Mat told the story in short sentences. The dagger with the golden bees. His conclusions. He closed his eyes when he told how he had ended it—a simple, stark, “I killed her”— and opened them again quickly as if he saw something behind his eyelids he did not care to see.

“I’m sorry you had to do that,” Rand said quietly, and Mat gave a bleak shrug.

“Better her than me. I suppose. She was a Darkfriend.” He did not sound as if it made much difference.

“I will settle Sammael. Just as soon as I’m ready.”

“And how many will that leave?”

“The Forsaken are not here,” Aviendha snapped. “And neither are the Maidens of the Spear. Where are they? What have you done, Rand al’Thor?”

“Me? There were twenty right here when I came to bed last night, and I haven’t seen one since.”

“Perhaps it is because Mat . . .” Asmodean began, and stopped when Mat looked at him, a tight-mouthed blend of pain and readiness to hit something.

“Do not be fools,” Aviendha said in a firm voice. “Far Dareis Mai would not claim toh against Mat Cauthon for this. She tried to kill him, and he killed her. Even her near-sisters would not, if she had had any. And no one would claim toh against Rand al’Thor for what another did unless he ordered it done. You have done something, Rand al’Thor, something great and dark, or they would be here.”

“I’ve done nothing,” he told her sharply. “And I don’t intend to stand here discussing it. Are you dressed for the ride south, Mat?”

Mat shoved a hand into his coatpocket, fingering something. He usually kept his dice and dicecup in there. “Caemlyn. I’m tired of them sneaking up on me. I want to sneak up on one of them for a change. I just hope I get the bloody pat on the head instead of the bloody flower,” he added with a grimace.

Rand did not ask him what he meant. Another ta’veren. Two together to twist chance perhaps. No way to tell how, or even if, but . . . “It seems like we’ll be together a little longer.” Mat looked more resigned than anything else.