Weave as it Will

Dressed in a colorful shirt, brown drab pants, and bandages all over his body, Adam lay silently under the shelter of the tent, wrapped in thick blankets and a damp cloth over his forehead. The sun was already setting, and the Tinkers had decided that they would call it a day. At first light the next day, he had been told, they would begin moving again and reach Baerlon before the sunset. He just had to wait. The village Wisdom of Baerlon, he had been told as well, had miraculous healing powers, having trained extensively in the art of concocting herbs. Adam could not wait to see her; he had a favor to ask her, after all.

Looking around, Adam realized, as he had realized before, that the Tinkers were a very giving people. He had his own tent to himself, although it was admittedly small, but it was enough for one person. They had served him their food for no charge at all when they told him his story (which, of course, was fabricated, since he couldn't tell them that the Mediator was actually a Darkfriend, unless he wanted to jeopardize the reputation of the Obliters). He looked around the tent's interiors. There wasn't much in it. His sword lay to the right of his makeshift bed, away from the entrance, as well as his high boots. A bowl of water was on the left side, where he could dampen the cloth on his forehead when it had dried up. But aside from those, the tent was empty. Adam reached for the sword and ran a finger through its hilt until he found a crack; instantly, he was reminded of how it got cracked. It was three weeks ago, during the ambush.

Adam had been wounded very badly in that ambush. The wounds he received had not fully healed yet, and they still hurt very much when he tried to move. Day and night he could not forgive himself for being so naive as to think that his mentor, the former Mediator, would not anticipate his reaction to the news he received. Of course! It should have been obvious from the very beginning that the old man would have set up an ambush for him when he tried to follow in pursuit. It was the ex-Mediator, after all, who taught him that all escaped prisoners and trespassers must be caught and brought to justice at all costs. Knowing the old man, there was probably an ambush waiting for Adam down every route available. He had been too careless to assume that the ex-Mediator had not been crafty enough to plan something so elaborate.

The trip from the point of ambush, somewhere miles north of Whitebridge, had left his people scattered, though he had saved most of his retainers. As for the soldiers he brought along, they had withered in number. Only a small fraction of the soldiers managed to come with him and the Tinkers, while the others had been scattered and killed. Now, the Tinkers were moving towards Baerlon, bringing him and his people with them, where they would trade pots and pans and eventually reach Emond's field.

From history lessons, Adam knew that Emond's field was originally Aemon's Field, and that the Two Rivers was originally Manetheren. Although he was still angry at himself for his careless mistake - a mistake that killed many lives - he convinced himself that at the very least, he could enjoy traveling to such a historical spot. Although he had been born in Andor, the Two Rivers folk were already fringes of the nation's government, and thus he had never been to the place before. Absently, he was reminded that not even the most corrupt tax collectors hadn't set foot in the Two Rivers for decades.

Adam felt inside his shirt for the bandages that wrapped his deep shoulder wound and flinched at the pain. Even though he already had weeks of rest, the wound still felt fresh, which raised his temperature to above normal. He had accepted the medicine the Tinkers had to offer, but they did almost nothing to drive his fever away. It was disdainful that he had to accept that he could do nothing to help himself, and had to depend on the Tinkers' generosity. You baby, he kept telling himself.

Suddenly, Adam was seized by a feeling. Was it his being ta'veren? Some of his teachers with the Talent for detecting ta'veren had confirmed his status as one, and he was a strong one according to them. Several times he had already wondered if being ta'veren meant everything he did was predetermined by the Wheel, and he had grown used to the sudden feeling that he had to do something or go somewhere that the Wheel was probably making him feel. As such, Adam took the wet cloth off his forehead and dipped it in the bowl, sat up, put on his boots, and left the tent.

The air was chill. His nose could not pick up even the strong scents, and his vision was a little scattered because of his headache. Even so, he could still stand up. Looking around, he scanned the night.

A dark sky, cloudless and star-filled; trees that loomed over him; tents and wagons that blocked his view. Adam wondered what the Wheel wanted to tell him with that sudden feeling of his.