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He shook his head, scanning the landscape. "I was a cobbler's son, Nynaeve Sedai. I know not the ways of lords and ladies." He hesitated. "Besides, I'm not a Borderlander anymore." The implication was clear. He would protect Rand, no matter what other allegiances tugged at him. A very Warder-like way of thought.

Nynaeve nodded slowly. "Do you have any idea what we're riding into?"

"They'll keep their word," Narishma said. "A Borderlander would sooner die than break his word. They promised to send a delegation to meet with the Lord Dragon. They'll do just that. I wish we'd been allowed to bring our Aes Sedai, though."

Reports held that the Borderlander army included thirteen Aes Sedai. A dangerous number: the number needed to still a woman or gentle a man. Thirteen women in a circle could shield the most powerful of channelers. Rand had insisted that the delegation that came to meet him include no more than four of those thirteen Aes Sedai; in return, he promised to bring no more than four channelers. Two Asha'man— Narishma and Naeff—Nynaeve and Rand himself.

Merise and the others had thrown the Aes Sedai equivalent of a fit— it involved a lot of downturned lips and questions like "Are you certain you want to do that?"—when Rand had forbidden them to come.

Nynaeve noted Narishma's tense posture. "You don't look as if you trust them."

"A Borderlander's place is guarding the Border," Narishma said. "I was a cobbler's son, and yet I was trained with the sword, spear, bow, axe and sling. Even before joining the Asha'man, I could best four out of five trained southern soldiers in a duel. We live to defend. And yet they left. Now, of all times. With thirteen Aes Sedai." He glanced at her with those dark eyes of his. "I want to trust them. I know them for good people. But good people can do the wrong thing. Particularly when men who can channel are involved."

Nynaeve fell silent. Narishma had a point, though what cause would the Borderlanders have to harm Rand? They'd fought the encroachment of the Blight and its Shadowspawn for centuries, and the struggle against the Dark One was imprinted on their very souls. They wouldn't turn against the Dragon Reborn.

The Borderlanders had a special honor about them. It could be frustrating, true, but it was who they were. Lan's reverence for his homeland— particularly when many other Malkieri had abandoned their identity—was part of what she loved about him. Oh, Lan. I'll find someone to help you. I won't let you ride into the Shadow's jaws alone.

As they neared a small green hill, several Aiel returned from scouting. Rand pulled the group to a halt, waiting for the cadin'sor-clad scouts to pad up to him, several wearing the red headbands marked with the ancient symbol of the Aes Sedai. The scouts weren't winded, despite the fact that they'd run all the way ahead to the meeting place and then back.

Rand leaned forward in his saddle. "Did they do as I asked? Did they bring no more than two hundred men, no more than four Aes Sedai?"

"Yes, Rand al'Thor," said one of the scouts. "Yes, they kept to your requirements admirably. They have great honor."

Nynaeve recognized the strange Aiel brand of humor in the tone of the man's response.

"What?" Rand asked.

"One man, Rand al'Thor," the Aiel scout said. "That is all that their 'delegation' consists of. He's a short little thing of a man, though he looks like he knows how to dance the spears. The crossroads is behind this hill."

Nynaeve looked ahead. Indeed, now that she knew to look, she could see another road running up from the south, presumably meeting with theirs just beyond the hill.

"What manner of trap is this?" Naeff asked, riding up beside Rand, his lean, warrior's face concerned. "An ambush?"

Rand held up a hand for silence. He kicked his gelding into motion, and the scouts kept up without a word of complaint. Nynaeve was nearly left behind; Moonlight was a far more placid animal than she would have chosen for herself. She'd have words with the stable master when she returned to Tear.

They rounded the hillside, finding a dusty square of ground, scarred by old firepits where caravans had stopped for the night. A roadway smaller than the one they'd been using twisted up to the north and down to the south. A solitary Shienaran man stood in the center, where roads met, watching the oncoming procession. His shoulder-length gray hair hung loose around a lean face which complemented his wiry build. His round face was lined with marks of age; his eyes were small, and he seemed to be squinting.

Hurin? she thought with surprise. Nynaeve hadn't seen the thief-taker since he'd accompanied her and a group of others back to the White Tower following the events at Falme.