“I’m going away for a while. For Rand,” he added hastily. Her face was too still. “I’d take you with me if I could, but you wouldn’t want to leave the Maidens.” A ship, or his own horse? And to where? That was the question. He could reach Tear quicker on a fast river ship than on Pips. If he was fool enough to make that choice. If he had any choice.
Melindhra’s mouth tightened briefly. To his surprise, it was not over his leaving her. “So you slip back into Rand al’Thor’s shadow. You have gained much honor of your own, among the Aiel as well as the wetlanders. Your honor, not honor reflected from the Car’a’carn.”
“He can keep his honor and take it to Caemlyn or the Pit of Doom for all I care. Don’t you worry. I’ll find plenty of honor. I will write you about it. From Tear.” Tear? He would never escape Rand, or Aes Sedai, if he made that choice.
“He is going to Caemlyn?”
Mat suppressed a wince. He was not supposed to say anything about that. Whatever he decided about the rest, he could do that much. “Just a name pulled from my pocket. Because of the Andorans down south, I suppose. I wouldn’t know where he’s — ”
He had no warning. One instant she was just standing there, the next her foot was in his middle, driving out breath, doubling him over. Eyes bulging, he fought to keep his feet, to straighten, to think. Why? She spun like a dancer, backwards, and her other foot against the side of his head drove him staggering. Without a pause she leaped straight up, kicking out, her soft bootsole taking him hard flush in the face.
When his eyes cleared enough to see, he was on his back, halfway across the room from her. He could feel blood on his face. His head seemed stuffed with wool, and the room seemed to rock. That was when he saw her take a knife from her pouch, slim blade not much longer than her hand, gleaming in the lamplight. Winding the shoufa around her head in a quick motion, she raised the black veil
across her face.
Groggily, he moved by instinct, without thinking. The blade came out of his sleeve, left his hand as if floating through jelly. Only then did he realize what he had done and stretch out desperately, trying to snatch it back.
The hilt bloomed between her breasts. She sagged to her knees, fell back.
Mat pushed himself up, wavering on hands and knees. He could not have stood if his life hung on it, but he crawled to her, muttering wildly. “Why? Why?”
He jerked her veil aside, and those clear blue eyes focused on him. She even smiled. He did not look at the knifehilt. His knifehilt. He knew where the heart was in a body. “Why, Melindhra?”
“I always liked your pretty eyes,” she breathed, so faint he had to strain to hear. “Why?”
“Some oaths are more important than others, Mat Cauthon.” The slimbladed knife came up swiftly, all her remaining strength behind it, the point driving the dangling foxhead against his chest. The silver medallion should not have stopped a blade, but the angle was just that much wrong, and some hidden flaw in the steel snapped the blade off right at the hilt just as he caught her hand. “You have the Great Lord’s own luck.”
“Why?” he demanded. “Burn you, why?” He knew there would be no answer. Her mouth remained open, as though she might say something more, but her eyes were already beginning to glaze.
He started to pull the veil back up, to cover her face and staring eyes, then let his hand fall. He had killed men, and Trollocs, but never a woman. Never a woman until now. Women were glad when he came into their lives. It was not boasting. Women smiled for him; even when he left them, they smiled as if they would welcome him back. That was all he ever really wanted from, women; a smile, a dance, a kiss, and to be remembered fondly.
He realized his thoughts were babbling. Jerking the bladeless hilt from Melindhra’s hand — it was goldmounted jade, inlaid with golden bees — he hurled it into the marble fireplace, hoping it shattered. He wanted to cry, to howl. I don’t kill women! I kiss them, I don’t…!
He had to think clearly. Why? Not because he was leaving, surely. She had hardly reacted to that. Besides, she thought he was chasing off after honor; she had always approved of that. Something she had said tugged at him, and then came back, with a chill. The Great Lord’s own luck. He had heard it differently, many times. The Dark One’s own luck. “A Darkfriend.” A question, or certainty? He wished the thought made what he had done easier in his mind. He was going to carry her face to his grave.
Tear. He had as much as told her he was going to Tear. The dagger. Golden bees in jade. He would wager there were nine without looking. Nine golden bees on a field of green. The sign of Illian. Where Sammael ruled. Could Sammael be afraid of him? How could Sammael even know? It was only a few hours since Rand had
asked Mat — told him — and he was not sure himself what he was going to do. Maybe Sammael would not take the chance? Right. One of the Forsaken, afraid of a gambler, however stuffed with other men’s battle knowledge his head might be. That was ridiculous.
It all came down to this. He could believe that Melindhra had not been a Darkfriend, that she had decided to kill him on a whim, that there was no connection between a jade hilt inlaid with golden bees and his maybe going to Tear to lead an army against Illian. He could if he was a bullgoose fool. Better to err toward caution, he always said. One of the Forsaken had noticed him. He certainly was not standing in Rand’s shadow now.
Sliding across the floor, he sat with his chin on his knees and his back against the door, staring at Melindhra’s face, trying to decide what to do. When a servant knocked with his supper, he shouted for her to go away. Food was the last thing he wanted. What was he going to do? He wished he did not feel the dice spinning in his head.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 52
(Crescent Moon and Stars) Choices
Laying down his razor, Rand wiped the last flecks of lather from his face and began doing up his shirtlaces. Early morning sunlight streamed through the square arches leading to his bedchamber balcony; the heavy winter curtains had been hung, but tied back to let in a breath of air. He would be presentable when he killed Rahvin. The thought loosed a bubble of rage, floating up out of his belly. He forced it back down. He would be presentable, and calm. Cold. No mistakes.
When he turned from the giltframed mirror, Aviendha was sitting on her rolledup pallet against the wall, beneath a hanging portraying impossibly high gold towers. He had offered to have another bed put in the room, but she claimed mattresses were too soft for sleeping. She was watching him intently, her shift forgotten in one hand. He had been careful about not looking around from his shaving to give her time to dress, but aside from her white stockings, she wore not a stitch.
“I would not shame you in front of other men,” she said abruptly. “Shame me? What do you mean?”
She stood in one smooth motion, surprisingly pale where the sun had not touched her, slender and hardmuscled, yet with roundnesses and softnesses that haunted his dreams. This was the first time he had allowed himself to look at her openly when she flaunted herself, but she did not seem aware of it. Those big bluegreen eyes were fixed on his. “I did not ask Sulin to include Enaila or Somara or Lamelle that first day. Nor did I ask them to watch you, or to do anything if you faltered. That was only their own concern.”
“You just let me think they would try to carry me off like a babe if I wavered. A fine distinction.”
His wry tone flew right past her. “It made you take care when you needed to.”
“I see,” he said dryly. “Well, I thank you for the promise not to shame me, in any case.”
She smiled. “I did not say that, Rand al’Thor. I said not in front of other men. If you require it, for your own good… ” Her smile deepened.
“Do you mean to come like that?” He gestured irritably, taking her in from head to toe.
She had never shown the slightest embarrassment at being naked in front of him
— far from it — but she glanced down at herself, then at him looking at her, and her face reddened. Suddenly she was surrounded by a flurry of dark brown wool and white algode, flying into her clothes so quickly that he could have thought she was channeling them on. “Have you arranged everything?” came from the middle of it. “Have you spoken to the Wise Ones? You were gone late last night. Who else comes with us? How many can you take? No wetlanders, I hope. You cannot trust
them. Especially not treekillers. Can you truly carry us to Caemlyn in one hour? Is it like what I did the night…? I mean to say, how will you do it? I cannot like trusting myself to things I do not know and cannot understand.”
“Everything is arranged, Aviendha.” Why was she babbling? And refusing to meet his eye? He had met with Rhuarc and the other chiefs still near the city; they had not truly liked his plan, but they saw it in terms of ji’e’toh, and none thought he had any other choice. They discussed it quickly, agreed, and then turned the talk to other things. Nothing to do with Forsaken or Illian or battle at all. Women, hunting, whether Cairhienin brandy could compare with oosquai, or wetlander tabac with what was grown in the Waste. For an hour he had almost forgotten what lay ahead. He hoped that the Prophecy of Rhuidean was somehow wrong, that he would not destroy those men. The Wise Ones had come to him, a delegation of more than fifty, alerted by Aviendha herself and led by Amys and Melaine and Bair; or maybe by Sorilea. With Wise Ones often it was difficult to tell who was in charge. They had not come to talk him out of anything — ji’e’toh again — but to make sure he understood that his obligation to Elayne did not outweigh that to the Aiel, and they had kept him in the meeting room until they were satisfied. It was that or lift them bodily out of his way to reach the door. When they wanted to be, those women were as good at ignoring shouts as Egwene had become. “We’ll find out how many I can take when I try. Only Aiel.” With luck, Meilan and Maringil and the rest would not know he was gone until after he went. If the Tower had spies in Cairhien, maybe the Forsaken did as well, and how could he trust people to keep secrets who could not see the sun rise without trying to use the fact in Daes Dae’mar?
By the time he had shrugged into a red coat embroidered in gold, a fine wool eminently suitable for a Royal Palace, in Caemlyn or Cairhien — the thought amused him, in a bleak sort of way — by that time, Aviendha was almost dressed. It was a wonder to him how she could scramble into her clothes so quickly and yet have nothing out of place. “A woman came last night while you were away.”
Light! He had forgotten Colavaere. “What did you do?”
She paused in tying the laces of her blouse, eyes trying to bore a hole in his head, but her tone was offhand. “I took her back to her own chambers, where we talked for a time. There will be no more treekiller flipskirts scratching at your tent flap, Rand al’Thor.”
“The very end I aimed at, Aviendha. Light! Did you hurt her badly? You can’t go around beating ladies. These people cause me enough trouble without you bringing more.”
She sniffed loudly and went back to her laces. “Ladies! A woman is a woman, Rand al’Thor. Unless she is a Wise One,” she added judiciously. “That one sits lightly this morning, but her bruises can be hidden, and with a day’s rest she will be able to leave her chambers. And she knows the right of matters, now. I told her if she caused you any bother again — any bother — I would come talk to her once more. A much longer talk. She will do as you say, when you say it. Her example
will teach others. The treekillers understand nothing else.”
Rand sighed. Not a method he would or could have chosen, but it might actually work. Or it might only make Colavaere and the others more sly from now on. Aviendha might not be worried about repercussions against herself — in fact, he would be surprised if she had even considered the possibility — but a woman who was High Seat of a powerful House was not the same as a young noblewoman of lesser rank. Whatever the effect for him, Aviendha could find herself set upon in some dark hallway and given ten times what she had given Colavaere, if not worse. “Next time, let me handle matters my way. I am the Car’a’carn, remember.”
“You have shaving lather on your ear, Rand al’Thor.”
Muttering to himself, he snatched up the striped towel and shouted, “Come!” to a rap at the door.
Asmodean entered, pale lace at the neck and cuffs of his black coat, harpcase slung on his back and a sword at his hip. It might have been winter for the coolness of his face, but his dark eyes were wary.
“What do you want, Natael?” Rand demanded. “I gave you your instructions last night.”
Asmodean wet his lips and glanced once at Aviendha, who was frowning at him. “Wise instructions. I suppose I might learn something to your advantage, remaining here and watching, but the talk this morning is all of the shrieks from Lady Colavaere’s apartments last night. It is said she displeased you, though no one seems to know quite how. That uncertainty is making everyone step lightly. I doubt anyone will breathe in the next few days without considering what you might make of it.” Aviendha’s face was a picture of insufferable selfsatisfaction.
“So you want to come with me?” Rand said softly. “You want to be at my back when I face Rahvin?”
“What better place for the Lord Dragon’s bard? But better yet, say under your eye. Where I can show my loyalty. I am not strong.” Asmodean’s grimace seemed natural enough in any man making that admission, but for an instant Rand sensed saidin filling the other man, felt the taint that twisted Asmodean’s mouth. Just for an instant, but long enough for him to judge. If Asmodean had drawn as much as he could, he would be hard pressed to match one of the Wise Ones who could channel. “Not strong, yet perhaps I can help in some small way.”
Rand wished he could see the shield Lanfear had woven. She had said it would dissipate with time, but Asmodean did not seem able to channel any more strongly now than he had the first day he was in Rand’s hands. Perhaps she had lied, to give Asmodean false hope, to make Rand believe the man would grow strong enough to teach him more than he ever would. It would be like her. He was uncertain whether that was his thought or Lews Therin’s, but he was sure it was true.
The long pause made Asmodean lick his lips again. “A day or two will not matter here. You will be back by then, or dead. Let me prove my loyalty. Perhaps I can do something. A whisker more weight on your side might shift the balance.”
Once more saidin poured into him, just for a moment. Rand felt a sensation of strain, yet it was still a feeble flow. “You know my choices. I am clinging to that tuft of grass on the cliff’s lip, praying for it to hold one more heartbeat. If you fail, I am worse than dead. I must see you win and live.” Suddenly eyeing Aviendha, he seemed to realize he might have said too much. His laugh was a hollow sound. “Else how can I compose the songs of the Lord Dragon’s glory? A bard must have something to work with.” The heat never touched Asmodean — a trick of the mind, he claimed, not the Power — but beads of sweat oozed down his forehead now.
Under his eyes, or left behind? Perhaps to run looking for a hiding place when he began wondering what was happening in Caemlyn. Asmodean would be the man he was until he died and was reborn, and perhaps even after. “Under my eyes,” Rand said quietly. “And if I even suspect that where that whisker falls might displease me…”
“I put my trust in the Lord Dragon’s mercy,” Asmodean murmured, bowing. “With the Lord Dragon’s permission, I will wait outside.”
Rand glanced around the room as the man departed, backing away still halfbowed. His sword lay on the giltlined chest at the foot of the bed, Dragonbuckled sword belt wrapped around the scabbard and the Seanchan spearhead. The killing today would not be with steel, not on his part. He touched his pocket, felt the hard carved shape of the fat little man with his sword; that was the only sword he needed today. For a moment, he considered Skimming to Tear, to take back Callandor, or even to Rhuidean for what was hidden there. He could destroy Rahvin with either before the man knew he was there. He could destroy Caemlyn itself with either. But could he trust himself? So much power. So much of the One Power. Saidin hung there just out of sight. The taint seemed part of him. Rage oozed just beneath the surface, at Rahvin, at himself. If it broke loose, and he held even Callandor… What would he do? He would be invincible. With the other, he could Skim to Shayol Ghul itself, put an end to it all, end it now one way or another. One way or another. No. He was not in this alone. He could not afford anything but victory.
“The world rides on my shoulders,” he murmured. Suddenly he yelped and clapped a hand to his left buttock. It felt as though a needle had stabbed him, but he did not need the goose bumps fading on his arms to tell him what had happened. “What was that for?” he growled at Aviendha.
“Just to see whether the Lord Dragon was still made of flesh like the rest of us mortals.”
“I am,” he said flatly, and seized saidin — all the sweetness; all the filth — just, long enough to channel briefly.
Her eyes widened, but she did not flinch, only looked at him as if nothing had occurred at all. Still, as they crossed the anteroom, she rubbed furtively at her bottom when she thought he was looking the other way. It seemed she was ordinary flesh, too. Burn me. I thought I’d taught her a few manners.
Pulling open the door, he stepped out and stood staring. Mat was leaning on his odd spear with that broadbrimmed hat pulled low, a little apart from Asmodean, but that was not took him aback. There were no Maidens. He should have known something was wrong when Asmodean came in unannounced. Aviendha was looking around in amazement, as if she expected to find them behind one of the tapestries.
“Melindhra tried to kill me last night,” Mat said, and Rand stopped thinking about Maidens. “One minute we were talking, the next she was trying to kick my head off.”
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 tightmouthed 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 nearsisters 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 coat pocket, 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.
Before they had gone far down the tapestrylined corridor, Moiraine and Egwene met them, gliding along together as if the day held no more ahead than a walk in one of the gardens. Egwene, cooleyed and calm, golden Great Serpent on her finger, really could have been Aes Sedai despite her Aiel clothes and shawl and the folded
scarf around her temples, while Moiraine… Gold threads caught the light, faintly streaking Moiraine’s gown of shimmering blue silk. The small blue stone on her forehead, hanging from its gold chain fastened in her waves of dark hair, shone as brightly as the large goldset sapphires around her neck. Hardly suitable garb for what they intended, yet in his red coat, Rand could not comment.
Perhaps it was being here, where House Damodred had once held the Sun Throne, but Moiraine’s graceful carriage was more regal than he remembered ever seeing it. Not even the presence of “Jasin Natael” could spoil that queenly serenity with surprise, but amazingly, she gave Mat a warm smile. “So you are going too, Mat. Learn to trust the Pattern. Do not waste your life attempting to change what cannot be changed.” From Mat’s face, he might have been considering changing his mind about being there at all, but the Aes Sedai turned from him without a trace of worry. “These are for you, Rand.”
“More letters?” he said. One bore his name in an elegant hand that he recognized immediately. “From you, Moiraine?” The other carried Thom Merrilin’s name. Both had been sealed with blue wax, apparently with her Great Serpent ring, impressed with the image of the snake biting its own tail. “Why write me a letter? And sealed. You’ve never been afraid to say whatever you wanted to say to my face. If I ever forgot it, Aviendha has been reminding me that I’m only flesh and blood.”
“You have changed from the boy I first saw outside the Winespring Inn.” Her voice was a soft silver chiming. “You are hardly the same at all. I pray you have changed enough.”
Egwene murmured something low. Rand thought it was “I pray you have not changed too much.” She was frowning at the letters as if she too wondered what was in them. So was Aviendha.
Moiraine went on more brightly, even briskly. “Seals ensure privacy. That contains things I wish you to think on; not now; when you have time for thinking. As for Thom’s letter, I know no safer hands than yours in which to place it. Give it to him when you see him again. Now, there is something you must see at the docks.”
“The docks?” Rand said. “Moiraine, this morning of all mornings, I’ve no time for —”
But she was already moving down the corridor as if sure he would follow. “I have had horses readied. Even one for you, Mat, just in case.” Egwene hesitated only a moment, then followed.
Rand opened his mouth to call Moiraine back. She had sworn to obey. Whatever she had to show him, he could see it another day.
“What could an hour hurt?” Mat muttered. Perhaps he was reconsidering.
“It would not be amiss for you to be seen this morning,” Asmodean said. “Rahvin might just know of it as soon as it happens. If he has any suspicions — if he has any spies who may have listened at keyholes — it might allay them for today.”
Rand looked at Aviendha. “Do you also counsel delay?”
“I counsel that you listen to Moiraine Sedai. Only fools ignore Aes Sedai.” “What could be at the docks more important than Rahvin?” he growled, then
shook his head. There was a saying in the Two Rivers, not that anybody said it where women could hear. “The Creator made women to please the eye and trouble the mind.” Aes Sedai were certainly no different in one respect. “One hour.”
The sun was not yet high enough to lift the city wall’s long shadow from the stone quay where Kadere’s wagons were lined up, but he still mopped his face with a large handkerchief. It was only partly the heat that made him sweat. Great gray curtain walls stretching into the river at either end of the row of docks made the quay seem a dim box, with him caught in it. There were nothing but broad, roundbowed grain barges docked here, and the same anchored in the river waiting their turn to unload. He had considered slipping onto one when it cast off, but it meant abandoning most of what he still possessed. Yet had he thought the slow passage downriver would take him anywhere except to his death, he would have. Lanfear had not returned to his dreams, but he had the burns on his chest to remind him of her commands. Just the thought of disobeying one of the Chosen made him shiver, even with sweat rolling down his face.
If only he knew who to trust; to the extent it was possible to trust any of his fellow Darkfriends. The last of his drivers who had sworn the oaths had vanished two days ago, very likely on one of the grain barges. He still did not know which Aiel woman had slipped that note under his wagon door —“You are not alone among strangers. A way has been chosen” — though he had several possibilities in mind. The docks held almost as many Aiel as they did workmen, come to stare at the river; he had seen a few of those faces more often than seemed reasonable, and some had looked at him consideringly. A few Cairhienin had as well, and a Tairen lord. That meant nothing by itself, of course, but if he could find a few men to work with…
A mounted party appeared in one of the gateways, Moiraine and Rand al’Thor leading the way with the Aes Sedai’s Warder as they threaded though the carts hauling grainsacks away. A wave of cheers rode with them.
“All glory to the Lord Dragon!” and “Hail the Lord Dragon!” and now and again “Glory to Lord Matrim! Glory to the Red Hand!”
For once the Aes Sedai turned down toward the tail end of the line of wagons without so much as a glance at Kadere. He was just as glad. Even if she had not been Aes Sedai, even if she had not looked at him as if she knew every black corner of his mind, he would as soon not have looked too closely at some of the things she had filled his wagons with. Yesterday evening she had made him strip the canvas off that oddly twisted redstone doorframe in the wagon just behind his. She seemed to take a perverse delight in making him help her himself with whatever she wanted to study. He would have covered the thing up again if he could bear to go near it, or could make any of his drivers do so. None with him now had seen Herid fall half
through it in Rhuidean and half disappear — Herid had been the first to run away once they cleared the Jangai; the man had not been entirely right in the head after the Warder hauled him back — but they could look at it, see the way the corners did not meet properly, how you could not follow it around with your eyes without blinking and growing dizzy.
Kadere ignored the first three riders as much as the Aes Sedai had ignored him, and Mat Cauthon almost as much. The man was wearing his hat; he had never been able to find a replacement. The Aiel wench, Aviendha, rode up behind the young Aes Sedai’s saddle, both with their skirts pushed up to show their legs. If he needed any confirmation that the Aiel woman was bedding al’Thor, he only had to see the way she looked at him; a woman who had taken a man to her bed always looked at him with that light of ownership in her eyes after. More importantly, Natael was with them. This was the first time Kadere had been this close to him since crossing the Spine of the World. Natael, who stood high in the Darkfriends. If he could get past the Maidens to reach Natael…
Suddenly Kadere blinked. Where were the Maidens? Al’Thor always had an escort of spearwielding women. Frowning, he realized he could not see a single Maiden among the Aiel on the quay or the docks.
“Aren’t you going to look at an old friend, Hadnan?”
That melodious voice jerked Kadere around, gaping at a hatchetnosed face, dark eyes almost hidden by rolls of fat. “Keille?” It was impossible. No one survived alone in the Waste except Aiel. She had to be dead. But there she stood, white silk straining over her bulk, ivory combs standing tall in her dark curls.
A faint smile on her lips, she turned with a grace that still surprised him in a woman so large and lightly, climbed the steps into his wagon.
For a moment he hesitated, then hurried after her. He would as soon Keille Shaogi really had died in the Waste — the woman was bossy and obnoxious; she need not think she was getting a penny of the little he had managed to salvage — but she stood as high as Jasin Natael. Perhaps she would answer a few questions. At the least, he would have someone to work with. At the worst, someone to put blame on. Power went with standing high, but so did blame for the failures of those beneath you. More than once he had fed his superiors to those still higher up in order to cover himself.
Carefully closing the door, he turned — and would have screamed if his throat had not clenched too tight for sound.
The woman who stood there wore white silk, but she was not fat. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, eyes like dark, bottomless mountain pools, woven silver belting her narrow waist, silver crescents in her shimmering black hair. Kadere knew that face from his dreams.
His knees thudding to the floor shook breath loose. “Great Mistress,” he said hoarsely, “how may I serve?”
Lanfear might have been looking at an insect, one she might crush beneath her
slipper or might not. “By showing your obedience to my commands. I have been too busy to watch Rand al’Thor myself. Tell me what he has done, aside from conquering Cairhien, what he plans to do.”
“It is difficult, Great Mistress. One such as myself cannot come close to such as he.” An insect, those cool eyes said, allowed to live so long as it was useful. Kadere racked his brain for everything he had seen or heard or imagined. “He is sending Aiel south in huge numbers, Great Mistress, though I do not know why. The Tairens and Cairhienin do not seem to notice, but I don’t think they can tell one Aiel from another.” Neither could he. He would not dare lie to her, but if she thought he had more use than he did… He has founded a school of some sort, in a city palace that belonged to a House with no survivors… ” At first there was no way to tell whether she liked what she was hearing, but as he went on, her face began to darken.
“What is it you want me to see, Moiraine?” Rand said impatiently, tying Jeade’en’s reins to one wheel of the last wagon in line.
She was standing on tiptoe to peer over the side of the wagonbed at a pair of casks that seemed familiar. Unless he was mistaken, they held the two cuendillar seals, packed in wool for protection now that they were no longer unbreakable. He felt the Dark One’s taint strongly here; it almost seemed to come from the casks, a faint miasma as from something rotting in a hidden place.
“It will be safe here,” Moiraine murmured. Lifting her skirts gracefully, she started up the line of wagons. Lan heeled her, a halftame wolf, the cloak hanging down his back all disturbing ripples of color and nothingness.
Rand glared. “Did she tell you what it was, Egwene?”
“Just that you had to see something. That you had to come here, anyway.”
“You must trust Aes Sedai,” Aviendha said, almost as levelly, but with a hint of doubt. Mat snorted.
“Well, I mean to find out now. Natael, go tell Bael I’ll be with him in —”
At the other end of the line, the side of Kadere’s wagon exploded, splinters scything down Aiel and townsfolk. Rand knew; he did not need goose bumps prickling his skin to know. He raced, toward the wagon, after Moiraine and Lan. Time seemed to slow, everything happening at once, as if the air were jelly clinging to each moment.
Lanfear stepped out into stunned silence except for the moans and screams of the injured, something limp and pale and redstreaked hanging from her hand, dragging behind her as she walked down invisible steps. Her face was a mask carved of ice. “He told me, Lews Therin,” she almost screamed, flinging the pale thing into the air. Something caught it, inflated it for a moment into a bloody, transparent, statue of Hadnan Kadere; his skin, removed whole. The figure collapsed and fell as Lanfear’s voice rose to a screech. “You let another woman touch you! Again!”
Moments clinging, all happening at once.
Before Lanfear reached the stones of the quay, Moiraine lifted her skirts higher
and began running straight toward her. Quick as she was, Lan was quicker, ignoring her shout of, “No, Lan!” Sword coming out, long legs carried him ahead of her, colorshifting cloak waving behind as he charged. Suddenly he seemed to run into an invisible stone wall, bounce back, try to stagger forward again. One step, and as if a giant hand had smashed him aside, he flew ten paces through the air, crashing to the stones.
While he was in midair, Moiraine jerked forward, feet skidding along the pavement, until she was face to face with Lanfear. It was only for a moment. The Forsaken looked at her as though wondering what could have gotten in her way, then Moiraine was flung to one side so hard she rolled over and over until she disappeared beneath one of the wagons.
The quayside was in turmoil. Just moments since Kadere’s wagon erupted, yet only the blind could not know the One Power was being wielded by the woman in white. Along the docks axes flashed, cutting ropes, freeing barges as their crews desperately fended the craft toward open water and flight. Barechested dockmen and darkclothed townsfolk struggled to jump aboard. In the other direction men and women milled and screamed as they fought to pass through the gates into the city. And among them, cadin’sorclad figures veiled themselves and rushed at Lanfear with spears or knives or bare hands. There could be no doubt she was the source of the attack, no doubt she fought with the Power. They ran to dance the spears regardless.
Fire rolled over them in waves. Arrows of it pierced those who came on with their clothes in flames. It was not as if Lanfear battled them, or even paid them any real mind. She might have been brushing aside gnats or bitemes. Those who fled burned as well as those who tried to fight. She moved toward Rand as if nothing else existed.
Heartbeats only.
Three steps she had taken when Rand seized the male half of the True Source, molten steel and steelshattering ice, sweet honey and midden heap. Deep in the Void, the fight for survival was distant, the battle before him scarcely less. As Moiraine vanished beneath the wagon, he channeled, pulling the heat from Lanfear’s fires, sinking it into the river. Flames that a moment before engulfed human forms, vanished. In the same instant he wove the flows again, and a misty gray dome came into being, a long oval enclosing him and Lanfear and most of the wagons, an almost transparent wall that shut out all not already within. Even as he tied the weave, he was not sure what it was or where it had come from — some memory of Lews Therin’s perhaps — but Lanfear’s fires struck it and stopped. He could see people outside dimly, too many thrashing and flailing — he had taken the flames, not the searing of flesh; that stench still hung in the air — but none would burn now that had not already. Bodies lay inside, too, mounds of charred cloth, some stirring feebly, moaning. She did not care; her channeled flames winked out; the gnats were dispelled; she never glanced aside.
Heartbeats. He was cold in the emptiness of the Void, and if he felt sorrow for the dead and dying and scarred, the feeling was so far off it might not have been. He was cold itself. Emptiness itself. Only the rage of saidin filled him.
Movement to either side. Aviendha and Egwene, eyes concentrated on Lanfear. He had meant to shut them out from this. They must have raced with him. Mat and Asmodean; outside; the wall missed the final few wagons. In icy calm he channeled Air to snare Lanfear; Egwene and Aviendha could shield her while he distracted her.
Something severed his flows; they snapped back so hard that he grunted.
“One of them?” Lanfear snarled. “Which is Aviendha?” Egwene threw her head back and wailed, eyes bulging, the world’s agony shrieking from her mouth. “Which?” Aviendha rose on tiptoes, shuddering, howls chasing Egwene’s as they climbed higher and higher.
The thought was suddenly there in the emptiness. Spirit woven so, with Fire and Earth. There. Rand felt something being cut, something he could not see, and Egwene collapsed in a motionless heap, Aviendha to hands and knees, head down and swaying.
Lanfear staggered, her eyes going from the women to him, dark pools of black fire. “You are mine, Lews Therin! Mine!”
“No.” Rand’s voice seemed to come to his ears down a milelong tunnel. Distract her from the girls. He kept moving forward, did not look back. “I was never yours, Mierin. I will always belong to Ilyena.” The Void quivered with sorrow and loss. And with desperation, as he fought something besides the scouring of saidin. For a moment he hung balanced. I am Rand al’Thor. And, Ilyena, ever and always my heart. Balanced on a razor edge. I am Rand al’Thor! Other thoughts tried to well up, a fountain of them, of Ilyena, of Mierin, of what he could do to defeat her. He forced them down, even the last. If he came down on the wrong side… I am Rand al’Thor! “Your name is Lanfear, and I’ll die before I love one of the Forsaken.”
Something that might have been anguish crossed her face; then it was a marble mask once more. “If you are not mine,” she said coldly, “then you are dead.”
Agony in his chest, as if his heart was about to explode, in his head, whitehot nails driving into his brain, pain so strong that inside the Void he wanted to scream. Death was there, and he knew it. Frantically — even in the Void, frantic; emptiness shimmered, dwindled — he wove Spirit and Fire and Earth, flailing it wildly. His heart was no longer beating. Fingers of dark pain crushing the Void. Gray veil falling over his eyes. He felt his weave slice raggedly through hers. The burn of breath in empty lungs, lurch of heart beginning to pump again. He could see again, silver and black flecks floated between him and a stonefaced Lanfear still catching her balance from the rebound of her flows. The pain was there in head and chest like wounds, but the Void firmed, and bodily pain was remote.
Well that it was distant, for he had no time to recover. Forcing himself to move forward, he struck at her with Air, a club to knock her senseless. She slashed the
weave, and he struck again, again, again each time that she sliced through his last weave, a furious rain of blows she somehow saw and countered, always moving closer. If he could keep her occupied for a moment more, if one of those invisible cudgels landed on her head, if he could get close enough to strike her with his fist… Unconscious, she would be as helpless as anyone else.
Suddenly she seemed to realize what he was doing. Still blocking his blows as easily as if she could see every one, she danced backwards until her shoulders hit the wagon behind her. And she smiled like winter’s heart. “You will die slowly, and beg me to let you love me before you die,” she said.
It was not at him directly that she struck this time. It was at his link to saidin.
Panic rang the Void like a gong at the first knifesharp touch, the Power diminishing as it slid deeper between him and the Source. With Spirit and Fire and Earth he cut at the knife blade; he knew where to find it; he knew where his link was, could feel that first nick. Her attempted shield vanished, reappeared, returned as fast as he could cut it, but always with that momentary ebbing of saidin, moments when it almost failed, leaving his counterstroke barely enough to foil her attack. Handling two weaves at once should have been easy — he could handle ten or more — but not when one was a desperate defense against something he could not know was there until it was almost too late. Not when another man’s thoughts kept trying to surface inside the Void, trying to tell him how to defeat her. If he listened, it might be Lews Therin Telamon who walked away, with Rand al’Thor a voice sometimes floating in his head if that.
“I’ll make both of those trulls watch you beg,” Lanfear said. “But should I make them watch you die first, or you them?” When had she climbed into the open wagonbed? He had to watch her, watch for any hint that she was tiring, her concentration slipping. It was a vain hope. Standing beside the twisted doorframe ter’angreal, she looked down at him, a queen about to pass sentence, yet she could spare time for chill smiles at a dark ivory bracelet that she turned over and over in her fingers. “Which will hurt you most, Lews Therin? I want you to hurt. I want you to know pain such as no man has ever known!”
The thicker the flow to him from the Source, the harder it would be to cut. His hand tightened on his coat pocket, the fat little stone man with his sword hard against the heron branded into his palm. He drew on saidin as deeply as he could, till the taint floated in the emptiness with him like misting rain.
“Pain, Lews Therin.”
And there was pain, the world swallowed in agony. Not heart or head this time, but everywhere, every part of him, hot needles stabbing into the Void. He almost thought he could hear a quenching hiss at each thrust, and each came deeper than the last. Her attempts to shield him did not slow; they came faster, stronger. He could not believe she was so strong. Clinging to the Void, to searing, freezing saidin, he defended himself wildly. He could end it, finish her. He could call down lightning, or wrap her in the fire she herself had used to kill.
Images darted through the pain; A woman in a dark merchant’s dress, toppling from her horse, the firered sword light in his hands; she had come to kill him, with a fistful of other Darkfriends. Mat’s bleak eyes; I killed her. A goldenhaired woman lying in a ruined hallway where, it seemed, the very walls had melted and flowed. Ilyena, forgive me! It was a despairing cry.
He could end it. Only, he could not. He was going to die, perhaps the world would die, but he could not make himself kill another woman. Somehow it seemed the richest joke the world had ever seen.
Wiping the blood from her mouth, Moiraine crawled out from beneath the tail of the wagon and rose unsteadily to her feet, the sound of a man’s laughter in her ears. In spite of herself, her eyes darted, searching for Lan, found him lying almost against the foggy gray wall of the dome that stretched overhead. He twitched, perhaps trying to find strength to rise, perhaps dying. She forced him out of her mind. He had saved her life so many times that by rights it should have belonged to him, but she had long since done what she could to see that he survived his lone war with the Shadow. Now he must live or die without her.
It was Rand laughing, on his knees on the stones of the quay. Laughing, with tears streaming down a face twisted like a man being put to the question. Moiraine felt a chill. If the madness had him, it was beyond her. She could only do what she could do. What she must do.
The sight of Lanfear hit her like a blow. Not surprise, but the shock of seeing what had been in her dreams so often since Rhuidean. Lanfear standing on the wagonbed, blazing bright as the sun with saidar, framed by the twisted redstone ter’angreal as she stared down at Rand, a pitiless smile on her lips. She was turning a bracelet in her hands. An angreal; unless Rand had his own angreal, she should be able to crush him with that. Either he did, or Lanfear was toying with him. It did not matter. Moiraine did not like that circle of carved agedark ivory. At first glance it seemed to be an acrobat bending backwards to grip his ankles. Only a closer look would show that his wrists and ankles were bound together. She did not like it, but she had brought it out of Rhuidean. Yesterday she had taken the bracelet from a sack of oddsandends and left it lying there at the foot of the doorframe.
Moiraine was slight, a small woman. Her weight did not disturb the wagon at all as she pulled herself up. She winced as her dress caught on a splinter and tore, but Lanfear did not look around. The woman had dealt with every threat except Rand; he was the only corner of the world she acknowledged in the least right then.
Suppressing a small bubble of hope — she could not allow herself that luxury
— Moiraine balanced upright a moment on the wagontail, then embraced the True Source and leaped at Lanfear. The Forsaken had an instant’s warning, enough to turn before Moiraine struck her, clawing the bracelet away. Face to face, they toppled through the doorframe ter’angreal. White light swallowed everything.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 53
(Flame of Tar Valon) Fading Words
In the depths of a shrinking Void, Rand saw Moiraine hurtle seemingly out of nowhere to grapple with Lanfear. The attacks on him ceased as the two women plunged through the doorframe ter’angreal in a flash of white light that did not end; it filled the subtly twisted redstone rectangle as though trying to flood through and striking some invisible barrier. Lightnings arched silver and blue around the ter’angreal, more and more violently; rasping buzzes crackled through the air.
Rand staggered to his feet. The pain was not gone really, but the pressure was, bringing promise that the pain would go. His eyes could not leave the ter’angreal. Moiraine. Her name hung in his head, sliding across the Void.
Lan lurched by him, fixed on the wagon, leaning as if only by moving forward could he stop from falling.
More than standing was beyond Rand for the moment. He channeled, caught the Warder in flows of Air. “You… You can’t do anything, Lan. You can’t go after her.”
“I know,” Lan said hopelessly. Held in midstep, he did not struggle, only stared at the ter’angreal that had swallowed Moiraine. “The Light send me peace, I know.”
The wagon itself had caught fire now. Rand tried to suppress the flames, but as soon as he drew the heat from one blaze the lightnings ignited another. The doorframe itself was beginning to smoke, though it was stone, a white, acrid smoke that gathered thickly under the gray dome. Even a whiff burned Rand’s nostrils and made him cough; his skin prickled and stung where the smoke brushed. Hastily he untied the weave of the dome, dispelled it rather than wait for it to dissipate, and wove around the wagon a tall chimney of Air that gleamed like glass to carry the fumes high and away. Only then did he release Lan. He would not have put it past the man to follow Moiraine anyway if he could have reached the wagon. It was all in flames now, the redstone doorway as well, melting as if it were wax, but for a Warder that might not matter.
“She is gone. I cannot feel her presence.” The words sounded ripped out of Lan’s chest. He turned and began walking down the line of wagons without a backward glance.
Following the Warder with his eyes, Rand saw Aviendha on her knees, holding Egwene. Releasing saidin, he began to run down the quay. Physical pain that had been distant crashed home, but he ran, however awkwardly. Asmodean was there, too, looking around as if he expected Lanfear to leap out from behind a wagon or a toppled graincart. And Mat, squatting with his spear propped across his shoulder, fanning Egwene with his hat.
Rand skidded to a halt. “Is she…?” “I don’t know,” Mat said miserably.
“She still breathes.” Aviendha sounded uncertain how long that would continue,
but Egwene’s eyes fluttered open as Amys and Bair pushed roughly past Rand with Melaine and Sorilea. The Wise Ones knelt clustered around the younger women, murmuring to themselves and each other as they examined Egwene.
“I feel…” Egwene began weakly, and stopped to swallow. Her face was bloodless pale. “I… hurt.” A tear leaked from one eye.
“Of course you do,” Sorilea said briskly. “That is what happens when you let yourself be caught in a man’s schemes.”
“She cannot go with you, Rand al’Thor.” Melaine’s sunhaired beauty was openly angry, but she was not looking at him; it could have been anger at him or anger at what had happened.
“I… will be right as wellwater… with a little rest,” Egwene whispered.
Bair dampened a cloth from a waterskin and laid it across Egwene’s forehead. “You will be right with a great deal of rest. I fear you will not be meeting Nynaeve and Elayne tonight. You will not go near Tel’aran’rhiod for some days, until you are stronger again. Do not give me that stubborn look, girl. We will watch your dreams to make sure, if need be, and give your care to Sorilea if you so much as think of disobeying.”
“You will not disobey me more than once, Aes Sedai or not,” Sorilea said, but with a touch of sympathy at odds with her leatheryfaced grimness. Frustration was plain in Egwene’s face.
“I, at least, am well enough to do what must be done,” Aviendha said. In truth, she looked not much less haggard than Egwene, but she managed a defiant stare at Rand, plainly expecting argument. Her defiance faded somewhat when she realized the four Wise Ones were looking at her. “I am,” she muttered.
“Of course,” Rand said hollowly.
“I am,” she insisted. To him; she carefully avoided meeting the Wise Ones’ gaze. “Lanfear had me a moment less than she did Egwene. That was enough to make the difference between us. I have toh to you, Rand al’Thor. I do not think we would have survived many moments more. She was very strong.” Her eyes darted down to the burning wagon. Fierce flames had already reduced it to a shapeless charred pile inside the glassy chimney; the redstone ter’angreal was no longer visible at all. “I did not see all that happened.”
“They are… Rand cleared his throat. ”They are both gone. Lanfear is dead. And so is Moiraine.” Egwene began to cry, sobs shaking her in Aviendha’s clasp. Aviendha put her head down on the other woman’s shoulder as if she, too, might weep.
“You are a fool, Rand al’Thor,” Amys said, standing. That surprisingly youthful face beneath her headscarf and white hair was stone hard. “About this and many other things, you are a fool.”
He turned away from the accusation in her eyes. Moiraine was dead. Dead because he could not bring himself to kill one of the Forsaken. He did not know whether he wanted to cry or laugh wildly; if he did either, he did not think he would
be able to stop.
The dockside that had been emptying when he made the dome was filled again, though few came nearer than where that misty gray wall had stood. Wise Ones moved about aiding the burned, comforting the dying, assisted by whiterobed gai’shain and men in the cadin’sor. Moans and cries stabbed at him. He had not been quick enough. Moiraine dead; no Healing for even the worst injured. Because he… I could not. The Light help me, I could not!
More Aielmen stood watching him, some only now unveiling; he still did not see one Maiden. Not only Aiel were there. Dobraine, bareheaded on a black gelding, did not take his eyes from Rand, and not far off Talmanes and Nalesean and Daerid sat their horses watching Mat almost as closely as they did Rand. People lined the top of the great city wall, outlined and cast in shadow by the rising sun, and more along the curtain walls. Two of those shadowed shapes turned away when he looked up, saw each other only twenty paces apart, and seemed to recoil. He would have wagered they were Meilan and Maringil.
Lan was back with the horses at the last wagon in the line, stroking Aldieb’s white nose. Moiraine’s mare.
Rand went to him. “I’m sorry, Lan. If I’d been faster, if I’d…” He exhaled heavily. I couldn’t kill one, so I killed the other. The Light burn me blind! If it had, at that moment, he would not have cared.
“The Wheel weaves.” Lan went to Mandarb, busied himself checking the black stallion’s saddlegirth. “She was a soldier, a warrior in her way as much as I. This could have happened two hundred times these past twenty years. She knew it, and so did I. It was a good day to die.” His voice was as hard as it had ever been, but those cold blue eyes were redrimmed.
“Still, I am sorry. I should have…” The man would not be comforted by shouldhaves, and they dug at Rand’s soul. “I hope you can still be my friend, Lan, after… I value your counsel — and your swordtraining — and I’ll need both in the days to come.”
“I am your friend, Rand. But I cannot stay.” Lan swung up into his saddle. “Moiraine did something to me that has not been done in hundreds of years, not since the time when Aes Sedai still sometimes bonded a Warder whether he wanted it or not. She altered my bond so it passed to another when she died. Now I must find that other, become one of her Warders. I am one, already. I can feel her faintly, somewhere far to the west, and she can feel me. I must go, Rand. It is part of what Moiraine did. She said she would not allow me time to die avenging her.” He gripped the reins as if holding Mandarb back, as if holding himself back from digging his spurs in. “If you ever see Nynaeve again, tell her…” For an instant that stone face crumpled in anguish; an instant, then it was granite again. He muttered under his breath, but Rand heard. “A clean wound heals quickest and pains shortest.” Aloud, he said, “Tell her I’ve found someone else. Green sisters are sometimes as close to their Warders as other women are to husbands. In every way.
Tell her I’ve gone to be a Green sister’s lover, as well as her sword. These things happen. It has been a long time since I’ve seen her.”
“I will tell her whatever you say, Lan, but I don’t know that she’ll believe me.”
Lan bent from the saddle to catch Rand’s shoulder in a hard grip. Rand remembered calling the man halftame wolf, but those eyes made a wolf seem a lapdog. “We are alike in many ways, you and I. There is a darkness in us. Darkness, pain, death. They radiate from us. If ever you love a woman, Rand, leave her and let her find another. It will be the best gift you can give her.” Straightening, he raised one hand. “Peace favor your sword. Tai’shar Manetheren.” The ancient salute. True blood of Manetheren.
Rand lifted his hand. “Tai’shar Malkier.”
Lan heeled Mandarb’s flanks, and the stallion leaped forward, scattering Aiel and everyone else from his path, as if to carry the last of the Malkieri wherever he was headed at a gallop the entire way.
“The last embrace of the mother welcome you home, Lan,” Rand murmured, then shivered. That was part of the funeral service in Shienar, and elsewhere in the Borderlands.
They were still watching him, the Aiel, the people atop the walls. The Tower would know of today, or a version of it, as soon as a pigeon could fly there. If Rahvin did have some way of watching as well — all it took was one raven in the city, one rat here along the river — he certainly would not expect anything today. Elaida would think him weakened, perhaps more pliable, and Rahvin…
He realized what he was doing and winced. Stop it! For one minute at least, stop and mourn! He did not want all those eyes on him. Aiel fell back before him almost as readily as they had before Mandarb.
The dockmaster’s slateroofed hut was a single windowless stone room lined with shelves full of ledgers and scrolls and papers, lit by two lamps on a rough table covered with tax seals and customs stamps. Rand slammed the door behind him to shut out eyes.
Moiraine dead, Egwene injured, and Lan gone. A high price to pay for Lanfear. “Mourn, burn you!” he growled. “She deserved that much! Don’t you have any
feelings left?” But mostly he felt numb. His body hurt, but under it was deadness.
Hunching his shoulders, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and felt Moiraine’s letters. Slowly he drew them out. Some things he should think on, she had said. Stuffing Thom’s back, he broke the seal on the other. The pages were covered thickly with Moiraine’s elegant script.
These words will fade within moments after this leaves your hands — a warding attuned to you — so be careful of it. That you are reading this means that events have fallen out at the docks as I hoped…
He stopped, staring, then read on quickly.
Since the first day I reached Rhuidean, I have known — it need not trouble you how, some secrets belong to others, and I will not betray them — that a day would
come in Cairhien when news would arrive of Morgase. I did not know what that would be — if what we heard is true, the Light have mercy on her soul; she was willful and stubborn, with the temper of a lioness at times, but for all that a true, good and gracious queen — but each time that news led to the docks on the following day. There were three branches from the docks, but if you are reading this, I am gone, and so is Lanfear…
Rand’s hands tightened on the pages. She had known. Known, and still she brought him here. Hurriedly he smoothed out the crumpled paper.
The other two paths were much worse. Down one, Lanfear killed you. Down the other, she carried you away, and when next we saw you, you called yourself Lews Therin Telamon and were her devoted lover.
I hope that Egwene and Aviendha have survived unharmed. You see, I do not know what happens in the world after, except perhaps for one small thing which does not concern you.
I could not tell you, for the same reason I could not tell Lan. Even given the choices, 1 could not be sure which you would pick. Men of the Two Rivers, it seems, retain much of storied Manetheren in them, traits shared with men of the Borderlands. It is said that a Borderlander will take a dagger’s wound to avoid harm to a woman and count it fair trade. I dared not risk that you would place my life above your own, certain that somehow you could sidestep fate. Not a risk, I fear, but a foolish certainty, as today has surely proved…
“My choice, Moiraine,” he muttered. “It was my choice.” A few final points.
If Lan has not already gone, tell him that what I did to him, I did for the best. He will understand one day, and I hope, bless me for it.
Trust no woman fully who is now Aes Sedai. I do not speak simply of the Black Ajah, though you must always be watchful for them. Be as suspicious of Verin as you are of Alviarin. We have made the world dance as we sang for three thousand years. That is a difficult habit to break, as I have learned while dancing to your song. You must dance free, and even the best intentioned of my sisters may well try to guide your steps as I once did.
Please deliver Thom Merrilin’s letter safely when you meet him again. There is a small matter that I once told him of which I must make clear for his peace of mind.
Lastly, be wary too of Master Jasin Natael. I cannot approve wholly, but I understand. Perhaps it was the only way. Yet be careful of him. He is the same man now that he always was. Remember that always.
May the Light illumine and protect you. You will do well.
It was signed simply “Moiraine.” She had almost never used her House name.
He reread the second last paragraph again closely. Somehow she had known who Asmodean was. It had to be that. Known that one of the Forsaken was right there in front of her, and never blinked once. She had known why, too, if he read it
right. He would have thought in a letter that would go blank when he set it down, she could have come right out and said what she meant. Not just concerning Asmodean. About how she had learned what she had in Rhuidean — something to do with Wise Ones, or he missed his guess, and as much chance of finding out more from the letter as from them — about Aes Sedai — was there a reason she mentioned Verin? And why Alviarin instead of Elaida? — even about Thom and Lan. For some reason he did not think she had left a letter for Lan; the Warder was not the only one who believed in clean wounds. He almost took Thom’s letter out and opened it, but she might have warded it the same way she had his. Aes Sedai and Cairhienin, she had wrapped herself in mystery and manipulation to the end. To the end.
That was what he was trying to avoid with all this blather about her keeping secrets. She had known what would happen and come as bravely as any Aiel. Come to her death knowing it waited. She had died because he could not bring himself to kill Lanfear. He could not kill one woman, so another died. His eyes fell on the last words.
. . . You will do well. They cut like a cold razor.
“Why do you weep here alone, Rand al’Thor? I have heard that some wetlanders think it is shame to be seen weeping.”
He glared at Sulin, standing in the doorway. She was fully accoutered, cased bow on her back, quiver at her belt, round hide buckler and three spears in hand. “I’m not… ” There was dampness on his cheeks. He scrubbed it away. “It’s hot in here. Makes me sweat like a… What do you want? I thought you had all decided to abandon me and go back to the Threefold Land.”
“It is not we who have abandoned you, Rand al’Thor.” Shutting the door behind her, she sat on the floor and laid her buckler and a pair of the spears down. “You have abandoned us.” In one motion she put a foot against the last spear between her hands, heaved, and snapped it in two.
“What are you doing?” She tossed aside the pieces and picked up another spear. “I said, what are you doing?” The whitehaired Maiden’s face might have given even Lan pause, but Rand bent and seized the spear between her hands; her softbooted foot came to rest against his knuckles. Not lightly.
“Will you put us in skirts, and make us marry and tend hearth? Or are we to lie beside your fire and lick your hand when you give us a scrap of meat?” Her muscles tensed, and the spear broke, scoring his palm with splinters.
He snatched his freed hand back with a curse, shaking off droplets of blood. “I don’t mean any such thing. I thought you understood.” She took up the last spear, set her foot, and he channeled, weaving Air to hold her as she was. She only stared at him wordlessly. “Burn me, you said nothing! So I kept the Maidens out of the battle with Couladin. Not everyone fought that day. And you never said a word.”
Sulin’s eyes widened in incredulity. “You kept us from the dance of spears? We
kept you from the dance. You were like a girl newly wed to the spear, ready to rush out and kill Couladin with never a thought for the spear you might take from behind. You are the Car’a’carn. You have no right to risk yourself needlessly.” Her voice flattened. “Now you go to fight the Forsaken. The secret is well kept, but I have heard enough from those who lead the other societies.”
“And you want to keep me out of this fight as well?” he said quietly.
“Do not be a fool, Rand al’Thor. Any could have danced the spears with Couladin; for you to risk it was the thinking of a child. None among us can face the Shadowsouled, save you.”
“Then why…?” He stopped; he already knew the answer. After that bloodsoaked day against Couladin, he had convinced himself they would not mind. He had wanted to believe they would not.
“Those who go with you have been chosen.” The words came like hurled stones. “Men from every society. Men. There are no Maidens, Rand al’Thor. Far Dareis Mai carries your honor, and you take ours away.”
He drew a deep breath, fumbling for words. “I… do not like to see a woman die. I hate it, Sulin. It curdles me up inside. I could not kill a woman if my life hung on it.” The pages of Moiraine’s letter rustled in his hand. Dead because he could not kill Lanfear. Not always just his own life. “Sulin, I would rather go against Rahvin alone than see one of you die.”
“A foolish thing. Everyone needs another to watch her back. So it is Rahvin. Even Roidan of the Thunder Walkers and Turol of the Stone Dogs held that back.” She glanced at her upraised foot, held against the spear by the same flows that snared her arms. “Release me, and we will talk.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he unraveled the weave. He was tensed to seize her again if need be, but she only crossed her legs and sat bouncing the spear on her palms. “Sometimes I forget you were raised out of our blood, Rand al’Thor. Listen to me. I am what I am. This is what I am.” She hefted the spear.
“Sulin —”
“Listen, Rand al’Thor. I am the spear. When a lover came between me and the spear, I chose the spear. Some chose the other way. Some decide they have run with the spears long enough, that they want a husband, a child. I have never wanted anything else. No chief would hesitate to send me wherever the dance is hottest. If I died there, my firstsisters would mourn me, but not a fingernail more than when our firstbrother fell. A treekiller who stabbed me to the heart in my sleep would do me more honor than you do. Do you understand now?”
“I understand, but…” He did understand. She did not want him to make her something other than what she was. All he had to do was be willing to watch her die. “What happens if you break the last spear?”
“If I have no honor in this life, perhaps in another.” She said it as if it was just another explanation. It took him a moment to comprehend. All he had to do was be willing to watch her die.
“You don’t leave me any choices, do you?” No more than Moiraine had.
“There are always choices, Rand al’Thor. You have a choice, and I have one.
Ji’e’toh allows no other.”
He wanted to snarl at her, to curse ji’e’toh and everyone who followed it. “Choose out your Maidens, Sulin. I don’t know how many I can take, but Far Dareis Mai will have as many as any other society.”
He stalked past her and her sudden smile. Not relief. Pleasure. Pleasure that she would have the chance to die. He should have left her wrapped up in saidin, left her to be dealt with somehow when he came back from Caemlyn. Slamming the door open, he strode out onto the quay — and stopped.
Enaila headed a line of Maidens, each with three spears in her hands, a line leading back from the dockmaster’s door, vanishing into the nearest of the gates to the city. Some of the Aielmen on the dockside eyed them curiously, but it was obviously something between Far Dareis Mai and the Car’a’carn, and no business of any other society. Amys and three or four other Wise Ones who had once been Maidens were watching more closely. Most of the nonAiel had gone, except for a few men nervously righting overturned grain carts and trying to look elsewhere. Enaila stepped toward Rand, then halted and smiled as Sulin came out. Not relief. Pleasure. Smiles of pleasure running back down that long line of Maidens. Smiles on those Wise Ones, too, and a sharp nod for him from Amys as if he had put an end to some idiotic behavior.
“I thought maybe they were going to go in one at a time and kiss you out of your miseries,” Mat said.
Rand frowned at him, standing there leaning on his spear and grinning, widebrimmed hat tipped back on his head. “How can you be so cheerful?” The smell of seared flesh still hung in the air, and the moans of burned men and women being cared for by Wise Ones.
“Because I’m alive,” Mat snarled. “What do you want me to do, cry?” He shrugged uncomfortably. “Amys says Egwene really will be all right in a few days.” He did look around then, but as though he did not want to see what he saw. “Burn me, if we’re going to do this thing, let’s do it. Dovie’andi se tovya sagain.”
“What?”
“I said, it’s time to roll the dice. Did Sulin stop up your ears?”
“Time to roll the dice,” Rand agreed. The flames had died inside the glassy chimney of Air, but the white smoke still rose as though flames yet consumed the ter’angreal. Moiraine. He should have… Done was done. The Maidens were crowding down around Sulin, as many as would fit onto the quay. Done was done, and he had to live with it. Death would be a release from what he had to live with. “Let’s do it.”
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 54
(Dragon) To Caemlyn
Five hundred of the Maidens behind Sulin accompanied Rand back to the Royal Palace, where Bael waited in the great court inside the front gates with Thunder Walkers and Black Eyes and Water Seekers and men from every other society, their numbers filling the courtyard and crowding back into the palace through every door down to the smallest servants’ way. Some watched from lower windows, waiting their turn to come out. The surrounding stone balconies were empty. In the entire courtyard only one man waited who was not Aiel; Tairens and Cairhienin — especially Cairhienin — stayed clear when Aiel gathered. The exception stood above Bael on the wide gray steps leading into the place. Pevin, with the crimson banner hanging limply from its staff, and no more expression surrounded by Aiel than at any other time.
Aviendha, behind Rand’s saddle, clung tightly to him, breasts pressed against his back, until the very moment he dismounted. There had been an exchange between her and some of the Wise Ones back at the docks that he did not think he had been supposed to hear.
“Go with the Light,” Amys had said, touching Aviendha’s face. “And guard him closely. You know how much depends on him.”
“Much depends on you both,” Bair told Aviendha, almost at the same time that Melaine said irritably, “It would be easier if you had succeeded by now.”
Sorilea snorted. “Even Maidens knew how to handle men in my day.”
“She has been more successful than you know, ”Amys told them. Aviendha shook her head; the rosesandthorns ivory bracelet slid down her arm as she raised a hand to forestall the other woman, but Amys went on over her halfformed protests. “I have waited for her to tell us, but since she will not —” She saw him then, standing only ten fret away, with Jeade’en’s reins in his hand, and cut oft sharply. Aviendha turned to see what Amys was staring at; when her eyes found him, bright crimson suffused her face, then drained away so suddenly that even her sundark cheeks looked pale. The four Wise Ones fixed him with flat, unreadable gazes.
Asmodean and Mat came up behind him, leading their horses. “Do women learn that look in the cradle?” Mat muttered “Do their mothers teach them? I’d say the mighty Car’a’carn will get his ears singed if he stays around here much longer.”
Shaking his head, Rand reached up as Aviendha swung a leg over to slide down, and lifted her from the dapple’s back. For a moment he held her by the waist, looking down into her clear bluegreen eyes. She did not look away, and her expression never changed, but her hands tightened slowly on his forearms. What success was she supposed to have? He had thought she was set to spy on him for the Wise Ones, but if she ever asked a question about things he held back from the Wise Ones, it was in open anger at him for keeping secrets from them. Never slyly,
never trying to ferret something out. Bludgeon, maybe, but never ferret. He had considered the possibility that she was like one of Colavaere’s young women, but only for the brief moment it took to think of the notion. Aviendha would never let herself be used in that way. Besides, even if she had, giving him one taste of herself then denying him so much as a kiss afterward, not to mention making him chase her halfway around the world, was no way to go about it. If she was more than casual about being naked in front of him, Aiel customs were different. If his distress at it satisfied her, likely it was because she thought it was a great joke to play on him. So what was she supposed to be successful at? Plots all around him. Was everyone scheming? He could see his face in her eyes. Who had given her that silver necklace?
“I like canoodling as much as the next man,” Mat said, “but don’t you think there are a few too many people watching?”
Rand released Aviendha’s waist and stepped back, but no more quickly than she. She bent her head, fussing with her skirt, muttering about how riding had disarrayed it, but not before he saw her cheeks redden. Well, he had not meant to embarrass her.
Scowling around the courtyard, he said, “I told you I don’t know how many I can take, Bael.” With the Maidens spilling back through the gates onto the ramp, there was barely room to move in the courtyard. Five hundred from each society meant six thousand Aiel; the hallways inside must be packed.
The towering Aiel chief shrugged. Like every other Aiel there, he had his shoufa wrapped around his head, ready to veil. No crimson headband, though it seemed at least half the others wore the blackandwhite disc on their foreheads. “Every spear that can follow you, will. Will the two Aes Sedai come soon?”
“No.” It was good that Aviendha kept her promise not to let him touch her again. Lanfear had tried to kill her and Egwene because she did not know which was Aviendha. How had Kadere found out to tell her? No matter. Lan was right. Women found pain — or death — when they came too close to him. “They will not be coming.”
“There are stories of… trouble… by the river.”
“A great victory, Bael,” Rand said wearily. “And much honor earned.” But not by me. Pevin came down past Bael to stand behind Rand’s shoulder with the banner, his narrow, scarred face absolutely blank. “Does the whole palace know about this, then?” Rand asked.
“I heard,” Pevin said. His jaw worked, chewing for more words. Rand had found him a replacement for his patched country coat, good red wool, and the man had had Dragons embroidered on it, one climbing either side of his chest. “That you were going. Somewhere.” That seemed to exhaust his store.
Rand nodded. Rumors grew in the palace like mushrooms in the shade. But as long as Rahvin did not find out. He scanned the tile roofs and towertops. No ravens. He had not seen a raven in some time, though he heard of other men killing them.
Perhaps they avoided him now. “Stand ready.” He seized saidin, floated in emptiness, emotionless.
The gateway appeared at the foot of the steps, first a bright line that seemed to turn, opening into a square hole into blackness four paces wide. Not a murmur came from the Aiel. Those beyond would be able to see him as through a smoked glass, a dusky shimmering in the air, but they could as well try walking through one of the palace walls. From the side, the gateway would be invisible except to the few close enough to see what might seem a long, fine hair drawn tight.
Four paces was as large as Rand could make it. There were limits for one man by himself, Asmodean claimed; it seemed there were always limits. The amount of saidin you drew did not matter. The One Power had little to do with gateways, really; only the making. Beyond, was something else. A dream of a dream, Asmodean called it.
He stepped through onto what appeared to be a paving stone lifted from the courtyard, but here the gray square hung in the midst of utter darkness, with a sense that in every direction there was nothing. Nothing, forever. It was not like night. He could see himself and the stone perfectly. But everything else, everywhere else, was blackness.
It was time to see how large he could make a platform. With the thought, more stones appeared all at once, duplicating the courtyard to an inch. He imagined it larger still. That quickly, gray stone stretched as far as he could see. With a start, he realized that his boots were beginning to sink into the stone under his feet; it looked no different, yet it yielded slowly like mud, oozing up around his boots. Hastily, he brought everything back to a square the size of what was outside — that much stayed solid — then began increasing it by one outer row of stones at a time. It did not take long to realize he could not make the platform much larger than his first attempt. The stone still looked all right, it did not sink beneath his feet, but the second added row felt… insubstantial, like a thin shell that might crack at a wrong step. Was that because this was as large as the thing could be made? Or because he had not thought of it larger at first? We all make our limits. The thought slid up surprisingly from somewhere. And we set them further out than we have any right.
Rand felt himself shiver. In the Void, it seemed like feeling someone else shiver. It was well to be reminded that Lews Therin was still inside him. He had to be careful not to fall into a battle for self while confronting Rahvin. If not for that, he might have… No. What had happened on the quay was done; he would not make a hash of it for breakfast.
Reducing the platform by one outer ring of square stones, he turned. Bael was waiting out there in what seemed a huge square doorway into daylight with the steps beyond. At his side, Pevin looked no more perturbed by what he saw than the Aiel chief, which was to say not at all. Pevin would carry that banner wherever Rand went, even the Pit of Doom, and never blink. Mat shoved back his hat to scratch his head, then jerked it low again, muttering something about dice in his
head.
“Impressive,” Asmodean said quietly. “Quite impressive.”
“Flatter him some other time, harper,” Aviendha said. She was the first to step through, watching Rand, not where she put her feet. She walked all the way to him without once so much as glancing at anything except his face. When she reached him, though, it was to swing away abruptly, settling her shawl over her elbows, and study the darkness. Sometimes women were stranger than anything else the Creator could possibly have made.
Bael and Pevin came right behind her; then Asmodean, one hand clutching the strap of his harpcase across his chest, the other whiteknuckled on his sword hilt; and Mat, swaggering, but a trifle reluctant and grumbling as if arguing with himself. In the Old Tongue. Sulin claimed the honor to be first else, but soon a wide stream followed, not just Maidens of the Spear, but Tain Shari, True Bloods, and Far Aldazar Din, Brothers of the Eagle; Red Shields and Dawn Runners, Stone Dogs and Knife Hands, representatives of every society, crowding through.
As the numbers increased, Rand moved to the far side of the platform from the gateway. There was no need to see where he was going, really, but he wanted to. In truth, he could have remained at the other end, or gone to one side; direction here was mutable; whatever way he chose to move would take him to Caemlyn if done properly. And to the endless black of nowhere if done wrong.
Except for Bael and Sulin — and Aviendha, of course — the Aiel left a little space around him and Mat, Asmodean and Pevin. “Stay away from the edge,” Rand said. The Aiel nearest him moved back all of a foot. He could not see over the forest of shoufashrouded heads. “Is it full?” he called. The thing might hold half those who wanted to go, but not many more. “Is it full?”
“Yes,” a woman’s voice called back finally, reluctantly — he thought it sounded like Lamelle — but there was still a milling in the gateway, Aiel sure there must be room for one more.
“Enough!” Rand shouted. “No more! Clear the gateway! Everyone stand well clear!” He did not want what had happened to the Seanchan spear to happen here to living flesh.
A pause, and then, “It is clear.” It was Lamelle. He would have bet his last copper that Enaila and Somara were back there somewhere, too.
The gateway seemed to turn sideways, thinning until it vanished with one final flash of light.
“Blood and ashes!” Mat muttered, leaning disgustedly on his spear. “This is worse than the flaming Ways!” Which earned him a startled look from Asmodean, and a considering one from Bael. Mat did not notice; he was too busy glaring at the blackness.
There was no sense of motion, no breeze to stir the banner Pevin held. They could have been standing still. But Rand knew better; he could almost feel the place they were approaching draw nearer.
“If you come out too close to him, he will sense it.” Asmodean licked his lips and avoided looking at anyone. “At least, that is what I have heard.”
“I know where I am going,” Rand said. Not too close. But not too far. He remembered the spot well.
No movement. Endless black, and them hanging in it. Motionless. Half an hour passed perhaps.
A slight stir ran through the Aiel. “What is it?” Rand asked.
Murmurs came across the platform. “Someone fell,” a bulky man near him said at last. Rand recognized him. Meciar. He was Cor Darei, a Night Spear. He wore the red headband.
“Not one of the…” Rand began, then caught Sulin looking at him, flateyed.
He turned to stare out into the darkness, anger a stain clinging to the emotionless Void. So it was not supposed to matter more to him if one of the Maidens had fallen, was it? It did. Falling forever through endless black. Would sanity crack before death came, from starvation or thirst or fear? In that fall, even an Aiel must eventually find fear strong enough to stop a heart. He almost hoped so; it must be more merciful than the other.
Burn me, what happened to all that hardness I was so proud of? A Maiden or a Stone Dog, a spear is a spear. Only, thinking it could not make it so. I will be hard. He would let the Maidens dance the spears where they wished. He would. And he knew he would search out the name of every one who died, that every name would be another knifecut on his soul. I will be hard. The Light help me, I will. The Light help me.
Seemingly motionless, hanging in blackness.
The platform stopped. It was hard to say how he knew, when he could tell it was moving before, but he did.
He channeled, and a gateway opened in the same way it had in the courtyard in Cairhien. The angle of the sun had hardly changed, but here earlymorning light shone on a paved street, and a rising slope patched brown with droughtkilled grass and wildflowers, a slope topped by a stone wall two spans high or more, the stones worked rough so it seemed something natural. Above that wall he could see the golden domes of the Royal Palace of Andor, a few of the pale spires topped with banners rippling the White Lion on a breeze. On the other side of that wall was the garden where he had first met Elayne.
Blue eyes floated accusingly outside the Void, the darting memory of kisses stolen in Tear, the memory of a letter laying her heart and soul at his feet, of messages borne by Egwene professing love. What would she say if she ever learned about Aviendha, about that night together in the snow hut? Memory of another letter, icily spurning him, a queen condemning a swineherd to outer darkness. It did not matter. Lan was right. But he wanted… What? Who? Blue eyes, and green, and dark brown. Elayne, who maybe loved him and maybe could not make up her
mind? Aviendha, who taunted him with what she would not let him touch? Min, who laughed at him, thought him a woolheaded fool? All that flashed along the boundaries of the Void. He tried to ignore it, to ignore anguished memories of another blueeyed woman, lying dead in a palace corridor, so long ago.
He had to stand there, while Aiel dashed out behind Bael, veiling themselves, spreading left and right. It was his presence that maintained the platform; it would vanish as soon as he stepped through the gateway. Aviendha waited almost as calmly as Pevin, though she did occasionally put her head out to frown faintly in one direction or the other down the street. Asmodean fingered his sword and breathed too quickly; Rand wondered whether the man knew how to use the thing. Not that he would have to. Mat stared up the wall as though at a bad remembrance. He had entered the palace this way once, too.
The last veiled Aiel went by, and Rand motioned the others out, then followed. The gateway winked out of existence, leaving him in the middle of a long circle of wary Maidens. Aiel were running down the curving street — it followed the line of the hill; all the streets of the Inner City flowed with the land — vanishing around winding corners as they hurried to find and secure anyone who might give alarm. More were climbing the slope, and some had even begun to scale the wall, using tiny knobs and ridges for finger- and toeholds.
Suddenly Rand stared. To his left the street bowed downward and rounded out of sight, the decline giving a view past tilecovered towers, sparkling in the morning sun with a hundred changing colors, across tile roofs all the way to one of the Inner City’s many parks, its white walks and monuments forming a lion’s head when seen from this angle. To his right the street rose a little before curving away, more towers topped by spires or domes of various shapes glittering above the rooftops. Aiel filled the street, fanning out quickly into side streets that spiraled away from the palace. Aiel, and not a soul else. The sun was high enough for people to be out and about their business, even this close to the palace.
Like a nightmare the wall above toppled outward in half a dozen places, Aiel and stones smashing down on those still climbing. Before those bouncing, sliding chunks of masonry reached the streets, Trollocs appeared in the openings, dropping the treethick battering rams they had used and drawing scythecurved swords — more, with spiked axes and barbed spears, huge manshapes in black mail with spikes at shoulders and elbows, huge manfaces distorted by snouts and muzzles, beaks and horns and feathers, plunging down the slope with eyeless Myrddraal like midnight serpents in their midst. All along the street howling Trollocs and silent Myrddraal poured from doorways, leaped from windows. Lightning stabbed from the cloudless sky.
Rand wove Fire and Air to meet Fire and Air, a slowspreading shield racing lightnings’ fall. Too slow. One bolt struck the shield directly above his head, shattering in a blinding glare, but others grounded themselves, and his hair lifted as the air itself seemed to hammer him down. Almost he lost the weave, almost the
Void itself, but he wove what he could not see through eyes still filled with coruscating light, spread the shield against bolts from the heavens that he could at least feel hammering at it. Hammering to reach him, but that could change. Drawing saidin through the angreal in his pocket, he wove the shield until he was sure it must cover half of the Inner City, then tied it off. As he pushed himself to his feet, sight began to return, watery and painful at first. He had to move fast. Rahvin knew he was here. He had to…
Surprisingly little time had passed, seemingly. Rahvin had not cared how many of his own he took. Stunned Trollocs and Myrddraal on the slope were falling to spears in the hands of Maidens, many of whom moved unsteadily themselves. Some Maidens, those nearest Rand, were only now pulling themselves up from where they had been flung, and Pevin stood spraddlelegged, holding himself upright with the red banner’s staff, his scarred face still blank as slate. More Trollocs boiled through the gaps in the wall above, and the din of battle filled the streets in all directions, but it might as well have been in another country so far as Rand was concerned.
There had been more than one bolt in that first volley, but not all had been aimed at him. Mat’s smoking boots lay a dozen paces from where Mat himself sprawled on his back. Tendrils of smoke rose from the black haft of his spear, too, from his coat, even from the silver foxhead, hanging out of his shirt, that had not saved him from a man’s channeling. Asmodean was a twisted shape of char, recognizable only from the blackened harpcase still strapped to his back. And Aviendha… Unmarked, she could have laid down to rest — if she could have rested staring unblinking at the sun.
Rand bent to touch her cheek. Cooling already. It felt… Not like flesh. “RAAAAHVIIIIN!”
It startled him a little, that sound coming from his throat: He seemed to be sitting somewhere deep in the back of his own head, the Void around him vaster, emptier, than it had ever been before. Saidin raged through him. He did not care if it scoured him away. The taint seeped through everything, tarnished everything. He did not care.
Three Trollocs broke past the Maidens, great spiked, axes and oddly hooked spears in hairy hands, alltoo human eyes fixing on him, standing there apparently unarmed. The one with a boar’s tusked snout went down with Enaila’s spear through its spine. Eagle’s beak and bear’s muzzle raced on toward him, one on booted feet, the other on paws.
Rand felt himself smile.
Fire burst from the two Trollocs, a flame at every pore, bursting through black mail. Even as their mouths opened to scream, a gateway opened right where they stood. Bloody halves of burning, cleanly sliced Trolloc fell, but Rand was staring through the opening. Not into blackness, but a great columned hall with lioncarved stone panels, where a large man with wings of white in his dark hair started up in
surprise from a gilded throne. A dozen men, some dressed as lords, some in breastplates, turned to see what their master was looking at.
Rand barely noticed them. “Rahvin,” he said. Or someone did. He was not sure who.
Sending fire and lightning ahead of him, he stepped through and let the gateway close behind him. He was death.
Nynaeve was having no trouble maintaining the temper that allowed her to channel a flow of Spirit to the amber sleeping woman in her pouch. Even the feel of unseen eyes could not touch her through her anger this morning. Siuan stood in front of her on a Salidar street in Tel’aran’rhiod, a street empty save for them, a few flies, and one fox that paused to look at them curiously before trotting on.
“You must concentrate,” Nynaeve barked. “You had more control than this the first time. Concentrate!”
“I am concentrating, you fool girl!” Siuan’s plain blue wool dress was suddenly silk. The sevenstriped stole of the Amyrlin Seat hung around her neck, and a golden serpent bit its own tail on her finger. Frowning at Nynaeve, she did not seem aware of the change, though she had already worn the same five times today. “If there’s any difficulty, it lies in that foultasting brew you fed me! Faagh! I can still taste it. Like flatfish gall.” Stole and ring vanished; the silk dress’s high neck plunged low enough to show the twisted stone ring, dangling between her breasts on a fine gold chain.
“If you didn’t insist on me teaching you when you needed something to help you sleep, you wouldn’t need it.” So there had been a little sheepstongue root and a few other things that were not really necessary in the mix. The woman deserved to have her tongue curdled.
“You can hardly teach me when you’re teaching Sheriam and the others.” The silk paled; the neck was high again, surrounded by a white lace ruff, and a cap of pearls fitted close on Siuan’s hair. “Or would you rather I came after them? You claim you need some sleep undisturbed.”
Nynaeve quivered, fists clenched at her sides. Sheriam and the others were not the worst thing stoking her anger. She and Elayne took turns bringing them to Tel’aran’rhiod two at a time, sometimes all six in one night, and even if she was the teacher they never let her forget she was Accepted and they Aes Sedai. One sharp word when they made a foolish mistake… Elayne had only been sent to scrub pots once, but Nynaeve’s hands were shriveled from hot, soapy water; back where her body lay sleeping they were, anyway.
But they were not the worst. Nor was the fact that she barely had a moment to spare for investigating what, if anything, could be done about stilling and gentling. Logain was more cooperative than Siuan and Leane in any case, or at least more eager. Thank the Light he understood about keeping it secret. Or thought he did; he probably believed she would Heal him eventually. No, worse than that was that Faolain had been tested and raised… not Aes Sedai — not without the Oath Rod,
which was tight in the Tower — but to something more than Accepted. Faolain wore any dress she chose now, and if she could not wear the shawl or choose an Ajah, she had been given other authority. Nynaeve thought she had fetched more cups of water, more books — left deliberately, she, was sure! — more pins and inkjars and other useless things in the last four days than she had her entire stay in the Tower. Yet even Faolain was not the worst of all. She did not even want to remember that. Her anger could have heated a house in winter.
“What’s put a hook in your gills today, girl?” Siuan had on a gown like those Leane wore, only more sheer than even Leane would ever wear in public, so thin it was hard to tell what color it was. Not the first time she had had that on today, either. What was perking around in the back of the woman’s mind? In the World of Dreams, things like these changes of clothing betrayed thoughts you might not even know you had. “You have been almost decent company until today,” Siuan continued irritably, then paused. “Until today. I see it now. Yesterday afternoon Sheriam assigned Theodrin to begin helping you break down that block you’ve built up. Is that what has your shift in a twist? You don’t like Theodrin telling you what to do? She’s a wilder, too, girl. If anyone can help you learn to channel without eating nettles first, she —”
“And what has you so jittery you can’t hold your dress still?” Theodrin — that was what really hurt. The failure. “Maybe it’s something I heard last night?” Theodrin was eventempered, goodhumored, patient; she said it could not be done in one session; her own block had taken months to demolish, and she had finally realized she was channeling long before going to the Tower. Still, failure hurt, and worst of all, if anyone ever discovered that she had cried like a baby in Theodrin’s comforting arms when she knew she was failing… “I heard you heaved Gareth Bryne’s boots at his head when he told you to sit down and polish them properly — he still doesn’t know Min does the polishing, does he? — so he turned you upside down and —”
Siuan’s fullarmed slap rung her ears. For an instant she could only stare at the other woman, eyes going wider and wider. With a wordless shriek, she tried to punch Siuan in the eye. Tried, because somehow Siuan had tangled a fist in her hair. A moment later they were down in the dirt of the street, rolling about and screaming, flailing wildly.
Grunting, Nynaeve thought she was getting the better of it even if she did not know whether she was on the top or the bottom half the time. Siuan was trying to yank her braid out by the roots with one hand while the other pounded at her ribs or anything else it could find, but she had the other woman the same way, and Siuan’s yanking and punching were definitely growing weaker, and she herself was going to pound Siuan senseless in another minute, then snatch her bald. Nynaeve yelped as a toe caught her hard on the shin. The woman kicked! Nynaeve tried to knee her, but it was not easy in skirts. Kicking was not fighting fair!
Suddenly Nynaeve realized that Siuan was shaking. At first she thought the
woman was crying. Then she realized it was laughter. Pushing herself up, she brushed strands of hair out of her face — her braid was all but undone — and glared down at the other woman. “What are you laughing at? Me? If you are…!”
“Not at you. At us.” Still quivering with mirth, Siuan shoved Nynaeve off her. Siuan’s hair was in wild disarray, and dust covered the plain wool dress she wore now, wornlooking and neatly darned in several places. She was barefoot, too. “Two grown women, rolling around like… I haven’t done that since I was… twelve, I think. I started thinking that all we needed would be fat Cian snatching me up by an ear to tell me girls don’t fight. I heard she once knocked down a drunken printer, I don’t know why.” Something very like giggles took her for a moment, then she quieted them and stood, brushing dust from her clothes. “If we have a disagreement, we can settle it like adult women.” And in a careful tone, “Still, it might be a good idea not to discuss Gareth Bryne.” She gave a start as the worn dress became a gown, red with blackandgold embroidery around hem and swooping neckline.
Nynaeve sat there staring at her. What would she have done as Wisdom if she found two women rolling around in the dirt that way? If anything, the answer kept her anger at a simmer. Siuan still did not seem to realize that there was no need to brush away dust with your hands in Tel’aran’rhiod. Snatching away fingers that had been repairing her braid, Nynaeve got up quickly; before she was on her feet again, her braid hung perfect over her shoulder and her good Two Rivers woolens might have just been laundered.
“I agree,” she said. She would have made any two women she caught like that sorry they had been born even before she hauled them before the Women’s Circle. What was she doing lashing out with her fists like some fool man? First Cerandin
— she did not want to think about that episode, but there it was — then Latelle, and now this. Was she going to get around her block by being angry all the time? Unfortunately — or perhaps fortunately — that thought did nothing for her temper. “If we have disagreements, we can… discuss them.”
“Which I suppose means we’ll shout at one another,” Siuan said dryly. “Well, better that than the other.”
“We would not have to shout if you —!” Drawing a deep breath, Nynaeve jerked her eyes away; this was no way to begin anew. That breath caught in her throat, and she turned her head back to Siuan so quickly it seemed she had been shaking it. She hoped it did. Just for an instant, there had been a face in .a window across the Street. And there was a flutter in her belly, a bubble of fear, a burn of anger at being afraid. “I think we should go back now,” she said quietly.
“Go back! You said that vile concoction would put me to sleep for a good two hours, and we haven’t been here much more than half that.”
“Time works differently here.” Had it been Moghedien? The face had vanished so quickly it could have been someone dreaming herself here for an instant. If it was Moghedien, they must not — must not on any account — let her know she had been seen. They had to get away. Bubble of fear, burn of anger. “I told you. A day
in Tel’aran’rhiod can be an hour in the waking world, or the other way round. We
—”
“I’ve dipped better out of the bilge in a bucket, girl. You needn’t think you can get away with shortchanging me. You’ll teach me everything you teach the others, as agreed. We can go when I wake up.”
There was no time. If it had been Moghedien. Siuan’s dress was green silk now, and the Amyrlin’s stole and her Great Serpent ring were back, but for a wonder the neckline was almost as low as anything she had worn before. The ring ter’angreal hung above her breasts, somehow part of a necklace of square emeralds.
Nynaeve moved without thinking. Her hand lashed out, snatched the necklace so hard it tore free from Siuan’s neck. Siuan’s eyes widened, but as soon as the clasp broke, she vanished, and necklace and ring melted from Nynaeve’s hand. For an instant she stared at her empty fingers. What happened to someone sent out of Tel’aran’rhiod like that? Had she sent Siuan back to her sleeping body? Or to somewhere else? To nowhere?
Panic seized her. She was just standing there. Quick as thought she fled, the World of Dreams seeming to change around her.
She stood on a dirt street in a small village of wooden houses, none more than a single story. The White Lion of Andor waved from a tall staff, and a single stone dock stuck out into a broad river where a flock of longbilled birds flapped south low over the water. It all looked vaguely familiar, but it took her a moment to know where she was. Jurene. In Cairhien. And that river was the Erinin. It had been here that she and Egwene and Elayne had boarded the Darter, as badly misnamed as the Riverserpent, to continue their journey to Tear. That time seemed like something read in a book long ago.
Why had she jumped to Jurene? That was simple, and answered as soon as she thought of it. Jurene was the one place she knew well enough to leap to in Tel’aran’rhiod that she could be sure Moghedien did not know. They had been there for an hour, before Moghedien knew she existed, and she was sure neither she nor Elayne had ever mentioned it again, in Tel’aran’rhiod or awake.
But that left another question. The same one, in a way. Why Jurene? Why not step out of the Dream, wake up in her own bed, such as it was, if washing dishes and scrubbing floors on top of everything had not left her so weary she slept right on? I can still step out. Moghedien had seen her in Salidar, if that had been Moghedien. Moghedien knew Salidar now. I can tell Sheriam. How? Admit she was teaching Siuan? She was not supposed to have her hands on those ter’angreal except with Sheriam and the other Aes Sedai. How Siuan got hold of them when she wanted, Nynaeve did not know. No, she was not afraid of more hours up to her elbows in hot water. She was afraid of Moghedien. Anger burned in her belly fiercely. She wished she had some goosemint out of her scrip of herbs. I am so… so bloody tired of being afraid.
There was a bench in front of one of the houses, overlooking dock and river.
She sat down and considered her situation from every angle. It was ridiculous. The True Source was a pale thing. She channeled a flame dancing in air above her hand. She might look solid — to herself, anyway — but she could see the river through that scrap of fire. She tied it off, and it faded away like mist as soon as the knot was done. How could she face Moghedien when the weakest novice in Salidar could match or better her strength? That was why she had fled here instead of leaving Tel’aran’rhiod. Afraid and angry at being afraid, too angry to think straight, to consider her own weakness.
She would step out of the Dream. Whatever Siuan’s scheme had been, it was done; she would have to take her chances right along with Nynaeve. The thought of more hours scrubbing floors tightened her hand on her braid. Days more likely, and maybe Sheriam’s switch besides. They might never let her near one of the dream ter’angreal again, or any ter’angreal. They would set Faolain over her instead of Theodrin. A finish to studying Siuan and Leane, much less Logain; maybe a finish to studying Healing.
In a fury she channeled another flame. If it was a whit stronger, she could not see it. So much for trying to crank her anger in hope it would help. “There’s nothing for it but to just tell them I saw Moghedien,” she muttered, yanking her braid hard enough to hurt. “Light, they will give me to Faolain. I’d almost rather die!”
“But you seem to enjoy running little errands for her.”
That mocking voice pulled Nynaeve up off the bench like hands on her shoulders. Moghedien stood in the street all in black, shaking her head at what she saw. With all her strength Nynaeve wove a shield of Spirit and hurled it between the other woman and saidar. Tried to hurl it between; it was like chopping at a tree with a paper hatchet. Moghedien actually smiled before she bothered to slice Nynaeve’s weave, and that as casually as brushing a biteme away from her face. Nynaeve stared at her as though poleaxed. After everything it came down to this. The One Power, useless. All the anger bubbling inside her, useless. All her plans, her hopes, useless. Moghedien did not bother to strike back. She did not even bother to channel a shield of her own. That was how much contempt she had.
“I was afraid you had seen me. I grew careless when you and Siuan started trying to kill each other. With your hands.” Moghedien gave a belittling laugh. She was weaving something, lazily because there was no reason to hurry. Nynaeve did not know what it was, yet she wanted to scream. Fury seethed inside her, but fear dulled her wits, rooted her feet to the ground. “Sometimes I think you are all too ignorant even to train, you and the former Amyrlin Seat and all the rest. But I cannot allow you to betray me.” That weave was reaching out for her. “It is time to collect you at last, it seems.”
“Hold, Moghedien!” Birgitte shouted.
Nynaeve’s mouth dropped open. It was Birgitte, as she had been, in her short white coat and wide yellow trousers, intricate golden braid pulled over her shoulder, silver arrow drawn on silver bow. It was impossible. Birgitte was no longer part of
Tel’aran’rhiod, she was back in Salidar, making sure no one discovered Nynaeve and Siuan asleep with the sun up and began asking questions.
Moghedien was so shocked, the flows she had woven vanished. Shock lasted less than a moment, though. The gleaming arrow flew from Birgitte’s bow — and evaporated. The bow evaporated. Something seemed to seize the archer, jerking her arms straight up, pulling her clear of the ground. Almost immediately she was snubbed short, pulled tight between wrists and ankles a foot above the ground.
“I should have considered the possibility of you.” Moghedien turned her back on Nynaeve to move closer to Birgitte. “Do you enjoy your flesh? Without Gaidal Cain?”
Nynaeve thought of channeling. But what? A dagger that might not even penetrate the woman’s skin? Fire that would not singe her skirts? Moghedien knew how useless she was; she was not even looking at her. If she stopped the flow of Spirit to the sleeping woman in amber, she would wake in Salidar, she could give warning. Her face twisted near to tears as she looked at Birgitte. The goldenhaired woman hung there, staring defiantly at Moghedien. Moghedien contemplated her in return as a woodcarver would a block of wood.
There’s only me, Nynaeve thought. I might as well not be able to channel at all.
There’s only me.
Lifting that first foot was like pulling it out of kneedeep mud, the second staggering step no easier. Toward Moghedien. “Don’t hurt me,” Nynaeve cried. “Please. Don’t hurt me.” A chill ran through her. Birgitte was gone. A child of perhaps three or four, in short white coat and wide yellow trousers, stood there playing with a toysized silver bow. Flipping her golden braid back, the child aimed the bow at Nynaeve and giggled, then stuck a finger in her mouth as though unsure whether she had done something wrong. Nynaeve sagged to her knees. It was hard work crawling in skirts, but she did not think she could have remained standing. Somehow she managed, reaching out a pleading hand and whimpering. “Please. Don’t hurt me. Please. Don’t hurt me.” Over and over as she dragged toward the Forsaken, a broken beetle scrabbling in the dirt.
Moghedien watched silently, until at last she said, “Once I thought you were stronger than this. Now I find I truly like the sight of you on your knees. That is close enough, girl. Not that I think you have courage enough to try tearing my hair out… ” She seemed amused by the notion.
Nynaeve’s hand wavered a span from Moghedien. It had to be close enough. There was only her. And Tel’aran’rhiod. The image formed in her head, and there it was, silver bracelet on her outstretched wrist, silver leash linking it to the silver collar around Moghedien’s neck. It was not just the a’dam she fixed in her head, but Moghedien wearing it, Moghedien and the a’dam, a part of Tel’aran’rhiod that she held in the form she wanted. She knew something of what to expect; she had worn an a’dam’s bracelet briefly once, in Falme. In a strange way she was aware of Moghedien in the same way she was aware of her own body, her own emotions,
two sets, each distinct, but each in her own head. One thing she had only hoped, because Elayne insisted it was so. The thing was indeed a link; she could feel the Source through the other woman.
Moghedien’s hand leaped to the collar, shock rounding her eyes. Rage and horror. Rage more than horror, at first. Nynaeve felt them almost as if they were her own. Moghedien had to know what the leashandcollar was, yet she tried to channel anyway; at the same time Nynaeve felt a slight shifting in herself, in the a’dam, as the other woman tried to bend Tel’aran’rhiod to herself. Suppressing Moghedien’s attempt was simple; the a’dam was a link, with her in control. Knowing that made it easy. Nynaeve did not want to channel those flows, so they were not channeled. Moghedien might as well have tried to pick up a mountain with her bare hands. Horror overwhelmed rage.
Getting to her feet, Nynaeve fastened the proper image in her mind. She did not just imagine Moghedien leashed in the a’dam, she knew Moghedien was leashed, as firmly as she knew her own name. The sense of shifting, of her skin trying to crawl, did not go away, though. “Stop that,” she said sharply. The a’dam did not move, but it seemed to tremble unseen. She thought of blackwasp nettles lightly brushing the other woman from shoulders to knees. Moghedien shuddered, exhaled convulsively. “Stop it, I said, or I’ll do worse.” The shifting ceased. Moghedien watched her warily, still clutching the silver collar around her neck and with an air of being poised on her toes for flight.
Birgitte — the child who was, or had been, Birgitte — stood eyeing them curiously. Nynaeve formed the image of her as a grown woman, concentrated. The little girl put her finger back in her mouth and began studying the toy bow. Nynaeve breathed angrily. It was hard changing what someone else was already maintaining. And on top of that, Moghedien had claimed she could make, changes permanent. But what she could do, she could undo. “Restore her.”
“If you release me, I —”
Nynaeve thought of nettles again, and not a light brush this time. Moghedien sucked air through clenched teeth, shook like a bedsheet in a high wind.
“That,” Birgitte said, “was the most frightening thing that has ever happened to me.” Herself once more, she wore the short coat and wide trousers, but she had no bow or quiver. “I was a child, but at the same time, what was me — really me — was just some fancy floating in the back of that child’s mind. And I knew it. I knew I was just going to watch what happened and play… ” Flipping her golden braid back over her shoulder, she gave Moghedien a hard look.
“How did you get here?” Nynaeve asked. “I am grateful, you understand, but… how?”
Birgitte gave Moghedien a final stony stare, then opened her coat to fish in the neck of her blouse, pulling up the twisted stone ring on a leather thong. “Siuan woke up. Just for a moment, and not all the way. Long enough to grumble about you snatching this from her. When you didn’t wake right behind her, I knew
something must be wrong, so I took the ring and the last of what you mixed for Siuan.”
“There was hardly any left. Only the dregs.”
“Enough to put me to sleep. It tastes horrible, by the way. After that, it was as easy as finding featherdancers in Shiota. In some ways this is almost as if I were still —” Birgitte cut off with another glare for Moghedien. The silver bow reappeared in her hand, and a quiver of silver arrows at her hip, yet after one moment they vanished again. “Past is past, and the future is ahead,” she said firmly. “I was not truly surprised to realize there were two of you who knew they were in Tel’aran’rhiod. I knew the other must be her, and when I arrived and saw the pair of you… It seemed as if she had already captured you, but I hoped that if I distracted her, you might come up with something.”
Nynaeve felt a stab of shame. She had considered abandoning Birgitte. That was what she had almost come up with. The thought had only been there for a moment, rejected as soon as it came, but it had come. What a coward she was. Surely Birgitte never had even moments when fear almost took control of her. “I…” A faint taste of boiled catfern and powdered mavinsleaf. “I almost ran away,” she said faintly. “I was so frightened my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I almost ran away and left you.”
“Oh?” Nynaeve writhed inside as Birgitte considered her. “But you did not, did you? I should have loosed before I called out, but I’ve never felt comfortable shooting anyone from behind. Even her. Still, it all worked out. But what do we do with her now?”
Moghedien certainly seemed to have overcome her fear. Ignoring the silver collar around her throat, she watched Nynaeve and Birgitte as though they were the prisoners, not she, and she was deliberating what to do with them. Except for an occasional twitch of her hands, as if she wanted to scratch where her skin held the memory of nettles, she appeared blackclad serenity. Only the a’dam let Nynaeve know there was fear in the woman, almost a gibbering, but pushed down to a muted buzz. She wished the thing let her know what Moghedien was thinking as well as feeling. Then again, she was just as glad not to be inside the mind behind those cold dark eyes.
“Before you consider anything… drastic,” Moghedien said, “remember that I know much that would be useful to you. I have observed the other Chosen, peeked into their schemes. Is that not worth something?”
“Tell me, and I will consider whether it’s worth anything,” Nynaeve said. What could she do with the woman?
“Lanfear, Graendal, Rahvin and Sammael are plotting together.”
Nynaeve gave the leash a short tug, staggering her. “I know that. Tell me something new.” The woman was captive here, but the a’dam only existed so long as they were in Tel’aran’rhiod
“Do you know they are drawing Rand al’Thor to attack Sammael? But when he
does, he will find the others as well, waiting to trap him between them. At least, he will find Graendal and Rahvin. I think Lanfear plays another game, one the others know nothing about.”
Nynaeve exchanged worried glances with Birgitte. Rand must learn of this. He would, as soon as she and Elayne could speak to Egwene tonight. If they could manage to put their hands on the ter’angreal long enough.
“That is,” Moghedien murmured, “if he lives long enough to find them.” Nynaeve took hold of the silvery leash where it joined the collar and pulled the
Forsaken’s face close to hers. Dark eyes met her gaze flatly, but she could feel anger through the a’dam, and fear wriggling up and being stamped down. “You listen to me. Do you think I don’t know why you are pretending to be so cooperative? You think if you keep talking long enough, I will make some slip, and you can escape. You think the longer we talk, the harder I’ll find it to kill you.” That much was true enough. To kill somebody in cold blood, even one of the Forsaken, would be hard, maybe harder than she could manage. What was she going to do with the woman? “But you understand this. I won’t allow hinting at things. If you try keeping anything back from me, I will do to you everything you ever thought of doing to me.” Dread, creeping through the leash, like bonechilling shrieks deep in Moghedien’s mind. Maybe she did not know as much about a’dam as Nynaeve thought. Maybe she believed Nynaeve could read her thoughts if she tried. “Now if you know of some threat to Rand, something ahead of Sammael and the others, you tell me. Now!”
Words spilled from Moghedien’s mouth, and her tongue flickered out to wet her lips continually. “Al’Thor means to go after Rahvin. Today. This morning. Because he thinks Rahvin killed Morgase. I don’t know whether he did or not, but al’Thor believes it. But Rahvin never trusted Lanfear. He never trusted any of them. Why should he? He thought it all might be some trap set for him, so he has laid a trap of his own. He has set Wards through Caemlyn so if a man channels a spark he will know. Al’Thor will walk right into it. He almost certainly already has. I think he meant to leave Cairhien right after sunrise. I had no part of it. It was none of it my doing. I —”
Nynaeve wanted to shut her up; the fear sweat glistening on the woman’s face made her sick, but if she had to listen to that pleading voice, too… She started to channel, wondering whether she would be strong enough to hold Moghedien’s tongue, then smiled. She was linked to Moghedien, and in control. Moghedien’s eyes bulged as she wove flows to stop her own mouth and tied them. Nynaeve added plugs for her ears too, before turning to Birgitte. “What do you think?”
“Elayne’s heart will break. She loves her mother.”
“I know that!” Nynaeve took a breath. “I will cry with her and mean every tear, but right now I must worry about Rand. I think she was telling the truth. I could almost feel it.” She caught the silver leash just below her bracelet and shook it. “Maybe it’s this, and maybe it was imagination. What do you believe?”
“That it’s the truth. She was never very brave unless she clearly had the upper hand, or thought she could get it. And you certainly put the fear of the Light into her.”
Nynaeve grimaced. Birgitte’s every word put another bubble of anger in her belly. She was never very brave except when she clearly had the upper hand. That could describe herself. She had put the fear of the Light into Moghedien. She had, and she had meant every word when she said it. Boxing somebody’s ears when they needed it was one thing; threatening torture, wanting to torture, even Moghedien, was something else again. And here she was trying to avoid what she knew she had to do. Never very brave except when she clearly had the upper hand. This time the bubble of anger was seeded by herself. “We have to go to Caemlyn. I do, at least. With her. I may not be able to channel strongly enough to tear paper as I am, but with the a’dam I can use her strength.”
“You won’t be able to affect anything in the waking world from Tel’aran’rhiod,” Birgitte said quietly.
“I know! I know, but I have to do something.”
Birgitte threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, Nynaeve, it is such an embarrassment being associated with such a coward as you.” Abruptly her eyes widened in surprise. “There wasn’t much of your potion left. I think I am wak —” In midword, she was simply no longer there.
Taking a deep breath, Nynaeve untied the flows around Moghedien. Or made her do it; with the a’dam it was hard to tell which, really. She wished Birgitte was still there. Another pair of eyes. Someone who probably knew Tel’aran’rhiod better than she ever could. Someone who was brave. “We are taking a trip, Moghedien, and you are going to help me with every last scrap of you. If anything takes me by surprise… Suffice it to say, anything that happens to the one wearing this bracelet happens to the one wearing the collar. Only about tenfold.” The sickly look on Moghedien’s face said she believed. Which was just as well, since it was true.
Another deep breath, and Nynaeve began forming the image of the one place in Caemlyn she knew well enough to remember. The Royal Palace, where Elayne had taken her. Rahvin must be there. But in the waking world, not the World of Dreams. Still, she had to do something. Tel’aran’rhiod changed around her.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 55
(Full Aes Sedai Symbol) The Threads Burn
Rand stopped. A long scorch along the corridor wall marked where half a dozen costly tapestries had gone to ash. Flames licked upward on another; a number of inlaid chests and tables were only charred ruins. Not his work. Thirty paces further on, redcoated men in breastplates and helmets with barred faceguards lay contorted in death on the white floortiles, useless swords in hand. Not his work either. Rahvin had been wasteful of his own in attempting to reach Rand. He had been clever in his attacks, clever in his escapes, but from the moment he fled the throneroom he had not faced Rand for more than the instant it took to strike and flee. Rahvin was strong, perhaps as strong as Rand, and more knowledgeable, but Rand had the fatlittleman angreal in his pocket, and Rahvin had none.
The corridor was doubly familiar, once for having seen it before, once for having seen something similar.
I walked this way with Elayne and Gawyn the day I met Morgase. The thought slithered painfully along the boundaries of the Void. He was cold in there, without emotion. Saidin raged and burned, but he was icy calm.
And another thought, like a stab. She lay on a floor like this, her golden hair spread as though sleeping. Ilyena Sunhair. My Ilyena.
Elaida had been there that day, too. She Foretold the pain I’d bring. She knew the darkness in me. Some of it. Enough.
Ilyena, I did not know what I was doing. I was mad! 1 am mad. Oh. Ilyena!
Elaida knew — some — but she did not tell even all of that. Better if she had told.
Oh, Light, is there no forgiveness? I did what I did in madness. Is there no mercy?
Gareth Bryne would have killed me, had he known. Morgase would have ordered my death. Morgase would be alive, perhaps. Elayne’s mother alive. Aviendha alive. Mat. Moiraine. How many alive, if I had died?
I have earned my torment. I deserve the final death. Oh, Ilyena, I deserve death. I deserve death.
Bootsteps behind him. He turned.
They came out of a broad crossing corridor not twenty paces from him, two dozen men in breastplates and helmets and the whitecollared red coats of the Queen’s Guards. Except that Andor had no queen now, and these men had not served her while she lived. A Myrddraal led them, pale eyeless face like something found under a rock, overlapping plates of black armor heightening the illusion of a serpent as it moved, black cloak hanging motionless however it moved. The look of the Eyeless was fear, but fear was a distant thing in the Void. They hesitated when they saw him; then the Halfman raised its blackbladed sword. Men who had not
already drawn put hands to hilts.
Rand — he thought that was his name — channeled in a way he could not remember doing before.
Men and Myrddraal stiffened where they stood. White frost grew thick on them, frost that smoked as Mat’s boots had smoked. The Myrddraal’s upraised arm broke off with a loud crack. When it hit the floortiles, arm and sword shattered.
Rand could feel the cold — yes, that was his name; Rand — cold like a knife as he walked past and turned the way they had come. Cold, yet warmer than saidin.
A man and a woman crouched against the wall, servants liveried in red and white, short of their middle years and holding each other as though for protection. Seeing Rand — there was more to the name; not just Rand — the man started to rise from where he had huddled away from the Myrddraalled band, but the woman hauled him back by his sleeve.
“Go in peace,” Rand said, putting out a hand. Al’Thor. Yes, Rand al’Thor. “I’ll not hurt you, but you could be hurt if you stay.”
The woman’s brown eyes rolled up in her head. She would have collapsed in a heap if the man had not caught her, and his narrow mouth was working rapidly, as if he was praying but could not get the words out.
Rand looked where the man was looking. His hand had stretched out of his coatsleeve far enough to bare the Dragon’s golden maned head that was part of his skin. “I will not hurt you,” he said, and walked on, leaving them there. He had Rahvin to corner yet. Rahvin to kill. And then?
No sound but the click of his boots on the tiles. And deep in his head, a faint voice murmuring mournfully of Ilyena and forgiveness. He strained to feel Rahvin channeling, to feel the man filled with the True Source. Nothing. Saidin seared his bones, froze his flesh, scoured his soul, but from without it was not easy to see until you were close. A lion in high grass, Asmodean had said once. A rabid lion. Should Asmodean count among those who should not have died? Or Lanfear? No. Not —
He had only a moment’s warning to throw himself flat, a hairthin slice of time between feeling flows suddenly woven and an armthick bar of white light, liquid fire, slicing through the wall, ripping across like a sword through where his chest had been. Where that bar slashed, on both sides of the hallways, wall and friezes, doors and tapestries ceased to exist. Severed wallhangings and chunks of stone and plaster broken free rained to the floor.
So much for the Forsaken fearing to use balefire. Who had told him that?
Moiraine. She surely had deserved to live.
Balefire leaped from his hands, a brilliant white shaft streaking toward where that other bar had originated. The other failed even as his punched through the wall, leaving a purple afterimage fanning across his vision. He released his own flow. Had he done it finally?
Scrambling to his feet, he channeled Air, slamming ruined doors open so hard that the remnants ripped from the hinges. Inside, the room was empty. A sitting
room, with chairs arrayed before a great marble fireplace. His balefire had taken a bite out of one of the arches leading to a small courtyard with a fountain, and another from one of the fluted columns along the walk beyond.
Rahvin had not gone that way, though, and he had not died in that blast of balefire. A residue hung in the air, a fading remnant of woven saidin. Rand recognized it. Different from the gateway he had made to Skim to Caemlyn, or the one to Travel — he knew now that was what he had done — into the throne room. But he had seen one like this in Tear, had made one himself.
He wove another now. A gateway, an opening at least, a hole in reality. It was not blackness on the other side. In fact, if he had not known the way was there, if he could not have seen the weave of it, he might not have known. There before him were the same arches opening onto the same courtyard and fountain, the same columned walk. For an instant the neatly rounded holes his balefire had made in arch and column wavered, filled, then were holes again. Wherever that gateway led, it was to somewhere else, a reflection of the Royal palace as once it had been a reflection of the Stone of Tear. Vaguely he regretted not talking to Asmodean about it while he had the chance, but he had never been able to speak of that day to anyone. It did not matter. On that day he had carried Callandor, but the angreal in his pocket had already proved enough to harry Rahvin.
Stepping through quickly, he loosed the weave and hurried away across the courtyard as the gateway vanished. Rahvin would have felt that gate if he was close enough and trying. The fat little stone man did not mean he could stand and wait to be attacked.
No sign of life, except for himself and one fly. That was the way it had been in Tear, too. Standlamps in the hallways stood unlit, with pale wicks that had never seen a flame, yet even in what should have been the dimmest hall there was light, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. Sometimes those lamps moved, too, and other things as well. Between one glance and the next a tall lamp might have moved a foot, a vase in a niche an inch. Little things, as if someone had shifted them in the time his eyes were away. Wherever this was, it was a strange place.
It came to him, as he trotted along another colonnade, sensing for Rahvin, that he had not heard the voice crying over Ilyena since he channeled balefire. Perhaps he had somehow chased Lews Therin out of his head.
Good. He stopped at the edge of one of the palace gardens. The roses and whitestar bushes looked as drought bedraggled as they would have in the real palace. On some of the white spires rising above the rooftops, the White Lion banner rippled, but which spire could change in the blink of an eye. Good, if I don’t have to share my head with —
He felt odd. Insubstantial. He raised his arm, and stared. He could see the garden through coatsleeve and arm as through a mist. A mist that was thinning. When he glanced down, he could see the walk’s paving stones through himself.
No! It was not his thought. An image began to coalesce. A tall, darkeyed man
with a worrycreased face and more white in his hair than brown. I am Lews Ther—
I am Rand al’Thor, Rand broke in. He did not know what was happening, but the faint Dragon was beginning to fade from the misty arm held in front of his face. The arm began to look darker, the fingers on his hand longer. I am me. That echoed in the Void. I am Rand al’Thor.
He fought to picture himself in his own mind, struggled to make the image of what he saw in the mirror every day shaving, what he saw in a standmirror dressing. It was a frantic fight. He had never really looked at himself. The two images waxed and waned, the older darkeyed man and the younger with bluegray eyes. Slowly the younger image firmed, the older faded. Slowly his arm grew more solid. His arm, with the Dragon twined around it and the heron branded into his palm. There had been times he hated those marks, but now, even enclosed within the emotionless Void, he almost grinned to see them.
Why had Lews Therin tried to take him over? To make him into Lews Therin. He was sure that was who that darkeyed man with the suffering face had been. Why now? Because he could in this place, whatever it was? Wait. It had been Lews Therin who shouted that adamant “no.” Not an attack by Lews Therin. By Rahvin, and not using the Power. If the man had been able to do this back in Caemlyn, the real Caemlyn, he would have. It had to be some ability he had gained here. And if Rahvin had gained it, perhaps he had too. The image of himself had been what held him, brought him back.
He focused on the nearest rosebush, a thing a span high, and imagined it growing thin, foggy. Obediently, it melted away to nothing, but as soon as the picture in his mind was nothing, the rosebush was suddenly back, just as it had been.
Rand nodded coldly. It had limits, then. There were always limits and rules, and he did not know them here. But he knew the Power, as much as Asmodean had taught him and he had taught himself, and saidin was still in him, all the sweetness of life, all the corruption of death. Rahvin had to have seen him to attack. With the Power you had to see something to affect it, or know exactly where it was in relation to you down to a hair. Perhaps it was different here, but he did not think so. He almost wished Lews Therin had not gone silent again. The man might know this place and its rules.
Balconies and windows overlooked the garden, in some places four stories high. Rahvin had tried to unmake him. He drew on the raging torrent of saidin through the angreal. Lightnings flashed from the sky, a hundred forking silver bolts, more, stabbing at every window, every balcony. Thunder filled the garden, erupting chunks of stone. The air itself crackled, and the hair on his arms and chest tried to stand under his shirt. Even the hair on his head began to lift. He let the lightnings die. Here and there bits of shattered stone window frame and balcony broke loose, the crash of their fall muted by the echoes of thunder still ringing in his ears.
Gaping holes peered down now where windows had. They looked like sockets
in some monstrous skull, the ruined balconies like a dozen splintered mouths. If Rahvin had been at any of them, he was surely dead. Rand would not believe it until he saw the corpse. He wanted to see Rahvin dead.
Wearing a snarl he did not know was there, he stalked back into the palace. He had wanted to see Rahvin die.
Nynaeve hurled herself flat and scrambled along the hall floor as something slashed through the nearest wall. Moghedien slithered as fast as she, but if the woman had not, she would have hauled her by the a’dam. Had that been Rand, or Rahvin? She had seen bars of white fire, liquid light, like that in Tanchico, and she had no wish to be anywhere near one again. She did not know what it was, and she did not want to know. I want to Heal, burn both of these fool men, not learn a fancy way to kill!
She levered herself up to a crouch, peered back the way they had come. Nothing. An empty palace hallway. With a tenfoot long gash through both walls, as neat as any stoneworker could have done, and bits of tapestry lying on the floor. No sign of either man. She had not had a glimpse of either so far. Only their handiwork. Sometimes that handiwork had almost been her. A good thing that she could draw on Moghedien’s anger, filter it out of the terror clawing to escape and let it seep into her. Her own was a pitiful thing that would scarcely have allowed her to sense the True Source, much less channel the flow of Spirit that kept her in Tel’aran’rhiod.
Moghedien was hunched over on her knees, dry retching. Nynaeve’s mouth tightened. The woman had tried to remove the a’dam again. Her cooperation had faded quickly when they discovered Rand and Rahvin actually here in Tel’aran’rhiod. Well, trying to unfasten that collar when it was around your neck was its own punishment. At least Moghedien did not have anything left in her stomach this time.
“Please.” Moghedien caught at Nynaeve’s skirt. “I tell you, we must get away.” Stark panic made her voice painful. Moghedien’s clawing terror mirrored itself on her face. “They are here in the flesh. The flesh!”
“Be quiet,” Nynaeve said absently. “Unless you’ve lied to me, that is an advantage. For me.” The other woman claimed that being in the World of Dreams physically limited your control of the Dream. Or rather, she admitted it, after letting a bit of the knowledge slip. She had admitted, too, that Rahvin did not know Tel’aran’rhiod as well as she. Nynaeve hoped that meant he did not know it as well as she did. That he knew more than Rand, she did not doubt. That woolheaded man! Whatever his reason for coming after Rahvin, he should never have let the man lead him here, where he did not know the rules, where thoughts could kill.
“Why will you not understand what I tell you? Even if they had only dreamed themselves here, either would be stronger than we. Here in the flesh, they could crush us without blinking. In the flesh they can draw saidin more deeply than we can draw saidar dreaming.”
“We are linked.” Still not paying attention, Nynaeve gave her braid a sharp pull.
No way to tell which direction they had gone. And no warning of anything until she saw them. Somehow it still seemed unfair that they could channel without her being able to see or feel the flows. A standlamp that had been sliced in two was suddenly whole again, then not, just as quickly. That white fire must be incredibly powerful. Tel’aran’rhiod usually healed itself rapidly whatever you did to it.
“You brainless fool,” Moghedien sobbed, shaking Nynaeve’s skirt with both hands as if wanting to shake Nynaeve. “It does not matter how brave you are. We are linked, but you contribute nothing the way you are. Not a shred. It is my strength, and your madness. They are here in the flesh, not dreaming! They are using things you have never dreamed of! They will destroy us if we stay!”
“Keep your voice down,” Nynaeve snapped. “Do you want to bring one of them down on us?” She looked both ways hurriedly, but the hallway was still empty. Had that been footsteps, boots? Rand or Rahvin? One had to be approached as carefully as the other. A man in a fight for his life could strike out before he saw they were friends. Well, that she was, anyway.
“We must go,” Moghedien insisted, but she did lower her voice. She got to her feet, sullen defiance twisting her mouth. Fear and anger writhed inside her, first one stronger, then the other. “Why should I help you any further? This is madness!”
“Would you rather feel the nettles again?”
Moghedien flinched, yet her dark eyes remained stubborn. “You think I will let them kill me rather than be hurt by you? You are mad. I will not stir from this spot until you are ready to take us away from here.”
Nynaeve jerked her braid again. If Moghedien refused to walk, she would have to drag her. Not a very quick way to search, with what seemed miles of palace corridors yet to go. She should have been harsher when the woman first tried balking. In Nynaeve’s place, Moghedien would have killed without hesitation, or, if she thought the other useful, woven the trick of taking someone’s will, making them worship her… Nynaeve had tasted that once, in Tanchico, and even had she known how it was done, she did not think she could do it to somebody else. She despised this woman, hated her with all her being. But even if she had not needed her, she could not have killed her just standing there. The trouble was, she was afraid that Moghedien knew that too, now.
Still, a Wisdom headed the Women’s Circle — even if the Circle did not always agree — and the Women’s Circle dealt out punishments to women who broke the law or offended custom too deeply, and to men, too, for some transgressions. She might not have Moghedien’s stomach for killing, for crushing people’s minds, but…
Moghedien opened her mouth, and Nynaeve filled it with a gag of Air. Or rather she made Moghedien do it; with the a’dam linking them, it was like channeling herself, but Moghedien knew it was her own abilities being used like a tool in Nynaeve’s hand. Dark eyes glittered indignantly as Moghedien’s own flows snared her arms to her sides and pulled her skirts tight around her ankles. For the rest, Nynaeve used the a’dam, just as with the nettles, creating the sensations she wanted
the other woman to feel. Not the reality; the feel of reality.
Moghedien stiffened in her bonds as a leather strap seemed to strike her bottom. That was what it would feel like to her. Outrage and humiliation rolled through the leash. And contempt. Compared to her elaborate ways of hurting people, this seemed suitable for a child.
“When you are ready to cooperate again,” Nynaeve said, “just nod.” This could not take long. She could not just stand there while Rand and Rahvin tried to kill one another. If the wrong one died because she avoided danger by letting Moghedien keep her there…
Nynaeve remembered a day when she was sixteen, just after she had been judged old enough to put her hair in a braid. She had stolen a plum pudding from Corin Ayellin on a dare from Nela Thane and walked out the kitchen door right into Mistress Ayellin. Adding the aftermath, sending it along the leash in a lump, made Moghedien’s eyes pop.
Grimly, Nynaeve did it again. She won’t stop me short! Again. I will help Rand whatever she thinks! Again. Even if it kills us! Again. Oh, Light, she could be right; Rand could kill us both before he knows it’s me. Again. Light, I hate being afraid! Again. I hate her! Again. I hate her! Again.
Abruptly she realized Moghedien was jerking frantically in her bonds, nodding her head so violently it seemed about to come off. For a moment, Nynaeve gaped at the other woman’s tearstreaked face, then stopped what she was doing and hurriedly unraveled the flows of Air. Light, what had she done? She was not Moghedien. “I take it you won’t give me any more trouble?”
“They will kill us,” the other woman mumbled faintly, and nearly unintelligibly through her sobs, but at the same time she nodded a hurried acquiescence.
Deliberately, Nynaeve hardened herself. Moghedien deserved everything she had gotten and much, much more. In the Tower, one of the Forsaken would have been stilled and executed as soon as the trial could be concluded, and little evidence needed beside who she was. “Good. Now we —”
Thunder shook the entire palace, or something very much like thunder, except that the walls rattled and dust rose off the floor. Nynaeve half fell into Moghedien, and they danced trying to keep their feet. Before the upheaval had faded completely, it was replaced by a roar like some monstrous fire racing up a chimney the size of a mountain. That lasted only a moment. The silence after seemed deeper than before. No. There were boots. A man running. The sound echoed down the hallway. From the north.
Nynaeve pushed the other woman away. “Come on.”
Moghedien whimpered, but did not resist being pulled down the hall. Her eyes were huge, though, and her breath came too fast. Nynaeve thought it was a good thing she had Moghedien along, and not just for access to the One Power. After all her years hiding in shadows, the Spider was such a coward she almost made Nynaeve feel brave by comparison. Almost. It was only anger at her own fear that
made her able to hold on to that one flow of Spirit that kept her in Tel’aran’rhiod, now. Moghedien was stark terror to her bones.
Pulling Moghedien behind her by the gleaming leash, Nynaeve quickened her step. Chasing the fading sound of those other steps.
Rand stepped into the round courtyard warily. Half of the whitepaved circle cut into the structure rising three stories behind him; the other half was bounded by a stone semicircle atop pale columns five paces high, sticking out into yet another garden, shaded gravel walks beneath low spreading trees. Marble benches surrounded a pool with lilypads. And fish, gold and white and red.
Suddenly the benches shifted, flowed, changed into faceless manshapes, still as white and hardlooking as the stone. He had already learned the difficulty of changing something that Rahvin had altered. Lightning danced from his fingertips, shattering stone men to shards.
The air became water. Choking, Rand struggled to swim toward the columns; he could see the garden beyond. There must be some kind of barrier to stop all the water pouring out. Before he could channel, gold and red and white shapes were darting around him, larger than the fish in the pool had been. And with teeth. They ripped at him; blood curled up in red mist. Instinctively he flailed at the fish with his hands, but the cold part of him, deep in the Void, channeled. Balefire flared, at the barrier if there was one, at any place Rahvin might be to see this courtyard. The water roiled, throwing him around violently, as it rushed in to fill the empty tunnels carved by balefire. Flickers of gold and white and red darted at him, adding new threads of crimson to the water. Tossed about, he could not see to aim his wild bolts; they flashed in every direction. No breath left. He tried to think of air, or the water being air.
Suddenly it was. He dropped hard to the paving stones among small fish flopping about, rolled over and pushed himself up. It was all air again; even his clothes were dry. The stone ring flickered between standing untouched and lying in ruins with half the columns down. Some of the trees lay tangled atop their own stumps, then stood whole, then were fallen again. The palace behind him had holes punched in white walls, even one through a high gilded dome above, and gashes slashed across windows, some with piercework stone screens. The damage all flickered, vanishing and reappearing. Not the slow, sometime shifts of before, but constant. Damage, then none, then some, then none, then all again.
Wincing, he pressed his hand to his side, to the old, halfhealed wound. It stung as if his exertions had nearly torn it open. He stung all over, from a dozen or more bleeding bites. That had not changed. The bloody rips in his coat and breeches were still there! Had he managed to change the water back to air? Or had one of his frenzied bolts of balefire driven Rahvin off, or even killed him? It did not matter, unless it was the last.
Wiping blood out of his eyes, he studied the windows and balconies around the garden, the colonnade high on the far side. Or rather, he started to, but something
else caught his eye. Below the colonnade, he could just make out the fading remnants of a weave. From there he could tell it was a gateway, but to see what kind and where it led, he had to be closer. Leaping over a jumble of worked stone that vanished while he was above it, he darted across the garden, dodging around trees fallen on the walkway. That residue was almost gone; he had to get close enough before it vanished completely.
Abruptly he fell, gravel scraping his palms as he caught himself. He could not see anything that might have tripped him. He felt woozy, almost as if he had been hit on the head. He tried to scramble to his feet, to reach that residue. And realized his body was writhing. Long hair covered his hands; his fingers seemed to be shrinking, drawing back into his hands. They were almost paws. A trap. Rahvin had not fled. The gateway had been a trap, and he had walked into it.
Desperation clung to the Void as he struggled to cling to himself. His hands. They were hands. Almost hands. He forced himself up. His legs seemed to bend wrong. The True Source receded; the Void shrank. Streaks of panic flared beyond the emotionless emptiness. Whatever Rahvin was trying to change him to, it could not channel. Saidin slipping away, thinning, thin even pulled through the angreal. The surrounding balconies stared down at him, empty, and the colonnade. Rahvin had to be at one of those stonescreened windows, but which? He had no strength for a hundred lightning bolts this time. One burst. He could manage that. If he did it quickly. Which window? He fought to be himself, fought to draw saidin into him, welcomed every stain of the taint as evidence that he still held the Power. Staggering in a crooked circle, searching vainly, he roared Rahvin’s name. It sounded like a beast’s roar.
Pulling Moghedien behind her, Nynaeve rounded the corner. Ahead of her, a man vanished around the next turning, the sound of his boots echoing behind. She did not know how long she had been following those boots. Sometimes they had gone silent, and she had had to wait for them to start again to gain a direction. Sometimes when they stopped things happened; she had not seen any of it, but once the palace had rung like a struck bell, and another time the hair on her head had tried to stand up as the air seemed to crackle, and another… It did not matter. This was the first time she had caught a glimpse of the man who wore those boots. She did not think it was Rand in that black coat. The height was right, but he was too large, too heavy in the chest.
She was running before she knew it. Her stout shoes had long since become velvet slippers for silence. If she could hear him, he could hear her. Moghedien’s frenzied panting was louder than their footfalls.
Nynaeve reached the turn and stopped, peeking cautiously around the corner. She held saidar — through Moghedien, but it was hers — ready to channel. There was no need. The hallway was empty. A door stood far down a wall with windows filled with arabesquepierced stone, but she did not think he could have reached that. Nearer, another corridor ran off to the right. She hurried to that, looked warily
again. Empty. But a staircase spiraled upward just beyond where the hallways met.
For a moment she hesitated. He had been hurrying somewhere. This corridor led back the way they had come. Would he have been running to go back? Up then.
Drawing Moghedien behind her, she climbed the steps slowly, straining to hear anything except the Forsaken’s nearly hysterical breath and the blood pounding in her own ears. If she found herself face to face with him… She knew he was there already, somewhere ahead. Surprise had to be on her side.
At the first landing, she paused. The hallways here mirrored those below. They were just as empty, too, just as silent. Had he gone on up?
The stair quivered faintly beneath her feet as if the palace had been struck by a huge battering ram, then another. Again, as a bar of white fire punched through the top of one of the stonescreened windows, skewed wildly upward at an angle, then winked out as it started to slice into the ceiling.
Nynaeve swallowed, blinking in a vain effort to rid herself of the pale violet fan that hung across her vision in memory of the thing. That had to be Rand, trying to strike at Rahvin. If she was too close to him, Rand might catch her by accident. If he was flailing like that — it had had the look of flailing to her — he could catch her anywhere without knowing it.
The quivers had ceased. Moghedien’s eyes shone with terror. By what Nynaeve felt through the a’dam, it was a wonder the woman was not writhing on the floor, shrieking and frothing at the mouth. Nynaeve felt a little like shrieking herself. She made herself put her foot on the next step. Up was as good a way as any. The second step was almost as hard. Slowly, though. No need to come on him too suddenly. Surprise had to be on his part. Moghedien followed like a whipped dog, shivering.
As Nynaeve climbed, she embraced saidar as fully as she could, as much as Moghedien could handle, to the point where the sweetness of it became almost a pain. That was the warning. More, and she would approach the point where it was more than she could take in, the point where she would still herself, burn the ability to channel right out of herself. Or perhaps out of Moghedien, under the circumstances. Or both of them. Any way at all, it would be disaster now. She held that point though, the… life… filling her a needle’s light pressure just short of breaking skin. It was as much as she could have embraced had she been channeling on her own. She and Moghedien were much the same strength in the Power; Tanchico had proved that. Was it enough? Moghedien insisted the men were stronger. Rahvin, at least — Moghedien knew him — and it did not seem likely Rand could have survived this long unless he was just as strong. It was not fair that men should have the muscles and greater strength in the Power too. The Aes Sedai in the Tower had always said they had been equal. It just was not —
She was babbling. Taking a deep breath, she drew Moghedien behind her off the staircase. This was as high as it went.
This hall was empty. She went to where it met the crossing corridor, peeked.
And there he was. A tall blackclad man, large, with wings of white in his dark hair, peering through the curving slots of one of the stone windowscreens at something below. There was sweat and effort on his face, but he seemed to be smiling. A handsome face, as handsome as Galad’s, but she felt no quickening of her breath for this one.
Whatever he was staring at — Rand perhaps? — had his full attention, but Nynaeve gave him no chance to notice her. It might be Rand down there. She could not tell whether Rahvin was channeling or not. She filled the corridor around him with fire from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, pouring into it all of saidar she held, fire so hot the stone itself smoked. The heat made her flinch back.
Rahvin screamed in the middle of the flame — it was one flame — and staggered away from her, back to where the hallway became a columned walk. A heartbeat, less, while she still flinched, and he stood, inside the flame but surrounded by clear air. Every scrap of saidar she could channel was going into that inferno, but he held it at bay. She could see him through the fire; it gave everything a red cast, but she could see. Smoke rose from his charred coat. His face was a seared ruin, one eye milky white. But both eyes were malevolent as he turned them on her.
No emotion reached her along the a’dam’s leash, only leaden dullness. Nynaeve’s stomach fluttered. Moghedien had given up. Given up because death was there for them.
Fire thrust through the carved windowscreens above Rand, fingers of it filling every hole, dancing toward the colonnade. As it did, the struggle within him ceased abruptly. He was himself so suddenly it was almost a shock. He had been drawing desperately at saidin, trying to hold onto some of it. Now it rushed into him, an avalanche of fire and ice that made his knees buckle, made the Void tremble with pain that shaved at it like a lathe.
And Rahvin stumbled backwards out onto the colonnade, face turned to something inside. Rahvin wreathed in fire, yet somehow standing as though untouched. If untouched now, it had not been so before. Only the size of the figure, the impossibility of it being anyone else, told Rand it was him. The Forsaken was a figure of char and cracked red flesh that would have strained any Healer to mend. The agony of it must have been overwhelming. Except that Rahvin would be inside the Void within that burned remnant of a man, wrapped in emptiness where the body’s pain was distant and saidin close at hand.
Saidin raged inside Rand, and he loosed it all. Not to Heal.
“Rahvin!” he screamed, and balefire flew from his hands, molten light thicker than a man, driven by all the Power he could draw.
It struck the Forsaken, and Rahvin ceased to exist. The Darkhounds in Rhuidean had become motes before they vanished, whatever kind of life they had had struggling to continue, or the Pattern struggling to maintain itself even for them. Before this, Rahvin simply… ceased.
Rand let the balefire die, pushed saidin away a little. Trying to blink away the purple afterimage, he stared up at the wide hole in the marble balustrade, the remains of one column a fang above it, stared at the matching hole in the palace roofs They did not flicker, as if what he had done was too strong even for this place to mend. After everything, it seemed almost too easy. Perhaps there was something up there to convince him Rahvin was really dead. He ran toward a door.
Frantically, Nynaeve threw everything into trying to close the flame tight around Rahvin once more. The thought came that she should have used lightning. She was going to die. Those horrible eyes had fixed on Moghedien, not her, but she was going to die too.
Liquid fire sliced up into the colonnade, so hot it made the fire she had made seem cool. Shock made her release her weaving, and she flung up a hand to protect her face, yet before it had raised halfway, the liquid fire was gone. So was Rahvin. She did not believe he had escaped. There had been an instant, so brief she could almost have imagined it, when that white bar touched him and he became… mist. Just an instant. She could have imagined. But she did not believe so. She drew a shuddering breath.
Moghedien had her face in her hands, weeping, trembling. The one emotion Nynaeve sensed through the a’dam was relief so powerful it drowned anything else.
Hurried boots grated on the stairs below.
Nynaeve spun, took a step toward the spiral staircase. She was surprised to realize she was drinking deeply of saidar, holding herself ready.
That surprise faded when Rand climbed into sight. He was not as she remembered. His features were the same, but his face was hard. Blue ice made his eyes. The bloody rips in his coat and breeches, the blood on his face, seemed to suit that face.
The way he looked, she would not be surprised if he killed Moghedien on the spot the instant he discovered who she was. Nynaeve had uses for her yet. He would recognize an a’dam. Without another thought she changed it, let the leash vanish, leaving only the silver bracelet on her wrist and the collar on Moghedien. A moment of panic when she comprehended what she had done, then a sigh as she realized that she still felt the other woman. It worked exactly as Elayne had said it would. Perhaps he had not seen. She was between him and Moghedien; the leash had trailed behind her.
He barely glanced at Moghedien. “I thought about those flames, coming up here. I thought it might have been you or… Where is this? Is this where you meet Egwene?”
Looking up at him, Nynaeve tried not to swallow. So cold, that face. “Rand, the Wise Ones say what you’ve done, what you are doing, is dangerous, even evil. They say you lose something of yourself if you come here in the flesh, some part of what makes you human.”
“Do the Wise Ones know everything?” He brushed past her and stood staring at
the colonnade. “I used to think Aes Sedai knew everything. It doesn’t matter. I don’t know how human the Dragon Reborn can afford to be.”
“Rand, I…” She did not know what to say. “Here, let me Heal you at least.”
He held still for her to reach up and take his head in her hands. For her part, she had to suppress a wince. His fresh wounds were not serious, only numerous — what could have bitten him; she was sure most of these were bites — but the old wound, that halfhealed, neverhealing wound in his side, that was a sinkhole of darkness, a well filled with what she thought the taint of saidin must be like. She channeled the complex flows, Air and Water, Spirit, even Fire and Earth in small amounts, that made up Healing. He did not roar and flail about. He did not even blink. He shivered. That was all. Then he took her wrists and brought her hands down from his face. She was not reluctant. His new injuries were gone, every bite and scrape and bruise, but not the old wound. Nothing had changed about that. Anything short of death should be capable of being Healed, even that. Anything!
“Is he dead?” he asked quietly. “Did you see him die?” “He’s dead, Rand. I saw.”
He nodded. “But there are others still, aren’t there? Other… Chosen.”
Nynaeve felt a stabbing sliver of fear from Moghedien, but she did not glance back. “Rand, you must go. Rahvin is dead, and this place is dangerous for you as you are. You must go, and not come back here in the body.”
“I will go.”
He did nothing that she could see or feel — of course, she could not — but for a moment she thought the hallway behind him had… turned in some way. But it did not look any different. Except… She blinked. There was no halfgone column in the colonnade beyond him, no hole in the stone railing.
He went on as if nothing had happened. “Tell Elayne… Ask her not to hate me. Ask her…” Pain twisted his face. For a moment she saw the boy she had known, looking as though something precious was being ripped away from him. She reached out to comfort him, and he stepped back, his face stone again, and bleak. “Lan was right. Tell Elayne to forget me, Nynaeve. Tell her I’ve found something else to love, and there’s no room left for her. He wanted me to tell you the same thing. Lan has found someone else, too. He said for you to forget him. Better never to have been born than to love us.” He stepped back again, three long steps, the hall seemed to turn dizzyingly with him in it — or part of the hall did — and he was gone.
Nynaeve stared at where he had been, and not at the fitfully flickering reappearance of the damage to the colonnade. Lan had told him to say that?
“A… remarkable man,” Moghedien said softly. “A very, very dangerous man.” Nynaeve stared at her. Something new was coming through the bracelet to her.
Fear was still there, but muted by… Expectation might have been the best way to describe it.
“I have been helpful, have I not?” Moghedien said. “Rahvin dead, Rand al’Thor
saved. None of it would have been possible without me.”
Nynaeve understood now. Hope more than expectation. Sooner or later Nynaeve would have to wake. The a’dam would vanish. Moghedien was trying to remind her of her aid — as if it had not had to be wrenched out of her — just in case Nynaeve might be steeling herself to kill before she went. “It is time for me to go, too,” Nynaeve said. Moghedien’s face did not alter, but fear strengthened and so did hope. A large silver cup appeared in Nynaeve’s hand, apparently filled with tea. “Drink this.”
Moghedien edged back. “What —?”
“Not poison. I could kill you easily enough without, if that was my aim. After all, what happens to you here is real in the waking world, too.” Hope much stronger than fear now. “It will make you sleep. A deep sleep; too deep to touch Tel’aran’rhiod. It’s called forkroot.”
Moghedien took the cup slowly. “So I cannot follow you? I will not argue.” She tipped back her head and swallowed until the cup was empty.
Nynaeve watched her. That much should put her down quickly. Yet a cruel streak made her speak. She knew it was cruel and did not care. Moghedien should not have any quiet rest at all. “You knew Birgitte was not dead.” Moghedien’s gaze narrowed slightly. “You knew who Faolain is.” The other woman’s eyes tried to widen, but she was already drowsy. Nynaeve could feel the forkroot’s effects spreading. She concentrated on Moghedien, held there in Tel’aran’rhiod. No easy sleep for one of the Forsaken. “And you knew who Siuan is, that she used to be the Amyrlin Seat. I’ve never mentioned that in Tel’aran’rhiod. Never. I’ll see you very shortly. In Salidar.”
Moghedien’s eyes rolled up her head. Nynaeve was not sure whether it was the forkroot or a faint, but it did not matter. She released the other woman, and Moghedien winked out. The silver collar rang as it hit the floortiles. Elayne would be happy about that, at least.
Nynaeve stepped out of the Dream.
Rand trotted along the corridors of the palace. There seemed to be less damage than he remembered, but he did not really look. He strode out into the great courtyard at the front of the palace. Blasts of Air knocked the tall gates half off their hinges. Beyond lay a huge oval plaza, and what he had been searching for. Trollocs and Myrddraal. Rahvin was dead, and the other Forsaken were elsewhere, but there were Trollocs and Myrddraal to kill in Caemlyn.
They were fighting, a milling mass of hundreds, perhaps thousands, surrounding something he could not see through their blackmailed numbers, as tall as a Myrddraal on its horse. Just barely he could make out his crimson banner deep in their midst. Some swung round to face the palace as the gates were hurled asunder.
Yet Rand stopped dead. Balls of fire rolled through the packed blackmailed mass, and burning Trollocs lay everywhere. It could not be.
Not daring to hope or think, he channeled. Shafts of balefire leaped from his
hands as fast as he could weave them, narrower than his little finger, precise and cut off as soon as they struck. They, were much less powerful than the one he had used against Rahvin at the end, than any he had used against Rahvin, but he could not risk one slicing through to those trapped in the center of all those Trollocs. It made little difference. The firststruck Myrddraal seemed to reverse colors, become a whiteclad black shape, then it was drifting motes that vanished as its horse fled madly. Trollocs, Myrddraal, every one that turned toward him went the same, and then he began carving into the backs of those still facing the other way, so a continuous haze of sparkling dust seemed to fill the air, renewed as it evaporated.
They could not stand against that. Bestial cries of rage turned to howls of fear, and they fled in every direction except toward him. He saw one Myrddraal try to turn them and be trampled under, rider and horse, but the rest spurred their animals away.
Rand let them go. He was busy staring at the veiled Aiel bursting out of their encirclement with spears and heavybladed knives. It was one of them carrying the banner; Aiel did not carry banners, but this one, a bit of red headband showing beneath his shoufa, did. There were battles going on down some of the streets leading from the plaza, too. Aiel against Trollocs. Townsfolk against Trollocs. Even armored men in the uniform of the Queen’s Guards against Trollocs. Apparently some who were willing to kill a queen could not stomach Trollocs. Rand only barely noticed, though. He was searching through the Aiel.
There. A woman in a white blouse, one hand holding up her bulky skirts as she slashed at a fleeing Trolloc with a short knife; an instant later flames enveloped the bearsnouted figure.
“Aviendha!” Rand did not know he was running until he shouted. “Aviendha!”
And there was Mat, coat torn and blood on his swordblade spearpoint, leaning on the black shaft watching the Trollocs flee; content to let someone else do the fighting now that that was possible. And Asmodean, sword held awkwardly and trying to look every way at once in case any Trolloc decided to turn back. Rand could sense saidin in him, though weakly; he did not think much of Asmodean’s fighting had been with that blade.
Balefire. Balefire that burned a thread out of the Pattern. The stronger that balefire was, the further back that burning went. And whatever that person had done no longer had happened. He did not care if his blast at Rahvin had unraveled half the Pattern. Not if this was the result.
He became aware of tears on his cheeks, and let saidin and the Void go. He wanted to feel this. “Aviendha!” Snatching her up, he whirled her around, with her staring down at him as if he had gone mad. He did not want to put her down, but he did. So he could hug Mat. Or try to.
Mat fended him off. “What’s the matter with you? You’d think you thought we were dead. Not that we weren’t, almost. Being a general has to be safer than this!”
“You’re alive.” Rand laughed. He brushed back Aviendha’s hair; she had lost her
headscarf, and it hung loose around her neck. “I’m happy you’re alive. That’s all.”
He took in the plaza again, and his joy faded. Nothing could extinguish it, but the bodies lying in heaps where the Aiel had made their stand lessened it. Too many of them were not big enough to be men. There was Lamelle, veil gone and half her throat as well; she would never make him soup again. Pevin, both hands clutching the wristthick shaft of the Trolloc spear through his chest and the first expression on his face Rand had ever seen. Surprise. Balefire had cheated death for his friends, but not for others. Too many. Too many Maidens.
Take what you can have. Rejoice in what you can save, and do not mourn your losses too long. It was not his thought, but he took it. It seemed a good way to avoid going mad before the taint on saidin drove him to it.
“Where did you go?” Aviendha demanded. Not angrily. If anything, she looked relieved. “One second you were there, the next you were gone.”
“I had to kill Rahvin,” he said quietly. She opened her mouth, but he put his fingers over it to silence her, then gently pushed her away. Take what you can have. “Leave it at that. He’s dead.”
Bael came limping up, shoufa still around his head but veil hanging down his chest. There was blood on his thigh, and on the point of his one remaining spear as well. “The Nightrunners and Shadowtwisted are running, Car’a’carn. Some of the wetlanders have joined the dance against them. Even some of the armored men, though they danced against us at first.” Sulin was behind him, unveiled, a nasty red gash across her cheek.
“Hunt them down however long it takes,” Rand said. He began walking, not sure where as long as it was away from Aviendha. “I don’t want them loose on the countryside. Keep an eye on the Guards. I’ll find out later which of them were Rahvin’s men and which…” He walked on, talking and not looking back. Take what you can have.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 56
(Serpent and Wheel) Glowing Embers
The high window had more than enough room for Rand to stand in it, stretching far above his head and clearing his shoulders by two feet to either side. Shirtsleeves rolled up, he stared down at one of the Royal Palace’s gardens. Aviendha was trailing her hand in the fountain’s redstone basin, still intrigued by so much water with no purpose but to be looked at and keep ornamental fish alive. She had been more than indignant at first, when he told her she could not go chasing Trollocs through the streets. In fact, he was not sure she would be down there now if not for a quiet escort of Maidens that Sulin did not think he had noticed. Neither was he supposed to have heard the whitehaired Maiden remind her that she was Far Dareis Mai no longer and not yet a Wise One. Coatless, but wearing his hat against the sun, Mat was sitting on the coping of the basin, talking to her. No doubt probing for what she knew of whether the Aiel were preventing people from leaving; even if Mat did decide to accept his fate, it was unlikely he would ever stop complaining about it. Asmodean sat on a bench in the shade of a red myrtle tree, playing his harp. Rand wondered whether the man knew what had happened, or suspected. He should have no memory — for him, it never happened — but who could say what one of the Forsaken knew or could reason out?
A polite cough turned him away from the garden.
The window where he stood was a span and a half above the floor in the west wall of the throne room, the Grand Hall where Queens of Andor had received embassies and pronounced judgment for nearly a thousand years. It was the only place he had thought he could be sure of watching Mat and Aviendha unseen and undisturbed. Rows of white columns twenty paces high marched down the sides of the hall. The light from the tall windows in the walls mingled with colored light from great windows set in the arching ceiling, windows where the White Lion alternated with portraits of early queens of the realm and scenes of great Andoran victories. Enaila and Somara did not appear impressed.
Rand let himself down by his fingertips. “Is there news from Bael?”
Enaila shrugged. “The hunt for Trollocs goes on.” By her tone, the diminutive woman would have liked to be part of that. Somara’s height made her seem even shorter. “Some of the city people give aid. Most hide. The city gates are held. None of the Shadowtwisted will escape, I think, but I fear some of the Nightrunners may.” Myrddraal were hard to kill, and just as hard to corner. Sometimes it was easy to believe the old tales that they rode shadows and could vanish by turning sideways.
“We brought you some soup,” Somara said, nodding her flaxen head toward a silver tray covered with a striped cloth, sitting on the dais that held the Lion Throne. Carved and gilded, with huge lion’s paws at the ends of its legs, the throne was a
massive chair at the top of four white marble stairs, with a strip of red carpet leading up to it. The Lion of Andor, picked out in moonstones on a field of rubies, would have stood above Morgase’s head whenever she occupied that seat. “Aviendha says you have not eaten yet today. It is the soup Lamelle used to make for you.”
“I suppose none of the servants have come back,” Rand sighed. “One of the cooks, maybe? A helper?” Enaila shook her head scornfully. She would serve her time as gai’shain with a good grace, if it ever came to that, but the idea of anyone spending their entire life serving someone else disgusted her.
Climbing the stairs, he squatted to twitch the cloth aside. His nose twitched, too. By the smell, whichever of them had made it was no better a cook than Lamelle had been. The sound of a man’s boots coming up the hail gave him an excuse to turn his back on the tray. With any luck, he would not have to eat it.
The man approaching up the long, redandwhitetiled floor was certainly no Andorman, in his short gray coat and those baggy trousers stuffed into boots turned down at the knee. Slender and only a head taller than Enaila, he had a hooked beak of a nose and dark tilted eyes. Gray streaked his black hair and a thick mustache like downcurved horns around his wide mouth. He paused to make a leg and bow slightly, handling the curved sword at his hip gracefully despite the fact that incongruously he carried two silver goblets in one hand and a sealed pottery jar in the other.
“Forgive my intrusion,” he said, “but there was no one to announce me.” His clothes might be plain and even travelworn, but he had what appeared to be an ivory rod capped with a golden wolf’s head thrust behind his sword belt. “I am Davram Bashere, MarshalGeneral of Saldaea. I am here to speak with the Lord Dragon, who rumors in the city say is here in the Royal Palace. I assume that I address him?” For an instant his eyes went to the glittering Dragons twining redandgold around Rand’s arms.
“I am Rand al’Thor, Lord Bashere. The Dragon Reborn.” Enaila and Somara had moved between Rand and the man, each with a hand on the hilt of her longbladed knife, poised to veil. “I am surprised to find a Saldaean lord in Caemlyn, much less wanting to speak to me.”
“In truth, I rode to Caemlyn to speak to Morgase, but I was put off by Lord Gaebril’s toadies — King Gaebril, I should say? Or does he still live?” Bashere’s tone said he doubted it, and did not care one way or the other. He did not pause. “Many in the city say Morgase is dead, as well.”
“They’re both dead,” Rand said bleakly. He sat down on the throne, his head resting against the moonstone Lion of Andor. The throne had been sized for women. “I killed Gaebril, but not before he killed Morgase.”
Bashere quirked an eyebrow. “Should I hail King Rand of Andor, then?”
Rand leaned forward angrily. “Andor has always had a queen, and it still does. Elayne was DaughterHeir. With her mother dead, she is queen. Maybe she has to be
crowned first — I don’t know the law — but she is queen as far as I am concerned. I am the Dragon Reborn. That is as much as I want, and more. What is it you want of me, Lord Bashere?”
If his anger disturbed Bashere at all, the man gave no outward sign. Those tilted eyes watched Rand carefully, but not uneasily. “The White Tower allowed Mazrim Taim to escape. The false Dragon.” He paused, then went on when Rand said nothing. “Queen Tenobia did not want Saldaea troubled again, so I was sent to hunt him down once more and put an end to him. I have followed him south for many weeks. You need not fear I’ve brought a foreign army into Andor. Except for an escort of ten, the rest I left camped in Braem Wood, well north of any border Andor has claimed in two hundred years. But Taim is in Andor. I am sure of it.”
Rand leaned back again, hesitating. “You cannot have him, Lord Bashere.” “May I ask why not, my Lord Dragon? If you wish to use Aiel to hunt him, I
have no objection. My men will remain in Braem Wood until I return.”
This part of his plan he had not meant to reveal so soon. Delay could be costly, but he had intended to have a firm hold on the nations first. Yet it might as well begin now. “I am announcing an amnesty. I can channel, Lord Bashere. Why should another man be hunted down and killed or gentled because he can do what I can? I will announce that any man who can touch the True Source, any man who wants to learn, can come to me and have my protection. The Last Battle is coming, Lord Bashere. There may not be time for any of us to go mad before, and I would not waste one man for the risk anyway. When the Trollocs came out of the Blight in the Trolloc Wars, they marched with Dreadlords, men and women who wielded the Power for the Shadow. We will face that again at Tarmon Gai’don. I don’t know how many Aes Sedai will be at my side, but I won’t turn away any man who channels if he will march with me. Mazrim Taim is mine, Lord Bashere, not yours.”
“I see.” It was flatly said. “You have taken Caemlyn. I hear that Tear is yours, and Cairhien soon will be if it is not already. Do you mean to conquer the world with your Aiel and your army of men channeling the One Power?”
“If I must.” Rand said it just as levelly. “I’ll welcome any ruler as an ally who welcomes me, but so far all I’ve seen is maneuvering for power, or outright hostility. Lord Bashere, there’s anarchy in Tarabon and Arad Doman, and not far from it in Cairhien. Amadicia is eyeing Altara. The Seanchan — you may have heard rumors of them in Saldaea; the worst are likely true — the Seanchan on the other side of the world eyeing us all. Men fighting their own petty battles with Tarmon Gai’don on the horizon. We need peace. Time before the Trollocs come, before the Dark One breaks free, time to ready ourselves. If the only way I can find time and peace for the world is to impose it, I will. I don’t want to, but I will.”
“I have read The Karaethon Cycle,” Bashere said. Putting the goblets under his arm for a moment, he broke the wax seal on the jar and filled them with wine. “More importantly, Queen Tenobia has read the Prophecies, too. I cannot speak for Kandor, or Arafel, or Shienar. I believe they will come to you — not a child in the
Borderlands but knows the Shadow waits in the Blight to descend on us — but I cannot speak for them.” Enaila eyed the goblet he handed her suspiciously, but she climbed the stairs to hand it to Rand. “In truth,” Bashere continued, “I cannot even speak for Saldaea. Tenobia rules; I am only her general. But I think once I send a fast rider to her with a message, the return will be that Saldaea marches with the Dragon Reborn. In the meanwhile, I offer you my services, and those of nine thousand Saldaean horse.”
Rand swirled the goblet, staring down into the dark red wine. Sammael in Illian, and other Forsaken the Light alone knew where. Seanchan waiting across the Aryth Ocean, and men here ready to leap for their own advantage and profit whatever it cost the world. “Peace is far off yet,” he said softly. “It will be blood and death for some time to come.”
“It always is,” Bashere replied quietly, and Rand did not know which statement he was speaking to. Perhaps both.
Tucking his harp under his arm, Asmodean drifted away from Mat and Aviendha. He enjoyed playing, but not for a pair who did not listen, much less appreciate. He was not sure what had happened that morning, and not sure he wanted to be sure. Too many Aiel had expressed surprise at seeing him, had claimed they had seen him dead; he did not want details. There was a long gash down the wall in front of him. He knew what made that sharp edge, that surface as slick as ice, smoother than any hand could have polished in a hundred years.
Idly — but with a shiver, too — he wondered whether being reborn in this fashion made him a new man. He did not think so. Immortality was gone. That was a gift of the Great Lord; he used that name in his head, whatever al’Thor demanded on his tongue. That was proof enough that he was himself. Immortality gone — he knew it must be imagination, yet sometimes he thought he could feel time dragging at him, pulling him toward a grave he had never thought to meet — and drawing the little of saidin he could was like drinking sewage. He was hardly sorry Lanfear was dead. Rahvin neither, but Lanfear especially, for what she had done to him. He would laugh when each of the others died, too, and most for the last. It was not that he had been reborn as a new man at all, but he would cling to that tuft of grass on the cliff’s brink as long as he could. The roots would give way eventually, the long fall would come, but until then he was still alive.
He pulled open a small door, intending to find his way to the pantry. There should be some decent wine. One step, and he stopped, the blood draining from his face.
“You? No!” The word still hung in the air when death took him.
Morgase blotted sweat from her face, then tucked the handkerchief back up her sleeve and readjusted her somewhat ragged straw hat. At least she had managed to acquire a decent riding dress, though even fine gray wool was still uncomfortable in this heat. Actually, Tallanvor had acquired it. Letting her horse walk, she eyed the tall young man, riding up ahead through the trees. Basel Gill’s roundness
emphasized how tail and fit Tallanvor was. He had handed the dress to her saying it suited her better than the itchy thing she had fled the palace in, looking down at her, never blinking, never speaking a word of respect. Of course, she herself had decided it was not safe for anyone to know who she was, especially after discovering Gareth Bryne gone from Kore Springs; why did the man have to be off chasing barnburners when she needed him? No matter; she would do as well without him. But there was something disturbing in Tallanvor’s eyes when he called her simply Morgase.
Sighing, she glanced back over her shoulder. Hulking Lamgwin rode watching the forest, Breane at his side watching him as much as anything else. Her army had not grown a whit since Caemlyn. Too many had heard of nobles exiled for no cause and unjust laws in the capital to do more than scoff at the most casual mention of stirring a hand in support of their rightful ruler. She doubted that even knowing who spoke to them would have made a difference. So here she rode through Altara, keeping to forest as much as possible because there seemed to be parties of armed men everywhere, rode through the forest with a scarfaced street tough, a besotted refugee Cairhienin noblewoman, a stout innkeeper who could hardly keep from kneeling whenever she glanced at him, and a young soldier who sometimes looked at her as though she had on one of those dresses she had worn for Gaebril. And Lini, of course. There was no forgetting Lini.
As if thinking of her had been a summons, the old nurse heeled her horse closer. “Better to keep your eyes ahead,” she said quietly. “A young lion charges quickest, and when you least expect it.”
“You think Tallanvor is dangerous?” Morgase said sharply, and Lini gave her a sidelong, considering look.
“Only the way any man can be dangerous. A fine figure of man, don’t you think? More than tall enough. Strong hands, I should think. ‘There’s no point letting honey age too long before you eat it.”
“Lini,” Morgase said warningly. The old woman had been going on this way too often of late. Tallanvor was a handsome man, his hands did look strong, and he had a wellturned calf, but he was young, and she was his queen. The last thing she needed was to start looking at him as a man instead of her subject and soldier. She was about to tell Lini that — and that the woman had lost her wits if she thought she was going to take up with any man ten years her junior; he had to be that — but Tallanvor and Gill were turning back. “You hold your tongue, Lini. If you put foolish ideas into that young man’s head, I will leave you somewhere.” Lini’s snort would have earned the highest noble in Andor time in a cell to meditate. If she still had her throne, it would.
“Are you sure you want to do this, girl? It’s too late to change your mind after you’ve jumped off the cliff.”
“I will find my allies where I can find them,” Morgase told her stiffly.
Tallanvor reined up, sitting tall in his saddle. Sweat rolled down his face, but he
seemed to ignore the heat. Master Gill tugged at the neck of his disccovered jerkin as though he wished he could have it off.
“The wood gives way to farms just ahead,” Tallanvor said, “but it isn’t likely anyone will recognize you here.” Morgase met his gaze levelly; day by day it was becoming increasingly hard to look away when he was looking at her. “Another ten miles should take us to Cormaed. If that fellow in Sehar was not lying, there will be a ferry, and we can be on the Amadicia side before dark. Are you certain you want to do this, Morgase?”
The way he said her name… No. She was letting Lini’s ridiculous fancies take hold of her. It was the accursed heat. “I have made up my mind, young Tallanvor,” she said coolly, “and I do not expect you to question me when I have done so.”
She heeled her mount hard, letting the horse’s leap forward break their gazes apart, letting it shove past him. He could catch up to her. She would find her allies where she found them. She would have her throne back, and woe to Gaebril or any man who thought he could sit on it in her place.
And the Glory of the Light did shine upon him.?And the Peace of the Light did he give me.?Binding nations to him. Making one of many.?Yet the shards of hearts did give wounds.?And what was once did come again?—in fire and in storm? splitting all in twain.?For his peace…?—for his peace…?. . . was the peace…?. . . was the peace…?. . . of the sword .?And the Glory of the Light did shine upon him.
The End?of the Fifth Book of?The Wheel of Time