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The road to Emond's Field was long and quiet, bordered by fields that stretched toward the distant hills and the shadow of the mountains beyond. Moiraine Sedai sat astride her horse, her posture regal and steady as she surveyed the scenery. Though the Westlands were familiar to her, there was an undeniable difference in the air here—a stillness that bordered on stagnation. To outsiders, it was a forgotten pocket of the world, nestled too deeply within the Two Rivers for any to linger, even if they chanced upon it.
The village itself, when it came into view, seemed to echo this sentiment. Emond's Field was charming in its simplicity—little more than a cluster of houses with thatched roofs, a central green, and a handful of small shops. Smoke rose from chimneys, curling lazily into the crisp morning air, while villagers moved about their tasks with the deliberate pace of those who knew no other life. To Moiraine, it was clear why this place had remained untouched by the great tides of history. It was a haven—not by intent, but by circumstance. Few traveled here, and those who did rarely stayed long. Emond's Field was a place you passed through, not a destination.
Even the approach to the village spoke of its remoteness. The dirt road had been uneven, marked by stones and roots that spoke of years without proper care. The fields, though vast and fertile, were worked with the same tools and methods that had likely been used for generations. The isolation of Emond's Field extended beyond its geography; it was woven into the very fabric of the village's existence.
Lan Mandragoran rode beside her, his gray stallion moving with the same deliberate grace as its rider. Lan's piercing gaze swept over the landscape, his sharp eyes missing nothing as they took in the subtle details of their surroundings. He was a man of few words, but Moiraine had come to rely on his quiet strength and unmatched instincts. If Lan had any thoughts about Emond's Field, he kept them to himself, his attention focused on the road ahead.
As they entered the village, the reaction from the locals was predictable. Heads turned, conversations hushed, and children stopped their play to stare at the newcomers. Moiraine was used to this—it was the nature of her presence as an Aes Sedai. Even in a place as remote as Emond's Field, stories of the White Tower lingered in the minds of the villagers, shaping their perceptions of those who bore the serpent ring.
She noted the suspicion in their eyes, the way they whispered to one another as they tried to make sense of her arrival. It was not hostility, but caution—a trait bred by years of isolation and an instinct for survival. Moiraine understood it well; the people of the Two Rivers were like the tamarisk trees that dotted their land: sturdy, resilient, and slow to trust.
The Winespring Inn came into view as they reached the heart of the village. Its wooden sign swayed gently in the breeze, and the sound of voices and laughter spilled out through the open door. It was a welcome sight, though Moiraine knew better than to expect too much from the comforts of a rural inn. She reined in her horse and dismounted gracefully, her dark blue cloak trailing behind her as she moved. Lan followed suit, his movements smooth and deliberate as he led their horses to the hitching post.
Bran al'Vere, the innkeeper, emerged to greet them, his expression a mix of curiosity and politeness. He was a stout man, his round face framed by a neatly trimmed beard, and his demeanor reflected the hospitality for which the Two Rivers was known. "Welcome to the Winespring Inn," he said, inclining his head respectfully. "You're strangers to these parts, I reckon. What brings you to Emond's Field?"
Moiraine offered a small, measured smile, her gaze steady as she studied the man. "Shelter for the night, and perhaps a few answers," she replied, her voice carrying the calm authority of one accustomed to being listened to. "My travels have taken me far, and I find myself in need of rest before continuing."
Bran nodded, his expression thoughtful. "You'll find good food and warm beds here," he said. "Though I expect you'll find Emond's Field quieter than most places."
Moiraine's smile deepened slightly, though there was little warmth in it. "Quiet is often deceiving," she said softly, her words carrying an undertone of meaning that Bran seemed to miss. The innkeeper simply nodded again, motioning for them to enter.
As Moiraine and Lan stepped into the inn, the atmosphere shifted. The patrons inside glanced up from their drinks and conversations, their expressions varying between curiosity and unease. Lan's presence, with his imposing stature and unyielding gaze, added to the tension in the room, while Moiraine's calm elegance seemed to unsettle them further. It was clear that strangers of their kind were a rarity in Emond's Field.
Moiraine's eyes swept over the room, taking in the details—the worn wooden tables, the crackling fire in the hearth, the villagers whose lives had been untouched by the great battles and politics of the world. These people lived simple, predictable lives, unaware of the threads of the Pattern that would soon disrupt their existence. Moiraine could feel the weight of it pressing against her mind, the knowledge that she carried like a burden.
----
The room at the Winespring Inn was modest but adequate. Moiraine sat near the window, her hands folded neatly in her lap as she gazed out at the quiet village below. The faint sounds of laughter and conversation from the common room drifted upward, but they were muffled, distant. Here in this remote place, away from the White Tower and the politics of the Ajahs, it was easy to pretend that the world was simple, uncomplicated. But Moiraine knew better. The weight of the Wheel's turning was never far from her mind, and the memories it carried were like shadows, lingering even in moments of quiet.
Lan sat across the room, sharpening his blade with practiced precision. The rasp of steel against stone was rhythmic, almost soothing, and it grounded Moiraine as she allowed her thoughts to drift back in time.
The air was crisp on the hillside, carrying the faint scent of spring as Moiraine and Lan stood in silence, their eyes fixed on the valley below. From their vantage point, they could see the small cluster of figures moving across the open field—a group of Red Ajah Sisters in pursuit of a man who stumbled as he fled, desperation clear in every step.
The man was no Dragon Reborn. Moiraine had known that before they even arrived. His strength in the One Power, while undeniable, was unrefined and chaotic, the hallmark of a man who had stumbled upon his ability without guidance or training. He had drawn attention by accident, the whispers of his strange abilities carried across the countryside until they reached the ears of the White Tower. He had not claimed to be anything, had not sought followers or fame. He was simply a man who had made the mistake of channeling in a world that would not forgive him for it.
The Red Ajah was efficient, their movements precise as they encircled the man. He had no chance of escape—they had ensured that long before the chase began. Moiraine watched as he faltered, his legs giving out beneath him. The Reds closed in, their weaves snapping into place like the jaws of a trap. The man's cries echoed faintly up the hill, carried on the wind, but Moiraine did not flinch. She had seen this before, and she would see it again. It was a grim necessity, one that she accepted even as it weighed on her.
"They've caught him," Lan said, his voice low and steady. He stood beside her, his arms crossed over his chest, the hilt of his sword catching the sunlight. His expression was unreadable, his eyes sharp as they tracked the scene below.
"Yes," Moiraine replied softly, her gaze unwavering. "They will gentle him now. His thread in the Pattern will end here."
Lan was silent, the faint rustle of wind the only sound between them. Moiraine remained still, her thoughts turning to the larger tapestry of the world and the truths they were chasing.
After a long pause, she spoke again. "The Wheel has woven another path. There is a whisper of four Ta'veren in the Two Rivers. That is why we are here."
Lan's gaze sharpened, his mind already piecing together the implications of her words. "Four Ta'veren," he said slowly, his tone carrying both curiosity and caution.
Moiraine did not answer directly. Instead, she let her words linger, her focus shifting back to the now-quiet valley. The man below lay motionless, his cries silenced, his connection to the One Power severed. It was a reminder of the stakes, of what they were seeking and what they were willing to endure to find it.
"The Pattern will reveal him," she said at last, her voice steady and resolute. "It is our task to be ready."
Lan said nothing more, his silence filled with understanding. Together, they turned away from the scene, their resolve unshaken as they continued their journey toward the Two Rivers.
The memory faded as Moiraine returned to the present. The village below was calm, the laughter and voices of its people untouched by the knowledge of what lay ahead. Lan's steady movements as he sharpened his blade were a reminder of their purpose, of the duty that drove them both. Moiraine closed her eyes briefly, centering herself before speaking.
"Four Ta'veren," she murmured, the words carrying both promise and foreboding.
----
The room was dimly lit by the warm glow of candles scattered across wooden surfaces, their flickering light casting soft shadows on the walls. Moiraine sat back in the large wooden tub at the center of the room, her arms resting along its rim as steam swirled lazily around her. The water, lukewarm when the innkeeper had prepared it, now shimmered with a subtle warmth—the result of a small weave Moiraine had sent through her fingertips moments earlier. She had caught Lan's knowing glance and raised an eyebrow in response, her lips curving into the faintest smile.
Lan sat at the opposite end of the tub, his posture as steady and composed as ever. The Warder's silence was a familiar presence, but tonight, it carried a weight that Moiraine could not ignore. She broke the quiet, her voice soft but purposeful as she spoke.
"The Wisdom," she began, her words floating on the steam-filled air. "Nynaeve. I am almost certain she has the potential to channel the One Power."
Lan's gaze met hers, sharp and unwavering. He did not question her assessment; Moiraine's instincts and observations were rarely wrong, and she would not bring it up unless she was sure. "Untrained," he stated simply, though the implication was clear.
"Yes," Moiraine replied, nodding slightly. "Her ability would be latent, unfocused. But there are signs—subtle, but present nonetheless. It is likely the villagers themselves do not even realize what she is capable of. To them, she is simply their Wisdom, someone who commands respect and perhaps a little fear."
Lan was silent for a moment, his piercing blue eyes reflecting the candlelight as he considered her words. "If she can channel, does that not make her dangerous? To herself, and to others?"
"It does," Moiraine acknowledged. "And that is why I must be cautious. If she does not know what she is, she will eventually fall victim to the sickness that claims all untrained women who can channel. But if she does know... then she has kept her secret well. Either way, Nynaeve is a thread in the Pattern that bears watching."
The candles flickered as a faint draft whispered through the room, and for a moment, the silence between them grew heavier. Moiraine leaned back slightly, her thoughts turning to the broader implications of their journey. The Wisdom's potential was intriguing, but it was not the only enigma they faced in Emond's Field.
"The rumors of four Ta'veren," Moiraine said finally, her voice carrying a note of skepticism. "They cannot be true. One of the names mentioned is a woman. And a woman cannot be the Dragon Reborn."
Lan's expression did not change, but Moiraine could see the faint glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. "You're certain?" he asked.
Moiraine nodded, her hands moving to smooth her wet hair as she composed her thoughts. "Almost. The Dragon Reborn is prophesied to be a man, the one who will stand against the Shadow in the Last Battle. A woman's connection to the Pattern can be powerful, yes, but it does not align with what the Wheel demands of the Dragon. And yet, the rumors persist. It is... curious."
Lan leaned forward slightly, the water rippling around him as he rested his arms on the rim of the tub. "Do you think the rumors are deliberate? Meant to mislead?"
"It is possible," Moiraine admitted. "The further we venture from the White Tower, the more tangled the threads of the Pattern become. But even if the rumors are false, I believe there is truth to be found here. The Two Rivers holds something—someone—that the Pattern seeks to draw forward."
Lan inclined his head slightly, his gaze steady. "Then we watch. We wait. And when the Pattern reveals itself, we act."
Moiraine allowed a faint smile to grace her lips, though it did not reach her eyes. "As we always do," she said softly.
The flickering light of the candles reflected off their faces, the room settling into a calm that belied the storm waiting just beyond the horizon. For now, Moiraine and Lan shared a quiet understanding, their resolve unwavering as they prepared for what the Wheel would bring.
----
The morning sun filtered through the trees, casting dappled patterns on the forest floor as Moiraine made her way along the path. The air was cool and fresh, carrying the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze and the distant chirping of birds. She had taken the time to observe the village earlier that morning, noting the bustling activity of its people and their unwavering sense of community. Now, her steps brought her to the edge of the woods, where the faint sound of running water drew her attention.
As she approached the clearing, she saw Nynaeve al'Meara, crouched at the edge of a pool nestled in the forest. The Wisdom was scrubbing the rocks along the water's edge with a brush, her movements efficient and purposeful. Her braid hung over one shoulder, damp from the occasional splash of water, and her expression was one of quiet determination. It was not the image Moiraine had expected of a village leader.
Moiraine paused at the edge of the clearing, watching for a moment before stepping forward. "A remarkable sight," she said, her voice calm but carrying a faint note of curiosity. "The leader of the village, cleaning rocks."
Nynaeve glanced over her shoulder, her dark eyes narrowing as she saw who had spoken. "It is a sacred pool," she replied evenly, turning back to her task without missing a beat. "It is not above anyone's duty to ensure it remains cared for, least of all mine."
Moiraine stepped closer, her gaze shifting to the pool itself. The water was clear and still, reflecting the surrounding trees like a mirror. There was something about it—an energy—that Moiraine could not quite place. "Sacred, you say?" she murmured, her tone thoughtful. "And what makes it so?"
Nynaeve paused, her hands stilling as she straightened and turned to face Moiraine fully. "It has always been so," she said firmly. "This pool is where the Wisdoms of Emond's Field come to seek guidance, to reflect and center themselves. It is a place of healing, both for the body and the spirit."
Moiraine inclined her head slightly, her expression neutral. "And yet, the power you hold within yourself could do far more than this pool ever could."
Nynaeve's eyes flashed with defiance, and her braid seemed to snap like a whip as she turned away. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said curtly, resuming her scrubbing with renewed vigor.
Moiraine remained composed, her voice steady as she continued. "You have the potential to channel the One Power, Nynaeve al'Meara. It is not fully realized, but it is there. If you do not train, it will consume you. The sickness that claims untrained women is not a story to frighten children—it is a reality."
Nynaeve froze, her hands tightening around the brush. Her shoulders were rigid, her breath steady but forced. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, tinged with anger and pain. "Do you know what happened to the old Wisdom who brought me to this village? She went to your White Tower when she was thirteen years old. Walked there on foot, all the way from here. She went seeking knowledge, hoping to better serve her people."
Moiraine watched her silently, sensing the storm in Nynaeve's words before it broke.
"They turned her away," Nynaeve said bitterly. "Because she didn't speak like them, because her clothes weren't fine enough, because she was just a girl from the Two Rivers. They humiliated her and sent her back, alone. That is the White Tower you think I should trust."
Moiraine's gaze softened, though her resolve remained firm. "I cannot speak for what happened to her, Nynaeve. But I can assure you, the White Tower is different now. You would not be turned away. Your strength is undeniable."
Nynaeve stood, her hands clenched at her sides as she met Moiraine's gaze with unwavering defiance. "I do not need the White Tower. I do not need their training, their pity, or their rules. I am the Wisdom of Emond's Field. My place is here, and my purpose is here."
Moiraine inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the strength behind Nynaeve's words. "Very well," she said quietly. "I will not press you further—for now."
With that, Moiraine turned and left the clearing, her cloak trailing behind her as she walked back toward the village. Behind her, Nynaeve stood by the sacred pool.
---
The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the village as Moiraine made her way back to the Winespring Inn. Emond's Field was alive with activity, its people busy with preparations for Bel Tine and tonight's Winternight festivities. Colorful ribbons fluttered from poles, garlands of flowers adorned doorways, and children ran through the streets with infectious energy. It was a scene of joy and anticipation.
She found Lan near the green, helping a group of villagers raise a tall pole for the ribbons. His movements were swift and precise, his strength evident in the ease with which he handled the heavy wood. Despite his stoic demeanor, Lan blended seamlessly into the rhythm of the villagers, lending his skill without drawing undue attention to himself. Moiraine paused for a moment, watching him work, before stepping closer.
"The preparations are coming along well," she said, her voice carrying a calm authority that immediately caught his attention.
Lan turned to her, his piercing blue eyes meeting hers. He nodded slightly, brushing his hands against his cloak to clear the dust. "They'll be ready for tonight's festivities," he replied. "Though I suspect most of them are more focused on tomorrow's Bel Tine than anything else."
Moiraine allowed herself a faint smile, though the weight of her thoughts kept it from reaching her eyes. "I had a conversation with the Wisdom earlier," she said, her tone measured. "Nynaeve al'Meara. She is as strong-willed as I expected, and she knows how to guard her secrets. But I am now certain of her potential to channel the One Power."
Lan's expression remained neutral, though his brow furrowed slightly. "And what did she say?"
"She refused," Moiraine replied simply, the hint of a sigh escaping her lips. "She carries resentment toward the White Tower, born from the experience of the old Wisdom who brought her to this village. She will not leave Emond's Field willingly—not yet."
Lan nodded, his gaze shifting briefly to the bustling villagers before returning to Moiraine. "So, what is our next move?"
Moiraine paused, her eyes narrowing as she considered the question. The pieces were falling into place, the threads of the Pattern aligning in ways that could not be ignored. She had identified three potential candidates for the Dragon Reborn: Rand al'Thor, Mat Cauthon, and Perrin Aybara. Each of them bore the subtle signs, the currents of the Wheel weaving around them with quiet precision. She did not have the luxury of waiting for confirmation; the Pattern demanded action.
"We leave tomorrow," Moiraine said firmly. "With the three boys. Rand, Mat, and Perrin. We cannot afford to wait until they are drunk and distracted by Bel Tine. If they remain here, the consequences will be dire."
Lan inclined his head slightly, his expression reflecting both understanding and readiness. "The villagers will question why we are leaving so soon. They might suspect something."
"They will suspect," Moiraine acknowledged. "But suspicion will mean little in the face of what is coming"
Lan's gaze hardened, his resolve matching hers as he adjusted the sword at his hip. "Then I'll make the preparations. We'll be ready."