she said.  “So good!” she stuffed more bread into her mouth as if to prove her point.

Eldrin held out a broth-soaked and slightly chewed piece.  “Want some?”  

Nynaeve warded it away.  It was good to see the girls talking, they tended to be a quiet pair. “I ate, thank you.  How did Mat get all wet?”

Bodewhin giggled quietly, looking over at her brother.  “He had to take a bath in the pond.  He said he was dirty.” 

Nynaeve cocked an eyebrow.  “With his clothes on?”

Eldrin nodded, joining the giggling.  “You can’t be naked in the snow! It’s cold!”

Egwene chuckled and picked up the bowls.”Was he mucking stables?”

Bodewhin passed over her bowl.  “He was helping Mistress Daughtry, silly.”

Egwene smiled, and then whisked back towards the counter.

Nynaeve glanced over to Jeyne Daughtry.  She met Nynaeve’s eyes, but quickly looked away to give more attention to those she was talking with.   And then, out of the corner of her eye, Nyneave caught the Wisdom, Doral Barran, looking from the sleeping Mat to Jeyne thoughtfully, her eyes narrowed.

Nynaeve was about to wake Mat so he could take the girls home when the door to the Winespring burst open.

Natti Cauthon had slammed it open. Her face was a fury. Her hair was disheveled, and her dress was near frozen with the snowflakes that encrusted it. Her fist gripped the door as if she aimed to pull it off the hinges.  She scanned the room, passing quickly over the Wisdom, the twins, the sleeping Mat, and then fixed on Jeyne Daughtry, eyes blazing.  “YOU!  How DARE you!”  

Jeyne looked up from her conversation just as Natti reached out and grabbed the woman by the hair.  Near her, the Congars, surprised, pushed their chairs back to stand.

Jeyne screamed with pain as Natti hauled her out of her seat by the hair and pulled her to the floor.  

“You ruined him! How dare you touch him!” Natti screeched.  “Haven’t you got a shred of decency?”

By the fireplace, the twins stared at their mother with horror.  Mat was stirring awake, blinking as if he didn’t understand what was going on.

Jeyne got her feet under her and pushed Natti away, trying to remove her death grip from her hair, the two women clawing at each other.  “Natti, you’re mad! I’ve never even looked at Abell…”

“Not Abell, you witch!” Natti screamed.  “He’s fourteen! Fourteen!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” 

The shrieks continued as Paet and Hari ripped Natti off of Jeyne. Bode and Eldrin were crying loudly, throwing themselves on Mat for protection. Mat was as pale as a sheet, drawing the girls further into the corner by the fire, trembling.

Nynaeve had never seen anything like it. Men sometimes fought in the Winespring, when they’d drunk too much and old grudges had found new flame.  But she’d never seen grown women fight like this before.  She felt a surge of gratitude as Wisdom Barran stepped in.  

“Outside! Both of you!”  The Wisdom turned to gaping faces in the Winespring staring slack-jawed at the scene.  “This is Wisdom’s business!  Move them outside and I’ll take care of it.  Tom, go fetch Abell.  Nynaeve, make sure these lackwits keep their gossiping mouths shut, finish their drinks, and go home for the night.  And tell Mistress al’Vere to find a room for the Cauthon children tonight. I’ll speak with them later.”  With that, she pushed both fighting women out into the snow and the door slammed shut behind them.

Nynaeve straightened and gave the inn’s patrons her best, fierce glare to make sure they absorbed the words, but the room was silent except for the sound of the twins crying.  

Marin al’Vere had overheard Doral’s command. “Egwene, set a fire in the hearth in the corner room and make sure both beds have fresh linens.”  

Egwene nodded, hiding her confusion well. After a sympathetic look towards Mat, she hurried upstairs to do as bid.  Marin came over to the fire and took the sobbing Eldrin up in her arms.  “Come on, Mat. Bode.  Let’s go upstairs. The room will be warm in a minute, and I’ll bring some warm milk and honeycakes.  And a cider for you, Mat. Come on.”

Mat and the girls let themselves be cajoled and coaxed out of the common room and up the stairs, but as he mounted the steps, Mat shot such a look of terror and despair towards the door that it made Nynaeve’s heart hurt for him.  

Conversation, when they were gone, resumed quietly, and the inn’s patrons scattered quickly.  But gossip does not stop quickly, not even in the Two Rivers.

Chapter Text

Present Day

Nynaeve  laid a hand on Mat’s forehead gently and then jumped as he recoiled from her touch. He twisted on the bed away from her as if even that much was a threat. His shoulders were hunched with tension and he was shaking.  His face was buried in the pillow.  It was almost as if he was trying to hide something from her, something terrible he didn’t want her to see.

“What are you hiding, Mat? Why won’t you tell me?”

She doubted he could.  The only thing she really knew was that she would protect him any way she could.

Six Years Ago

Nynaeve didn’t mean to fall asleep, but the hour had grown so late while she waited up for Mistress Barran that her eyes slid shut of their own accord. The cry of a rooster awakened her just as the door to the Wisdom’s home was opening and Doral Barran came in.  She settled down on the edge of her bed and rested her head wearily in her hands.

It was the first time Nynaeve had ever thought of the Wisdom as old.

Weariness had settled itself about her like a cloak, and the flicker of the oil lamp Nynaeve had left out for her set dancing shadows in her white hair.  She sleepily got to her feet and stooped to help remove the Wisdom’s shoes.

Licking her lips nervously, she finally asked the question that hung between them.  “Do you think she did it?” she said quietly.

Wisdom Barran closed her eyes.  “I…I cannot be sure.  But…yes.  Natti saw something. There are signs…I’ve been seeing them across the last six months, at least. Maybe even longer.  There was a man in Watch Tower about twenty years back…it was similar.”  She sighed deeply.  “But Jeyne denies it.  And there is nothing I can prove.  Nothing I can show the Women’s Circle or the Mayor and the Village Council. They aren’t going to take the word of Natti Cauthon.”

Nynaeve set the shoes aside, feeling a lump sticking in her throat, making it hard for the words to come out.  “Did you talk to Mat?”

The Wisdom’s shoulders hunched. “I spoke with Mat, yes.  But…he won’t say anything. He thinks he did something wrong, that he is in trouble.  And he’s knows what it would cost his sisters if he weren’t 'helping' Jeyne Daughtry.”

“What about Abell?”

“Standing by his wife, but afraid.  They don’t have much they can afford to lose.” 

Nynaeve felt confused for a moment, but then realized what would happen to Abell’s little business if the townsfolk turned against them further. “Oh, Light,” 

“The Light has very little to do with it at this point.”

Anger and confusion warred in Nynaeve’s heart.  Anger for Mat, about what had happened, but mostly anger at being so helpless. “What are you going to do?”

Doral Barran rubbed her tired eyes.  “Right now, I need to sleep. Just remember, keeping the community together, that’s the most important.  More important than me, or you, or any member of it.  We have to make sure that the community stays alive, or we will find it all gone, blown away like snowflakes in a storm.”  She laid a hand on Nynaeve’s head.  “Be patient. I’ll take care of this, Nynaeve. But it’s going to take time. In the meantime, I need you to protect Mat and the girls. They’re going to need it.

Nynave tucked the old Wisdom into her bed gently and blew out the oil lamp.  Once again, she was struck by her age, the silver in her hair, the fine veins and weathered skin on the backs of her hands.  And for the first time, she thought about becoming the wisdom to follow Doral Barran, and felt afraid.

After all,  it was the word of Natti Cauthon against Jeyne Daughtry, member of the Women’s Circle, respected widow and one of the wealthiest people in town. The Cauthons didn’t have a chance.

Present Day

“Bode”  The word startled Nynaeve; she hadn’t heard Mat speak for many hours.   She leaned closer to hear.  “Bode…I can’t find Bode….El…They’re coming after us….I made them…  We’re dead.  They’re coming”  Mat’s eyes darted about with terror. His body tensed as if to bolt. Or fight.

“Shush.  It’s all right, Mat. Everyone is fine. Bode and Eldrin are fine.  No one is coming to get you.”

“Could be…” he mumbled.  “They’ll set a fire…Burn us out.  Then they’ll find us.  We’re helpless….They’re going to try.  Need to get Bode and Eld…”

Paranoia. Fear.  The words had madness written in them.  The inn was safe; the walls were stone, and no one was trying to burn the Two Rivers folks out, not even the Aes Sedai, whom Nynaeve would not trust even for a heartbeat.

“No one is setting a fire, Mat. No one. Please. The girls are safe. You need to calm down. You’re safe here. I’m going to keep you safe.”

If I can.

Five Years Ago

An angry, muttering winter had turned to a spring of short tempers and harsh words, and impatience clawed at Nynaeve’s throat so often that it felt like she would choke on it.  

Tam Al’Thor had been willing to take Mat and the girls for a few weeks, but they had to go home eventually.  If she’d managed to get him into a good apprenticeship, he’d learn a proper craft. He could know he could help support his family without doing…those things. Or gambling. Maybe then he would feel safe enough to tell. At least it would protect him from anyone else doing the same.  But her efforts to find him one proved fruitless -- too many of the village craftspeople remembered all too well the boy who couldn’t stay focused on a single task for more than a few minutes.  At least Master Luhan agreed to accept Perrin Aybara as an apprentice; the strong young man had all the patience and focus needed for working iron, and he would be a good friend to Mat in town.  

Abell and Natti fought as fiercely as ever.  Abell was talking of leaving the Two Rivers, taking Natti and their children up into the Mountains of Mist.  Perhaps they’d find gems, or gold, in the hills with just a little luck.  But Natti said the girls were too young, it was too dangerous, and they didn’t have the money to make a home for them where the winter was even colder.  Three times, Nynaeve had had to go mediate between them, but it all came to nothing.

And Jeyne Daughtry mostly stayed in her fine house on the edge of town and didn’t come to the Winespring any more.  But those who went to visit returned with only stories of her kindness and  generosity “Isn’t it a pity that that Cauthon woman was so prone to jealous rages?” And hopes that it would all blow over soon.

Neither Wisdom Barran nor Nynaeve’s best efforts seemed to end the gossip and speculation that had gripped the Two Rivers, turning it into a slowly boiling cauldron of infighting and recrimination, worse than Nynaeve had ever seen before.  

“Dragging a good woman’s name through the mud,” Cenn Buie muttered into his pipe as Nynaeve checked and re-wrapped his ankle.  “After all she’d done to help them.”

“Do you think there’s any truth to the rumors?” 

“Who’s taking advantage of who, anyway?”

“Anyone who’d do that should be run out of town.”

“Anyone who’d say that…we don’t want them here.”

And always more questions, questions that Nynaeve took to Mistress Barran, who only could give her the same answers.  “The Wisdom is looking into it. It’s all under control. Stop gossiping. Leave the families alone.”

But words can strike sparks, and the tinder was dry.

The day after Beltine, the bell on the village square started sounding loudly well in the late evening, its loud clang summoning all the villagers from their homes.  

By the time Nynaeve reached the village square the night sky was licked with tongues of brilliant orange flame coming from the Cauthon house.  The Mayor, Bran al’Vere, had already begun shouting orders to organize a fireline.  Natti and Abell clung to each other, silhouetted by the flames of their burning home, Abell’s hand resting on the head of a screaming Eldrin. Haral Luhan, from the forge, was running towards the dark front entrance, and others standing nearby, including Perrin, Egwene, and Laila, had tears in their eyes.  The sound of fire cracked and snapped, and the panicked cries of cows screamed in the night. 

She couldn’t see Mat or Bode. Nynaeve pushed forward into the smoke, unwilling to believe there was nothing she could do.  Fortunately, before she could take more than a couple of steps, Mat emerged from the darkness of the doorway, coughing and carrying Bodewhin in his arms.  Mistress Barran bustled up beside her, and the pair of them led the two away to check on their injuries.  Haral Luhan, muscles bulging, was able to rip open the locked door to the cattle stalls and free the pair of cows. The mayor’s fireline, made up most of the members of the village -- even Padain Fain, the peddler who always came for Beltine -- all of them passed bucket after bucket to pour onto the flames.

Maybe it was a freak accident…maybe the wind had blown down a Beltine lantern. Maybe someone in the house had been careless and left a candle burning.  Maybe Natti had drunk too much again. Or maybe it was a warning. No one knew. 

The sun was rising, but Nynaeve could not sleep.  With the fire, it seemed like a line had been crossed.  The heart of the community of the Two Rivers was bleeding, a wound she did not know how to heal. She and Wisdom Barran had tried everything to stop the gossip; she had bitten her tongue so many times at the injustice of it, and still it hadn’t helped.  She could not blame Natti Cauthon for refusing to apologize and back down, not after what Jeyne Daughtry had done.  And she couldn’t blame Mat for not wanting to come forward -- he had reason not to think he would be believed, no matter what he said. And Jeyne…well, Jeyne she could blame, but she would never confess.  And the community was hurting for it. It was burning for it.

Doral Barran sat up in bed, her blanket pulled about her.  “You stayed up all night,” she said by way of greeting. It was not a question.

Nynaeve shook her head angrily.  “You’ve said over and over that you are going to take care of this problem.  And now look at what happened! Where we are!  What if someone strikes back on behalf of the Cauthons?   What if somebody dies, Mistress Barran?  And we are doing nothing!  It isn’t right, what is happening.  People are going to get hurt.  They already are.”

The old Wisdom nodded.  “Yes. I had hoped, with time.  We don’t have time any more.” She looked up.  “I said I will take care of it. I will. Today.  I’ve been ready for a while now.  But I need you to do something for me.”

“What?”  Nynaeve felt pessimistic.  How can this be fixed in a day? How can it be fixed ever?

“I need you to take Abell and Natti…and Mat…into the Winespring common room.  And I need you to keep them there all day. I will fetch you in the evening.”

“What will you do?”

“You’ll see”

Nynaeve got dressed slowly,  frustration roiling in her head as she pulled on her coat and opened the door to leave.  In contrast, Wisdom Barran seemed placid as she sat down at her worktable and pulled out the black crucible.

It was a quiet, and very long day in the Winespring inn.  People came and left.  Bran Al’Vere spoke with Abell about letting them using the tack house for a home -- there was little need for a separate tack house given how few horses stabled at the Winespring.  Perrin and Rand came to visit with Mat and ask about the fire. He cracked a few dry jokes.  “Just a bit of bad luck.  I’ll trade it in for better one of these days, eh?”  It sounded brittle to Nynaeve’s ears.  Egwene and Laila played with the twins for a bit.  

And the whole time, Nynaeve guarded the door, armed with a stout stick, and waited for Mistress Barran to return. 

When she returned, late in the afternoon, Doral Barran ignored Nynaeve and the Cauthons, instead going straight to the mayor. 

“Bran,” she said, “I need you and a group of yours to come with me to the Daughtry place.”

Bran Al’Vere stripped off his apron before even asking,  “What is it then, Wisdom?”

“Outside.”

The two went outside of the inn, but Nynaeve followed,  Doral Barran’s words, of course, caught every ear in the Winespring, and seeing the Wisdom and the Mayor outside caught more than a few curious eyes who tried as scrupulously as Nynaeve did to listen in without listening.  

“I went to check on Jeyne after the fire,” the Wisdom told the Mayor. “She complained about a sore shoulder, so I went home to prepare a poultice for it.  When I got back, the pain was worse. She was clutching her chest, and I tried to help her, but…I’m afraid she’s dead, Bran.”

Bran Al’Vere’s lips drew into a thin line as he looked at the Wisdom.  “That’s a terrible pity,” he finally said.  “You’re sure you were the only one who had been there today?”

“I don't know if she had visitors while I was fetching the poultice. She could have mentioned the pain to them, but it seemed quite quick.”

Bran nodded.  “I’ll make sure to let the village know.  We’ll prepare a ceremony for tomorrow.”

Nynaeve could hear the whispers already starting.  She ushered the Cauthons to a private room to tell them.  She could guess that their feelings would be just as inappropriate to the moment as her own.

The funeral for Jeyne Daughtry was as proper as any ever held in the Two Rivers. The sun shone. The members of the Village Council carried her white-wrapped body out to a pretty spot near the quarry, under the dogwood blossoms where her husband was buried. The Mayor spoke of her generosity to the town, how she had paid for the repairs to the stone bridge over the White River four winters back, and paid for the gleeman to come to Beltine ten years before.  Others offered memories of her good humor and grace. Flowers were placed on the grave. Lanterns were floated on the Winespring.  No one spoke of the winter’s gossip.  No one seemed to notice that the Cauthons weren’t there.    

Seven days had passed since the funeral of Jeyne Daughtry, and peace was slowly returning to the Two Rivers. 

The sun was setting when Nynaeve checked in on the Cauthons as she walked through town.  The tack house was a narrow thing, hardly room for five, she noted. Mat greeted her at the door with a sardonic smile that did not at all reach his eyes.  “No, it’s cozy, The girls will be fine. It’s plenty.  You can go now.” He would not let her inside.

She didn’t push to ask more.

She passed the Winespring, where a few of the older men and women were enjoying an evening ale.  There was still some gossip of course, but half-hearted, and a jovial word from Bran or a sterner one from Marin was enough to encourage the patrons to let the past stay past. Without a cause to champion, for either side, people were content to let it rest.  The Two Rivers is never as dangerous as when it is defending its own, Nynaeve thought. Even if the one they’re defending doesn’t deserve it.

There was the sound of a pair of hammers ringing on the anvil -- Perrin, training with Haral Luhan -- and sheep coming in from the pasture.  It was a peaceful music, like the Two Rivers should be.

When she reached the home she shared with Wisdom Barran, she found the old woman seated in her chair in front of the house, watching the sun set across the the mountains to the west.  Nynaeve put her bag down and settled in the chair opposite her.  The red light shone against her gray hair.  Her worn hands held her favorite mug, and she took a sip before speaking.

“Did you check on the Cauthon boy?”

Nynaeve answered, “Yes. They were…well enough. He’s changed.  He’s guarded.  He won’t talk to me now.  Not really.”

Doral Barran nodded.  “It’s to be expected.  He’s going to need more time.  Keep an eye on him, but don’t grip too tightly.  He’s…” She weighed her words carefully.  “He’ll test you a thousand times, and come near breaking. But Mat Cauthon is resilient. He’ll change. Adapt. Survive. And grow, maybe, once he gets a world big enough to force him to. Help him. Protect him.”

“All right.” Something told her Mat Cauthon would need a good deal more protecting still, but she knew she would do it, whether he let her or not.  

The old Wisdom took another sip.  “Protect all of them.  Especially the young people.  You all have so much life ahead of you.  I don’t want any of you to waste a day of it.”

An itchy feeling began to form between Nynaeve’s shoulder blades. “Of course, Mistress.  But what do you…”

Mistress Barran cut her off.  “I’ve asked Sara Al’ten from Watch Hill to come down for the next month, to help you get started.”  She paused. “You’ll be a good Wisdom, Nynaeve.  Your heart, it’s full of compassion, girl.  But you are strong enough to do what must be done….and to pay the price for it.” 

Nynaeve leaned forward, reaching out…”What are you saying?”  Worry raised the pitch of her voice as she put a hand on the old Wisdom’s wrist.

The mug Doral was holding fell to the ground, cracking in two.   Her voice was slurred, ever so slightly, when she answered. “... is always a price to pay.  Only a coward refuses to pay the price. You’re not a coward…”

Nynaeve stood, reaching and holding the old woman by the shoulders, tipping her head back so she could see her pupils, dilated, and not contracting despite the light of the setting sun.

“No….” she breathed.

As she held her she glanced at the worktable behind her inside the house.  And on the bench, the black mortar and pestle.

Crimsonthorn root.

"Why?” Nynaeve wept, taking the Wisdom into her arms.

“Because…It’s justice.  For her…and for me.  Gossip. Retribution. This sickness can end.  Let it end with me.  If anyone learns what happened...they can know it’s over now…Healed.”  Her words grew softer, more sleepy, as she spoke.

Nynaeve clutched her mentor tightly to her and sobbed.

Present Day

Mat thrashed under her hands, then reached up and grabbed Nynaeve by the shirt, drawing her close to his face. Dark circles traced their marks under his red-rimmed hazel eyes, but he seemed lucid.

“Nynaeve,” he gasped.

“Yes, Mat.”  She laid a hand on his forehead.  So wrong.

“Don’t…don’t let me hurt anyone else.  Please….” he begged.

“Mat…” she could feel the tears springing to her eyes.  “Mat…You didn’t….”

“Please. No more…”

Nynaeve’s jaw tightened.  “You didn’t do it, Mat.”  

“But….”  A fresh tear trickled down his own cheek. 

“You don’t need to be afraid.”  She pushed his hands down from her shirt and held them tightly. “I will protect you.”  She swallowed.  “And if I can’t…I will protect them from you. And then it can end.  With me. I promise.”

He sagged, closing his eyes.

Nynaeve folded his hands across his chest and pulled his blanket up about him.

She would have to go into the city -- there were more medicinal herbs she might need. Addertail. Spiderwort.  Goat’s tongue.

And crimsonthorn.