Lan Mandragoran

Hazily, distantly, he's aware of familiar sounds: screams, sobs, voices muttering and shouting and just plain exhausted. Familiar smells: blood and Shadowspawn ichor, smoke, filth, ozone and choking dust. And somewhere, very far off indeed, the awareness of a bond that would once have mattered; slightly nearer, the raw wound of the shattered bond that did matter.

Everything's dark, though. He doesn't know if his eyes are closed.

He doesn't care.

Because mostly what he's aware of is cold, and lethargy, and the distant pain of a dozen wounds. The mother's last embrace is very near.

I'm sorry, my heart, he would think if he had the energy for it, but he has none left. So he doesn't.

Just waits for peace to finish carrying him away.

The ground under Lan's feet is humped with ice and grass tussocks, and slopes unevenly. It's the kind of terrain that makes it easy to slip or twist an ankle; his usual practice space is much more level.

It doesn't do to become too accustomed to ease.

Which is why this afternoon it's this spot he's chosen to practice sword forms. No students just now, and no opponents; he works at full speed, swift and sure and tireless.

He doesn't slip.

There's a sign posted in the bar.

Lan's been musing.

Such thoughts can be accomplished in the House of Arch as easily as Milliways, however, and Lan doesn't like to be away from his wife for too long without good reason.

If they were bonded as they should be, as Warder and Aes Sedai, he would know instantly where she was at any moment; as it is, he has to rely on more ordinary knowledge. Luckily, at the moment, that's not hard. The greenhouse, she said earlier, and Nynaeve can easily spend hours at work there.

Lord Portal's journal is at least two hundred years old; the pages, soft as cloth, are uneven and turning brown at the edges. His handwriting is cramped and full of ink-blots. But it's nothing new, after some of the books in the White Tower's library, and this journal has two advantages. First, it's old enough that Lady Door was willing to lend it to him without hesitation. And second, it details several of the still-current hazards of London Below.

Lan, who believes in learning about all potential dangers of your surroundings, is currently reading about a group called the Seven Sisters.

My duty lies here, Nynaeve told him, days ago. Making sure Alivia doesn't kill Rand. But I will take you to the Borderlands. Your duty lies there.

Her duty lies with the Dragon Reborn. His lies at Tarmon Gai'don -- the Last Battle. Lan has always known that he would die in battle someday. Embrace death, men of the Borderlands say; if he goes to the mother's last embrace tomorrow, his only regret is in leaving Nynaeve a widow.

But the gateway she wove took him not to Shienar, but to World's End where Saldaea's eastern cliffs fall into the sea, as far from Shienar as one can get without leaving the Borderlands. He's proud of her, even as the days of hard riding frustrate him: even without swearing the Aes Sedai Oaths, she has learned to manipulate truth enough to mislead even him. And he has no little skill at that game himself.

She bought him time -- days, maybe weeks -- even if he doesn't welcome the time, and can only guess at why she might have done it.

My love, you are a hawk.

Inns are few and far between in the Plain of Lances between Saldaea and Kandor, but they do exist, and this one is right along his route. Pulling Mandarb to a halt in front of the doors, he dismounts, slinging his saddlebags over his shoulder before flipping the groom a coin and allowing him to take Mandarb. The warhorse goes quietly -- after the proper hand-signal, of course.

He burns to keep riding through the night, through the next day, pushing hard to reach the battle at Shayol Ghul. But he learned better years ago. He will not do himself, nor Mandarb, nor the world any good by driving himself to exhaustion.

So he shrugs the heavy saddlebags more securely into place, and strides through the door.