The Arinelle River flowed silently, calm and imposing, as though it held secrets long forgotten. There was no sign of life on its banks, nor any boats in sight—except for the one they were traveling in. Still, the absence of movement did not mean there were no wonders to be seen or moments to be admired.
The Arinelle wound between high cliffs stretching almost half a mile on either side. Along this entire stretch, the faces of the rocks had been sculpted into colossal figures: men and women over fifteen spans high, adorned with crowns proclaiming them kings and queens of ancient times. Each statue was unique—no two alike in the procession of monarchs carved into the living stone. Their expressions, postures, and ornaments varied, and long centuries separated the first from the last.
Time, like a cruel artist, had worn down the sculptures located farther north. The wind and rain had erased their features, making them almost faceless, smooth as polished marble. However, as the boat traveled southward, the faces became sharper, the details more vivid, as though the past itself was awakening before the travelers' attentive eyes.
It was only when the eastern shore once again became a grassy plain, interrupted here and there by twisted and solitary bushes, that something new caught their attention. A sudden gleam, shining under the afternoon sun, appeared in the distance. Rand squinted, leaning forward.
— What could that be? — he murmured aloud. — It looks... like metal.
Thom Merrilin, who was walking by with steady steps and his cloak fluttering in the wind, paused upon hearing the question. His experienced eyes narrowed in the direction of the gleaming spot.
— Yes, it's metal — he replied, his voice still carrying a faint rasp of tiredness, though clearer than in the early days of the journey. Rand was already able to understand him without effort. — A metal tower. I've seen it up close before. The river traders use it as a landmark. We're about ten days from Whitebridge if we keep this pace.
Mat, who had been sitting nearby with a mug of butterbeer in his hands and a distracted smile on his face, jumped up at that. His eyes sparkled with curiosity as he stared at the distant tower.
— I bet there's treasure inside it — he said, still wearing his goofy grin.
Thom let out a deep laugh, more like a muffled thunder than a proper chuckle.
— Maybe, boy. But there are stranger things in this world than shiny metal towers. In Tremalking, one of the Sea Folk's islands, there stands a stone hand, over eight spans tall, rising from a hill. And that hand holds a crystal sphere the size of this boat. If there's treasure buried under that hill, it must be the greatest of them all — but the island folk won't dare dig. And the Sea Folk care only for the sea and finding their Chosen, the Coramoor.
— I'd dig it up — Mat retorted, his eyes still fixed on the gleam on the horizon. — Where is this... Tremalking?
A dense thicket slid before the gleaming tower, concealing it for a moment, but Mat kept staring as though he could see it through the trees.
Thom merely shook his head, as if he had seen enough to know that some curiosities are better left alone.
— It's not the gold that makes life worthwhile, boy. If you find some old coins or a dead king's jewels, great. But it's the strange, the inexplicable, that drives a man's feet to the next horizon. In Tanchico, for example — a port city on the Aryth Ocean — they say part of the Panarch's Palace was built back in the Age of Legends. And on one of the walls, there's a frieze carved with animals that no living man has ever seen. Creatures from another time, perhaps from another world.
— In the Sand Hills, near our farm, we used to dig up bones — Rand said thoughtfully. — Strange bones. Once we found what seemed like part of a fish... or something similar, as big as this boat. A lot of people said it was bad luck to dig in the hills.
Thom just chuckled and muttered:
— Shepherds...
Impatient with the idea of ten more days of travel and with no reason to wait, Rand decided to speed up the journey. His training with Helena was finished, and there was no longer any reason to prolong the crossing. He gave a determined look at the helm and increased the boat's speed. With the help of the wind and the favorable current, the journey that should have taken ten days was drastically shortened — in just a day and a half, they spotted their destination.
— Whitebridge! — Mat shouted, furrowing his brow, but a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. — Whitebridge in sight!
— Let's dock the boat before we get too close — Rand decided. — We'll take a skiff to the port.
Thom nodded wisely, and soon they were all rowing toward the shore in a simple but sturdy boat. When they reached the Whitebridge port, the city was buzzing with life: merchants shouted their offers, children ran between the fish barrels, and soldiers patrolled the docks with watchful eyes.
While Rand and Mat took care of the bags and supplies, Thom moved ahead and bargained with a few local traders, selling the boat for a handful of silver coins. It was enough to guarantee a good dinner and perhaps a decent inn.
And so, without ceremony, they left the river behind.
— We need to find Moiraine and the others — Rand said. — And quickly. We should have thought about changing Thom's cloak.
Thom suddenly shook himself and stopped where he was.
— A tavernkeeper will be able to tell us if they're here, or if they've passed through. The right tavernkeeper. Tavernkeepers know all the news and gossip. If they're not here... — He looked from Rand to Mat, then back to Rand. — We need to talk, the three of us... or better yet, all four of us.
With his cloak swirling around his ankles, he headed into the city, moving away from the river. Rand and Mat had to quicken their pace to keep up with him.
In the center of the city, Whitebridge descended into a large square, paved with stones worn down by generations of feet and wagon wheels. Inns surrounded the square, with shops and tall brick houses bearing plaques outside with the same names Rand had seen on the wagons at the dock.
Helena was looking at the stalls when Rand called her and gave her some silver to buy something for herself. Smiling, she skipped between the stalls, buying whatever she liked or thought was different.
It was in one of the inns, seemingly chosen at random, that Thom entered. The sign above the door, swaying in the wind, showed a man walking with a sack on his back on one side and the same man with his head on the pillow on the other, and it announced "The Rest of the Wanderers."
The hall was empty, except for the fat tavernkeeper pouring beer from a barrel and two men in rough workers' clothes looking despondently at their mugs at a table in the back. Only the tavernkeeper looked up when they entered. A wall shoulder-high divided the room in two, from the front to the back, with tables and a lit fireplace on either side. Rand wondered, absently, if all tavernkeepers were fat and bald.
Rubbing his hands vigorously, Thom spoke to the tavernkeeper about the late cold and ordered hot spiced wine. Then he added softly:
— Is there a place where my friends and I can talk without being disturbed?
The tavernkeeper nodded toward the low wall.
— The other side is the best I have, unless you want to rent a room. That's for when the sailors come off the river.
The bare table was far from clean, and the floor hadn't been swept in days, if not weeks. Rand looked around and grimaced. Master al'Vere wouldn't have let his inn get so dirty, even if he had to get out of bed sick to take care of it himself.
— We're just here for information. Remember?
— Why here? — Mat asked. — We passed other inns that seemed cleaner.
— Right off the bridge — Thom said — the road to Caemlyn starts here. Anyone passing through Whitebridge crosses this square, unless they go by the river, and we know your friends won't do that. If we don't get news of them here, it doesn't exist. Let me talk. This has to be done carefully.
At that moment, the tavernkeeper appeared, holding three battered pewter mugs in one hand. The fat man quickly wiped the table, set the mugs down, and took Thom's money.
— If you stay, you won't need to pay for your drinks. Good wine, here.
Thom's smile showed only at the corners of his mouth.
— I'll think about it, tavernkeeper. What's new? We haven't heard anything for a long time.
— Big news, that's what's new. Big news.
The news was indeed big, as he had said. Logain, the False Dragon, had been captured after a great battle near Lugard while trying to move his army from Ghealdan to Tear. The Prophecies, they understood? Thom nodded, and Bartim continued. The roads to the south were crowded with people, the luckiest carrying whatever they could on their backs. Thousands fleeing in every direction.
The Aes Sedai had participated in capturing Logain.