He nearly looked at her when she said "submissive." A word less likely to describe any Aiel woman he could not conceive. Probably means she gives warning before she stabs you.

There had been more of a muffled sound to her voice at the end. Pulling her blouse over her head, he realized. He wished the lamps were out. No, that would have made it worse. But then, he had been through this every single night since Rhuidean, and every single night it was worse. He had to put an end to it. The woman was going to sleep with the Wise Ones, where she belonged, from now on; he would learn what he could from her as he could. He had thought exactly the same thing for fifteen nights now.

Trying to chase the pictures out of his head, he said, "That bit at the end. After the vows were said." No sooner had half a dozen Wise Ones pronounced their blessings than a hundred of Melaine's blood kin had rushed in to surround her, all carrying their spears. A hundred of Bael's kin had rallied to him, and he had fought his way to her. No one had been veiled, of course – it was all part of custom – but blood had still been shed on both sides. "A few minutes before, Melaine was vowing that she loved him, but when he reached her, she fought like a cornered ridgecat." If Dorindha had not punched her in the shortribs, he did not think Bael would ever have gotten her over his shoulder to carry off. "He still has the limp and the black eye she gave him."

"Should she have been a weakling?" Aviendha said sleepily. "He had to know the worth of her. She was not a trinket for him to put in his pouch." She yawned, and he heard her nestling deeper into her blankets.

"What does 'teaching a man to sing' mean?" Aiel men did not sing, not once they were old enough to take up a spear, except for battle chants and laments for the dead.

"You are thinking of Mat Cauthon?" She actually giggled. "Sometimes, a man gives up the spear for a Maiden."

"You're making that up. I never heard of anything like that."

"Well, it is not really giving up the spear." Her voice held a thick muzziness. "Sometimes a man desires a Maiden who will not give up the spear for him, and he arranges to be taken gai'shain by her. He is a fool, of course. No Maiden would look at gai'shain as he hopes. He is worked hard and kept strictly to his place, and the first thing that is done is to make him learn to sing, to entertain the spear-sisters while they eat. 'She is going to teach him to sing.' That is what Maidens say when a man makes a fool of himself over one of the spear-sisters." A very peculiar people.

"Aviendha?" He had said he was not going to ask her this again. Lan said it was Kandori work, a pattern called snowflakes. Probably loot from some raid up north. "Who gave you that necklace?"

"A friend, Rand al'Thor. We came far today, and you will start us early tomorrow. Sleep well and wake, Rand al'Thor." Only an Aiel would wish you a good night by hoping you did not die in your sleep.

Setting the much smaller if much more intricate ward on his dreams, he channeled the lamps out and tried to sleep. A friend. The Reyn came from the north. But she had had the necklace in Rhuidean. Why did he care? Aviendha's slow breathing seemed loud in his ears until he fell asleep, and then he dreamed a confused dream of Min and Elayne helping him throw Aviendha, wearing nothing but that necklace, over his shoulder, while she beat him over the head with a wreath of segade blossoms.

Chapter 22

(Horned Skull)

Birdcalls by Night

Lying facedown on his blankets with his eyes closed, Mat luxuriated in the feel of Melindhra's thumbs kneading their way down his spine. There was nothing quite as good as a massage after a long day in the saddle. Well, some things were, but right then, he was willing to settle for her thumbs.

"You are well muscled for such a short man, Matrim Cauthon."

He opened one eye and glanced back at her, kneeling astride his hips. She had built the fire up twice as high as needed, and, sweat trickled down her body. Her fine golden hair, close-cut except for that Aiel tail at the nape of her neck, clung to her scalp. "If I'm too short, you can always find somebody else."

"You are not too short for my taste," she laughed, ruffling his hair. It was longer than hers. "And you are cute. Relax. This does no good if you tense."

Grunting, he closed his eyes again. Cute? Light! And short. Only Aiel could call him short. In every other land he had been in, he was taller than most men, if not always by much. He could remember being tall. Taller than Rand, when he rode against Artur Hawkwing. And a hand shorter than he was now when he fought beside Maecine against the Aelgari. He had spoken to Lan, claiming he had overheard some names; the Warder said Maecine had been a king of Eharon, one of the Ten Nations – that much Mat already knew – some four or five hundred years before the Trolloc Wars. Lan doubted that even the Brown Ajah knew more; much had been lost in the Trolloc Wars, and more in the War of the Hundred Years. Those were the earliest and latest of the memories that had been planted in his skull. Nothing after Artur Paendrag Tanreall, and nothing before Maecine of Eharon.

"Are you cold?" Melindhra said incredulously. "You shivered." She scrambled off him, and he heard her add wood to the fire; there was enough scrub here for burning. She slapped his bottom hard as she climbed back on, murmuring, "Good muscle."

"If you keep on like that," he muttered, "I'll think you mean to spit me for supper, like a Trolloc." It was not that he did not enjoy Melindhra – as long as she refrained from pointing out that she was taller, anyway – but the situation made him uncomfortable.

"No spits for you, Matrim Cauthon." Her thumbs dug hard into his shoulder. "That is it. Relax."

He supposed that he would marry someday, settle down. That was what you did. A woman, a house, a family. Shackled to one spot for the rest of his life. I never heard of a wife yet that liked her husband having a drink or a gamble. And there was what those folk on the other side of the doorframe ter'angreal had said. That he was fated "to marry the Daughter of the Nine Moons." A man has to marry sooner or later, I suppose. But he certainly did not mean to take an Aiel wife. He wanted to dance with as many women as he could, while he could.

"You are not made for spits, but for great honor, I think," Melindhra said softly.

"Sounds fine to me." Only now he could not get another woman to look at him, not the Maidens or the others. It was as if Melindhra had hung a sign on him saying OWNED BY MELINDHRA OF THE JUMAI SHAIDO. Well, she would not have put that last bit on, not here. Then again, who knew what an Aiel would do, especially a Maiden of the Spear? Women did not think the same as men, and Aiel women did not think like anybody else in the world.

"It is strange that you efface yourself so."

"Efface myself?" he mumbled. Her hands did feel good; knots were coming out that he had not known were there. "How?" He wondered if it had something to do with that necklace. Melindhra seemed to set great store by it, or by receiving it, anyway. She never wore the thing, of course. Maidens did not. But she carried it in her pouch, and showed it to every woman who asked. A lot of them seemed to.

"You put yourself in the shadow of Rand al'Thor."

"I'm not in anybody's shadow," he said absently. It could not be the necklace. He had given jewelry to other women, Maidens and others; he liked giving things to pretty women, even if all he got in return was a smile. He never expected more. If a woman did not enjoy a kiss and a cuddle as much as he did, what was the point?

"Of course, there is honor of a sort in being in the shadow of the Car'a'carn. To be near the mighty, you must stand in their shade."